A Sea of Troubles

by Nili

Returning from the East, Aragorn and Legolas hope to get some peace at last. With one of Rivendell’s delegations missing and war looming on the horizon, however, peace becomes ever more unlikely as they must fight for their friends’ lives – and their own.

37. No Winners, Only Losers

Disclaimer: For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

A/N:

So, yes, I had a busy month. We had a lot of holidays here, and I had to make good use of them, of course. So, first I went to Israel - it was really, really nice. I liked it very much, and we had a lot of fun, even though I have to admit that Tel Aviv is one of the most breathtakingly ugly cities I have ever seen in my life - no offence. It's interesting and a lot of fun to go out, though.
Then there was Semana Santa, and I went to Portugal for a week and a half with my flatmates to visit my mother who moved there a few months ago. It was wonderful, the weather was nice, and we essentially did nothing there all the time. Then we went to Lisbon, though, and that is really a wonderful city. If they spoke Spanish, I would move there immediately.
And then, of course, was 1st of May, which the clever people of Madrid combine with another holiday so we had four days off in a row. I wanted to do nothing, but then we ended up visiting my flatmate in Salamanca. That was a lot of fun, too, only we didn't sleep too much.

So, now I'm back. I am sorry for this newest delay, but I've barely been home at all. I have also been thinking about how many more chapters this story will have, and I am leaning towards a long one or two shorter ones. I would prefer a long one (because then the story would have 38 chapters in total; you know that I'm strange like that •g•), but if it gets TOO long, I will have to cut it in two. Let's say for now, though, that this is the second-to-last chapter. I know, I know, time flies when you're having fun... Well, WE did, anyway. •evil grin•

Fine, so here's the right-now-second-to-last chapter, in which ... hmm, a lot of elven warriors are a little bit intimidated by their superiors (mostly because said superiors are rather displeased), we hear more about the bat (which would be one of the reasons why Elrohir is rather displeased), the twins see each other again (more reason for displeasure on Elrohir's part), Glorfindel makes an appearance (who is also rather ... do I really have to go on with this?), Elrond has to make a choice, Tibron gets some bad news and we are introduced to Ingvaer, Annorathil's crafty nephew who right now wishes he had a piece of string and a scrap of metal and some sort of problem to solve. Why? Well, we'll see...

Have fun and review, please!

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Chapter 37

When Elrond re-entered the courtyard – or, to be more precise, was dragged into it – he had almost forgotten the state of chaos it was in.

Now, however, in the flickering, unsteady light that the moon and a few haphazardly-lit torched provided and with people hurrying to and fro, most of them trying to make some sort of escape, he was once again astounded by the scene that presented itself to his eyes. It did look quite a bit like some of the more chaotic battles he had been involved in during the first ages of the this world – the War of Wrath came to mind, for example, even though this here was on an incomparably smaller scale and there were a lot of very clear differences that didn't even have to be pointed out. This battle was missing Valar and Maiar, for one, and there were also no orcs or trolls present.

Or Dark Lords, thank the One, even though that would, strictly speaking, fall under the Valar-and-Maiar category.

Elrond shook his head a moment later and revised his opinion. That battle, when the Host of Valinor had come to their aid and had delivered them from almost certain doom, had been one of the most crucial – if not the most crucial – fights of his long life, while this here was hardly important at all. That was not completely true, of course. In the grand scheme of things, this battle here in Donrag was virtually unimportant, but to him it had been significant nonetheless – very significant. No one attacked his people without having to answer for it, and he would not stand idly by and watch while the people he loved were treated in such a way. Action and reaction, strike and counterstrike, hatred and anger, fear and pain … there were things that were irreversibly interwoven with one another and with revenge, and there was enough of his ancestors in him to know it, too.

His darker, probably mostly Noldorin side was still warring with the part of him that was trained in the healing arts and had seen more than enough battles, their aftermath and their victims, when he picked his way through the still bodies that littered the ground. A moment later, he and Elrohir stopped, a mere ten or fifteen feet from the bottom of the large staircase that led up to the main entrance to Acalith's mansion. This time, Elrond and the rest of Meneldir's men had taken the most direct route out of the house, namely the one through the main entrance, knowing that there was really no one who would seriously challenge them. The men here were most decidedly not the most intelligent ones ever to grace this world, but they were not stupid either, and none but the truly stupid challenged an elf lord in his righteous fury.

In front of him, Elrohir looked about him with wide eyes, surprise and something that might have been faint awe in the grey depths. Elrond couldn't blame him. After the twin had disappeared inside the house, the battle had intensified and grown more desperate, and the signs of that could be seen all over the courtyard. There were more bodies than the half-elf had seen in some years, and the sight filled him with some sort of profound sadness. It was enough to bring his darker instincts back under control, and Elrond looked around, feeling calmer once again even despite the worry that was gnawing at his heart.

"Where was Legolas the last time you saw him, Elrohir?" he asked his son, sounding far more composed than he actually was. "With Ferdhôl and the rest of your men?"

"Yes … yes," Elrohir answered distractedly. His eyes were wandering over the still bodies and the men that were hurrying from one side of the courtyard to the other, a puzzled expression on his face, as if he couldn't connect this yard to the one he had seen half an hour ago. Elrond also guessed that Elrohir was looking for his twin; no matter how worried Elrohir was about Legolas, he would be a good deal more worried about Elladan. "Yes, I think so. I do not know where they might have taken him."

"If he is as badly wounded as you say, they will not have moved him far, if at all," Elrond answered practically with the long experience that being a healer on a battlefield had given him. "Let us go there, then. I do hope … Commander!"

Elrohir turned around sharply and saw whom his father had spied amongst the men and elves that filled the space around them. Dólion, Isál's younger commander, had just stepped around two dead humans who were lying on the muddy ground, their limbs twisted and still. The young elf was looking decidedly dishevelled, but essentially uninjured. There seemed to be nothing wrong with him except a long cut that ran down the side of his face. It seemed to have bled profoundly, though, as head wounds tended to do, and so the dark-haired elf's appearance looked more than a little bit alarming.

Dólion hurried over to them once he saw them, a relieved smile spreading over his face. It appeared that he knew quite well that, repeated public announcements notwithstanding, even elf lords as old and experienced as Lord Elrond of Imladris could get themselves into trouble. Especially Lord Elrond of Imladris.

"Thank the Valar," was then also logically the first thing that escaped the young commander when he reached their side. "My lords," he inclined his head minutely at the two dark-haired elves. "I am so glad that I found you! No one had seen you for half an hour!"

Elrond doubted that he had been inside the house for that long, but he didn't think it necessary to correct the younger elf. Their absence seemed to have caused quite a stir, something which he couldn't really understand. That one would worry about Elrohir he could understand – he loved all his children dearly, but he would be the first to admit that all of them (even Arwen) possessed the disconcerting ability to manoeuvre themselves into perilous situations – but why would one possibly worry about him?

"We are quite all right, Commander. There is no need to worry." Dólion shot him a look that was just one step away from openly dubious, and Elrond would have smiled at it if he hadn't been remembering what Elrohir had told him mere moments earlier. "Have you seen Prince Legolas, Commander? I must find him, now."

Dólion knew that particular look on his lord's face well enough not to waste even a single second before replying.
"No, my lord, I am sorry. Commander Meneldir and I have taken our men and are moving into and around the house now. We left the courtyard to Lord Elladan and the rest of the higher-ranking officers."

"Have you seen Elladan, then?" Elrohir spoke up, urgency tingeing his voice. "Or Lord Glorfindel?" Dólion shook his head, looking rather forlorn, and Elrohir snorted in disgust, something that only emphasised the fear and dread that were tearing at his self-control. "Valar, someone here must know something!"

Dólion shook his head again and opened his mouth to say something apologetic. He knew that Lord Elrohir wasn't truly angry at him, he was only scared and upset with the world in general, but that didn't make it any easier facing him in his wrath, of course. He (along with a large percentage of Rivendell's population) thought that, of the twins, Elrohir had inherited most of his mother's and grandparents' mannerisms and behaviour. He also thought that the younger twin wasn't even aware of it, but when Elrohir put his mind to it (and sometimes, like now, even when he did not), he could look frighteningly like Lord Celeborn.

"Someone maybe, my lord," he finally answered quietly, keeping his head lowered and his eyes fixed on the ground. There was actually no proof that that kind of look – directed at you by Lord Elrond or his family – actually could burn your eyes out, but he wasn't about to take the risk. He was rather attached to them, for one. "But not me."

Elrohir was whirling back around, quite clearly biting back a scathing retort in order to stalk off and look for his friend and brother himself, when another shout reached their ears. The voice who issued it sounded torn between relief, worry and fear, a combination Elrohir did not want to hear right now, in anybody's voice.

"My lord! My Lord Elrond!"

Another elf skidded to a halt next to them, two other warriors at his heels, and Elrond did his best not to think about the small group of warriors he had "borrowed" from Meneldir and who were still standing a few feet behind them. This was beginning to look a little bit like a farce, and if this elf, too, expressed his profound relief that he was still alive and looked at him in the same way a mother bear would look at her wayward cub, he just might lose his patience and would have to remember all those painful little manoeuvres Gil-galad had taught him and Elros when they had been so much younger.

The newcomer, however, looked decidedly disinclined to do so, something that first pleased and then alarmed the half-elf. It was Thalar, the only surviving commander of Captain Elvynd, and if the urgent, dreadful look on his face was anything to go by, he had very bad news indeed.

"My lord," Thalar ground out while he tried to catch his breath. He must have been running around for quite a while, Elrond noticed detachedly. "My lord," the commander tried again. "You must come with me at once! Lord Elladan sends me; it is about Prince Legolas."

"What is it?" Elrond asked immediately, taking a step forward and only just refraining from grabbing the younger elf's arm. "Where are they?"

"Over by the scaffold, my lord," Thalar answered readily, some of the fear in his eyes slowly fading away now that he had fulfilled his mission and had found his lord. Elrond felt how the dread in his own heart intensified; he wished that he could be that easily reassured. "Lord Elladan is with the prince now, but it looked bad, sir. Very bad," he stressed, quite unnecessarily. "He bade me find you and bring you to them as quickly as possible."

Even though Elladan wasn't quite as adept in the healing arts as his brother, Elrond would never have dreamed about questioning one of his prognoses. If both he and Elrohir said that a wound was bad, it was bad, it was as easy as that. Elrond's first instinct was to rush over to the scaffold he could see looming in the distance, but he remembered his position and responsibility just in time. He considered the son of Thranduil as something of a fifth child, but he had a duty to his men, a duty he could and would not put aside or neglect even for the young wood-elf.

Elrond took a deep breath and vaguely wondered when his life had been easier and more carefree. Probably not since the fall of the Havens of Sirion, he decided wearily.

He opened his eyes again and gave Thalar and the other two elves that were standing left and right of him a quick look.
"Have the healers been brought in?"

Thalar looked at Dólion for support, but the dark-haired commander merely bowed his head and kept it bowed, apparently more than unwilling to incur the wrath of one of his lords yet again.
"I have no idea, my lord," Thalar finally answered. "I haven't seen them in this part of the courtyard, at least."

"Nor I in the parts further away, on the other side of the house," Dólion supported his colleague's words, only to add as a kind of insurance when he saw Elrohir's displeased look, "My lords."

"Very well," Elrond nodded, brushing their words aside, "that is a no, then. You two," he nodded at the two warriors Thalar had brought, "go and find them. Bring them here as quickly as possible, and tell them to bring what supplies they have." He gave the courtyard a blank look. "We will need all the help we can get."

The two elves bowed their heads and turned on their heels, disappearing into the opposite direction, and Elrond turned back to Thalar, already beginning to walk over to the scaffold.
"Show me where my son and the prince are, Commander."

He was already several feet away when Thalar started moving, something that neither annoyed nor surprised the younger elf. Lord Elrond was known for being able to move both outrageously quickly and stealthily when he wanted to. He gave Dólion a quick nod who was already giving orders to Meneldir's warriors to come with him and resume their duty and ran after his lord and his son, only to be stopped by aforementioned son before he had even reached Lord Elrond's side. A hard, steely hand closed around his arm in the manner of a metal vice, and Thalar had no choice but to hurry alongside the twin or have his arm wrenched right out of its socket.

"My brother, Thalar," Elrohir began, his face too expressionless and his voice too calm for it to be true in either case. "My brother," he tried again, not even noticing that he was repeating himself, "he is well, I assume? No bleeding wounds, broken bones, missing limbs or anything of the like?"

Knowing that to show his amusement would be a bad idea, Thalar swallowed back his smile and nodded at the slightly older elf.
"No, my lord," he answered unhesitatingly. "None of the above, at least not as far as I know. Definitely no broken bones or missing limbs."

"That reassures me far less than one might think," Elrohir grumbled and quickened his steps once again to catch up with his father who had left the stage of hurrying far behind and was more or less running by now. Some of the tension that seemed to have clung to his lithe frame seemed to fall away, though, and he let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "He is good at hiding such things, is my brother."

"That he is, my lord," Thalar admitted readily, but refrained from pointing out that Elrohir himself was hardly any different. "The only thing that was truly out of the ordinary was that there was a … well, a bat following us. I think it was following us at least; it might have been doing something else."

Elrohir almost stopped and directed a look full of incredulous surprise at him.
"A bat?"

"Yes, my lord," Thalar nodded. "About this big." He held out his hands to indicate the size of the animal. Elrohir looked at him as if he was talking in some strange language that no sane being had any business of knowing. Thalar added, probably to emphasise his point, "Black. With wings."

Now Elrohir was looking at him as if he had lost his mind.
"With wings," he repeated, deadpan.

"Yes," the other elf nodded, completely even-faced. "Two of them." Elrohir shot him a look that was somewhere between amusement and mild fright, as if he was expecting the commander to jump up and down maniacally any second now. Thalar, realising that this conversation wasn't really going according to plan, tried to get back on track. "So, nothing truly exceptional, if you disregard the little anomaly of the battle itself. Lord Elladan looked just fine the last time I saw him, and he was far more worried about you and the prince than anything else, if I may say so."

"He would be," Elrohir nodded. The words 'the idiot' were left unspoken, and yet so loud that they were almost deafening.

He was about to say more, most likely something like complaints about his twin's reckless behaviour, but whatever had been on the tip of his tongue disappeared from his mind in an instant when his father abandoned all attempts at dignity and proper behaviour and started to run. Elrohir cursed under his breath, the ferocity of the words shocking even Thalar who had heard quite a lot in his long years, and broke into a run as well, following his father and making his way around the scaffold.

The warriors that were standing in a semicircle around someone who was kneeling on the ground parted when they saw their lord running towards them, and Thalar couldn't blame them. He, too, would have stepped aside if Lord Elrond ran towards him with blood covering his clothes and his hair askew and flying about his head. Elrohir didn't even waste a single thought on that, all his thoughts fixed on how much he was not surprised that that person on the ground was his wayward twin brother.

Elrond dropped to his knees next to his son, taking in the situation at a glance. His mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed in a manner that most elves present were very familiar with, even while Elrohir knelt down next to him. He gave Elladan the most cursory glance before he fixed his attention on the still body of the fair-haired prince lying in front of him, and he reached out and placed the fingers of one hand on Legolas' throat. It took him some moments to feel the pulse there, and it was so weak and thready that he felt his hand grow cold.

"It is all right, Elladan," he told his son who had yet to acknowledge his presence and who was staring rigidly at his wounded friend's face. "It is all right, I am here. How long has he been like this, ion nín?" He looked at his son, at his hands that were firmly pressed against the wood-elf's middle and the blank look in his eyes, and added sharply, "Elladan!"

The twin was still not answering and did in fact look as if he had not even noticed that someone – and his father at that – was talking to him. Elrohir, who was kneeling opposite him and had to restrain himself from reaching out and hugging his brother right here and now, noticed how pale he was, and how badly his hands were shaking. It was clear that Elladan was too concentrated on not allowing Legolas to slip away that he had no strength or energy left to take notice of his surroundings.

"Ten minutes at the least, my lord. Fifteen perhaps, but no more than twenty."

It was Isál who answered in the end, his voice strained and nervous. Elrohir turned towards him, and it was quite self-evident why – except for the obvious reasons, of course: The captain was all but keeping a silver-haired elf upright who was staring fixedly at Legolas' motionless body, looking at least as removed from what was going on around him as Elladan. Elrohir took a second to thank the Valar for keeping at least one of his friends safe and turned back to his father, not even surprised for a second that Celylith was here in the first place. If there was even the remotest chance that Legolas might be in some sort of danger, you needed chains and/or a lot of ropes to keep Celylith away.

"Father?" the younger twin asked urgently. "What shall I do?"

Elrond seemed to be snapped out of some sort of trance, and needed only a moment or two decide on the right course of action.

"Find me supplies," he told Thalar who was standing a few feet away from them. "Athelas, any other kind of herb that might be useful, water, blankets, and bandages. As many as you can, and quick." The commander inclined his head and pushed his way through the warriors that were surrounding him, and Elrond turned his attention to Elrohir. "Get your brother away from here, please. He cannot support him any longer without taking serious harm himself. I will care for Legolas as best as I am able."

Elrohir didn't have to be told twice, and in a second he was at his brother's side and was pulling him gently away from the prone body of their friend and to his feet. For a moment, it looked as if Elladan wanted to fight him, wanted to fight against the hands that removed him from Legolas' side, but Elrohir was not to be deterred and finally dragged him away, murmuring soothingly to his brother.

"It is all right, gwanur. Ada is here; he has him. Legolas will be fine, you can let go, everything will be well…"

Whether Elladan understood his words or whether he merely recognised his twin's voice, Elrohir didn't know, but from one moment to the next some sort of recognition came into the eyes of his swaying brother and he found himself enveloped in a firm hug that would have put a good-sized bear to shame.

"Elrohir!" Elladan breathed into his younger brother's shoulder, his arms tightening around Elrohir's middle. "Eru Ilúvatar be praised! I couldn't find you; I tried, I swear I did, but you were nowhere to be found…"

Even despite everything that had happened, Elrohir returned the embrace, a happy, relieved smile spreading on his face. He had missed his twin desperately those past days, and had been horribly worried about him since the battle had started. To see him alive and relatively well was all the compensation he could have wished for.

"I am fine," he told his older brother while he was gently disentangling himself from his embrace. "I am just fine, Elladan, I promise. I just decided to have a little look around once all this started. I did not mean to worry you. Nothing happened to me."

Elladan snorted softly, just like he always did when he claimed to be all right, but the glazed, absent look in his eyes was still there. It was beginning to worry Elrohir, and so the younger twin looked his brother over more closely, and promptly felt how his heart skipped a beat and a cold shiver ran down his spine.

"Elladan! You are bleeding!"

The older twin looked at his brother dazedly, as if he had just spoken the words in Dwarvish. A frown creased his blood-smeared forehead as he gazed at his twin in confusion.
"I am?" He looked down at himself, and the confusion turned into detached wonder when he saw the large, dark, slowly spreading stain on his left side that was hard to see on his dark clothing. "I am!"

He faltered suddenly, as if the recognition of the wound had made it more real and its effects more serious, and Elrohir jumped forward to steady him, waving aside the warriors that had stepped forward to offer their assistance.
"Just how much have you given him?" he asked, suspicion, dread, fear and general unhappiness tingeing his words.

Elladan's body seemed to sag against him, and Elrohir felt more than saw him shrug.
"As much as … was needed."

The older twin's body started to collapse as the gravity of his wound and the exhausting effects of his healing efforts caught up with him, but Elrohir was already there to lower him to the ground as carefully as he could, his face white with barely suppressed fear.
"No, you idiot," he told his brother rather plainly. "Too much!"

Elladan was white-faced himself, his dark eyebrows and hair and even his eyelashes seemingly contrasting sharply against the paleness of his skin. Elrohir shot his father a quick, almost panicky look, realised that the older elf had both his hands full with Legolas and returned his attention to his twin just as quickly. It was hard to actually get a look at the wound, because his dear twin insisted on trying to get back up, but it look more like a – admittedly deep – slash than a stab wound. Elrohir released a small sigh of relief. He didn't think he could have handled another stab wound now, especially not if someone he loved suffered from it.

"When did this happen?" he asked sharply, fear making his voice harsh. Elladan was either not hearing him or ignoring him, and so he repeated the question, looking up at the other elves around him in a manner that very clearly stated that he considered his brother's injury to be at least partly their fault. "When? And how?"

"I … I do not know, my lord," Isál finally answered, apparently having decided that, as the only captain present here, it was his duty to face his young lord's wrath. If Elrohir had been in a slightly less preoccupied state of mind, he would probably have agreed that it was a display of impressive bravery. "It must have happened when we were breaking through their lines. He was uninjured before that, I am sure about it, and we were so intent on reaching Prince Legolas' side that none of us noticed it."

Elrohir looked at him in a manner that made the captain heartily glad that looks could in fact not kill and turned back to his brother, his eyes narrowing in a manner that even the most objective observer would have called threatening. He was just shrugging out of his cloak to when someone knelt down next to him, and when Elrohir turned towards the newcomer, he saw to his substantial surprise that it was Celylith. The wood-elf was still as white as a sheet, his fair, silver hair somehow only adding to this impression and making him look even paler. Behind him, Isál was hovering above them, shooting the two of them worried glances as if he was expecting Celylith to rush off and try to reach Legolas' side and get in the way.

Celylith gave Elrohir a blank look, as if he didn't really understand what he was doing here, but neither did he ask. He seemed to have regained some control over his emotions, however, and simply accepted the younger twin's presence as a given, which, in addition to the way in which he pointedly did not look into Legolas' direction, was more than enough proof about how horrible he really felt.

"Help Lord Elrond, Elrohir," he told the twin softly, his eyes quickly fixing on Elladan's pale face. He reached out with a blood-covered hand and brushed a strand of dark hair out of the older twin's eyes before he firmly took the cloak Elrohir had shrugged out of. "I will look after him."

"But…" Elrohir began, wondering, somewhat disgruntled, just who had died and made the wood-elf his superior.

"Please, Elrohir," Celylith simply said, turning his head and looking at the twin with large, pleading dark-blue eyes. "Lord Elrond needs your help. I can take care of him; my mother taught me enough to be able to deal with a cut to the side, no matter how deep it is." The dark-haired elf didn't move for a long moment, and Celylith tried again. "I swear by Elbereth's stars that I will look after your brother. I beg you, mellon nín. Help my prince."

Elrohir found himself nodding before he had even consciously decided to comply with his friend's wishes. His very being protested against leaving his brother's side, but rationally he knew that Celylith was right. Elladan's wound was bad, yes, but it was hardly life-threatening. His twin was too stubborn and proud to succumb to something as stupid as a wound some clumsy human had struck. What was complicating the whole thing, however, was the fact that Elladan was exhausted to the bone. With a fresh wound, it had been foolish of him to pour so much energy into someone else, but even while he wanted to scold his brother for it, he knew that he would have done exactly the same.

Elrohir took a deep breath, briefly placed his palm against the side of his brother's face and got to his feet. Celylith was right. The silver-haired elf knew enough to help Elladan, and his father did need his help. Legolas needed his help. It took him only a moment to reach his father's side, but when he knelt down next to him, he realised that he had come just in time. His father had grasped one of the fair-haired prince's white hands, his eyes fixed intently on his slack, unconscious face, while his other hand was pressing against the still slowly bleeding wound in his stomach, trying to staunch the blood flow. Without a word, Elrohir took one of the ragged, obviously makeshift bandages one of the warriors must have produced and pressed them on top of the others that were already saturated with blood. With both his hands applying pressure as firmly as he dared, he concentrated hard and tried to send his friend all the healing energy he could find in himself.

Elrond didn't even seem to notice his presence; he seemed to have noticed nothing that had been going on around him these past minutes, in fact, and only when a small commotion made everybody's heads whip around, he, too, stirred slightly and reluctantly resurfaced from the trance-like state he had sunken into. Upon seeing who had just arrived, Elrohir breathed a sigh of relief – at first. There was a small group of elves entering the courtyard, escorted by a dozen warriors. The twin quickly recognised them as healers, and couldn't help but grin openly when he saw them quickly spread out and begin to shout orders to the uninjured warriors. His grin grew even wider when he saw three of them head over to their little group, a warrior following them who resembled more a mule than an elf, so laden was he with bags and satchels.

The other thing that happened almost simultaneously was that Glorfindel chose this moment to make an appearance. The golden-haired elf lord was suddenly there, having appeared around the corner of one of the storage buildings to their left, and Elrohir's first reaction was immediate and profound relief. He had been worried about his former teacher, almost as worried as he had been about Elladan, and to see him on his feet and generally uninjured was a welcome thing indeed.

The golden-haired elf was rather pale, but otherwise he seemed fine, even if a little blood-spattered. In comparison to the majority of the elven warriors, however, who looked as if they had slaughtered half of this town, he looked positively clean. There was something decidedly dark about him though, some sort of savage instinct that had had been sated, and it was enough to send an instinctive, cold shiver down Elrohir's back. A moment later, when his subconsciousness had put two and two together, the shiver was replaced by a warm and almost embarrassingly satisfied feeling.

Gasur was dead then, and not a moment too early. If he had ever met somebody who deserved death as richly as that man, he certainly couldn't remember it.

All kinds of warm, satisfied feelings disappeared in an instant when Glorfindel came closer, and Elrohir saw that the elf lord was actually hurrying. No, he wasn't hurrying, Elrohir corrected himself absent-mindedly, his hands still exerting steady pressure on Legolas' midsection. Glorfindel was all but running, something that was very nearly unheard-of. Elf lords did not run, after all, especially not in public and with such an openly concerned expression on their faces.

The healers reached them first, but Glorfindel wasn't far behind. One of the three, a master healer whom Elrohir recognised, immediately joined him and his father, while the other two began to examine the motionless bodies of Ferdhôl and his men. The part of Elrohir that was glad about the aid – and, most importantly, the supplies the healers brought with them – was quickly silenced by the part that started panicking, for it was then that Glorfindel reached them, stopping in front of them and scanning the scene with darkened blue eyes.

Smouldering fury came into his eyes when he looked upon the motionless prince, and he uttered a curse that would probably have made even Sauron blush.
"Damn that accursed snake!" he added a moment later through gritted teeth. "For once in his life he was speaking the truth, and it had to be about this one thing?"

That seemed to tear Elrond out of his trance at least temporarily, and he looked up, already noticeably whiter and harried-looking.
"What?"

"Nothing," Glorfindel hurried to say. He gave Legolas' form another quick look, swallowed quickly and apparently refrained from asking the obvious question of how the young prince was faring. Anybody with one working eye in his head could see that. "I found Erestor, my lord. He needs your help, urgently."

That definitely caught the half-elf's attention, and his head came up with a start.
"He lives?"

"For the moment," Glorfindel retorted, the three words telling more about the advisor's condition than a long monologue could have. "You have to help him, my lord. Two of the healers were with him when I left him, but he is close to fading. He needs you, Elrond. Please, my friend, you have to come with me. He is in the cellars."

Elrond only looked at him, a helpless look in his eyes that Elrohir could understand only too well. He knew how highly his father valued Erestor's friendship, and knew how much he would want to come to his friend's aid. To comply with Glorfindel's wishes would mean to leave Legolas, however, and anybody with a shred of training in the healing arts could see just what consequences that would have.

The half-elf closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, they were blank and empty and so full of worry and regret that Elrohir would have hugged his father if he'd had a hand free. It reminded the twin of something, something horrible he had pushed to the side in the chaos of the moment, and all of the sudden the sounds around him faded into silence as he struggled to remember what it had been.

"I cannot," Elrond finally said softly in an expressionless tone of voice. "If I leave the prince's side, he will die."

"And if you do not, Erestor will," Glorfindel retorted, his voice just as expressionless. There was no anger in his voice, however, for he understood the choice his lord had to make, but an incredible, anguished weariness could be heard, like that of a man who comes to realise that all his efforts have been in vain after all.

"Perhaps," Elrond nodded, his face so still that it might as well have been carved out of stone. It was the mask Glorfindel had seen him wear many times, when the elf Elrond was helpless and did not know what to do and the lord took over. "And perhaps not. Go and bring him up here, along with anybody else you might find there. If the healers have done their duty well, as they must have, they will have stabilised him, and he still has a chance. The prince, on the other side," he added, giving Legolas' white face a long look, "would have none."

For a long moment, the blond elf didn't say anything. Then he took a step forward and crouched down next to his lord and friend, an unreadable expression in his eyes.
"You know what you are doing."

It was a statement and not a question, spoken so softly that even Elrohir who was no more than a foot away could hardly hear it, and Elrond smiled bitterly as he met his best friend's eyes. His own had assumed the colour of darkened storm clouds, full of pain and worry and regret and helplessness, and Elrohir couldn't bear looking at them longer than he had to.

"Yes," Elrond finally answered softly, his eyes not leaving Glorfindel's. "Valar, but yes, I do."

Glorfindel merely looked back at his lord and friend, his face still completely emotionless. The only reaction that was to be seen was the slight tightening of his mouth and a new steeliness that crept into his eyes, and a moment later he inclined his head fractionally and got to his feet in a smooth, effortless motion.
"As you command, my lord."

He turned around and walked away, nodding at a few of the warriors as he passed them. The elves looked uncomfortable but obeyed, sure that they had missed something, that more had been said than could have been heard. Elrohir, however, who was still not paying his surroundings all the attention they were due, knew perfectly well what had been said. And how could he not, he asked himself, automatically assisting his father and the other healer when they applied yet another layer of bandages and began gathering various herbs and powders to mix a potion. It had been said loudly enough for him, after all.

Glorfindel knew that Elrond's decision was, rationally speaking, the right one, and he did not begrudge him it. His father knew, rationally speaking, that there had been nothing he could have done differently and that he couldn't be in two places at once, no matter how much he might wish it. They both knew, rationally speaking, that they were not responsible for anything that had happened here, and that no one – including Legolas and Erestor – would even think about blaming them.

Rationality, however, had precious little hold on anybody in situations like this. Elrohir did not know just what repercussions it would have if Erestor died because he didn't receive the help he needed when he needed it, or if Legolas died despite of all their best efforts. All he knew was that they would be grave indeed, and that he did not want to find out.

Later, Elrohir would be able to remember with astounding clarity what he had been doing in the exact moment he remembered what had been gnawing at the back of his mind, what he had pushed there for lack of hope and options and time. One moment, he was helping the master healer wrapping the new bandages around Legolas' middle and watching his father crush some athelas leaves, and in the next the world came crashing down on his head with a noise that would have deafened anybody.

He froze in mid-motion, heedless of his surroundings, and for a moment nothing mattered but the wild, panicky beating of his heart and the sickness that threatened to choke him. Elbereth's stars above, he had left his little brother in a doomed town!

"…rohir? Elrohir! Answer me! What is that matter? Are you all right? Eru, answer me, ion nín!"

Elrohir couldn't even formulate a single, coherent thought for several long moments, and only when a hand touched him and shook him out of his paralysis he looked up, straight into his father's worried eyes.

"What is it, Elrohir?" Elrond repeated, feeling how a cold had of dread reached inside his chest and began to wrap its fingers around his heart. "Are you wounded as well?"

Elrohir didn't answer. He looked as if he had just seen a ghost, and was as white and motionless as the young prince whose life they were still trying to save. The half-elf looked down upon the still figure of Thranduil's son. It wasn't that it was the stillness itself that was disturbing. Legolas was an adult who had grown up in the court of an elven king. He had been through enough diplomatic talks, dinners and functions to have perfected the art of being able to remain in dignified motionlessness for long periods of time, and he himself had seen him thus more than a few times. But even during these times, the blond elf was never completely still, even if he was not moving a muscle. There was an energetic air about him that was impossible to contain, no matter what he was doing or even not doing, in this case. To see him so utterly still and expressionless was just wrong, in the worst way imaginable.

A strangled, inarticulate sound finally found its way past Elrohir's lips, bringing Elrond out of his thoughts. The elf lord felt how his worry even increased. Elrohir, as a grandson of Lady Galadriel, was never speechless. It just didn't happen, and if it did, it couldn't be a good sign.

Before Elrond could ask again, a shout drew his attention, and he turned around as far as he dared, determined not to move Prince Legolas more than half an inch. Thalar was rushing their way, obviously sans healing supplies, but with an exceptionally worried expression adorning his face.

"My lord!" Captain Elvynd's commander exclaimed even while he was still several dozen yards away from them. He almost lost his footing as he very nearly stumbled over a wayward sword, deftly dodged a healer who was bandaging a wounded elf who was beginning to stir and ineffectively trying to ward off his help, and kept running. "My Lord Elrond!"

Elrond would almost have snapped at him that he was not deaf and would be willing to hear him out if he only uttered more than his name, but recognised the symptoms of overextending himself, exhaustion and worry just in time. He was still gripping the young prince's hand and was using that physical contact to pour what healing energies he could into the younger elf, and he was already feeling the effects of it. A pounding headache had taken up residence behind his forehead, and the vertigo that was growing ever stronger was seriously beginning to affect his balance.

Thalar finally reached them and skidded to a halt, his chest rising and falling rapidly. It was clear that he had been running for a while, and if the terrified expression on his face was anything to go by, the news he had was anything but good.

Elrond sighed silently, thoroughly tired of all this. He did not know how much more bad news he could take; the last one and the following sickening realisation that he would have to choose between Erestor and the son of Thranduil had almost been more than he could bear.

"My lord!" Thalar gasped again, apparently having regained control over his breathing. "I …" He faltered and took a deep breath, trying to pull more oxygen – and maybe courage – into his lungs. "I come from the sentries on the eastern wall. There … there…"

The commander paused again, unsure, something that awoke in Elrond the very uncharacteristic desire to strangle him. How the chestnut-haired elf had got to the walls while trying to find healing supplies was anyone's guess anyway, he thought testily.

"Something is happening with the Mitheithel. The sentries report that, some minutes ago, there was some sort of movement in the far distance, close to Aberon. Something like an unusual current that reached downstream all the way to here, stronger than any kind of normal current would be. Some of them think they heard unusual, roaring sounds, but they would not want to vouch for it. My lord, the warriors who told me this are stationed by the Bruinen. They know what they are talking about."

Thalar took another deep breath when Elrond merely stared at him incomprehensively.

"They – and I am in agreement with them – think that something must have happened to the dams of Aberon. They must have been at least several serious breaches to account for these happenings, if they aren't gone completely."

Elrond kept staring at the younger elf, understanding only slowly beginning to lay itself over his tired features. His face turned as white as a sheet as he realised what Thalar was saying and just what his words meant, and for a long, frightening moment the commander actually thought his lord might falter or faint.

Then, after several long moments, the Lord of Rivendell slowly turned his head to look at his younger twin son, a desperate gleam in his eyes, as if he was waiting for Elrohir to tell him that Thalar and the sentries were wrong and that nothing was wrong in Aberon, that nothing was wrong in the town where he had left his human son.

Even before his lord could lock eyes with his son, Thalar knew that no such assurance would be forthcoming. Elrohir's face was at least as white as his father's and there were gleaming, unshed tears in his eyes, and for the first time since the battle was over Thalar felt that they had lost after all. The terrible certainty in Elrohir's eyes was all one needed to see and all that needed to be said.

The Lady of Donrag, though already dead herself, had kept her promise.




What he should have done, Tibron decided morbidly, was bring a boat. They should all have brought boats; even rafts might have done.

A moment later, he realised what he had been thinking, and shame and self-loathing crashed in on him, causing him to close his eyes lest he should fall. For a moment he was truly and honestly glad that his father had already passed into the next world. He was quite sure that he would not have been able to stand the shame his two sons had brought upon him and the entire family, one by his traitorous actions and the other by his callous thoughts.

Another moment later, common sense kicked in. He had always reacted with helpless humour in such situations, when he was faced with events that were too terrible to be taken seriously. Then, humour was the only thing that kept you safe and sane and able to function, and he had learned not to chastise himself for it. He meant not disrespect, and did only what he had to do in order not to break down weeping.

And weeping was just what seemed appropriate right now, the fair-haired man decided wearily and stopped for a moment out of sheer, simple exhaustion. If there had been anything close by to lean against, Tibron would have gladly used it to keep himself upright, but there simply wasn't anything left. There was nothing left of these parts of the docks but the skeletons of some storage buildings and one or two piers. Considering how many there had been no more than seven or eight hours ago, it was nothing short of a catastrophe.

Tibron sighed, feeling how the irrational, hysterical laughter once again began to rise inside of him. It was almost ridiculous indeed – who would ever have thought that something like this would happen if the dams were breached? Great Ones, if someone had suspected it, he would never have to suffer through all those long, boring, frustrating council sessions when they had discussed about who would have to pay for the latest repairs. He could still remember how pleased most of the other councilmen had been when Hurag, in a display of uncharacteristic generosity that should have made him suspicious even back then, had offered to pay for the upcoming repairs.

Toran's brother closed his eyes in helpless fury, both to block out the memory and the sight of his surroundings. Where there had been long, wooden docks, storage buildings and even housings districts, there was about nothing left. Only a few buildings had withstood the force of the water even partly, and the rest had been swept away partially or completely. Wreckage was everywhere just like the dark, viscous mud that had remained behind when the water had receded somewhat. Wooden beams that had once been part of houses and other constructions obstructed the road that was hardly visible anymore under all the debris, and kegs, barrels, crates, boxes and even pieces of furniture and various other things were everywhere, as if a giant had taken a house, turned it upside down and shaken it until everything fell out haphazardly. Most of the area was still flooded, even though one could move slowly and carefully since the water rarely reached higher than your waist.

The partial destruction of the docks wasn't the hardest part of the whole thing, however, something of which Tibron was only too keenly aware. The hardest part, so much harder even than seeing your hometown torn to pieces, was finding the bodies.

And the Gods knew that there were a lot. In this part of the city there were relatively few since few people lived so close to the docks, but still enough so that every two or three minutes someone would call out, indicating that he had found yet another far too still body. In three times out of four – at least that was the ratio Tibron clung to with all the rather remarkable stubbornness his family was known for – the call "Here!" was uttered in a way that left no doubts about the condition of the person that had just be found. It was rare that the healers' services were required, and even rarer that someone could be freed from wherever the water had trapped them and could leave their prison under their own strength.

Tibron knew that it was even worse in the other parts of the town where the dams had been breached. There, the dead numbered far more than here, and the rescuers had had to resort to using the town hall as a temporary morgue. He had been there for a while, just after it had happened, and what he had seen had been enough for at least a decade of nightmares. He himself had been nowhere close to one of the torn dams since he and his men had been busy subduing a group of Hurag's men in another part of the town, but no one could have missed the events. Aberon wasn't an overly large town, and the roaring sound of the water that must have been audible everywhere was something he doubted he would ever be able to forget.

One of the men that was accompanying him suddenly stopped, looking faintly puzzled, and crouched down next to a large wooden board that Tibron identified after a moments as a plank that must have part of one of the smaller boats that had been moored at the docks. For a moment, Tibron's exhausted, shock-numbed mind couldn't figure out why the other man had stopped, but then the other reached out with steady hands and pulled at the plank. It didn't come away easily, stuck as it was in between two large wooden beams, and only when Tibron lent his strength to the cause, it budged.

A moment later the two men managed to shift the large board to the side, and only now Tibron could see what the other man had already seen several moments ago: The flaming red, long hair of a young woman who was now revealed, her body half-buried under more beams. Her skin was pasty white, her red lashed resting on the pale cheeks, and her unquestionable beauty was already beginning to fade as the cold rigidity of death stole over her still features. For the life of him, Tibron couldn't figure out what this young one would have been doing down here so close to the docks, and wearily decided that it didn't matter. Whether the girl had been here with a friend or a lover or whether there had been some other reason for her presence, she had made the wrong decision in coming here. It had been a tragic mistake, a mistake she couldn't even have known she was committing.

He turned to his companion to say something along these lines when he noticed for the first time that the other man possessed the same red hair as the dead girl in front of them. The sadness in his heart even intensified, and he reached out and placed a hand on the other man's shoulder in a thoroughly useless comforting gesture.

"Who was she?" he asked softly, looking at the still, beautiful face of the girl.

"My cousin," the man retorted just as softly, stunned wonderment in his voice, as if he just couldn't believe what his eyes were seeing. He reached out and touched the girl's cheek with a slightly trembling hand. "My little cousin."

All words of comfort he could think of sounded platitudinous and insignificant, and so Tibron merely tightened his grip on the other man's shoulder.
"Come," he told him. "Let the others take care of her."

"No," the man shook his head quickly and decisively. His wide, shocked eyes were fixed firmly on his dead cousin's face. "No. I … they don't know where she lives. Someone has to take her home."

There was nothing to be said to that, and besides, the other man wouldn't have moved anyway, about that Tibron was sure. Even when he had slowly climbed back to his feet and had unsuccessfully tried to brush dirt and mud and the stain of death off his clothes, the stunned man was still kneeling on the muddy ground. When he was turning around to make his way down the ruined road, the other man was reaching out and grasping one of the dead girl's hands, his fingers encircling hers tenderly. The picture was so utterly heartbreaking that all Tibron could do was turn around and start walking lest he start crying. If he started now, he would never be able to stop.

And what was even worse, what was maybe even the very worst part of it, was that he should be thankful that it wasn't worse. He should be thankful that the town was still standing; thankful that the dams had only burst in four places and that most of the districts hadn't been touched by the water. The part that had been affected the worst was this one, the docks; it had been almost completely destroyed.

He simply couldn't feel grateful for so much carnage and destruction, but yet he was. He was grateful that the city was still standing, he was grateful that they only found dead people every two minutes instead of every two seconds, he was grateful that most of the dams had held and he was oh-so-very-grateful that he, his son and his brother were still alive. At least his family was safe, and that was something for which he felt so profoundly grateful that he almost felt guilty in the face of so much death.

And yet that was why he was down here: Because not all his family was safe. He knew that Toran was all right; he had seen him when he and his men had still been in the town centre. His brother had been doing a laudable job at trying to organise the rescue efforts, and a part of him forgave Toran for his deeds. He had never meant for this to happen, about that he was very, very certain, and he was doing his best to make up for everything. But that was all there was, too: A small part forgave Toran, no more. He would never involve any strangers in this nor tell anybody else what his brother had done – because that was what he was, his brother – but he knew only too well how Toran had acted and whom he had unwittingly helped ruin their hometown and kill hundreds of people. He would protect Toran and defend him against any who would seek to discover just who had been among Hurag's supporters, even against the elf lord and that strange, frightening golden-haired elf that had been with him, but he doubted that he would ever fully forgive him.

So he had left Toran hip-deep in water in the centre and had come here, because it was here that Torel and the ranger had been seen last. Tibron clenched his teeth and grimly walked on, doing his best to keep a level head. It was amazing, he decided wryly, how, when the world came crashing down on you and all you could see was death no matter where you looked, you could still be frightened by something as finding yet another body. It should be just that after hours and hours of searching, he guessed: Just another body of somebody unfortunate enough to have been at the wrong place at the wrong time.

But it wasn't just another body, and the blond man knew it perfectly well, too. He would be finding his nephew, the son of this brother who had only been doing what was right and honourable. Torel had refused to leave the side of one of his, Tibron's, guests, and for that he might have paid the ultimate price. Or if he didn't find him, he might find Strider, to whom he and the entire town owed their lives. He didn't know how the ranger had put the pieces together and realised just what would be happening or how he had even got out of bed, but he had done it and had risked his life for a town where he and his friends had been betrayed by some person or other over and over.

Tibron stopped for a moment, apparently to allow his companions to catch up with him, but truly because he felt so dizzy that he would have fallen flat on his face if he had taken another step. After the elf lord and his companions (including the scary blond one) had taken their leave, he had gathered as many people as he could on such short notice. If Giras hadn't already been in the town hall, he would have never managed it in time, but like this, they had done it, somehow. Overwhelming panic and horrible visions of what aforementioned fair-haired elf would do to them if they didn't manage to locate the elf lord's young ranger friend or adopted son or whatever he might be might also have helped.

This way, they had already split up into several groups and begun to search the shadier parts of the town when they stumbled over Vonar – common sense or the voice of experience had told him that they wouldn't find his son, his nephew and the ranger in plain sight in the main square. He had thought his heart would stop when two of his men came running up to him and all but dragged him down a road leading to the docks, and he had seen his son literally propped up against a wall with a blood-stained bandage wrapped around his middle. It had looked as if the only thing holding him upright was the wall at his back and the hand of another man that was grasping his shoulder, his face white and shocked and his eyes almost fever-bright.

It had become clear very quickly just what had shocked Vonar in such a manner. After he had told him just what Strider had discovered, how a group of Hurag's men had almost killed them and where the ranger and Torel were heading, he had taken a deep breath, had forced down the panic that had threatened to take a hold of him and had started issuing orders as quickly as his tongue cold formulate the words. He might not be a politician or a higher-ranking guild master, but he had owned an inn for the past twenty-odd years.

He knew how to tell people what to do, and so after less than five minutes a protesting Vonar had been sent home, accompanied by Giras who had received the very clear instructions not to allow the young man to set a single foot out of the house, for no reason at all. At the same time, a dozen groups had been ready to leave, with the orders of stopping the people sabotaging the dams by any means necessary. There had been many men who hadn't been armed, but provisional weapons were soon found in addition to even more men.

That it had worked so well was something that still astonished Tibron. It should all have ended in disaster, so panicky and ill-prepared had been their response, but somehow, it had worked. Perhaps it still all had, though, for even though most of the city survived relatively unscathed, there were still so many missing and so many already dead. And how could it not be a disaster when the people to whom they owed their hometown's narrow escape from certain doom had died while trying to make sure that just that doom did not come to pass?

Tibron was brought out of his thoughts when the last of his companions together with one of the healers passed him, and he blinked tiredly against the fear and pain and sorrow that threatened to choke him. The healer, an old man with long white hair and an even longer beard, looked even worse than he supposed he himself did, and Tibron could understand why. To be here in this alleyway of senseless death must be even worse for a healer, and the older man must feel even more useless than he did.

The fair-haired man cursed again, not even bothering to do it quietly since no one would care or even notice. Just why-oh-why did Strider and his nephew have to pick this part of the town to go missing? Of the group that had been sent here to stop Hurag's men – or of the mercenaries themselves – only a single man had turned up alive, namely at the other end of the city. The overwhelming majority of the people they found here was dead, having been killed almost as soon as the dam had burst, and the chance of actually finding not only one, but two people alive were as small as…

Tibron trailed off as he saw someone running towards him, and the dread that immediately filled him was soon justified when he saw that the man was one of the innkeepers' guild's messengers. It might actually have been the same one that the guild master had sent with instructions yesterday evening, but he was far too tired and exhausted to remember. Even before all this, he hadn't slept more than two or three hours a night for days while he had been busy concealing the elves' and the ranger's presence in his house. He wasn't twenty anymore, and he knew that, sooner rather than later, he would simply fall over when his body decided that enough was enough.

"Sir!" the messenger called out just before he stumbled over what had once been a large storage box and almost fell flat on his face. He righted himself quickly enough, eyed the submerged road once again with distaste but then quickly hurried on. "Sir! Master Tibron!"

The innkeepers' guild was a good deal less formal than for example the traders' guild – and Tibron wasn't actually important enough to merit this kind of public reverence – and so Tibron was actually quite surprised for a moment. Then he remembered that yes, that was his name, and that he'd better answer before the other man took a piece of wood and started poking him to elicit a reaction.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice so hoarse that he could barely recognise it. It sounded like the voice of a far older man, which was rather fitting for he right now felt like a ninety-year-old. "What?" He stopped for a moment and stared at the messenger suspiciously, recent experience having taught him that things always got worse once they'd started out like this. "Is there another breach?"

"No, sir," the man panted. He looked to the right and at the small, cleared area where they were bringing the dead, and as soon as his eyes came to rest on the long line of still bodies, he hurriedly looked away. "The two closest to the centre are more or less under control. They were a lot smaller than the other one; that one is still bad, sir, but the area is mostly evacuated now. I brought some additional workers with me, to strengthen the teams here."

Tibron nodded automatically, wearily deciding that that was at least a bit of good news. They needed every available man to try to contain the breaches as quickly as possible, especially this one before it could widen even more and take this entire part of the harbour with it. Even ten or twenty more men would be very welcome indeed.

"Then what is it?" he asked impatiently. He had lost all sorts of longanimity about a lifetime ago, or possibly when Vonar had brought the ranger and his blond friend into his house.

"It's worse, sir," the man replied, looking at Tibron with wide eyes. The innkeeper raised an eyebrow incredulously, and so the messenger went on, obviously to emphasise his point, "Far worse. The elves are back, sir. They arrived half an hour ago."

"What!" Tibron asked, the second eyebrow moving upwards to join the first. "The elf lord is here, in the town?"

"Well, no," the messenger clarified. "They're not all back. It appears that about two-thirds, including their lord, stayed in Donrag. Only a part of them is here to offer their assistance and help search for the ranger, as they say." The man swallowed heavily. "It's still a mighty lot of them, though."

"Who is leading them?" Tibron asked.

"One of their lord's sons, apparently," the messenger answered. "The same that was here earlier. His men are already helping search for survivors, and he would like to see you 'at your earliest convenience'."

Tibron felt how annoyance joined the swirling mass of emotions inside of him.
"My son was wounded and almost killed today, I nearly drowned along with the rest of the town, I have dug out more dead people than I can count, my nephew is still missing, and the council wants – no, expects, me to deal with the elves as well?"

"Well," the other man began and frowned, "Yes, I think so."

There was little Tibron could have said to that, and so he bit his lip and swallowed the retort that was on the tip of his tongue. It was quite possible that the messenger would forget it in all this chaos, but he might as well report it back to their superiors and then he would be in trouble.

"All right," he told the other man slowly. "I will talk to him. Lead the way."

The messenger nodded and began to walk back the way he had come. Tibron followed him as soon as he had informed his men of what had happened and where he was going, stumbling after him in a manner that he rarely displayed and that looked almost drunk. He was an innkeeper, after all, and no innkeeper lasted long unless he could hold his liquor.

"What news of Donrag, then?" he asked while they picked their way through the rubble.

A gleeful grin spread over the other man's face, making him look like a particularly muddy and rather deranged frog.

"The elves took care of them for us," he told him in a tone of voice that left no doubts about his feelings in that matter. "They tried to hold them off, idiots that they are, and have paid the price. The mansion is taken, and it doesn't look as if anyone is putting up a fight anymore. And," he added, satisfaction radiating off him in waves, "we don't have to worry about that witch anymore."

"Oh?" Tibron asked interestedly. "Then why is the elf lord staying there? He could have left someone else in charge of the warriors and come here."

The other man shrugged, apparently not very interested in this.
"I think there were some matters detaining him. Too many wounded to take care of or something like this? You will have to ask his son, sir; I do not know."

Oh yes, Tibron thought bitterly, ask his son. The last time he had talked to aforementioned elf lord when the matter concerned his adopted brother, he had been slammed against a wall and had been almost choked – repeatedly. He had absolutely no desire to repeat the experience, and somehow he thought that the greeting of "Welcome to what is left of Aberon, my lord, I hope you had a pleasant day taking over Donrag? If you are looking for the ranger … well, he kind of got swept away. Either that, or he got buried by a building somewhere. Either way, he is probably dead. Can I offer you a cup of tea?" would not be received very well.

He needn't have worried about that, of course. They had only just made their way out of the disaster area that had once been the docks when another messenger all but crashed into them, giving Tibron the distinct impression that someone had elevated him in rank and had forgotten to tell him about it. Perhaps he had been made guild master and no one had seen it fit to inform him about it? The thought pleased him immensely for a moment, but then he remembered that one of the current guild masters would have to be dead for that and his amusement vanished.

It wasn't an official messenger this time and something far worse than even the return of the elves. The man who had been looking for him for at least an hour (at least judging by his muddy and wet appearance) was one of his brother's assistants, a young, overly eager man who was right now trying to grow a beard. Especially now that his face was stained with mud and dirt, the wispy strands of hair that were all there was to show for his efforts looked particularly hilarious.

"I must ask you to come with me, Master Tibron," the youth began, sending the other messenger a dark look that was returned just as darkly. Tibron would almost have closed his eyes; the entire situation was beginning to even increase his headache, which was not a good thing. If it went up another level, his head would surely explode. "Please, it is urgent."

"Did my brother send you?" the innkeeper asked, annoyed. He did not want to see Toran right now; he was still far too angry and hurt. He guessed that he would be able to face him without wanting to strangle him one day, but certainly not in the next few months or so.

"Not precisely," the young man admitted, lowering his eyes. "Please, sir, come with me."

He would divulge nothing more, and in the end Tibron gave in, far too exhausted mentally and physically to argue unless he really had to. He turned back to his guild's messenger (who was glowering darkly at the younger man) and told him to go on without him and to relay to Lord Elrohir that he would join him as quickly as he was able. The man looked at him as if he was committing high treason by not following instructions immediately and without question – something that only filled Tibron with a profound sense of indifference – and stalked off.

Tibron looked after him for a moment to make sure that he really left – guild personnel could be thoroughly sneaky and far too curious for their own good. Satisfied that he and his brother's aide were alone, he turned back to the young man, but he resolutely refused to say more and merely led him down one of the side roads that had been remote enough from the dam to escape relatively unscathed. Even here water stood more than knee-high on the street, and so walking became a slow and exhausting process.

It took them more than thrice the time as usual to reach one of the smaller plazas where Tibron hadn't been in months, if not years. There were only a handful of people here, mostly helpers who made their way from one site to the other, and the lifeless stillness of the square made Tibron shudder openly. The other man stopped for a moment to get his bearing and finally began to cross the plaza, heading for one of the streets to the left that went back down to the docks. Soundlessly swearing to himself that he would kill the younger man if he didn't offer some sort of explanation very soon, Tibron followed him.

They walked down the narrow street, seeing more and more people who were searching through the rubble that once again began to litter the streets. Soon, the first destroyed houses could be seen, telling them plainly that they were moving back in the area of the harbour. Only a few moments later, the docks appeared in the distance where this street had once ended, looking even more ghostly in the pale light of the early morning sun. He could see that they had moved downstream, even if not very far; perhaps a few hundred yards.

Tibron had just decided that he would do something horrible to his brother's aide should it turn out that he had only led him here in order to show him how well the other teams were progressing, when the younger man stopped, apparently without any reason. Tibron looked at the working men around him who didn't even seem to notice his presence and then at the messenger, forcibly clamping down on his impatience.

"Well?" he asked as calmly as he could.

The younger man didn't answer and only motioned at something to his right, and only then Tibron saw that what he had thought to be the space of a collapsed building (there were enough dilapidated stones and beams lying around to build several houses) was in reality a very narrow lane that had once been framed by tall buildings. It was sloping upwards and was therefore relatively dry and looked only very chaotic. A few of the buildings had collapsed – this part of the town was old, and in the case of more than one building the constructors had saved money wherever they could – but there were still enough left standing to plunge the narrow street into deep shadows.

For long moments, he could not see what could possibly be of interest here, his tired eyes refusing to co-operate and do something as strenuous as adjusting to the gloom. In the end, however, he saw what his brother's aide had meant and couldn't help but wonder why he hadn't seen it earlier: No more than ten yards away, a still figure was kneeling in the mud, the shallow water reaching the man's mid-thigh. Otherwise the street was empty; it was clear that the water had only reached this part of it. Even though the figure's back was turned and he was looking into the other direction, Tibron would have recognised the man anywhere.

Dread that was so strong and thick that he almost couldn't draw breath washed over him, and Tibron faltered and was momentarily unable to regain his equilibrium. Toran's aide reached out and grasped his shoulder in support, and the consoling way in which the other man's hand remained on his upper arm only served to heighten his anxiety.

He knew what he would find in that narrow street. He knew it as surely and certainly as if his brother's aide had whipped out a sign from behind his back and had started waving it around.

What is was that finally prompted him to step into the narrow street, he would probably never know. His brain was completely paralysed, if a brain could indeed be paralysed, and he was acting on an instinct that was older and more powerful than the strong urge to turn around, escape from this place and forget that he had ever been here: The instinct to help someone he loved, and no matter what Toran did or had done, he would always love him; nothing at all would ever be able to change that.

The muddy ground squelched softly while he walked over to the still figure kneeling in front of him, that was something he heard overly clearly in his shocked state of mind. In a few seconds he had reached the other man's side, by now completely used to being soaked to the skin and having to fight your way through water wherever you went. The sight that presented itself to him was enough to make him freeze on the spot, sudden coldness enveloping his body and soul and rendering him unable to move or think or even breathe.

His brother was kneeling next to a pile of driftwood – parts of a building, scaffold or something like that, a calm part of his mind noted. He was covered from head to toe in mud and dirt, much as himself, and had to be freezing, for he remained completely motionless in the shallow, ice-cold water. Toran wasn't even noticing it, of that Tibron was certain; all his brother's energy and concentration was focussed on the far too still, curly-haired body he was holding in his arms.

Tibron felt how his legs gave out, and he fell to his knees next to his older brother without even noticing the pain that went through his legs and knees when he hit the ground. All he could do was stare at the still, white face of his oldest nephew and the way his hands, usually so restless and full of life, hung limply at his sides, disappearing into the cold, muddy water.

A choked sound came over his lips without him realising it, a sound full of pain and grief and disbelief. He reached out with a trembling hand and touched Torel's damp, limp curls, shuddering when he felt the coldness that permeated his hands when his fingers touched the boy's scalp.

"Great Ones above, no…" he whispered. He closed his eyes wearily, as if he could block out reality like that. "Please, no!"

Toran didn't look at him, his wide, unseeing eyes fixed on his son's white, quiet face. He had seen far too much to be able to deceive himself and insist that this was not true and nothing but a bad dream, that his son would open his eyes every second now, would smile at him and tell him that he would be all right. Racked with grief as he was, Tibron still wished with all his heart that he would be, that his brother might find some small measure of deceiving comfort, even if only for a few moments.

"I did this." Toran's soft, but surprisingly calm voice brought him out of his own, grief-filled thoughts. "I did this. This is my fault. I killed him, I killed my own son…"

Tibron hadn't thought that the pain in his heart could even intensify, but it did, stabbing through his very core like the keenest lance. Memories of Torel laughing as a toddler or playing as a child flashed through his mind, and he felt how the tears he had been trying to hold back for so long began to fall.

Without doubt or hesitation, he wrapped his arms around his motionless brother and the still, cold form of his nephew. Nothing mattered anymore, nothing that had happened over the last few months, and all that was important was the menacing darkness that loomed on the horizon and threatened to envelop them whole.

"No!" he shook his head, not even noticing the tears that were streaming down his face. "No, it isn't your fault, Toran. Hurag did this. That spiteful little witch from Donrag did this, brother, her captains did this, not you."

He could have been talking to a rock. Toran didn't seem to hear him and only stared straight ahead, softly rocking back and forward, a gesture of such helpless that it made Tibron feel positively sick. His brother looked as if he was afraid that he might wake his son, even though that was the one thing that would never happen again.

"I should have confided in you," Toran retorted, his voice still sounding calm. "I should have confided in him. If I had told you about what was going on, if I had denounced Hurag publicly, this would never have happened. Nothing of it. He would never have had to keep secrets from me; he would have come to me before helping the ranger and the elves; he would never have come down here; the town would not have been touched…"

Tibron didn't know what to say, his own grief almost choking him. In the end he only tightened his hold on his brother, wishing fervently that he would find something to break through this far too calm façade that the older man had thrown up around himself.

"You did not mean for this to happen, brother," he told him. "You were doing what you had to do to protect him and the rest of your family. You were right earlier: What could you have done? We both know Hurag. He would have found a way to make you pay for refusing him."

"All I was doing was make sure that my son couldn't trust me enough to come to me before leaving on a mission that was clearly a suicidal one. It should be me lying here. It should have been me who stood up to Hurag." For the first time he took his eyes off his dead son's face and looked at his brother, and Tibron would almost have startled openly. His brother's eyes were blood-shot, even though he had clearly not cried, and he looked like man of a hundred years or more. "What do they say, that the road to the pits of hell is paved with good intentions?"

His younger brother shook his head wordlessly. He looked down at his nephew again, and a new wave of grief went through him that left him almost breathless.
"He went with the ranger to protect him," he told his brother, forcing himself to articulate the words even despite the sorrow that threatened to choke him. "He did what he thought he had to do, what he thought was right. He would have rather died than leave a guest of my house alone and unprotected."

"And so he did!" Toran exclaimed, his voice finally breaking. "Gods! And so he did!"

He closed his eyes, looking as if he was trying to deny everything now, but it was too late. Reality would not be denied, no matter what he tried, and so he was left staring at the body of his son, his own body beginning to shake as the tears finally came. Tibron only tightened his grip on his brother and did not even try to hold back the sorrow and pain that filled him.

The rescue workers kept working around them as they slowly combed the area for any survivors, giving the two of them only the barest minimum of attention. For them, it was just another tragedy, another senseless death of someone far too young that was lost in far too many such fates that had befallen their city from one moment to the next.

Neither of the two brothers noticed them, however, as they cried for their son and nephew who had died because he had done what was right and honourable, and because he had refused to leave the side of a young, injured ranger whom he had barely known.

It wasn't even the twelfth hour yet (not even close to it, in fact!) and Ingvaer was already beginning to think that his limits would soon be reached.

It wasn't that he had never seen dead people before; he had, a lot of them, in fact. He was a warrior, after all, and as such he had seen his fair share of fallen warriors, be they human, elven or orcish. He'd also seen the cadavers of more wargs and wolves than he had ever wanted to, and had even once seen a dead troll.

Annorathil's nephew shook himself and tightened his grip on the long stick he had grasped in his right hand. What he could deal with – with a lot of problems and only with great reluctance – was the fact that warriors died. That was the way things were, and something that would most likely and very unfortunately never change. He could accept that elven and human warriors died – on orcs he wasted neither his thoughts nor his sympathy.

What he could not deal with, however, was this.

The young elf gritted his teeth, took up his stick and began to walk over the muddy, churned-up ground, no tracks that a mortal eye could ever have seen marking his passing. The broad, glistening band that was the Mitheithel was to his right, no more than fifteen feet away, looking suspiciously calm and innocent in the morning light. The thing that only served to infuriate Ingvaer more was that it was calm, too. Aberon's dams hadn't given in under the pressure of the water; there had been no slow build-up against old stones and weary wood that had led to an inevitable collapse.

Aberon's dams had been sabotaged; it was as plain and simple as that. Ingvaer liked to see himself as a scientist of some kind – probably a rather strange kind, he was willing to admit that himself – and if there was one thing he could not stand, it was the wilful destruction or damage of something as perfectly innocent as a dike in working order.

There was another thing he couldn't stand, of course: Stumbling over dead children or women or old men, people who had most decidedly not been involved in some sort of conflict and who had only been in the wrong place at the wrong time – people who had died because of some humans' greed and hatred. He had already found more than he or anybody else would have thought possible. They had underestimated the victims the burst dams would claim. He was trying to push the sadness and the anger aside, not think too much about the still bodies they found and was trying to distract himself by trying to figure out just how they would have got out of that mine if Lord Glorfindel and the others hadn't found them (right now he had decided that it probably would have worked if he had used that piece of string, had tied it to a rock, had thrown it up the ledge where the workers' equipment was stored but which they couldn't reach in their bound state and without a ladder, and had then kept trying until it got tangled in the tools, they had fallen down and he could have used them to cut through his bonds).

It wasn't working, not at all, and while he was slowly making his way downstream, he wished that Lord Glorfindel had sent more warriors with them to help the people of Aberon.

He knew that the golden-haired elf lord couldn't have done that, even if he had wanted to. And he doubted that he had wanted to; while he would never say that his superior was unfeeling or cold, he had never doubted for a second that he possessed the strongly vengeful streak of their ancestors. There were things Lord Glorfindel did not forgive easily – if at all – and injuring his friends or those he had sworn to protect was one of them. The elf lord would never refuse to aid Aberon, knowing that the direct fault for all this lay with Donrag, but he wouldn't go out of his way to help them, either.

This time, however, it hadn't even mattered. They had hardly had enough warriors to bring the mansion under control, and to send more warriors would have meant to invite disaster. They hadn't counted on having to conquer a human city, after all! There were too many injured elves to consider, too, and too many warriors who assisted the healers and aided their wounded comrades. If Lord Glorfindel had sent more, he would have put the life of every single elf in Donrag at risk.

Ingvaer stopped for a moment, giving his two elven companions and a group of humans whose names he didn't even know (nor had he cared to ask) the opportunity to catch up with him. They weren't the only search party outside the city walls; there were others, namely all the men the coordinators of the rescue efforts could spare. He could still remember Lord Glorfindel's face when he had, with Lord Elrohir and Captain Isál standing next to him, announced that a part of them would return to Aberon to help the humans. The golden-haired elf had looked as if he was doing something at least partly against his better judgement, and the two younger elves had hardly looked any different.

None of the warriors that had been selected for this task had protested; they all knew that Estel had almost certainly still been in Aberon when the dams had broken. And even though Lord Elrond's human son was a bothersome menace on the best of days … well, he was still their bothersome menace. In the past, more than one of Rivendell's warriors had quietly (or not so quietly) contemplated killing the ranger, his brothers and/or assorted friends in a most gruesome and painful way, but they would be damned if they allowed someone else to do their work for them.

It had been very clear, too, that the fair-haired elf lord had been holding himself together with an enormous amount of willpower, and his blue eyes had been dark and devoid of all emotions. Everybody knew how poorly Lord Erestor was doing and that not even Lord Elrond could say for certain whether he would recover or even survive, and that Lord Glorfindel wasn't ripping someone's arms off and beating someone else over the head with them was widely considered a miracle. Lord Elrond's seneschal seemed to have embraced the calm, unemotional role of the Captain of his lord's warriors, and while Lord Elrond was looking after the prince and his chief advisor (aided by enough healers to tend half the Gondorian army), he had thrown himself into organising the operations still going on in the mansion and everything else their situation entailed with a single-minded determination that worried more than one of his warriors.

Lord Elrohir, too, had looked like a bear with a sore paw, or rather a she-bear whose cub had a sore paw. The reason for that had not been too hard to detect: Lord Elladan had been injured during the fight, and any warrior who had served under the twins for longer than a year knew very well how one of the brothers reacted when the other was injured (and being injured meant also suffering from a sprained ankle). They also knew that the very last thing they should do was offer comfort, tell them that everything would be all right or, in general, look at them at all.

The consequence of all three things could be – and, more often than not, also was – you suddenly staring at the coldest grey eyes you had ever seen in your life, eyes that very clearly stated that you were an imbecile idiot who could hardly be trusted to be able to tell what colour the sky was and who should therefore refrain from making comments about something as delicate as a wounded elf's condition. In general, the next thing you found yourself faced with after that was the bridge spanning the Bruinen, right before said twin threw you into the river.

Lord Elladan would be fine, however, or that was what the other warriors were saying. It had to be true, too; if the older twin had been in real danger, you would have needed at least half a dozen elves to remove his younger brother from his side. That was at least a bit of good news, Ingvaer decided. With Lord Erestor and Prince Legolas very seriously injured, Lord Elladan incapacitated, the worry for Estel's safety and about a thousand other things pressing down on him, the last thing Lord Elrond needed was his seneschal and younger twin son running around and randomly killing people on some sort of wild, vengeful killing spree.

The killing spree might still happen though, the young elf was very aware of that. Unless they could find the boy – alive – it was very possible that Lord Glorfindel and/or the twins decided that they had to rip off a few human heads in order to avenge their pupil and brother. The Men of Aberon had suffered horribly for their ignorance, their disinterest and their treacherous acts, all of them were willing to admit that, but if anything, anything at all had happened to Estel…

Ingvaer trailed off, not willing to entertain that thought. If anything at all had happened to Estel, there would be worse consequences than just the grief and the sorrow of his friends and family, that was something he knew instinctively. And he would do what he could to spare his lords said pain and grief.

The others had caught up with him by now, and Annorathil's nephew started moving again, alongside the riverbed. The banks of the Mitheithel were covered with debris, branches and other things that had no business of being here (the strangest thing he had seen until had been an empty birdcage) – and with bodies. Some of them were lying in plain sight, remaining where the waves of the river had thrown them, but a lot of them were half-buried under the debris that littered the banks. Ingvaer had quickly realised that and had cut himself a long stick; this way he could search the banks more quickly and from a bigger distance. There were some deaths that were messier than others, and drowning was definitely one of them.

A few steps ahead of him, a man found yet another body, and Ingvaer walked up to him to make sure that it was not the person he and his elven companion sought. As every single time when they found someone who possessed the same physical characteristics as Estel, his heart stopped for a moment until the body could be turned over and he could see the face. He had never truly noticed how many tall men there were with dark, shoulder-long hair.

Again, his heart skipped a beat when he stopped in front of this newest body, even though it took him only a moment to realise that this couldn't possibly be Lord Elrond's son. The man's hair had the right length (even though its colour was hard to determine, wet and dirty as it was), but he was not tall enough and too muscular. Even though the Rangers were, as a rule, slightly stronger than the average human, they never filled out as much as other men and remained more slender even after they had reached full maturity. Both were characteristics they owed to their elven heritage, along with their predominantly dark hair and grey eyes.

The men turned over the still body, and Ingvaer released a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding when he looked into a face of a man who had to have been at least thirty-five or forty years old. The face had probably been swarthy once, before death had laid itself over the features, and he seemed as if he had looked in faint, perhaps malevolent amusement upon the world, at least judging by the wrinkles that could be seen in the angles of his face. Most importantly, it was a face he had never before seen in his life.

Ingvaer turned around to his elven companions and shook his head. Relief danced over their featured, too; no one wanted to tell Lord Elrohir that they had found his little brother – dead.

To the men who were accompanying them, however, the man was apparently very well known indeed. That he hadn't been very popular became clear as well, when one of the men who had turned the still body over took a quick step backward, an expression on his face that was somewhere between anger, shock and loathing, as if he had just found the proof for something that had been too unsavoury for him to believe before.

"Addric," one of his companions commented. That he was very pleased about finding this Addric dead was not to be contested. "All the hells, so Tibron was right."

"'Course he was," a third, older man commented. "You can say what you want about him, but he's no liar, that's for sure. Unlike," he added with a sly look at one of his companions, "that scheming brother of his."

The man next to him whirled around to look at him, limp blond-grey hair becoming even more unruly as he raked a hand through it in agitation. That he had to be a trader quickly became clear, too, when he directed a dark, cold look at the man who had criticised one of the masters of his guild.

"Just what is that supposed to mean?" he demanded to know. "Master Toran is not a liar!"

"Now that's enough!" The man who had identified the body stepped between the two of them. "Have you no sense of decency? No matter what happened these past days, Toran lost his oldest son today! Show a little respect, both of you!"

"Even if he's not," the older man shrugged carelessly, clearly not willing to back down, "then what about Hurag, hm? How many rotten eggs can one guild council have?"

The trader's face turned red and he planted his feet wide apart, clearly expecting this conversation to end in some sort of physical confrontation. Ingvaer, who was looking on from the sidelines in utter confusion, not having the slightest idea about what exactly the men were talking, had to admit that that was a distinct possibility.

"You take that back!"

Ingvaer shot him a puzzled look, silently asking himself just when exactly he had stumbled into a children's playground and why said children looked so much like grown men.

"Take back what everybody else thinks?" The other man was not prepared to be co-operative or assuasive. "Why? And you know what the best thing is?" He leaned closer to the the other man, his eyes narrowing in a way any patron of any bar who had seen his share of bar fights would have recognised. "You elected him to that position! And see where it led us, all of us! Straight into disaster! And to think that you traders wanted to have more influence, that you demanded more seats on the council!" He spat out, disgusted. "Laughable, that's what it is!"

"Why, you ignorant…"

"Gentlemen!" Ingvaer decided to end this before it could descend into a brawl. He wasn't so sure if he had used the correct term of address, but Lord Elrohir had told them to be diplomatic, so diplomatic he would be. "I am sure that you can resolve this later, when there will be a time and place for it. There could be someone still alive here!" He gave the men the sternest look he could manage and wasn't overly surprised when it didn't work overly well. He had never been very good at things like these; he was far happier figuring out the solution to one problem or other. "Now, what is going on here? Who was that man?"

"That's Addric," answered the man who had tried to mediate earlier. For a moment, Ingvaer seriously contemplated injuring and/or maiming him for repeating what he already knew, but then the human added, "He is … he was Hurag's man. The leader of his mercenaries, or whatever you want to call them."

"Ah." Ingvaer looked at the still, white-faced body in front of him with a lot more interest and a lot less sympathy, and only just resisted the urge to poke him with his stick. "I see."

In the background, the men resumed their bickering, but he wasn't listening. There was something gnawing at the back of his mind, but it took him a while to remember what it was. He had been there when Lord Elrohir had been waiting for Tibron, the innkeeper who had been in Rivendell and whom he seemed to trust. It had been a long wait, and all of them had begun to become impatient when a messenger had walked up to them, looking decidedly nervous and wary. The man's fear had been unfounded, though. They all felt for the innkeeper's loss, and Lord Elrond's son in particular had looked stricken by the news of Tibron's nephew's death.

And it was a tragedy, that much was sure. The boy had been so young – he could still remember his face only too well – and been trying so hard to do the right thing… And that, Ingvaer decided sadly, had cost him his life. If the boy hadn't been so brave or so stubborn, if he hadn't insisted on helping them – on helping Estel – he would probably never have…

The dark-haired elf trailed off, suddenly remembering where he had heard Addric's name before. It had been when Lord Elrohir had questioned – rather forcefully, one might add – the one councilman he could have got his hands on. The old man hadn't looked all that happy – in fact, he had looked terrified – but he had quickly told the twin all he had wanted to know, or rather all Tibron had told the council: What the boys (Ingvaer simply couldn't call them men) had discovered, where they had – foolishly! – gone, the fight they had been involved in, and all they had been able to pierce together after that.

The fight … the place where the dams had broken… 'We have found none of our people who tried to stop Hurag's men, my lord, I am sorry, and only a few survivors of the mercenaries – two men from the group closest to the city centre and one from Addric's men, which is a miracle, considering how badly off the docks are…'

Addric. Ingvaer snapped out of his thoughts and turned back to the men, who were now looking as if the only thing keeping them from exchanging blows was the elves' presence.

"When was he last seen?" he demanded to know. "This Addric, wasn't he the leader of the mercenaries that brought down the dam at the harbour?"

"Yes, I think so," answered the blond trader, taking his eyes off his adversary for a moment.

Ingvaer turned away from the man and locked eyes with the two elves who were standing behind the men, seeing the same realisation in their eyes he could feel in his own heart. This man had brought down the dams of the docks. He had been swept all the way down the river, all the way to here. Estel had been right in front of the dam when it had broken, or so they believed. Estel could have been swept down here as well

Without another word the three of them began moving, new urgency filling their hearts. Estel could have been swept down here as well. Ingvaer gripped the long stick in his hand more tightly, using it to help clear a way through the debris that littered the riverbanks. 'Please,' he prayed silently. 'Please, Ilúvatar, let us find him alive. Do not make me return to Lord Elrond or the twins with the news of his death, do not make me rob them of the hope they still have, please…'

For long minutes, it seemed as if his prayers would go unanswered. The three elves could move a lot fast than the humans, for their senses were far keener and they could navigated their way through the area a lot more surely, and so the men were quickly left behind. They found another row of bodies, some of them so mangled that Ingvaer felt profoundly glad that he hadn't found the time to eat anything for more than half a day, but the dark-haired elf stubbornly refused to give up the hope that they would find the young ranger alive. He knew the boy's abilities and stubbornness after all, and if there was anybody, anybody at all, who could survive something like this, it was Estel.

In the end, he would almost have missed it. He was slowly making his way over the newest patch of debris that the river's current had deposited here, cursing the undergrowth for making the search even harder, when his eyes spied something, half-hidden by the reed that grew thickly here and was obscuring his view. At first, he thought that it was nothing but another dark piece of wood, perhaps a larger one that had once been part of a house or some other sort of construction, but then the reed moved and the sun made her way through the long blades, illuminating the scene.

Ingvaer froze as if someone had taken a hold of his sleeve and jerked him to a stop. What he had first thought to be a log or a wooden beam was anything but; it was in fact the shape of a man who was lying half on the shore and half in the water, almost completely obscured by the reed and the debris that surrounded him on all sides. He was lying on his side, facing away from the elf, but even so Ingvaer could see that the hair was the right length, and apparently of the right colour, too. His body was half-hidden by the long blades of the swaying reed, but the elven warrior would have been able to swear that, even though he was wearing an unfamiliar coat, the clothing looked familiar, and that his build was right as well…

He was moving before he had even consciously decided to set one foot in front of the other. Falling heavily to his knees next to the still body, he turned the man over as quickly as his suddenly shaking hands would allow him. When the man's face became visible, Ingvaer groaned softly and closed his eyes against the pale, deathly whiteness of the skin and the tightly closed eyes. But through the mass of bruises and abrasions, he could clearly see a young man he had known for more than twenty years, and when his fingers felt for a pulse on the equally bruised throat, he found one. It was weak, thready and almost indetectable, but it was there.

"Sí!" he called, not averting his eyes even for a minute. "E nâ sí!"

A mere moment later, the other two elf came to a halt next to him, their eyes wide and full of barely veiled hope. Ingvaer didn't take the time to comfort them in any way and merely looked up for a second, locking eyes with one of them.
"Find Lord Elrohir and bring him here. Quickly!"

The elf nodded and turned around, and a moment later he was gone, running back the way they had come and not bothering to answer the questions the men shouted at him when he passed them. The second warrior slowly and gingerly went down on his knees next to Annorathil's nephew, uncertainty and dread radiating off him in waves as he looked at the still, broken form of the young man in front of him.

"Is he alive?"

The dark-haired elf didn't answer immediately and simply breathed out, half in incredulity and half in relief.
"Yes, he is."

But only just, Ingvaer thought. Only by the thickness of the merest thread, but alive nonetheless.

TBC...

ion nín - my son
gwanur - (twin) brother
ada - father (daddy)
mellon nín - my friend
Sí! E nâ sí! - Here! He is here!

So, everybody's been located. That's something, right? •ducks sharp objects• Jeez, you people can be very unreasonable sometimes... •g• Okay, so in the next chapter we'll see who is still awake and in what condition, a lot of people will have long conversations, and they should get back to Rivendell. If they can make it in one piece, that is. •g• Sorry again about Torel. I liked him, too. Okay, so I hope to see you in the next chapter. Reviews are, as always, greatly appreciated. Thank you for the patience you've been showing lately, it has been greatly appreciated!

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Additional A/N:

Okay, so I am switching back to the good ol' group email response or whatever you want to call it. I used the FF-net system the last time, and even though it worked fine, I don't really like it. I can't really explain it either. And guess what? This time it's all actually on time! It's hard to believe, I know... •g•

Anyway, I would like to apologise to , CrazyAZNkid, Lilandriel and Jen for not including them in the review responses. For that, you have to leave me your email addresses or log in to review. I am sorry about that, but otherwise this doesn't work anymore.

Thank you for your understanding, and all your lovely reviews, of course!