A/N:

"vinime" Q. - little one (f)

"phuinē" (primitive Elvish) - deep shadow, night shade (elfdict)

"huinë" Q. - deep shadow, night shade (elfdict)

"Okhor-pharalē" (primitive Elvish, fanmade) ~ blood hunting

For this chapter I've borrowed the wonderful character of Tessarion, courtesy of Tobiramamara. He is a Noldo Elf featured in Tobiramamara's story Flame Light! Flee darkness! Lacho Calad! Drego Morn! - a compelling AU take on our favorite Imladris twins. Check it out if you are so inclined.

PS: Just a little reminder, not doing this alone! This is a collaborative effort with the same awesome Tobiramamara. This is how it goes: we both use the same outline of events, main canon characters, and OC. We follow the same plotline, but our stories will each have a different direction and, ultimately, ending. Just thought it would be a fun project to see where we each go with the same story. Be sure to follow that version too, if interested to join our ride!

The twin story to this is: 'Amarth - Rising' by Tobiramamara.

III. Fornost - Bloodhunt

Elrond Half-elven stood alone on the long balcony, head upturned to the stars. A chilly wind tugged at his celebratory robes as he gazed into the night settled over the Hithaeglir. From this viewpoint, the mountains were looming giants, his home set at their feet. It was late, and most revelers had retired after the first evening honoring the enderi. A breeze lifted his dark hair as he followed the path of the thrashing river.

Absently, his thumb rubbed against his right forefinger, where blue Vilya throbbed in shades of moonlit sapphire. Protection. Preservation. He closed his eyes, lost to the past. The dust of battle, the snapping of banners; wide, bloodied fields of mires uncounted. A spear flashing. The golden band still glowed with remnants of its former wearer's memories. Elrond remembered the day Ereinion Gil-Galad entrusted the ring to him, before his demise at the siege of Barad-dûr. You will have better use of it before the end, the last High King of the Ñoldor had said. But the end, whatever it meant, lay hidden from any foresight. Elrond only saw half-visions hovering at the edge of his waking mind during sleep deprived nights; destinies, both known and yet unknown to him, weaved from both the First and Second Children, following paths unrevealed.

"Will the oil burn late again, my friend?" someone asked, and the lord of Imladris smiled, his thought meandering away.

"It appears so - but you are no stranger to it yourself, as you are here."

Glorfindel stepped onto the balcony, his tunic shimmering in the lamplight. "The white nights come and go. I've barely escaped an account of Elrohir's tales of glory from his early hunting days," he said in good humor, walking to the stone balustrade and leaning with his arms folded against it.

For a while, they watched the tearful waterfalls gushing from the mountain sides.

"All goes well so far," Glorfindel murmured.

"In Arnor, it could barely be worse. A missive arrived during the night."

"From Lord Círdan?"

Elrond nodded.

"I see. And the messenger?"

"Unharmed - having escaped a few close encounters. He reiterated what was in the missives. The former kingdoms are in tatters, Arthedain in disarray. Gondor, Lindon and the mustered Men of Arnor expect to be ready by the onset of winter."

Glorfindel shook his head. "Not the best season for an offensive, but there is little choice. At least," he paused, "that gives us more time to prepare here. And the Elvenking?"

"Prince Legolas assigned two of his scouts to cross the mountains with tidings," said Elrond, leaning with his elbows on the balustrade. "I will append my words to his."

Shades of laughter like soft petals reached them from the house, where the halls were slow to empty of revelers. Elrond tipped his gaze to the skies. "Once the enderi pass, we focus on the rest."

Glorfindel turned his head at the lilt of familiar voices.

"Here they are, my noble elders," Elrohir spoke as he reached them, accompanied by another dark-haired Elf whose face was set in a crooked smile - Tessarion, captain of the Imladris Guard. His usually reserved demeanor had vanished as rarely happened. Instead, his step was light, his deep eyes glittering.

"Father," Elrohir began, "the frown worries me. Do not brood so - I wish to report that behold, Elladan has been taken hostage by a host of Mirkwood warrior maids, and must fend on his own. I'd say our alliance with the Silvan Elves is off to a good start - barring one slighted daughter of Thranduil," he threw Glorfindel a meaningful look.

"You've been enjoying the cordial," said Elrond, a corner of his lips twisting upward.

"I needed it," Elrohir declared, "for dealing with guests and navigating sparse common ground can be busy work. Though I will say this - those Wood-elves can drink."

"I attest to that," added Tessarion, propping himself against the stone edge.

"Speaking of which," Elrohir looked to his father, as if remembering something. "Who here is braving that hunt of theirs tomorrow? From what I've heard tonight, it's quite the affair, with a rather interesting ceremony."

Elrond closed his eyes, looking wearied. "I have spoken to prince Legolas of the arrangements. Participation is voluntary."

"Ah," Elrohir seemed thoughtful for a moment. He glanced at Tessarion. "Are you considering it, my lord?"

Tessarion gave a short laugh. "Are you?"

Elrohir shrugged. "My curiosity is stirred. I know so little of our allies, as opposed to all of you."

Glorfindel was gazing at the starry outlines of the Menelmacar constellation, following the stance of the Swordsman across the sky. "I might go."

"A precedent has been broken!" Elrohir raised his cup. "Lord Glorfindel being unpredictable and inefficient with his time. Now I am left to wonder."

"You mean to keep an eye on them," Elrond stated.

Glorfindel smiled, glancing at the lord of Imladris. "Yes, and no. Some of our own should be there. Besides, the kitchens need provisioning either way. The timing is good."

Elrond shook his head. "Be careful, my friend. You know what it entails."

"Does he, now?" Elrohir raised an eyebrow, his features lit in brief interest. "That is unsurprising," he grinned at Glorfindel, "when one has lived for as long as your lordship - no slight intended - we can safely assume-"

"Did you not mean to rescue your brother from an onslaught, Elrohir?" Tessarion cut in, rubbing at his temple. Elrohir was fast of wit, a trait turned both colorful and tiresome when steeped in drink.

"Alas, none can throw a dismissal quite like the Ñoldor," Elrohir grumbled as he spun on his heel. "But let me tell you," he said, walking away, "that one day, you will all miss me as I am now."

"Certainly we will," muttered Tessarion in his wake with half a smile. "So," he turned back to Glorfindel. "At what time is this hunt tomorrow?"

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The silence was impregnable, and patches of snow fell from the burdened branches of trees. Winter had come early to the Greenwood, bursting in gales, layering its mantle of singing frost over all. The tips of her fingers had reddened from the chill. The day was clear, the sun barely filtering through trees cloaked in thick, glittering white.

Morwen curled closer into the animal and ran a hand along the deer's dappled side. The creature raised its head, its wet, velvety nose cold against the child's pale cheek.

She had been gone for a while, running, tripping, falling only to rise again and finally sinking to the ground after a long race, hot and flushed and weary, her mind full. The woodland deer had approached on slender legs, out of nowhere, lying down to nestle her against its warm body when Morwen would not move.

She curled closer, her sobs like crippled birds in the silence. A soft sigh of air stirred the icedust from laden boughs. The child started when the animal suddenly tensed against her, neck straight, ears perked. Slowly, Morwen raised her head from beneath the sheltering underbrush. It was not long before she felt another presence.

She choked in surprise and plunged back down. Her eyes followed the newcomer as he dismounted his tall white horse, running a gentle hand down its powerful neck, murmuring words Morwen did not hear. The steed neighed a response, and its mane swayed like quicksilver in the pale light. The Elf smiled, clearly caught in the exchange with his four-legged friend.

Fresh tears pricked her lashes, and she tucked herself back down; but then she was up again, watching him from afar as he walked about the area with seemingly no purpose in mind. Snow crunched beneath his grey boots as the Elf came to stand near the wiry thicket of her retreat. A bird disturbed the branches above his head, and falling snow dusted his cloaked shoulders.

He lowered his hood and neared a shrub of holly, its bright red fruit like blood drops against the pristine white scenery. The Elf took a few berries in his palm, pausing as the drumming of a lone woodpecker echoed nearby. He raised his head, briefly following the source of sound, but his attention soon reverted to the winterberries.

Morwen held her breath. Why was he on this path? How?

"You may come out now, vinime."

Startled and cringing at the soft words, she waited. Her head fell forward against the deer, and she was unwilling to move. At dawn, before the sun bled in the east, she had fled the caverns, unable to breathe for what lay within them.

"Your father worries," the tall Elf spoke again after some time, rolling the berries between long fingers.

The deer slowly rose from their spot, and Morwen reluctantly gained her feet. Her dark head emerged from her hiding place, disheveled, a sullen look on her face. Her eyes were red from weeping.

The Elf glanced her way briefly, offering the berries to the deer who'd reached him in the meantime.

Morwen approached on uncertain steps, arms crossed at her chest. "How did you find me? I thought… I thought you were leaving today."

"I was," he said, scratching the deer behind one ear. He tilted his head to look at her. "But then you went missing. I came to search with the others."

Her face twisted in a grimace. "We're close to the main path leading to the Halls. Father knows I wouldn't break his rule and venture south into tainted areas."

Glorfindel sank to one knee before her. "You know the borders change now with every sun-round."

Morwen looked to her feet. "Of course I know. This is why I will be like Mother and my brother; I will not hide." She brushed the snow and dirt from her knees. "I will fight."

Glorfindel watched her for a moment. "Often the losses outweigh the rewards in leading such a life."

She swallowed and turned away, then looked back over her shoulder at him. "You brought her to us dead, and now you're leaving," Morwen mumbled. She bent down and reached for a twig, turning it in her hands. It was Glorfindel who led the journey over the mountains to the Greenwood, returning her mother Celeriel and others of their people fallen in the recent siege on the Imladris stronghold. Thranduil had agreed for her to lead the detachment, to his bitter regret.

"It is not fair," she croaked, her head sinking forward. The funeral marked her; the very notion of death among their kind had been foreign to Morwen until now. The stony silence, the grief, the catafalque; her father's rigid fingers digging into her shoulder.

"It isn't," his words tore her out of the memory. Glorfindel placed a gentle hand atop her head. "But she is not alone. There is a guide, and this was not the closing journey of her life."

Morwen shrugged, wiping her nose with her sleeve. Why wouldn't she believe him? He knew this firsthand, after all. And yet... "But Father is furious, and he barely speaks to me or Legolas now. He locks himself in his study and will hear no one. I have never seen him so." The stick broke under her fingers, and she threw it away. "I don't know what to do."

Glorfindel rose to his feet. "Be there. The king may not speak of it, but he needs you both at his side; more than you know."

A sob broke from her, and Morwen lowered her head, guilt taking hold.

"The sooner we return, the better," Glorfindel said, cupping her cheek with his palm.

She nodded to his bright eyes, her small shoulders slumping forward. As they walked to his horse together, Morwen looked up at him again. "I miss her."

Glorfindel bent and lifted the child off the ground, setting her on his steed. He pulled her hood back over her head. "Grieve, but treasure the memories, and look to the day you meet again; remember the shores of Eldamar."

His kind smile eased the dead weight in her chest and Morwen fell silent as he mounted behind her, urging the steed onward.

The stillness of the sleepy forest and the warmth of the horse brought forth a deep drowsiness. Morwen mellowed, but the thought of her father's veiled grief was a spike of ice to her heart. "What were they like?" she asked faintly. "The Undying Lands."

A soft chuckle. "I've told you all about them, countless times."

The child closed her eyes and fell back against him, longing to forget the present. "Tell me again."

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It was noon when they left the settlement, cloaked and barefooted, setting for the bridge. They were the Elves of Imladris who volunteered to partake in the second day rite of the enderi with the Elves of Mirkwood: the hunt. Glorfindel led the way with his captain, Tessarion.

"Mind telling me how this will unfold?" the Noldo lord asked his commander as they reached the shade of the forest, and the roaring falls died behind them. "I'm obviously not as familiar with the custom."

Glorfindel looked to the crowns of trees cast in their rusty autumn colors. The light of day filtered through the branches weaved above their heads, swaying to the careless sigh of a mild wind. "The okhor-pharalē is an ancient practice," he said. "It was inherited from the Nandor who abandoned the Great Journey and settled to live in the woodlands surrounding the Anduin Vale. First, its purpose was to aid survival in the untamed lands of old. But with the coming of the Sun and Moon, through the ages it was relegated to a ceremonial custom, followed during certain times of the year. Such as now."

"I see. Interesting," said Tessarion. "We greet the Fading with warmth, tales, and observance - they receive it with blood."

"Tomorrow, we all observe," replied Glorfindel. "But today, they honor the earth, feeding it spilled life before nature falls asleep in the bleak days of the Fading."

"A sacrifice of sorts…" Tessarion wondered. "You have my undivided attention," he smirked, running a hand through his dark brown hair.

"It is simple," Glorfindel said. "The hunt is by the community, for the community. Pairs are assigned to collaborate on making a kill. Once the goal is met, we return with the quarry to be prepared for the evening feast."

"I can imagine what lord Elrond had to say about this," Tessarion murmured. "He seemed wary the other night."

"He is accepting enough," Glorfindel replied, "considering what awaits us. Our kindreds may have grown apart through the Ages and history severed our ties from the time of Cuiviénen, but now…" he sighed, looking back ahead. "Now, my friend, we must again unite before a common goal."

Tessarion nodded. "Inevitable, was it not?" He fingered the dagger strapped to his person beneath his cloak. "Now let's say I better understand the requirements," he grinned, glancing down at his unshod feet. "And I reckon you took part in this before since you seem well acquainted with it."

Glorfindel closed his eyes for a breath, remembering the countless times he had crossed the paths of the Greenwood as an emissary of Elrond and spent time in the Halls of the Woodland King. He saw Thranduil, his silver hair wild, his fearless face drenched in blood, gaze burning with triumph before his kill. "Once," he said.

They walked on in silence until the sight of a group hailed before them, where the Mirkwood Elves stood. Most were bare from the waist up, and their unbraided hair fell in streams down their naked shoulders. They had gathered in a semi-circle, and prince Legolas stood in their midst. Not all had joined the rite, it seemed, as there were less than a quarter of those having journeyed to Imladris under the Elvenking's banners. To the prince's right, a few paces away, was his sister. Legolas raised his gaze and nodded a silent greeting as the Imladris Elves joined.

Anticipation thrummed in the air. Glorfindel remembered this pull, alluring and inviting, rising from the very soil through the soles of his feet; the elements in their purest form, the sway of the seasons, the chthonic power rushing through the deep veins of the earth. A weave of scents, color and sensation. He watched the Silvan prince; a shaft of pale autumn light fell on his features, and again the sight of Thranduil long ago came to his mind.

They had kindled a weak fire beneath a rounded metal vessel.

"What am I seeing?" Tessarion asked, leaning closer to Glorfindel.

"The sharing of phuinē," Glorfindel replied as Legolas raised a bare, embellished arm, the long fingers of his right palm splayed in the air facing the gathering. The Elf-lord met Tessarion's expectant gaze. "Huinë," he repeated the word in their native Quenya. Deep shadow. "It focuses one's abilities and instincts, but clouds the waking mind; they resort to it before great battles."

"A strength enhancer?"

"Of a kind," Glorfindel said, watching as the son of Thranduil drew a sleek white knife. "But its effects go beyond that, altering perception, one's focus and will. In small amounts, it proves quite effective. I imagine it came useful in their realm. You may refuse to be marked, of course."

Tessarion shook his head, smiling. "We shall see."

Glorfindel fell silent. He'd felt the effects of the phuinē long ago, in one such hunt with Thranduil's court - before even the begetting of his children, now officiating the same ritual. The weed used was native to the soil of Northern Mirkwood, a strain well known to the Wood-elves. That event, as he remembered, had been an experience not easily forgotten.

Prince Legolas ran the sharp edge of his blade across his raised palm, then clenched his fist above the heated metal container. Crimson rivulets dripped inside and hissed as they burned. "Blood," he said, his grey stare set ahead.

Morwen joined her brother, a wooden urn in her hands. Her dark hair shone down her straight back, and her eyes were hooded. Legolas took the urn and spilled what looked like dried plant matter into the vessel. A heady smell rose in the air as it smoldered, and a thick white smoke briefly hid the prince's features from view.

The Wood-elves watched him with bated breath as he spoke the word. "Shadow."

"Such tension - let us hope no one snaps," Elrohir whispered with a smirk. The twin sons of Elrond had also joined the hunt and now stood close to Glorfindel, their features set in detached curiosity.

An Elf woman approached holding a pitcher which Legolas used to pour water in the vessel. "Life."

At the last word from the prince, Galan stepped forward and doused the flames. Legolas placed his right palm over his heart. The markings running down his neck stained his entire right side, arcane weavings on pale skin. They curled in shades of dark blue over his pectoral, along his ribs, snaking towards his hip bone. Like the others, he wore loose-fitting linen trousers, and a leather belt where the mithril sheath of his long knife rested. The prince reached inside the vessel and raised his fingers covered in the crimson paste, which he smeared in two lines across his bare chest.

Moments passed, and to Glorfindel, it seemed the Silvan Elves held their breath.

The prince looked down; the muscles in his jaw, arms, and chest tensed visibly. Closing his eyes, he tipped his head back, and when he looked to his people again, his pupils had widened so much his silvery gaze turned a deep, shadowed black.

"So, it enters the body through the skin," Elrohir whispered.

Legolas drew his weapon and sharply tapped the rim of the vessel with the hilt.

At the signal, the first Elf in the semi-circle to the left moved to stand before the prince; he bowed shortly before turning to the group.

"Brother, choose," Legolas said.

The Elf pointed to one other, who stepped forward. Both reached inside the vessel and raised their fingers coated in the paste which they smeared across the other's chest. They bowed to each other and regained their places.

Then followed the soldier who was his aide. She bowed as well and turned before the group.

"Sister, choose," the prince spoke.

She looked over her shoulder at him, and half-turning, pointed his way.

Legolas smiled and neared the other side of the metal container, taking from the phuinē and smearing two lines over her left cheek. They bowed, and the soldier reclaimed her place.

So followed the assignment of hunting partners until most had chosen and were marked. Glorfindel followed the display, lost in memories. He glanced at Tessarion, who, like the others, was watching the proceedings with unveiled interest. So much time had passed, and yet all was the same - the movements, the sequence, the lithe bodies ready to sprint as the phuinē took hold.

"Sister, choose," urged Legolas, his voice hoarse, deeper than before. Morwen stepped forward, the dark skin markings on her bare torso swaying like sorcery as she moved.

She stood before the gathering, her eyes flitting over those not yet marked. She cut eyes to Glorfindel, and a half-forgotten memory of her youth emerged. A meld of unease and excitement tempted her; so then, the hero of Gondolin had chosen to partake. She had not expected this turn, and Morwen eyed him from head to toe as another thought brimmed. There was no harm in a little competition, was there? Once, long ago, he'd found her - easily; let him try now.

The daughter of Thranduil pointed his way, adopting her most unbothered mien, pleased at the brief confusion passing over his features. But he rallied just as swiftly, and with sure steps came forward. His confidence irked her, as did the tight knot forming in her lower belly at the sight; he'd removed his cloak and tunic like the others, and her gaze strayed over the harmonious weave of muscle, sinew, and skin, like marble in the cold light of day. To Morwen, there was no perfection in the world - a state reserved to those of radiant, divine nature. But now she had to admit: this was as close as one could get. With some success, she mostly kept her eyes on his face.

When they stood facing each other, the vessel between them, Morwen caught the shade of a knowing smile.

"This was no contest, last I knew," Glorfindel said.

He had guessed her intent - all the better, to start on equal footing. Morwen raised her chin, the corners of her lips curling upward. She then dipped her hand inside the bowl, taking a considerable amount of phuinē.

"Sister…" Legolas warned with narrowed eyes.

Morwen briefly glanced at Glorfindel before she reached and touched warm skin, spreading the phuinē over his chest.

Her chosen hunting partner looked down, his own hand grazing the bottom of the vessel. He paused for a breath, frowning, nostrils flaring, and when their eyes met again Morwen froze at the darkened gleam in his eyes. For a moment, she feared she had given him too much.

"The younger the Elf," Glorfindel said, tracing the red paste in a long line down her right arm, "... the stronger the effect."

Of course, she had forgotten. Then realization struck - he had done this before? His gaze turned blank and his hand fell to his side. The Elf-lord bowed to her, and Morwen hastily did the same before each resumed their places.

When the rite was done for all those choosing to be marked, Legolas came forward with his hunting partner at his side. He raised his arm. "Begin."

They sprang into the forest like fleeting shadows.

She ran, using the thick branches as leverage, instinct taking over. The weaved leather belt was soft, the sheath of her hunting knife hard against her hip.

Gusts of air tugged at her hair, cooled her heated skin. Warm beads gathered between her pointed breasts, trickling down her belly. Morwen sped ahead, sounds piercing her like arrows from every direction. Gradually, she attuned to it all - the heartbeat in every tree, the many voices of the wind, the flapping of wings and rustling in the underbrush. The rays of light streaking the forest bed split into myriads of colors, each hailing a distinct note. Perception of surface reality gave way like a snake sheds old skin, and Morwen fell into another dimension. She did not merely see colors anymore; she heard them. She drifted on wild, high-pitched yellow and lilting warm amber; bolted to the earthy cadence of low, deep browns and what remained of joyous green. Music rippled through her as the Elf delved deeper into the woods, the auras of all living things revealed and melding together, drifting on the primeval force that welcomed her and shared its vitality and strength.

The harsh bark of trees scraped her bare feet, a grounding of sorts; branches kissed her limbs with their dying leaves and she moaned in delight, tipped her head back and laughed at the skies hidden from sight, never ceasing her flight from bough to golden bough.

She felt the others running close or ahead of her, seeking their own release. She knew their scent, as they knew hers. The kill would be swift, merciful; blood would feed the earth.

The tangy, rich smell of soil filled her to the brim, weaving with the fresh sap of weeds and vines crawling eagerly up yielding trunks.

Another scent.

Morwen looked to her left, and caught a flash of gold. Heart thundering, she met his gaze. He was smiling as before, his hair wild behind him, his long body taut with each nimble leap. He was trailing her; this was a partnership, after all. His aura was unlike any she had known - a blaze of blinding white and flaming gold, the light of lands she had never seen. The reach of his unfettered fëa dazed her; an unfamiliar surge of need overwhelmed as his flare burned its way to her core and Morwen lost balance, redressing just barely. At that moment, as they watched each other in swift pursuit, she forgot all else; panting, she went faster, away from the pull that grazed her will and the sight of his flushed skin.

The drum of another life. Morwen skimmed their close surroundings, then glanced his way - he'd also sensed the deer and changed direction.

Morwen saw flashes of the animal and its dappled hide. Have no fear. It will be swift.

She lunged; the mossy ground cooled the soles of her feet. At some distance, Glorfindel also descended to the forest floor. Her plan to best him reemerged and Morwen threw him a wicked smile - then burst ahead like a gale. With every breath, she channeled her thought and focus.

The deer was closer; she drew her knife, leaping high above bush and thicket. Nearly there...

The stench smote her like a physical blow.

The air left her lungs, and Morwen stopped short. A miasma of putrefaction shadowed her exaltation, the colors faded to muddled greys. The earth wailed beneath their heavy gait, miry shadows slicked around her like black oil. Malice, the need to twist and mangle.

No.

Here?

The others were too far to warn without alerting the intruders. Morwen counted in her mind, counted the steps, their ragged breathing.

Ten of them.

She looked behind her, but all was still, and she must have raced far ahead, for there was no sign of Glorfindel yet. Frantically, she wondered if there were others roaming unhindered so close to Elrond's refuge? Morwen leaped up the closest trunk and drew her hunting knife. Heart up her throat, she waited.

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The galaxies turned above his head. A swift, filling stab of life, reaching through the self, down to bone and marrow. He'd not expected to be given so much, nor did he preempt her intent to outrun him, but the Elf achieved a steady focus, and there came a measure of freedom with it all. All and nothing - time bled into itself and was lost beyond the Veil; reality warped, colors trickling down a moving canvas. He felt every season of his life changing in rapid succession as past and present became one. He saw the white walls of Tirion, the green plains of Túna with their tall grasses tickling his sun-warmed skin. Valinor, resplendent in his youth. Lofty towers morphed into perilous ice shards, and the woes of the Grinding Ice swept by him. He saw Gondolin, heard the eagles cry above the Echoriath. Fire, smoke and steel, towers crumbling, and the abyss. The chords of memory bent and coiled outward as he struggled for control, seeking within. At last, his mind stilled as he glimpsed Morwen ahead, her hair a dark shadow trailing behind her, and Glorfindel grinned at the odd expression on her face earlier when she nearly tripped. Hundreds of years, and you still flee. He lost sight of her again. He was one with the air, the soft tendrils of his fëa mingling with the wilderness, soothing the animal they followed.

The reek of spoiled sweat assailed him; grunting, blades flashing, pierced flesh, rushing lifeblood.

Then he saw her.

Three of the creatures lay dead, but she was surrounded.

His feet struck the ground, and her eyes held relief when Morwen spotted him. Glorfindel nodded her way in swift understanding and sped forward, cutting his way through them to reach her.

He made quick work of one, splitting it from shoulder to hip then twisted the knife in his hand, sprang, and slashed another's neck with practiced ease.

Morwen sheared them down with well-aimed, savage strokes, her face and heaving chest sprayed with cold, black blood; her skin was sleek from the effort.

She found his gaze as another beast fell at her feet, its insides spilled onto the moss-covered ground. The stench of entrails filled the air.

Rising dust gleamed carelessly in the sparse shafts of light filtering through the branches; peace descended on the forest again.

They watched each other in silence, lost in the short, beatific relief following an unforeseen victory.

"Are you wounded?" Glorfindel asked, nearing her.

In a trance, Morwen shook her head. Unlike earlier, she no longer hid from the flare of his spirit; unlike earlier, she now craved its sheltering warmth with no trace of fear or remorse. Her gaze went to the controlled, rippling tension in his muscles as he leveled his breathing, then back to his face when Glorfindel stood before her. She raised a hand, uncertain; her forefinger touched his cheek, gliding across his heated skin to wipe away beads of black.

The moment shattered at a sudden stir. Her gaze snapped to the side to see two remaining foes, rising and stumbling through the underbrush.

Her knife flashed, embedded between one's shoulder blades. The beast crumpled to the forest bed as she ran in pursuit of the other.

"Wait!" Glorfindel called in her wake, already following.

Morwen took no heed but drew her weapon from the carcass of the fallen orc as she rushed after the last one; there came a surge of anger, like a tidal wave that would not break. With a hiss, her knife cut through tendons, and the beast fell to its knees with a howl.

Slowly, she circled her quarry. "This world is not yours." She took the creature by its scruff mane. "It will never be yours." She slashed at its face, and the orc spat and squirmed and grunted. A different sort of music, but the ghastly tune only spurred her bloodlust.

"Stand down." A hand was heavy on her shoulder.

Morwen jerked, shrugging away from his hold. This was her kill. He had no right. She glared, flicking the knife over in her hand, the blade dripping with dark, oily residue.

Glorfindel raised a warding palm, watching her. "Still yourself," he commanded, then slowly stepped before the orc, gripping his own weapon. "What were you seeking here?" he asked. "Are there others? Speak and your death will be swift. No more pain."

"Have you lost your wits? It's useless to treat with them!" Morwen hissed.

Glorfindel ignored her. The creature leered, blood dripping down its coarse leathers. A greenish foam bubbled at the corners of its chapped lips. It raised an arm, as though reaching for him, but the intent was abandoned.

"Speak!" Glorfindel shook the orc once, then rose to stand. Before the Elf-lord could say more, its head was rolling at his feet.

His gaze shot up to see Morwen going out of stance, a look of triumph on her face.

In one leap, he was before her. "What in Eru's name was that? I ordered you to yield!"

Morwen took an involuntary step back, gaping at him, lost for words at the reprimand. Then her lip curled, and she squared her shoulders. "I take no orders from you."

"Then how about using your head?" Glorfindel said through his teeth. "It could have given us useful insight."

His jaw was working, his eyes blazing despite his steady voice, and Morwen felt a sliver of remorse; she took a few breaths to soothe her nerves. "Release me, my lord."

Glorfindel blinked, only then noticing he'd grasped her wrist.

"Captain."

She started. Morwen turned her head, the battle of wills broken. Her eyes alighted on Galan.

She then looked beyond Glorfindel's shoulder, where others had found them and were casting troubled glances about the area.

Galan yet stood there, straight as a rod, his eyes on the grip Glorfindel still had on her wrist. His own hand was on the hilt of his hunting knife.

Morwen freed herself from his hold. "Where is my brother?" she asked her aide, walking away without sparing Glorfindel another glance.

Disbelief and disappointment quelled his mood. He forced himself to stifle the yet active phuinē wreaking havoc on his senses and Glorfindel merely stared after this foreign, seething fae, covered in orc blood and guts. Who are you?

"So much for diplomacy," Elrohir's voice reached him as the sons of Elrond came to stand by his side.

Glorfindel sighed, shaking his head. "Gather the bodies."

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After discovering the orc band infiltration, their goals had changed, and the hunt gained a different aim. They piled the carcasses to burn and combed through wood and glade, but found no sign of other enemy intrusions in the area close to Imladris. In the afternoon they retreated, with Glorfindel arranging another search to be carried in the morning.

"Nothing. No other bands," Legolas said, gazing into the flames. A breeze whistled through the glade, and they burned higher. "But the question is, why? Their pattern is to advance in clusters, even if tactics are changed."

Morwen threw a withered leaf in the fire and watched it shrivel to nothing. They both sat cross-legged, facing one of the great bonfires lit in a clearing close to the settlement. Hosts and allies communed around them.

"They barely have any wits. No direction other than the hand that drives them. I would not dwell on it," she said. "It's the world turned rotten," she added.

"Maybe so."

Morwen regarded her brother. "It's hard to imagine Mother lost her life in this very place." Frowning, she wetted her lips with a sip of dark wine. "It may have been a stronghold once, but now…"

"It has good wardens," Legolas said. "And pray it endures, else our own loss was for nothing."

"It endures better than us," Morwen retorted with a sad smile. "But not all is what it seems here."

A flute twirled in a far corner of the clearing, and they stopped to listen. "No, nothing ever is," her brother agreed. He smiled and raised his cup towards Galan, who responded in kind from his place. He drank, then looked at his cup. "What happened today in the forest, Morwen?"

Morwen stared at the cinders rising high in the air like rushing fireflies. "You've seen the aftermath. You've heard the report."

Legolas nodded slowly. "I have - very succinct. You happened upon them. Lord Glorfindel aided you."

"Lord Glorfindel aided me," Morwen repeated absently and gulped down her wine. She set the cup aside before half-heartedly rubbing at her wrist, lingering on the fading impression of tight wound, reined strength.

Legolas tipped his head to one side, watching her. "How fortunate there weren't many of them; all the more so, since you called for no one."

Her gaze cut to his. "I did not wait because it could not wait."

In the burning light, they seemed two carvings of the same mold; still, firelit statues wary of each other.

"What if no one had been close enough?" Legolas asked. His words held no chastisement. His face was open, his grey eyes darkened on hers; worried. "You never abandon caution on the field, I know this for a fact. What has changed, sister?"

"Will we start this now?" Morwen snapped.

Legolas placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "I want no dissent."

"My assessment was accurate," Morwen said in a more obliging tone. "Yes, I took a risk by assuming he'd reach me in time." Her gaze drifted ahead, to the steady hum of voices and music. She saw a group of Elves crossing the glade at leisure. Among them was Glorfindel; the Elf-lord's face was serene, and the firelight welcomed him in hues of golden red.

Legolas followed the point of her focus. He then searched her face. "That is not a look of gratitude." He drained his cup.

"You are so much like Father when you do this," his kin muttered.

The prince undid the top clasp of his collared shirt and leaned back on the cold meadow, resting on his elbows. "This?"

"Prying," Morwen threw another leaf into the flames. "Interrogating."

Legolas watched the darkness above them. "That is a strange thing to say."

"Because you two constantly argue over his policies?"

"Seclusion does us no good," Legolas murmured.

"But it kept us alive," she said. "Kept us fighting."

"I agree, you know I do. But is that all there is to it? Staying alive, ever retreating, hiding from the world." After the queen's untimely death, the Greenwood had all but closed its gates to other realms, unless matters of trade deemed it necessary to uphold relations.

"This is precisely how you'd speak before a quarrel," Morwen grinned, glancing his way again. She tapped her brother on the shoulder, her gaze losing its teasing light. Their eyes met. "He did well in sending you," she said.

"I wanted this," Legolas watched the skies again, half-drowned in the moon's light. "And so did you."

Morwen closed her eyes, the ill moments of the day falling from her mind. "I did."

"Please, be careful, sister," the prince said after a while. "We are far from home."

"Most would say that is a good turn," Morwen retorted, folding her knees at her chest.

Her brother sighed, smiling at the stars. "Yes, most would."

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Glorfindel waded through groups of strangers and acquaintances, thinking of all and nothing. The remains of the day clung to him like ragged shadows, drowning any festive mood. He saw the Silvan prince, seated close to one bonfire, his legs crossed beneath him, his face lit crimson by the flames. An Elf woman - the one who was his aide and hunting partner that day, was at his side.

Elrond and his lady Celebrían had chosen not to partake, having briefly joined to greet the Mirkwood siblings before retiring for the night. Their sons had stayed for the event instead, and were now speaking with the captain Tessarion and a group of Wood-elves, Morwen's aide among them.

Glorfindel propped himself against an obliging tree, and focused on dispelling the lingering unrest caused by the events during the hunt, and his own vexation; he failed, and bent towards a pitcher near his feet to refill his drink.

As evening gave way to night, the figures swaying around the bonfires became livelier. Revelers were closer, touches were bolder. They seemed one with the flames that lit their abandon, shimmering off their unbound hair. Some, who were consorts, had retreated into the shadows.

Glorfindel lifted his drink in salute to Legolas before turning back to Elladan, who had joined him in the meantime.

"They grow bolder," the dark-haired Elf was saying, referring to the stray orcs they happened upon during the hunt. "I can think of no other reason."

Glorfindel regarded the merrymakers with a dispassionate glance. "And if there is another reason, we will never know," he said. There had not been orcs spotted so close to the vale in hundreds of years.

"I admit, after today, I have trouble deciding if I denounce the methods of our Mirkwood brethren. I'd be lying if I said their impetus does not bring a certain… flavor."

"Thranduil's methods are lacking," Glorfindel said, somewhat displeased at the sting of his own thoughts. "But it seems he had no qualms in teaching them to his children."

Elladan studied his wine, fingers circling the rim of the cup. "Forgive me, but that is not all that's lacking. You're all but made of patience, usually." A grin cut across his angular face. "But today, you looked on the brink of losing your temper. What, I wonder, has finally achieved one such impossible task?"

"Not now, Elrondion," Glorfindel said tiredly, taking another long sip of ruby wine.

A short peal of laughter rang not far from them. The Elf-lord turned his head; his fingers jerked on his cup. Clad in a light sheath and barefooted, she was entertaining a Wood-elf of her company some distance ahead. His eyes flickered away from the daughter of Thranduil.

"My apologies," said Elladan, not looking apologetic in the least. "Alas, there is my brother." He clamped Glorfindel on the shoulder. "Join us?"

Glorfindel shook his head.

"Then, I leave you for now. But school your face into some joy, my lord. This is still a celebration."

Glorfindel smiled but remained silent as the son of Elrond departed. Elladan had the right of it, of course. It was difficult to unhinge and rouse him, matters of war and strategy notwithstanding - even the most unruly subordinates were given chances aplenty to atone for their mistakes. His face soured in distaste, but Glorfindel caught himself. He drank what remained of his wine, swallowed and bared his teeth. Warmth coursed through him, stirring his blood. He regarded the empty cup with a critical eye. Considering the amount he had all evening, he expected the potent vintage might get to his head, as rarely happened.

Somewhere to his right, Morwen had ended her conversation with the unknown Elf; their eyes met.

He ought to leave it be - it was the wiser choice. Even from this distance in the meld of lights and darkness, he saw the heaving of her chest and the flush in her cheeks. Glorfindel set down his cup. He had thought to retire, but then his feet were moving, and he was striding forward. To her.

Gaze unreadable, he stopped before the daughter of Thranduil, greeting her with a nod.

Her state of abandonment dispersed like scribbles in the sand, her manner turned churlish. It came as no surprise. A child. No, an adult, Glorfindel corrected himself. An adult, stifled by the limits of their own perception.

"You're enjoying yourself," he said flatly.

"All must honor the cleansing after the hunt. It is our way." Her words held a shade of civility.

"Then honor it we will," his arm slipped around her waist. At any other time, he would have asked a potential dancing partner for permission, would have gallantly brought them in. Her small gasp of surprise gratified him in a way that was both new and strange.

"What do you seek, Lord Glorfindel?" Morwen asked, her voice rather breathless, her palms pushing lightly against his chest.

"To dance, naturally," he said with a disarming, boyish grin, at odds with his demanding grip. He was not gentle.

Morwen frowned. Her gaze went to her hands. Her fingers pressed into his fine green tunic, the material warmed from his skin. She watched him warily as Glorfindel brought her palm to rest on his shoulder. "I thought perhaps you had strayed here by mistake; or to look down your nose on us Wood-elves and our barbaric ways."

"I've seen true barbarism," Glorfindel said. "You are blessed to not have walked the wilds of Beleriand. But what you lack, if I may-"

"You may not."

Glorfindel briefly glanced to their left at the other revelers, then back at her. "If I may," he repeated, "more discipline would do us both a world of good if we are to work together."

Morwen said nothing, following his lead, her gaze set behind him. He wore his hair unbraided, and a few bright strands ghosted her cheek like fragrant silk. It brought forth the shade of a recollection; stark blue irises drowned in black, his scent beneath the stench of orc blood, and the compulsive need to clear it from his skin. Morwen fought the irrational urge to lean closer.

"I practice the courtesy of looking you in the eye, captain."

Morwen snorted. Why must he plague her so? "Courtesies I can do without," she muttered. "And there is no binding obligation for us to entertain each other outside the spheres of duty. Now please, tell me what you want?"

They drifted beneath the trees that fringed the glade, the fires behind them. A round moon had crept across the sky.

Glorfindel led her in a slow sway to the dimming music. "Morwen." His voice gained the tired edge from before. "My manner bothers you, I've noticed. But I take to being forthright when I see failings, out of respect for both parties involved."

Her head tipped back in a scoff of mirth.

"And it escapes me," Glorfindel followed, "why returning the same is a challenge to others."

"No need to beat at the saddle, lord Glorfindel," she said. "The horse understands."

The murmurs and revelry dimmed, lost to the night, farther away now.

"Call me impressed," he said silkily after a pause, "but as comparisons go, I certainly think higher of you than that. Though most well-kept horses obey their betters."

He caught her palm before it struck him, fielding her fury with a wintry smile. It was unbecoming, shameful even to feel so pleased at getting a rise out of her - but he enjoyed it nonetheless. His fingers curled around hers briefly before Glorfindel released her altogether and stepped back. "If you want to lead, then learn to follow. Your own instant gratification is forfeit when lives depend on your decisions."

"So that's the matter," Morwen snapped. "The filth would have told you nothing. What do you remember of the Greenwood, my lord?" she asked. "What do you know of our struggles, dwelling here safely in your secure little hiding place?" she smirked into his blank stare. "Though not so safe now, is it?"

Glorfindel closed his eyes. "Where does this pettiness come from, I wonder? No," he continued. "I think I know," the Elf shook his head. "Keep your divisive views, if they define you. But I'll only say this once and I will do it now, to spare your pride as I see how much it means to you." He looked at her for one moment. "Next time you disobey a direct order, for all your skill I will have you relegated to the lowest rank for the upcoming battle. You'll be stationed to hold camp and mind the supplies, far from enemy lines."

Speechless for a breath, Morwen remembered herself enough to hold her stance. "You don't have the authority," she countered feebly, cowed by his tone despite herself, suddenly cornered as she watched every line, every change in his expression.

His smile was sweet, but never reached his eyes. "Would you have me prove it?"

Morwen opened her mouth, then closed it. A heavy weariness settled in her bones when Glorfindel turned his back on her.

"Once," he said over his shoulder, before walking away.

She could barely stand, let alone move; for the unguessed power of his words, and the rebuke that turned her feet to stone. For the damnable weakness at his closeness, and the visions still roiling in her mind. All thought of revelry died. Strips of moonlight layered her features as Morwen stood trapped, following his retreat until he disappeared from sight.

A/N:

If y'all don't like Morwen now, worry not - I promise you she'll be the least of Glorfindel's problems.

xx