The road to the High Pass was a lofty and perilous one, even in the best of summertime; in winter, it was treacherous, as snow hid ridges and holes. Now, however, some days after the last snowfall, the cover had settled enough to enable a relatively safe passage. Halarova and Aldith had been given sturdy horses with wide backs and rode with no saddles and no iron shoes, as was the custom in wintertime, and they carried their load upon their own backs. Their surefooted mounts therefore had little trouble finding their way through the powdery snow; they only needed nudging from Halarova to find their way.

They soon had left the cover of trees and its deceptive snowdrifts where fallen branches laid as traps to walk along sinuous slopes, progressively rising to the lowest pass in this part of the Mountains. There, the wind chaffed their lips and the sun, chasing the clouds over the peaks, dazzled them. Powdery snow danced in twisting mist along the ground, ice glittering as it coiled against the light. At night, stars bloomed like silver flowers and it seemed that they were the only two persons left in the world, but they spoke little under the deep grey sky as hoarfrost set in outside their tent. On the second day, though, Aldith asked Halarova about himself. "For you know all about me, but I know nothing about you - save that you are an elf, with the favour of your lady and a care for us you call Second Born."

They were sitting in the cramped space of the tent as embers smoldered in their small stove. By some virtue, their tent kept much of the heat, and they were in no danger to freeze to death - a real threat in these high places.

"There is not much to tell," Halarova said. "I was born long ago in Valinor, and followed Fëanor into Middle Earth when…"

"What is Valinor," interrupted Aldith. "This is the first time I have heard that name."

Halarova sighted. "Ah. I had forgotten you are not one the Edain. Valinor is, for lack of a better name, what you would call paradise. There dwell the Powers of the world, whom we call the Valar; yet they did not create it, although they have appointed themselves its guardians. The Lords of the Valar are seven, and the Valier, the Queens of the Valar, are seven also. First amongst them is Manwë, who was appointed to be the first and greatest King; he sits upon the summit of high Taniquetil, where the Eagles who ride the wind bring him news from far and wide. To his right sits Varda, or Elbereth, lady of the Stars she sowed before time began, and in her face shines the eternal light of Ilúvatar. Their halls are set high above the everlasting snow, where rarefied air carries only the most mighty wings. When Manwë looks forth from his throne, if Varda sits besides him, he sees further than all other eyes, to the confines of the world. And when he is near Varda, she hears all, and the voices that cry from east to west reach her heart; save ours, for we were shut out from Valinor long ago. Never shall we go back, save to the deep halls where Mandos is the keeper of the dead and the judge of all souls. He forgets nothing and delivers dooms at the bidding of Manwë and, when we are slain, he summons our spirits. While before our fall, by Manwë's grace we might have been given another body to walk below the stars, now we are kept shut there; until the end of the world, some say. Deathless, you called me, and indeed we may be, but to all of us who walk under the shadow of Mandos's curse true death would be a boon. For you Second Born are not tied to the circles of the world, and death is but a new beginning for you, and this freedom we envy you."

Aldith was listening intently, and she asked: "What did you do, that you deserved to be shut from your home?"

"We wanted to be free and seek our justice," said Halarova. "We had a treasure, three great jewels called the Silmarils, that had been wrought by Fëanor, most gifted of all the Children of Ilúvatar; Falmaramë you saw is the last of his blood. She is the best living smith amongst us, being indeed as talented as her father, and her mind is quick and bright; but to Fëanor she is nothing, so far did he surpass all in skill. In the Silmarils, Fëanor caught the light of the Two Trees - living trees, real trees, that cried a dew of silver light and gold, of which the light of the sun and the moon is but a pale echo. But the Trees were killed by a renegade of the Valar, and he stole the Silmarils too, killing Fëanor's father for them, and the Valar would not go after him. Then we realised we had been held in thralldom, and that golden chains were still bondage; under Fëanor's guidance, we left Valinor for Middle Earth where our ancestors had been born, and whence the Valar had taken us. But some of our kindred were against our decision, and we had to fight them for passage. It was from this spilling of blood that sprang the Doom of Mandos. And in Middle Earth we did great deeds; we fought alone, and without help, the Vala Morgoth, and kept him in check. Fëanor himself was soon slain, however, leaving his seven sons to pursue their oath to defeat our Enemy and regain their lost treasure. Without us, you Second Born would have lived under his shadow and his corruption from the start. Only by the might of our swords did Beleriand remain free, as the Eldar that dwelt there trusted rather secrecy than war to be their salvation, and the Dwarves lacked the might to fight alone."

Lost in memory, Halarova then fell silent. Outside, an owl hooted, and Aldith nudged him to continue.

"Did you ever regain the jewels?"

"Yes and no. One of them was stolen from Morgoth by Lúthien, an elf-maiden not from our people, to be her bride-price in marrying a mortal man. She was the fairest of the Children of Ilúvatar, and was bold and mighty, but she died for love, truly died, the only one of us to leave the circles of the world, to follow her Beren when death took him in his old age. The sons of Fëanor had sworn an oath to pursue all those who held unto a Silmaril, but such was Lúthien's courage that they respected her claim to the jewel. When she died, however, and the Silmaril passed to her son, they thought to recover it, and sent message to him in Doriath. But no answer came, and we stormed Doriath. This second Kinslaying burns most grievous in my memory, for it could have been avoided, and some of the sons of Fëanor committed atrocities. Of them, Celegorm, Curufin and Caranthir were slain - a good riddance, if I may say so. But the Silmaril eluded us, as Lúthien's granddaughter Elwing fled with it to the Havens of Sirion. Then, sick with this war, I forsook it and rejoined Celebrimbor, the son of the slain Curufin, whom he had disowned long before, as he was the only one of the house of Fëanor to not call for murder. I was not there when the remaining sons of Fëanor attacked the Havens and Elwing threw herself into the sea carrying the Silmaril. But for the grace of Ulmo, the Vala who is king of the sea, she would have drowned - but he changed her into a great white bird, and she flew to the ship that carried her husband Ëarendil, who was half-elven too. Together, they were able to sail to Valinor and implore the grace of the Valar for the two kindreds of the Children of Ilúvatar. This Manwë granted, and at long last the Valar went to war against their brethren Morgoth, and they threw him down, and took the remaining Silmarils from his iron crown. These Maedhros and Maglor, the only surviving sons of Fëanor, stole from their camp in the dead of night. But they had committed too many crimes, three kinslayings too many, and the touch of the jewels burned them. Wracked by grief and pain, they died by their own hand: Maglor drowned himself into the sea, and Maedhros threw himself in a fiery chasm. Thus have the Silmarils disappeared from the world: one to the sea, one to the earth, and Lúthien's to the heavens, as it is the star of Ëarendil that so often lights up the twilight sky. And these great jewels shall not be found and brought together again unless the world be broken and remade."

With a deep sigh, Halarova concluded his tale:

"Such is the story of the exile of the Noldor to Middle Earth and the War of the Jewels, although it should be rather be sung in the many long lays that were made of it than told in such a dry fashion. As for me, I followed Celebrimbor when he founded Eregion, and in peace I was a smith there. But our doom caught up with us again, and Eregion fell, and now I follow Falmaramë his daughter and became her captain. There is no forgiveness for us, I am afraid."

Aldith slowly took it all in, thinking and pondering; it was some time before she spoke again:

"Do you ever miss this place - Valinor?"

"Sometimes. It was my birthplace and where I spent my youth; the light of the Trees was… there is no word in the Common Speech to describe its beauty. The whole land was bathed in it, and it was hallowed; wherever you turned your gaze, beauty and harmony dwelled. But there were no seasons there, and ultimately no danger and no risk to take. Even if one fell stupidly to one's death while climbing or sailing, Mandos would at once release your spirits. Here in Middle Earth there are real stakes; we are not cooped up in a playing-pen designed for our leisure, and freedom takes a more terrible meaning. We are free to be wrong and make mistakes, even deadly ones, and free to be ourselves without the Valar's constant supervision. We were their pets, nothing more. They did love us and only wished the best for us, this I believe, but the love of those so mighty and so above ourselves proved to be a stifling thing indeed. I loved my life in Valinor, but something was missing from it, and I have found it here in Middle Earth. For freedom is the gift of Eru Ilúvatar to all of His Children, and only through fire and blood were we able to regain it. Beware of the mighty who offer their unconditional affection, Aldith, for even though their designs may not be always evil they are unaccustomed to be refused, and you would soon discover there were hidden conditions indeed, and a hidden price to pay."

Long Aldith brooded upon his words, with frowning brows, and when she finally spoke her voice was hard: "Isn't this an easy thing to say, though, from one such as you who ever only knew health and abundance? You never were hungry and cold; it is easy to refuse a gift when one has no need for it. For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. Our lives are brief and full of hardship; even in peace, we sicken and die. When faced with such a gift from such a mighty creature, wisdom would be not to throw it away at once, but ponder the giver's intentions."

"Yet freedom is good in itself and for itself. Do you not wish to free your people, even as we speak?"

"Aye, I do, for their bondage comes with great hurt. But a benevolent all-mighty master I would not scorn, if he gave us comfort during our fleeting time in this world. I believe authority finds its legitimacy in power anyway; the weak has no right to rule over the mighty and, being mighty myself, how could I anything else than admire and respect my better? Let the strong provide for the frail, and rule them, such is the law of the wild."

Halarova felt unsettled by this answer, and could only say: "Then in this you and I differ, for none of the Noldor shall ever bow to such a master; and as flight to the uttermost west is still forbidden to us, we would die fighting to the last rather than submit."

"But you have lords and a king," said Aldith. "How would that be so different?"`

"The High King may be mighty, but he is no gaoler. Our realms are free because he keeps our ancient laws, but does not overstep them; he has duties but very few rights. This is also true for the High Ladies that are Falmaramë and Galadriel. They have little power to constrain or abuse, and indeed would be deposed if they so much as tried; they receive our oaths, and in exchange swear to keep the peace and justice, but both are freely given and may be recalled with enough reason. For they are Noldor as we are, and we share a same love for freedom. Authority, to us, stems from wisdom and mercy, and nothing else."

Stubbornly, Aldith persisted: "But freedom to starve and die is no freedom at all. Only because you are above such needs were you able to fly from Valinor. The war you fought was grievous, aye, and brought suffering only as war can do, but it was a whim of immortals."

Halarova kept his silence; a small muscle contracted on his temple. After a while, he rose, saying he needed to check on the horses, and spent the night outside under the whirling stars. As soon as a yellow band on the horizon foretold the coming dawn, he roused Aldith, and they went on without a word.

A few days later, they at last got within sight of the silver mines. The land was low and free of snow; winter on the eastern slopes of the Misty Mountains was drier than in the west, and the leafless bushes and trees put up their slender, crooked, boughs over yellowed grass.

To Halarova's eyes, who had seen the splendour of Khazad Dûm where the least mining shaft was cut with an architect's precise elegance, these mines were coarse indeed - more an instrument of punishment than a true mining endeavour. Holes had been dug on the side of the hill, wooden shafts barely supporting the low entrance. People had to bow low and bend once inside; they bore buckets full of stone and ore, and were too thin. And Halarova's blood raced when he saw the whip-wielding wardens, well clothed and well fed, who drove them. A fey look on his face, he loosened the clasp that secured his sword-hilt.

"Where is the dragon," he asked.

"He moves a lot," said Aldith. "When I was held prisoner, he sometimes flew around, and sometimes he laid down on his new hoard in a cave carved from the hillside, and sometimes yet he wandered about the camp to feast on the weakest. We should keep as much cover as we can from now on."

"I want find a good vantage point and observe them for a while," decided Halarova. "We must not rush."

"Nor tarry too much," countered his companion. "Each day that goes by, more suffer and more will die."

They found themselves a hiding spot on a cliffside above the camp. They stayed there for a few days as Halarova noted the guards routes, and the way to the road, and how often indeed the dragon surveyed his slaves. The first time Culutir Larëa flew over them, his wings tearing through the silken air, Halarova held his breath and felt a new apprehension. For the dragon had grown indeed, and now reminded him of the great shapes of doom that had devasted the Noldorin army at the Dagor Bragollach in the wake of Glaurung, the great worm of cursed memory. On this terrible day, Morgoth had broken the Siege of Angband, where for nigh four centuries the might of the Noldor had kept him in check, and had rained torrents of fire on the green plains of Ard Galen. But Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor, riding through flame and ash, had defied Morgoth himself at the door of Angband, shaming him to go forward and meet him in single combat. And Fingolfin had died, foolish and brave and full of a sacred rage, for courage was not enough. But forever after Morgoth walked lame, after Fingolfin's sword had hacked his foot, and Fingolfin's broken body had been carried away by Thorondor, father of the Eagles of the west, before it was defiled.

Tearing himself from his memories, Halarova long conferred with Aldith, and was annoyed when she advocated for a more straightforward approach.

"I am liable to roast just as much as you do," he finally snapped "so no, we shall not defy him openly."

"But there is no glory in it," groaned she.

"In such unequal combat, you can choose between glory and staying alive. If you want to do it, I'll lend you my sword - remember, yours can't pierce his hide, you should have taken Falmaramë's offer of a new one - and let you go. I'll make sure to build a cairn above whatever is left of your remains once he's had his way with you."

"But your lady's idea is one of a coward!"

Without warning, Halarova grabbed Aldith by the neck and held her against the rock face that had sheltered them. His darkened gaze was hard on his closed face as he brought his lips to the woman's ear and said, in a low voice: "You do not have earned the right to slander her so. Let this be my only warning to you; next time, I'll leave you to your dragon and your slaves, and care not what becomes of you. I have slain your better. Do not think that I would hesitate for an instant."

When he relaxed his grip, Aldith's face was already purple, and her bloodshot eyes had filled with tears. She let herself slide to the ground, where she massaged her throat, and painfully swallowed. "All right," she croaked. "The diversion it is."

Using the cover of the night, they hiked down to the bramble gully Aldith had used during her escape. Despite their best care, thorns tore their hands, but they bore the pain without complaint, for secrecy was their way in. There was no moon, and the stars hid behind a cover of high mists. In this near-total darkness, Halarova had to lead Aldith by the hand, as her mortal eyes couldn't see a thing. He was still glad to have committed the lay out of the camp to his memory, as even for him orientation didn't come easy in the night.

Quiet as shadows, swift as the wind, they ran to the cover of half-rotten planks behind a low building that was a dormitory for the enthralled and air smelled of stale mushrooms and soiled things, and there was no wind.

As he had already done three nights on a row, the chief warden crossed the court, bearing a small lantern, and made for the dormitories. His red light swung as he walked, lighting a moving circle of mud and beaten earth, and catching sometimes a glow on his black gear. Aldith readied herself to jump on him, but at the last moment Halarova gripped her shoulder and shook his head. Something had caught his attention: the clear tinkling sound of a golden chain worn over heavy mail, and the rhythmic rap of something that hung from it and hit the mail below at the cadence of the man's walk. Halarova swore, because he couldn't see what made that sound, and something in the man's demeanour was wrong. He was too proud, too arrogant, even for a gaoler readying himself to assault a prisoner who had caught his cruel fancy, and something about him made Halarova's skin crawl.

They watched as he entered the closest dormitory and, barely minutes later, left it again, dragging behind him his night's victim. Aldith silently seethed beside Halarova, who still held her shoulder, and only removed his hand once the courtyard was empty again. Before she had any chance to talk, he asked: "Is this man from your people?"

"No," she said. "He is one of those who came with fair promises from this lord far along the Anduin vale."

Halarova cursed some more and said: "What does he wear on this chain that hangs on his breast? I was a smith once, and I could swear it sounded like a ring."

Puzzled, Aldith answered that she didn't know, never having been close enough to him to notice. Halarova grumbled with indecision, and finally said: "I need to be sure. If he has a ring, it changes everything."

"A ring? But many people have rings," said Aldith. "Why is it important? Are you getting cold feet and looking for an excuse to back out?"

"This may not be a normal ring worn for style or faith. Long ago, my people crafted rings of power. If this is one of them, it is a mighty weapon that could break us - well, you more than me. Wait for me here."

He slipped noiselessly from their hiding place and, following his memory, hurried to the man's lodgings, on the other side of the camp, shadow amongst shadows, invisible to the clumsy Second Born guards he glimpsed. In this cold night that smelled of steel, he soon found his objective. There the light burnt bright, but he dared not look through the window for fear being seen, so he glided to the door. It was unlocked, and he opened it a crack to peer inside. At first he saw nothing, although what he heard turned his stomach, and he realised there was a very small room that served as an entrance, so he snuck inside to get a better look through the inner doorway.

The man was now shirtless; as he bent again over his victim, Halarova clearly saw the chain hanging from his sweaty neck, and the weight of a ring pulled it down. And in the golden torchlight shone a wide band of gold that bore a green stone veined with black, and Halarova knew it was one of the Nine.

His blood ringing through his ears, he forced himself to wait until the man had finished his crime. For on the three nights before the victim had been let out on their own to go back to their dormitory, and the man had then stayed alone. Halarova closed his eyes and wished himself deaf.

At long last, the prisoner was allowed to leave; they passed Halarova without seeing him, although their elbow brushed against his breast in the small room.

"And close the door, will ya," cried the man inside.

Halarova silently drew the dagger from his waist and walked through the door. The man wasn't looking at him, and didn't notice immediately his presence; too late, for Halarova was already behind him. In a single fluid move, he grabbed the man's hair with his left hand and pulled on it as his right slid the blade across the exposed neck. Dark blood surged in throbbing waves like the rising tide until the man became limp in Halarova's grasp and fell unconscious to the ground. Not waiting for him to die, Halarova snapped the chain and snatched the ring. He then rinsed his hands in a ewer close by, pondering what to do next.

"How I wish you were here, Falmaramë, ready to charm dragons with your silver words," he thought to himself. "For I have one at hand, and his breath could destroy this ring. But I fear his spell, as he has grown in power, and I dare not go to him. Besides, we want to kill him. How to achieve both aims I fail to see."

Down at his feet, the man was now dead: his heart had ceased to beat a few minutes ago, and, as a veil fell upon his sightless gaze, his spirit departed from his body. Halarova then witnessed a strange phenomenon, as to his eyes a wraith lifted from the man's corpse like a foul vapour. It shivered and struggled to make for the ring; but Halarova held it in his fist, perceiving a vile sorcery that tried to pour from it, and he fought against it. Then he felt a distant power looking, like a shrill and fearsome laugh, and the wraith died out. But the power still held Halarova in its gaze, disrobing his thoughts and examining him as an insect under a looking-glass until it felt satisfied, and left. Dizzy, Halavora fell to his knees, covered in cold sweat, and vomited, and remembered that in older times Sauron had been called the Necromancer.

Aldith was still waiting for him; she had little choice, as she couldn't see as well as him in the dark. When he came back, she greeted him with a string of choice words delivered in a low voice so as not to attract attention.

"The plan has changed," he said. "We mustn't kill the dragon right away. First, I need to use his fire to destroy that ring. Once that's done, he'll be all yours."

He was happy night hid Aldith's face, but he heard her angry sigh before she spat: "How do you propose we do that, then?"

"There will be a commotion in the morning, when they find their chief dead in a pool of his own blood. This is sure to attract the dragon, and the guards will be distracted. While you rouse your people and start a riot, and lead them away to safety, I guess I'll have to goad him into spitting his fire and throw the thing in it."

Aldith snorted. "So now that you see a way to get all the glory for yourself, you are not afraid of getting roasted anymore."

"Glory, glory, is that all this is about for you?" snapped Halarova. "I don't care for it; I've had my fill of glory long before the first Second Born walked under the sun. But destroying this thing is important, way more important than freeing your people, and for this I am willing to risk my life."

"Is this ring really that dangerous a weapon, then?"

"More than you can ever know."

After a silence, Aldith said: "Well, let's stay hidden until daybreak and see how things turn out. I think you'll get more of a distraction than you bargained for. You don't know them like I do."

She spent the rest of the night lost in thought, and Halarova got nothing more from her.

A grey dawn slowly creeped under a thick layer of clouds, revealing the dismal state of the camp. As the first people slowly descended to the mines, guards started to run to and fro, and rang a huge bell. The miners stopped and were assembled somewhere beyond another dormitory; from their hiding place, Aldith and Halarova hears shouts and screams, but could see nothing. After a short while, they decided to get closer, and huddled together behind a corner. Halarova, crouching, could feel Aldith's breath on his neck and her weight on his back as she knelt to look over his shoulder.

Halarova realised Aldith was right, and regretted slaying the man.

The guards' way to find the killer, apparently, was to beat prisoners chosen at random and hope someone would denounce themselves. Or perhaps it was a collective punishment; it was hard to say. Halarova was reminded of what the few Noldor who had escaped from Angband, Morgoth's immense fortress and prison, had told. But, here, the perpetrators were no orcs or corrupted spirits serving the greatest incarnation of evil Middle Earth had even seen. They were no monsters, and yet they behaved as ones, beating with cruelty and delight their own kind; perhaps even their own kin.

He wanted to leave, to go back to the fair valley of Imladris, where no such thing could happen; where the only Second Born were envoys from Númenor who carried themselves with dignity and elegance. He didn't want to hear those screams, of which he was the cause. He wanted a clean fight, a fair fight where he wouldn't feel guilty.

Culutir Larëa landed, his green scales quite dull in the dim light of this overcast day, and slowly paced in front of the crowd; when he spoke, his low growl rumbled the earth, and people cast themselves on the ground.

Aldith got closer yet; Halarova felt her hand on his waist as she murmured to his ear: "Lend me your sword and take mine instead. Once you have done your deed, and he is distracted, I shall slay him. If you die in flames, I don't want our only dragon-grade sword to go with you."

He agreed, and felt the familiar weight of the old pommel in his hand. Turning out of sight, she scurried away to get in position on the other side of the square; he counted to a hundred and showed himself.

The Second Born didn't notice him at once, but the breeze carried his scent to the dragon who, nostrils pulsating, turned his long head upon his long neck to Halarova, and snarled.

"I know this smell," he said. "It is the smell of a liar's companion. I had not forgotten about you, elf-man; I have wanted to take a trip to Imladris for some time. Leave him to me, men. I shall relish the taste of his blood."

As Culutir Larëa took a step forward, Halarova noticed that he barely used the paw with the blackened scales, that were the scar of Falmaramë's trick on him. So Halarova jumped to this side, avoiding the dragon's gaze, and, knowing not what to do, started to sing a song of power. He was no Finrod, but these last days had somehow reminded him of the mighty of the great kings of the First Age of the world, and he sought to escape the dragon's spell while goading him. So he sang, and he sang of the might of the Noldor, of their cunning and courage. He sang of how Ancalagon the Black had been sent back running to his master, he sang of Glaurung's death at the hand of Turin, and he saw Culutir Larëa ready himself to rain a deluge of fire on him. So Halarova put his hand to his left pocket where he had put the ring, and found nothing but emptiness.

"Oh, fuck," he said, and threw himself to the side to avoid the flames.

Halarova ran, jumped and rolled, and the dragon laughed, toying with him. Chaos reigned as all the Second Born, gaolers and prisoners alike, flew from the scene. All the time, Halarova looked on the ground for the ring, but could not find it. His foot got caught in a hole as he tried again to escape the dragon's fiery breath, and he felt something crack and give way in his knee as it turned the wrong way, but his hair was singed and he got up and ran, limping in pain. Until, suddenly, an aura of might descended upon the place; it caught Culutir Larëa's attention, who turned from Halarova, whose leg threatened to buckle. But neither the dragon nor the Second Born could see Aldith as she ran through the crowd, although all parted in front of her and heard her savage cry. To Halarova's eyes, however, she appeared wild and fey; she had discarded her shield and brandished his sword, an invisible fire running along the blade. As she ran and cried, her face was lit with righteous rage; she didn't know that she was hidden from the dragon's sight, and yet raced straight to him with pure, raw, undaunted courage. On her left hand gleamed the ring Halarova was looking for, and she was shrouded in tendrils of darkness as she instinctively pulled from its power.

Once she was close enough, she jumped high to the bewildered dragon's neck; wether she succeeded by her own athletic might or from the ring's help, she landed right between his shoulders, and planted the sword to the hilt through the gliding, green, scales edged with gold. Black fuming blood poured from the wound when she removed the blade and struck again, higher, straight through the neck, nearly severing it. Culutir Larëa fell and writhed in the throes of agony, but she jumped to the ground and avoided being crushed. His poisonous blood fell on the naked earth in a lazy pool; after a last shiver of his beautiful wings, the flow progressively stopped, and his golden eyes revulsed as he died.

"You should have stayed in the north," said Aldith.

She looked with an empty stare at Halarova, who was now running to her, and he thought he could already see the shadow of Sauron on her face. "Remove it," he pleaded. "Remove the ring at once."

"Or what, you'll take it from me and destroy it?"

"No, but I'll cut your hand," he said, bringing his own sword up in a flash. Aldith parried, quick as a snake, and they sparred. He jumped back, never opening his guard, as she pressed him; but he didn't want to kill her, for fear of what the ring would transform her into. Each of his attacks she parried again, with an unnatural speed and agility, until with a great blow she broke his sword in two.

"What now, Halarova," she said, and a red glow was in her eyes as she pointed her sword to his neck.

"There's no honour in what you're doing," hurriedly said Halarova. "What songs will the singers sing, that you killed me unarmed and wounded? Aldith, there's a foul power upon you, and it comes from the ring. Remove it, and be yourself again!"

Something struggled on Aldith's expression but, after a time, she sheathed her sword, and hesitantly removed the ring, keeping it in her palm, where she looked blandly at it. The few onlookers - from a safe distance - cried in surprise when she became visible again, for they had seen Halarova fight against nothingness, and Culutir Larëa fall as if struck by a ghost. Hearing them, Aldith closed her fist over the ring, and shouted: "People of Ham! Today we go home! Gather your things and leave behind those who betrayed you!"

As people came closer, to see the dead Culutir Larëa, touch his claws and wonder at his size, Halarova said:

"You shouldn't keep this ring, Aldith. It is an evil thing, with a power you cannot control. It has a master, and he will make you his thrall, you the dragonslayer, proud and free. He shall relish it, too: to bend to his will one as strong as you shall be his perverse pleasure."

"But, with it, I will be able to protect my people. Never again shall a dragon threaten us."

Hesitating, Halarova said: "That lord you heard of, down the Anduin vale, far away in the south and east, is the Lord of the Rings. He is responsible for this; his men brought your people to this trap, and used the ring to make them suffer. You cannot trust him, or it. Leave your people; go north, find another dragon, and use his fire to destroy this ring. I will come with you in this quest. Hell, the High King himself would lend you his support. Destroying one of the Nine - it would make you the equal of the great Elf-friends of old. Minstrels would sing your deeds till the end of the world."

"I do not wish to be an Elf-friend," she said. "I have seen enough of you now, and have learnt your concerns are very different from those of us mortals. I will beware of this distant lord; if he shall make himself my enemy, then I shall fight him. But perhaps he has seen that he made a mistake, and that we are better free than enthralled, and extend the hand of friendship to us."

At these words, Halarova understood that Aldith already was under Sauron's influence, despite having worn the ring for a short time only. He bowed his head and, with a sigh, said:

"Then, I shall take my leave of you. Know that Imladris is now closed to you, as long as you carry this thing. We shall not let you even over the High Pass, or any of your people, unless they come asking for help to destroy it."

When he tried to take a step forward, however, his knee collapsed, and Halarova cried in pain as he fell to the ground. Frowning, Aldith came to his help, and offered him to stay until it got better. Halarova flatly refused, saying she had to tend to her people, while in truth he would rather suffer on the road than stay close any longer to one of the Nine rings.

"Just put a splint on it, and bring me my horse from our encampment, a lead for the other one, and I shall be on my way," he grumbled. "I'll have my sword back, too. Both of them. I think I've learnt not to leave them in strange places."

Halarova's way back to Imladris was a long one. His swelled knee was as useless as it was painful, and he rode slowly. Snow was now melting fast in the valleys, but it still laid thick over the rising road. A day before he thought he would get to the Pass, though, Halarova encountered two scouts; they were searching for him, as Falmaramë was worried of his prolonged absence. They gave him a cordial to drink, and the miruvor somewhat eased the pain, so they could travel faster. When they got to Imladris, a few days later, he was at once brought to Elrond to set his knee.

On the next day, as he laid in bed, his leg propped up in a cast, Elrond visited him again, and with him were Falmaramë and Gil-Galad. They sat and listened as he told what had befallen, and their faces were grave.

"My poor Halarova," said Falmaramë. "I regret sending you alone."

Elrond shrugged: "An army wouldn't have done more. As long as she wouldn't give away her ring, willingly, of her own free will, nothing better could be done."

Gil-Galad stood up and walked to the window; Halarova noticed how Falmaramë slightly turned to watch him, a faint smile playing on her lips. This didn't last, however, as she turned to Halarova again.

"Your account of the man's death worries me. You say you saw a wraith rise from his body?"

"I have thought long and hard about it," said Halarova. "Although you may have heard Sauron was called the Necromancer in Beleriand, none of you three can remember it, as it was before your time. It was said, among the Edain, that he would capture Second Born and try and deny them the release of death. I fear this is what this ring would have done, had the man carried it when his life actually extinguished. What shape he would have taken - if he would have risen like the mindless bodies Sauron once used, or if the wraith would have become more substantial - I don't even want to guess. But the power I felt was terrible."

"And you were under his gaze, too," said Elrond.

Silence fell. Angry, Halarova protested: "You know I would have fallen on my sword rather than giving in to him."

"We know," said Gil-Galad, speaking for the first time. "There is no lie behind your eyes."

Falmaramë sighed, massaging her temples. "So that is two rings out of Nine. Seven are still hidden - and we have lost track of the first one anyway. A nameless Númenorean sorcerer, a wild woman with an ache for glory… Who will be the next one? Our own Númenoreans seem to know nothing on the matter."

"At least that one is on the other side of the Mountains," said Halarova. "I would propose we build a permanent outpost on the High Pass and close it to all those who come from the east. Well, if I'm still your captain."

With a friendly smile, his lady reassured him.

"That you still are, Halarova. I can hardly fault you for your actions; one may fail despite doing one's best."

Relieved, he relaxed on his pillows, and they chatted a while, until he grew weary and Gil-Galad proposed that they leave him to the care of his surgeon. Rising from the windowsill, he went back to the seated Falmaramë, his hand trailing on her shoulders; she stood up to say farewell, and they went to the door. Gil-Galad saw her through, and her hand tarried on the small of his back before they knitted their fingers together. Once they were gone, Halarova wondered: "Are they still trying to be discreet?"

"And failing in the most striking way, as you just noticed."

Letting out a weary sigh, Halarova said: "Well, I'm happy for them. If you had seen this camp, Elrond… I yearned for Imladris. I have seen my share of terrible things, but this was perhaps the worst. How does the song go, already? Oh, yes."

In a chanting voice, he recited:

In a summer season, when soft is the sun,
I'll shroud myself in grey as a sheep were,
Go wide, forget our life and our wars shun,
Go wide in this world and wonders shall see.