After spending the day scavenging near the base of the nearby mountains, Evelyn finally had enough perfectly sized obsidian. She returned to her cave, checking that her hood and mask remained up before entering. She then sent Nightshade off for her nightly hunt. After she checked on Glorfindel who was deep in sleep, she set aside her stones and began preparing a meal for them. The elf went through cycles of sleep and waking, never staying awake for very long.

Although the wound across his stomach was healing, he was far from a healthy elf. In many ways, Evelyn was relatively surprised that he was still alive at all. She had stitched his internal organs back together, a technique that she assumed would not be adopted for some time yet as there was absolutely no way to maintain an area even close to sanitary enough for the procedure. She did the best she could, but operating with home made bone needles in a cave is no way to do massive trauma surgery. Thus, the elf's body was constantly battling with infection. Over the days his fever waxed and waned, sometimes he was clear and coherent enough to speak and annoy Evelyn. Other days he was so feverish that he would speak in delirium and pull at his bonds.

As she heard a slight mumbling coming from the corner, Evelyn knew that it would be one of the latter days.

She turned to her patient and rested her wrist against his forehead, finding it so hot to the touch that if he were a man he would likely be dead. Evelyn immediately dashed to her herb stash and pulled forth the strongest fever reducers that she had, quickly adding water and pounding them into a watery paste. She had no modern antibiotics and thus had to make due.

Taking her concoction, Evelyn cradled Glorfindel's head and forced the viscous fluid down his throat. The elf laughed and gagged, weakly moving his head away from her, but she did not budge. Finally, once he finished the last swallow, Evelyn dunked several cloths in water sitting in an earthen pot, buried in the cool earth. She bathed Glorfindel's brow with the water and pushed aside his tunic to allow him to cool off faster.

The elf tugged weakly at his bonds, and Evelyn felt her heart constrict for a moment. At that sight of the blond elf, eyes closed and muttering incomprehensible words of his own language, pitiful mews coming from his mouth as he attempted to curl in further on himself yet stopped by the thick ropes, Evelyn felt a pang of guilt for keeping him restrained so. But, fear is a powerful motivator and even though Evelyn knew logically that there was nothing that he could do in such a state, Evelyn was afraid.

Thus, her plans for using her obsidian were set aside and she spent the night sitting vigil over the elf, watching as his fever climbed higher and higher, hoping that it would finally reach its peak and fall. The fire in the hearth cast a warm glow across the cave and Evelyn slowed her feeing of it, hoping to cool the air and maybe, perchance to lessen his fever. Even as his body burned, he shivered, teeth chattering together between whimpers

As the moon rose in the sky, Nightshade returned and laid across the entrance of the cave facing inward. She placed her head on her forelimbs and rested where she could watch both Evelyn and Glorfindel as the former attempted to calm the worst fever yet. The girl reached back into her memories, recalling all that she could about infections. She feared that she may be dealing with sepsis, but she hadn't known if elves could even get it. Tolkien had always described them as beings immune to sickness.

Belatedly, Evelyn recalled the elves that she had seen several days ago. They would know how to treat Glorfindel. If they were indeed from Imaldris, then they would surly take him to Elrond. If the elven lord could- or would in the future, heal a Ringwraith wound then he would surly be capable of saving Glorfindel. Evelyn's mind was at war. It likely wouldn't be difficult for her to track down the party... but she couldn't bring Glorfindel to them. She would have to bring them to him. No, it's too risky, a voice in her head, a voice that had saved her life too many times to be ignored reminded her. Evelyn's thoughts were suddenly interrupted by Glorfindel whose speech was becoming somewhat coherent now.

"Naur," he gasped, arching his back and pulling weakly at his bonds. "Baw, baw." The elf was thrashing back and forth, strands of golden hair stuck to his sweat covered brow as he tossed his head in the throes of a fever induced nightmare. "Elenya, Elenya mëlde, mecin!"

Evelyn did all that she could, she whispered soothing words, she bathed his brow and forced thick concoctions of fever reducers and immune supporters down his throat. The air in the cave became sickly sweet with the scent of medicinal herbs and Evelyn's claustrophobia grew. She feared sleep for two causes: she did not know what would be become of Glorfindel through the night, and she was not sure if even Nightshade's warmth could keep the nightmares of Balrogs or dungeons in check.

Eventually however, she did fall asleep with her wolf curled up around her, soft fur and slow, gentle breaths lulled her to sleep as she did her best to ignore the fevered cries of her house guest.

The next morning, small bits of sunlight filtering through the cracks in the cave's ceiling woke Evelyn from her slumber. As she sat up, she stroked Nightshade's dark fur in thanks for her help in chasing away nightmares. She had only woken once during the night, her mind had strayed back to the cold, dank, and damp loneliness of an elvish prison. In her sleep landed mind, the sleeping elf she saw beside her, looking far to alike to the elves of Mirkwood, did not help her panic. Her dear Shade however was always a steady comfort and allowed her to sleep the rest of the night in peace.

As she thought of the elf currently living in her home, Evelyn scanned her eyes across the cave till they fell on his form. He was sitting somewhat upright and his eyes looked remarkably clear. It seemed that her concoctions and the elf's natural healing abilities paid off eventually as his fever obviously broke sometime during the night. A sense of relief flooded Evelyn's system which she tried to squash, reminding herself that there was no reason to grow too attached to an elf. But there he sat, bright eyed and looking remarkably too cheerful for having just barely escaped death yet again. Before she could make a comment about it however, he spoke first.

"You wear your hair like an elvish warrior," he smiled lightly, head tilted as he inspected her.

Evelyn's hands flew to her head, finding that though her mask remained, her hood had slipped off sometime during the night. She considered his words, remembering that the elves wear their hair in styles to denote their rank, their skills, and their status. She was wearing the same as Glorfindel, the braids of a warrior of the sword.

"Does it offend you that I wear such," she sneered. A vague comment about how her kind did what they pleased was already on her lips when he spoke again, a small, apologetic frown on his lips.

"Nothing of the sort. Such a style suits you for you fight as well as any elvish warrior," a small smile broke out on his face again. "However, your braids are single, thus denoting a sword. You seem much keener on battling with the twin knives. Two braids on each side would better suit you."

"I prefer it as it is."

"Of course. Well, it appears that we match," the smile stretching across his face was stunning for one who was murmuring in a fevered panic the night before. Evelyn briefly wondered if the fever had damaged his brain or if he was always this infuriatingly happy.

"I don't care," she snapped back.

"Oh, of course not... it was just an observation."

The pair lapsed into silence after that, neither willing to open the conversation back up. As usual, Evelyn and Nightshade took turns leaving the cave, neither willing to trust the stranger on his own. As night fell, just when Evelyn thought that the elf might have finally tired of asking questions that he would clearly receive no answers to, Glorfindel decided to attempt to start a conversation again.

"So, how did you sleep last night," he asked in a tone with too much force casualness.

"I slept little. Much of the night was spent attempting to bring down your fever."

"Thank you for that..." he hesitated slightly. "But, I think it broke sometime soon after you fell asleep. And... I could not help but notice you did not seem to be resting with ease. I could see you shivering though there was no chill, and when you woke you were grasping for breath."

Evelyn forced back the memories attempting to resurface as she processed the fact that the elf had witnessed her nightmares, had witnessed her weaknesses. She remembered how she would occasionally overhear other guards and soldiers speaking as they passed through the dungeons. They knew when she could hear them as they would often switch to common so that she could understand them. She could still hear their mocking tones as they mimicked her pleadings to the King, her cries and her desperate pleas to believe her. Elves preyed upon weaknesses.

"I would say that your sleep was far more troubled than mine," Evelyn drawled. "You were speaking in your tongue, gasping for breath and what sounded almost like pleas. It must have been quite the nightmare."

"I'm sorry," she turned to look at the elf and saw that he looked so mournful, it was as if his vigor and energy suddenly drained from his body. "My mind must have wondered back... it seems you already know, but I died long ago in an attempt to save my city from a Balrog, a fire demon conjured of the blackest dark magic. What did I say?"

"I do not know your tongue..." Evelyn's voice held a hint of mistrust as she tried to recall what she had been able to make out through his ramblings. "But you did repeat two words rather often... elenya and mecin. What to they mean?" Her curiosity was overcoming her as she asked the question. A small smile broke across Glorfindel's lips, but his tone became even more sorrowful.

"I do not seek to keep secrets from you. They are both Quenya, the tongue I first learned as an elfling. I was pleading for help... from Elenya."

"And who is Elenya?" Evelyn's mind noted the feminine sound of it, wondering if she was perhaps an unlisted lover of the ancient Glorifindel of Gondolin.

"No real name, just one that I made up for the young maiden who was with me that night... when the armies and flames came." His gaze became glazed as his mind was lost in the throes of a memory. "She was like you, but younger. She came from nowhere just as I thought that I would meet my end... she distracted the Balrog, drawing it towards herself as she was armed with nothing but the stones she lifted from the ground. She gave me enough time to kill it and prevented the monster from destroying the rest of the survivors of my city."

"She sounds foolish," Evelyn remarked lightly, refusing to make eye contact with the elf as some irrational part of her feared that he would see through her mask.

"She was courageous. She held me in her arms, cradled my head and told me that the people she could hear above us were safe... she tried to staunch the bleeding of a fatal wound and did not release her grasp on me until my spirit was gone."

"And somehow you think the two of us are related."

"You did save my life," a hint of mirth was back in Glorfindel's eyes as the haze of memory faded. He turned his head towards her, speaking softly. "I am sorry if I frightened you when I was fevered. The wound I received that night was all to similar to the one from several days ago and the pain must have brought my nightmares back."

"You cannot control what visions sleep brings you," she spoke, voice tense. "Let us forget about the incident."

Glorfindel merely nodded his head.

The pair then continued their routine. Evelyn reminded quiet, hidden behind her mask as she and Nightshade did their best to pretend that the elf was not there even as they took turns standing guard.

Eventually, Evelyn pulled out her buckskin pouch and began slowly knapping at each piece of obsidian stone. The light of the fire cast bold colors across the black glass as she carefully formed arrowheads. Glorfindel watched with rapt attention, at one point mentioning how in Imaldris the blacksmiths created arrowheads of metal with perfect balance. He made a light offer to take her to a smithy and purchase her whatever weapons she wished for.

All this of course Evelyn merely ignored.

They had pushed their horses to their limit as they raced after the fleet scout who had successfully found the place where Asfaloth had come from. The signs of a battle were unmistakable... as were the half rotted orc carcasses. Nothing in nature save the flys and worms would feed upon the dark flesh and thus, the bodies were half rotted and obviously a few days old.

"Scour it for clues," Elrond ordered, though his soldiers were already dismounting to do just that.

The walked along the stinking flesh, sunlight having allowed the bodies to grow to an even greater stench than that of a living orc. Many of the elves, though warriors hardened through war and travel, held cloths to their noses in attempt to lessen the filthy stench of the putrid orcs.

The signs of Glorfindel were obvious, from the deep gashes which could only be made by the great broadsword which he favorited, to the arcs of killed orcs where multiple beasts were slayed with a single swipe, one of the Lord's signature styles.

There was however, something odd.

There was evidence of another.

Among the corpses of orcs, the elves found arrows fletched with long, black feathers: the size of an eagle's, yet the color of a raven's. One elf used the tip of an orcish blade to pierce the skin of a decomposing orc and dig forth the point of one of the arrows. It was made not of steel, but of black obsidian stone which had been carefully chipped into a deadly point. The arrowhead was affixed to the shaft with not the special resin which the elves used, but dried rawhide. It was certainly not Glorfindel's arrow, but more so, it was no elf's arrow.

As they looked closer at the battle sight they found more evidence of this other being, smaller gashes, always placed in nearly the exact same locations on each orc. This other warrior seemed to only strike at the point of the throat, under the arms, and inner thighs of the orcs. Occasionally, they found thin blade marks through the backs of the orcs, always placed in the lower right corner, right where the orc's heart was most vulnerable.

"They look to be the result of the long knives favored by the Silvans of Greenwood," Berior, one of the older and more experienced elves in the party spoke as he inspected the thin but deep cuts to one orc who had apparently been dispatched by a single blow to his throat. "I traveled there several times before the darkness fell upon the forest and I trained with their guard... but this is no fighting style of their kind."

"I think there was a rather large wolf here as well," another soldier called as he observed the wounds on one of the dead wargs.

"We shall burn the bodies and camp nearby tonight..." Elrond figured that they learned all they could from the battle sight. Although orc and warg bodies littered the ground, there was no fallen elf among them.

That night, pyres burned high as the corpses of orcs and wargs were immolated into ash. The elves despised polluting the land with such foul creatures and did not wish for another poor party of travelers to come upon the sight before the beasts were fully consumed by the worms. Elrond stood at the edge of the camp, watching the red flames licking along the sides of the bodies, rising to the sky.

"My Lord... five days have passed," one of the elves in the party, obviously the one who had drawn the short straw, spoke quietly from behind Elrond's elbow. "If you wish to return to Imaldris before the diplomats arrive... then we must leave within a few hours."

Elrond sighed heavily, gaze searching across the landscape in some vain hope that Glorfindel would suddenly appear from across the horizon. He could easily imagine the golden elf walking forth from between the flames, emerging forth from that which killed him once, that which only very few knew he still feared.

He turned and walked deeper into camp, finding Cuhador sitting near the fire. The weary elf was lightly picking at his dinner of lembas, a still packed bag sitting beside him.

"I will be returning to Imaldris tonight," Elrond spoke as he approached, holding his hand aloft to prevent Cuhador from interrupting. "You will not be accompanying me. You will stay here and continue to search fro Glorfindel. He was surly here and we found no body."

"My Lord, you mustn't return alone."

"I will allow for no more than two warriors to escort me home. Pick your elves and we leave before the moon rises to her peak."

"It shall be done my Lord," Cuhador stood and bowed, fist to his chest as Lord Elrond turned and walked away.

Elrond packed with a heavy heart, knowing that his duties in Imaldris would prevent him from further joining the search.

As he promised, Elrond and two elven warriors rode out from the camp that night. The moon was still climbing in the sky as the small party made haste back to the elven realm. Relations between dwarves and elves had always been strained, but ever since the party of Thorin was assisted by Lord Elrond of Imaldris, the dwarves of Erebor maintained contact with the elven realm. Both Elrond and Glorfindel could sense the darkness stirring in Middle Earth and Elrond greatly feared that soon would come a time when alliances would be needed more than ever.

"Brother, you are not yet fully healed," Elrohir pleaded as Elladan resolutely shoved a small whetstone into his satchel, shuffling so that it would fit among his clothes and lembas.

"I am healed enough to ride and to fight. That is what matters."

Elrohir snorted at this.

"Perhaps to fight a hare," he reached forward and flicked Elladan's wounded arm, causing his twin to hiss lightly in pain.

"Then I suppose you will finally have to pull your weight in any trouble we find," he snapped back.

"This is a terrible idea. Ada will be furious when he returns."

Despite his protests, the younger brother already had his satchel packed and was dressed in traveling clothes. The twins were identical by appearance in every way, even their garb was the same. Their satchels however were slightly different in their contents. Whilst Elladan's held a whetstone, extra daggers, and spare arrowheads, Elrorhir's bag contained a surplus of healing supplies and extra flint.

The younger brother learned long ago that trouble seemed to follow his family no matter where they wandered. Just as he was contemplating if he had enough blood stopping herbs, his brother finished his packing and stood rather abruptly.

"The window?" Elladan asked?

"We should take mine. We use yours far too often."

"It is because mine has more convent access to the stables."

"No, it is because causing trouble always seems to be your idea."

Elladan smiled and merely hoisted his bag onto his good shoulder and sauntered out the door, leading the way from his chambers to his brother's. Elrohir followed with a long suffering sigh knowing that there was no use in attempting to change his brother's mind. No matter what though, he would follow him. He always would.

In the span of a short few hours, the brothers scaled the wall down the side of Elrohir's window and snuck past any elves wandering through the gardens. They successfully made it to the stables where they saddled their horses without much of a problem. Together, the pair rode off, taking a long and slightly meandering route as they knew that their father would be returning to Imaldris soon and the pair had no desire to bump into him along the path.

As soon as they deemed it safe however, they turned in the direction of which they fled without Glorfindel, hoping to reach the point at which they were separated and then pick up a trail. Glorfindel was their Captain, their mentor, and their friend. They would find him.

They would not lose another loved one to the orcs.

Translations

Naur- Sindarin, fire

Baw- Sindarin, no

Elenya- Quenya name, celestial one

Mëlde- Quenya, friend

Mecin- Quenya, please