Hours of Boredom, Seconds of Terror
The patrol had ridden three days out from Rivendell and set up a camp from which scouts would make sorties for the next two weeks. To their chagrin, Anomen, Elladan, and Elrohir were not to be numbered amongst the scouts. Instead, they had to remain in and near the camp, where their time was occupied with such tasks as water-hauling, wood-collecting, and squirrel-skinning. When Elladan begged Glorfindel to allow them to accompany a party of scouts, he had sternly replied that the everyday chores of cooking and cleaning were a part of the warrior's life. "Each novice must take his turn at these tasks before he is allowed to indulge in other pursuits," he had declared.
"So here we sit scrubbing and polishing," Elladan complained to Elrohir and Anomen. "We might as well have stayed home; at least we'd be polishing armor rather than kettles—and not for nearly as long each day, neither."
The other two sadly nodded in agreement. Exchanging their comfortable room and hours of freedom for an uncomfortable bedroll and days of washing dishes was not their idea of a fair trade.
"We need more scouring rushes," Elrohir announced. "These pots are hopelessly greasy, and I swear Thoron must have burned this pan on purpose just to vex us."
Anomen arose and stretched his cramped legs. "I'll go. Elladan went last time, and you went the time before." He strode off toward the stream from which they had been fetching both water and rushes. When he reached it, he set about collecting some of the horsetails that grew on the margin of the stream. When he had gathered a tidy bundle, he laid his hand on a sapling to hoist himself back up the bank. When he did so, he realized with a shock that the slender tree was trembling. "What makes you quake so?" Anomen wondered, but the tree was too young to give voice to its fears. Listening intently now, Anomen was suddenly aware that no bird sang and that the forest instead echoed with the anxious whispers and murmurs of troubled trees. Something was out there, something fearsome.
Moving in a half-crouch, flitting from the cover of one trunk to the next, Anomen made his cautious way back in the direction of the camp. He was only halfway there when he heard a crash, followed by the crack of something hard hitting a tree. And then he heard a voice cry, "Elro—." Anomen went momentarily cold and motionless. One twin had been cut off shouting the name of the other. After taking a deep breath, Anomen resumed his careful approach to the camp.
He paused at the bushes that surrounded the clearing and peered into the space where he had left his friends. A struggle clearly had taken place—kettles and bedrolls were tossed about randomly—and several assailants were involved, for the ground was marked by many footprints which differed in size and shape, proving that more than one individual had been present. Now, however, the camp was utterly deserted. At first, Anomen did not know whether to be glad or sad. Elladan and Elrohir were not in the camp, but neither were their bodies. They were not safe, but they were not dead, either. Anomen decided that he was neither sad nor glad, merely relieved—and only partially. The twins had been taken but were yet alive. Now what to do? Should he wait here until the scouts came back? That would mean a delay of hours, mayhap even of an entire day. The scouts typically scoured the forest until the light failed and did not return to the camp until well after dark, when it would probably be too late for them to pick up the trail. It might be the morrow before they set out to rescue the twins. He could instead try to track down a party of scouts, but much time would still pass before the hunt for the missing Elves could commence. He would have to locate the scouts, and then the warriors would have to return to the camp to pick up the trail. What alternative was left? Should he himself go off in pursuit of the twins and their abductors? But what could he do alone against assailants who had overpowered both Elladan and Elrohir?
Irresolute, Anomen stepped into the middle of the camp, looking for he knew not what. Something there must be, some sign, that would tell him what to do. His eyes wandered to the pine tree he and his friends had been sitting under as they scrubbed the dishes that morning. He inhaled sharply. Blood ran down the trunk. He stepped closer and saw a bloodied tunic discarded at the base of the tree. It was Elladan's, and a long strip had been torn from it. Instantly Anomen knew that the strip had been ripped off in order to bandage Elladan's wounds, whether by Elrohir or by their captors he could not know. But one thing he did know: he must follow them straightaway. He was here; he could set out straightaway. He did not know what he would do once he caught up with his friends and his foes, but of one thing he was certain: delay would be fatal.