Terreis: I'd been having a lot of fun with the 'birthmark'. I'm so glad the actors decided to get that shared tattoo. Yes, Elrohir is basically a good elfling—just a very jealous one on occasion!

Werq: Giving people a fright seems to be a specialty of Anomen. Hmm, intriguing list you've come up with of characters who deserve payback for giving Legolas himself a fright: Haldir, Merry and Pippin, and Aragorn. I'll have to keep those names in mind.

Hobbit Killer: You have an interesting way of signing your review: "Peace, Hobbit Killer." Um, a trifle discordant, wouldn't you say? Anyway, thank you so much for your review, especially for your comments on Erestor, the 'forgotten Elf', so to speak.

Kel: True, this time not only Elrohir but Erestor suffer from a bit of jealousy. Yes, as I mentioned above to Terreis, I've been having a lot of fun with the 'birthmark'. It is threaded into several stories now.

Katlyn: Well, if Anomen finds Mithrandir too quickly, then the story will be all over. You wouldn't want that, would you?

Legosgurl: Of course, to give Erestor some credit, he didn't intend to be mean. He was just trying to protect Anomen, although his efforts obviously backfired in a big way.

Joee: I suppose the youth of every culture frown on "orcing."

Dragonfly: I'm glad to see somebody is willing to cheer up Erestor. Tough, dirty job, and all that.

Karri: Ah hah, you have hit upon an unfortunate truth: I could allow Anomen to finally learn for once and all that he ought not to run off, but where would be the fun in that? It's sort of like the paradox that it is more interesting to read (and to write) about wicked characters than good ones. A Captain Jack Sparrow will surely lead a more interesting life than a Captain James Norrington!

Andi-Black: Yes, for once in his life Anomen whines (at least in Erestor's opinion). However, you must admit that he whines for a very good cause.

Beta Reader: Dragonfly

Vocabulary

Iôn—Son

Pen—Somebody

Penion—Son of Somebody

Síahennas—Here and There (Sí ah ennas)

Number Nine: Chapter 2

Once Anomen had slipped over the wall, he stood irresolute for several minutes. He had no idea where Gandalf had gone. How in Middle-earth was he to find the wizard? Suddenly he felt a spasm in his arm and clutched at his birthmark. When he recovered, he had an inspiration. He took several steps to the north. The pain in his arm lessened. He took several steps to the east. The pain also lessened, as it did likewise when he moved to the west. He took a deep breath and strode toward the south. The pain worsened.

"Very well, then," he said with determination, "I shall head toward the south."

Off he doggedly marched, even though every step he took meant that his birthmark ached more than it ever had before. "I am sure," he said to himself hopefully, "that it can only worsen to a certain extent—after all, something at its worst cannot get worser!" No doubt Erestor would have been proud of his logic, if not his grammar.

In spite of the pain he suffered, the elfling did not forget for a minute that he would be pursued as soon as Elrond realized he'd run off. 'If the scouts catch me', he said to himself, 'then there will be no one to rescue Mithrandir. I must make sure to cover my tracks'. He was quite skilled at doing so, of course, and, even though Glorfindel, as promised, quickly had scouts beating the bushes round about Rivendell, it soon became apparent that they would not be able to pick up the elfling's trail anywhere in the vicinity of the Hall itself. Glorfindel returned to the Hall to consult with Elrond.

"Are you sure Mithrandir said nothing about where he was headed?"

"Quite sure, Glorfindel."

The balrog-slayer paced back and forth.

"He could have made for the west, heading toward the land of the Periannath. He could have gone over the Misty Mountains, making for Lothlórien and from there, perhaps, Mirkwood. He could have crossed into Rohan via the Gap of Rohan, or perchance turned aside to Isengard. On the other hand, mayhap he is journeying to Gondor, or—another land to the south."

"It is that latter prospect that concerns me the most," said Elrond quietly.

Glorfindel nodded.

"I as well, and for that reason I will send trackers in all directions, but I myself shall head south with the greater number of my scouts."

"I think that would be wise, Glorfindel. My heart tells me that Mithrandir has indeed gone that way and that Anomen follows."

Glorfindel's picked scouts prepared for a lengthy journey, and early the next morning the company rode out through the gates of Rivendell.

Anomen, meanwhile, had taken advantage of a full moon to steadily march toward the south. When the sun arose, he decided, sensibly enough, that it was time to take shelter. 'It will be easy for them to check each and every hollow tree that they come upon', he said to himself. 'I shall have to hide in the tree tops'. Because his arm ached him so, he did not relish ascending into the canopy, but he had no choice. In a very unelvenly fashion, slowly and laboriously, he climbed up high enough so that he would not be visible from the ground, settled himself in a tree crotch, and dozed off.

Several hours later, Glorfindel and his scouts rode near. As Anomen had expected, the scouts were checking hollow trees and logs. Glorfindel, however, rode with his eyes fixed upon the branches above him. He was well acquainted with Anomen's penchant for taking to the trees.

In his nest, Anomen was dozing lightly and awoke as the company passed underneath. Wisely, he refrained from peering down through the branches, or it is likely the sharp-eyed balrog-slayer would have spotted him. The elfling knew it was an elven company, however, both from the jingling of the silver bells that the horses wore on their headstalls and from the snatches of Sindarin that reached him in his hiding place.

After the company had passed, Anomen climbed down from his refuge.

'As they are heading south, I should follow hard on their heels for the time being', he said to himself. 'If I stay in the vicinity of a company of armed Elves, I shall be much safer than if I were entirely on my own. I will follow them at least until I have passed through Dunland. The Dunlendings will keep a respectful distance, I am sure!'

Anomen had been fearful at the thought of journeying through Dunland, for he had had several bad experiences with the inhabitants of that land. Now it seemed to him that the Elves who had been sent out in search of him were instead clearing a path for him. His spirits rose, and he grew cheerful in spite of the pain that he still suffered.

Throughout the day, Anomen marched in the wake of the elven troop. Glorfindel grew increasingly impressed at how well Anomen was covering his tracks, not realizing that they could find no sign of the elfling because they were in fact preceding him on his journey.

As the sun set, Glorfindel called the company to a halt. He had no wish to journey at night, even by moonlight, because he feared that they might pass by some trace of the elfling.

As the Elves made camp, Anomen set about making himself comfortable for the night. He no longer had to worry that he would be discovered if he took shelter within a tree trunk, as long as he chose one to the north of the company, so he crawled into a particularly capacious hollow oak, whose center was well-carpeted with the soft detritus of long-fallen wood.

Anomen slept well, but not so deeply that he was unable to rouse himself well before dawn. When he had fled Rivendell, he was of course not carrying any provisions. He had been foraging as he journeyed, but now he planned to take advantage of the stores carried by the Elves. Quietly, he slipped amongst the horses, who, being well-acquainted with him, made no noise that would have alerted the sentries. Thus, from their midst, he was able to creep right up to the edge of the camp. With a stick, he hooked a slab of smoked meat that had been left over from the previous night's meal. Then he crept back to his oak, where he ate a few bites of the meat before wrapping the remainder in leaves and stuffing it into his tunic. It would serve for the rest of the day and perhaps even part of the next one.

Anxious to make the most of daylight, the scouts broke camp at sunrise. Throughout the day, Anomen trailed after them, from time to time nibbling on the strip of purloined meat. Were it not for his arm and his fears for Gandalf, he would have been a very contented elfling. He was free of all lessons, the weather was fine, and this was arguably an adventure. But his arm did hurt, and he was sure—although he did not know how—that Gandalf was in danger.

At about this time, this wizard and his two captors were nearing the borders of Mordor. The Men had forced Gandalf to march forward steadily toward the east, toward the Mountains of Shadow, the Ephel Dúath, but they had not harmed him in any other way. They had given him food and water and changed the dressing on his shoulder when necessary. Gandalf knew, however, that this tolerably humane treatment would be dispensed with once he was turned over to their captain. In Mordor, folk did not rise to positions of authority by virtue of their kind behavior toward prisoners—or toward anyone else, for that matter.

The Mountains of Shadow drew nearer and nearer. 'They must plan to cross into Mordor through Cirith Ungol, the Pass of Deep Shadow', Gandalf thought to himself. 'Hope we don't encounter any of the descendants of Ungoliant. Those spiders make Mirkwood arachnids look positively gentle'. Gandalf could not suppress a shudder at the thought of encountering one of those eight-legged beasts. On earlier visits to Mordor, he had had a few near encounters with these arachnids whilst slipping through the tunnel that served as their lair. Of course, it was unlikely that his captors planned to enter Mordor through the spiders' warren. After all, they had no need for secrecy. Obviously in the employ of the Dark Lord, they no doubt intended to stroll up openly to the base of the Tower of Cirith Ungol, there to announce themselves to the Orcs who were garrisoned in that place.

At last Gandalf saw the Tower arising in the distance, and he shuddered anew at the thought of what awaited him. He was a Maia, true, but he was a Maia in the body of a Man, with all the vulnerabilities that would result from such an incarnation. He could feel hunger and thirst and cold—and pain. Oh, yes, he could feel pain, as he had already discovered on more than one occasion.

His guards marched him past the dreadful gargoyles that guarded the gates to the compound. Ahead loomed the tower. At its base lounged several Orcs, picking their teeth after a meal of horse.

"Well, lookee 'ere, boys," cackled one, spitting a fragment of equine cartilage at Gandalf's feet. "Fresh meat!"

"Good," snarled another. "That nag 'uz too stringy."

"Don' look like this 'un 'ill be any better," another gloomily observed. "Skinny 'n' old. Now a Dwarf—that 'ud be something like!"

A chorus of approval arose, then the Orcs, having indulged their peculiar brand of humor, waved Gandalf and his guards on and resumed gnawing upon the bones and hooves of the unfortunate horse.

Once inside, Gandalf and the two ruffians were led by a shuffling, muttering subaltern through crumbling passageways strewn with filth. All about them were the disfigured remnants of the sculptured ornaments of what had once been an elegant yet powerful Gondorian fortification. Heads and hands had been hacked from statues, and crudely-lettered vulgarisms were scrawled on the surviving torsos. At last the small company arrived at a door above whose lintel was affixed the dried and decaying head of an Orc, perchance one who had in some way offended the Captain. The ruffians pushed Gandalf before them into the room beyond, where sat the hugest, ugliest Orc the wizard had ever seen—a fairly remarkably fact, given his familiarity with that breed.

Like the guards without the Tower, the Captain had just finished dining, if you could call it that, and for a Goblin he was in a relatively good temper.

"Well, well," he chortled, "what's this—me after-dinner entertainment?"

His subaltern gave a sort of giggling snort, and gestured at the two ruffians to come forward.

"We found this vagabond loiterin' to the west," reported Fuchs, "just over the border from Gondor. Thought it suspicious that anyone should venture there, so we thought we'd best bring 'im in for questionin'."

"Armed an' dangerous, eh?" said the Captain.

Fuchs looked a little embarrassed.

"Not armed," he said, "but mayhap dangerous nonetheless. Looks a bit like a wizard, wouldn' you say?"

"No, I wouldn't say," replied the Captain, looking bored now. "Where's his staff?"

"Didn' have no staff," replied Fuchs. "But lookit 'is pointy 'at."

"Pointy hat," scoffed the Captain. "Whoever heard of a wizard wielding his power through his hat? What's he supposed to do—send out flashes of fire through its tip? Still," he yawned, "now he's here, I suppose I might as well interrogate him. Here, you," he said, turning toward Gandalf, "what's yer name?"

"Iôn Penion," replied Gandalf. "Iôn son of Pen."

"Pen? Never heard of him. Who is he?"

"Oh, just Somebody," said Gandalf. "Nobody in particular, really."

"And you, are you anybody in particular?"

"No, just Somebody's Son."

"Where do you live?

"Oh, Síahennas."

"Síahennas? Never heard of it."

"Not surprising. It's nowhere in particular."

"Next I suppose you'll tell me that you don't do anything in particular."

"True. I lack fixed employment, wandering as I do from place to place."

The Captain yawned so widely that the corners of his jaws could be heard to crack.

"How tiresome," he complained to the two ruffians. "You've brought me somebody's son who doesn't dwell anywhere or do anything in particular. And I suppose you expect to be rewarded?"

"We was only doing our duty," whined Fuchs, beginning to grovel a bit.

"Yes, yes," said the Captain dismissively. "Well, I suppose he might be good for a bit of entertainment some night when there is nothing else to do. Here." The Captain tossed a few pieces of silver at the feet of the ruffians. "Lock him in the top of the Tower. And next time be sure to bring me something more interesting or I won't be as generous—or so forgiving."

The ruffians grinned and bowed obsequiously, but no sooner had they backed out of the Captain's chamber than they began to grumble.

"All that effort, and only a few coins," complained Grausam, glaring at Gandalf as if it were his fault—which, in a way, I suppose it was.

"Yes," hissed Fuchs through clenched teeth. "Move on there, you carcass," he snarled, shoving Gandalf forward so hard that the wizard almost fell. Pushing and pulling the wizard, the ruffians dragged him to the staircase that wound from the base of the Tower all the way to the top and forced him to ascend the seemingly endless flights of steps. The higher they climbed, the angrier Grausam and Fuchs grew. By the time they had reached the top of the Tower, the two Men were filled with spite and fury.

The last stage of the Tower had to be reached by climbing a ladder that extended up to a trap door. Once through the opening, Gandalf found himself in a dingy, dusty room. Quickly he surveyed the place. Narrow windows he could never fit through. No loose boards lying about that could be transformed into weapons. He returned his attention to his captors.

"What say we 'ave a bit of fun before we leave?" suggested Grausam, balling his hands into fists and eyeing Gandalf.

Fuchs shook his head gloomily.

"It'd only be fair if we took out our fee on his hide, but if the Captain caught wind of it, we'd be in trouble. He wants him kept for entertainment, and he don't mean our entertainment, neither. If we was to ruin his fun, doubtless he'd entertain himself on us. But I will risk one blow, I think."

With that, Fuchs stepped forward, fist raised. Gandalf threw up his good arm to protect his face, but that wasn't Fuchs' target. As hard as he could, the ruffian struck Gandalf on his injured shoulder. With a gasp, Gandalf collapsed onto the floor. Looking satisfied, Fuchs descended the ladder, followed by an equally smug Grausam, who pulled the trapdoor to behind him. Scarce able to breath for pain, Gandalf remained huddled upon the floor.

Far away in Dunland, Anomen clutched at his arm as his legs gave way. Trembling in the leaf litter, his eyes filled with tears, the elfling gasped for air. It seemed as if the last breath had been knocked from his lungs and that he was incapable of drawing a fresh one. A grey pall slowly drew over the world, and the sounds of birds grew muted and distant.

Oblivious to the elfling's plight, Glorfindel and his scouts rode on, still in hopes of finding signs of Anomen somewhere to the south of them. But behind them, Anomen's world grew darker and darker, until at last he lay insensible.