Chapter Seven: Eternity in an Hour

Rúmil shifted his grip on his sword's leathern hilt, his palm slick with sweat as he tried to keep his eyes on the number of enemies ringing them tightly. They had killed more than half a score of the wargs but still more had answered the high-pitched cries the female had sent ringing into the air, reeling with delight at the heady scent of fresh spilt blood. Several of the demon wolves had already set teeth into the lifeless Haradrim.

The sun was sinking from its apex and still the wargs patiently guarded their quarry, never offering further attack nor intent upon releasing them. Fedorian had laid his knives within easy reach at his side and seated himself cross-legged on the ground. Rúmil had thought him mad with the wargs prowling so close. But as the muscles in his legs and arms began to seize up, he considered echoing him.

He cut a glance to his brother who stood protectively a few feet away, his brow also furrowed in puzzlement. Beside him, Déorian held one last rumple-feathered arrow scavenged from the dead on his bowstring. Ancadal had managed to stop Rameil from bleeding out by wrapping his cloak tightly around the injured leg.

None of them dared move.

A horn rang out in the distance: a strange otherworldly noise that filled all the woods with a hot trumpeting blast. Thrice it blew… a pause… and thrice more. The wargs' ears pricked up and they turned as one towards the sound. Without another glance at the elves, the pack trotted off into the trees as obediently as dogs called to heel.

Rúmil lowered his sword in astonishment; never before had he seen anything like it. In moments the wolves had vanished completely with no trace of their passing save the trampled ground and few dead. With an odd sense of detachment, he swiped his sword clean on his cloak.

Orophin came to his side and placed a worried hand on his shoulder; Rúmil scarcely heard his brother's inquiry to his well-being and answered only vaguely as he looked over at his friends, his eyes falling on the mauled dusty form near the edge of the road. He shrugged away his brother's touch and went to it as though drawn.

"So doth violence take and violence mar." Fedorian shook his head at the Harad corpse as he sheathed his knives.

"Rúmil, come away!" Orophin commanded.

The younger elf remained listless, staring. "Why, Orophin? Why did he die?"

"Rameil is injured- we must go!"

"What if he was a villager- see, his hands are not rough from a sword's caress!- Was he truly villainous? Or was he simply obeying the orders of a master he dare not cast aside?" He had seen the man's eyes. Had seen his frightened, blenched face. And he did not like this heavy weight that had settled on him with the man's death.

"They are all villainous," Fedorian said with quiet finality.

What if they were like us? What if they thought they were doing right- maybe he was looking for someone too. Family… friends… He no longer voiced his thoughts but quietly he petitioned to whomever god the man had served, that this soldier would find peace in a gentler place than this bloody road.

Orophin tugged on his arm. "Tolo."

Numbly, Rúmil stood and followed.

Limping off the road, they passed into the trees just out of sight of it. The path behind them glimmered faintly in the rising moonlight as they bivouacked under a thin grove of firs.

Rúmil, sitting beside his brother, watched worriedly as their captain bent over the wounded elf, slitting the blood-soaked back of his tunic from hem to collar with a thin knife. Watching the cloth peel back, Rúmil cringed at the horrendous wounds lacerating the dark-haired warrior's flesh.

The warg had torn his back to bloody shreds and already his skin looked flushed, felt hot to the touch; the venom worked quickly.

Unable to watch his friend writhe and moan anymore, Orophin rose and disappeared for several hours, later returning with three hares slung over one shoulder.

Busying their hands, Ancadal, Orophin and Rúmil skinned and cleaned them whilst Déorian built a fire of gathered tamarack which would burn clean with little smoke. Fedorian kept watch beside Rameil.

Grateful for a hot meal, the elves gathered close to the fire. They ate in silence, never moving save when Déorian tossed another billet of pine on the fire to keep it burning, there were no stories or knife-throwing contests now. A sombre mood had overtaken them.

Rúmil ate mechanically; his body realizing that he needed food, his mind not quite caught up yet. He kept stealing glances into the darkness around him, his eyes unfocused and distant. Hearing a soft moan, he shook himself from his thoughts and let his eyes alight on the twisting form of Rameil, feeling his heart clench.

Their supplies had dwindled steadily and in the way of medicines, were terribly meager- much had been ruined or lost by the rain and their dash near the cliffs. Fedorian sat gravely back on his heels, his eyes dark and troubled as he rubbed a hand over his face tiredly. If the dark-haired soldier did not improve by morning, they would not be able to go on.

"Rúmil, what is the matter?" Ancadal asked of his friend who had been motionlessly bent over his makeshift bed of larch needles for longer than seemed necessary.

"I-I don't know," the younger elf said, his brow wrinkled. "Something's wrong."

"I feel it as well," Orophin said grimly, his voice sounding oddly strained as they let the fire burn out.

"Get some sleep," they heard Fedorian's disembodied voice say softly.

Slowly, they settled down in the darkness, one by one drifting off. Rúmil rolled over on his pine-needle bed, his heart troubled. Whatever he had felt remained like a lingering shadow at the corner of his vision. Turning over on his side, he watched the smouldering embers of their fire dimly illuminate the commander's hard-edged face. He sat next to Rameil's ashen form, touching his cheek and soaking a rag with water from his dwindling flask to press over the fevered brow. With this last vision in his sight, Rúmil slipped into sleep…

A hand suddenly closed about his shoulder and jerked him upwards. Still half-asleep, Rúmil fought weakly against the almost painful grip but whatever held him had a grasp of steel which the scout could not break. His assailant dragged him by the tunic neck into the deep darkness out of sight of the others.

Thrown roughly up against a tree trunk, Rúmil scarcely had time to gasp for breath before he found himself looking- and dropping his eyes away from- his commander's burning glare.

"Disregard my orders again and I will kill you myself," he snarled in a low, furious tone. "Your foolishness today did not save him and you could have gotten yourself killed!"

"Sir, I-" Rúmil tried to defend himself.

"Silence!" Fedorian snapped, drowning the other's words out. "You are a fool, youngling, if you think you can save everyone! You are under my command and follow my orders as I give them. That is what you have been trained to do."

Defensive in the face of this unfair diatribe, Rúmil did not hold back his anger. "You would have left a man to die! I did what I thought needed to be done- what I thought was right! You cannot fault me for that!"

"Were it not for your error, Rameil might not have been hurt!" Fedorian's fury overrode his and Rúmil lapsed into stricken silence.

Slowly Fedorian stepped back, inhaling deeply. "Think on that."

Without another word, he walked away, leaving the younger elf thoroughly dismissed with a sick feeling of shame in the pit of his stomach. He questioned himself bitterly now. How could he have been so foolish to think he could have saved the Haradrim soldier? Why had he felt the need to try? Looking back on his actions, he realized how stupid he had been. And what it had cost… Even though he had finished with Fedorian's tutelage years ago, any sign of disapproval from his former mentor stung horribly.

With heavy tread and a heavier heart, he walked back to camp. He hesitatingly looked across the clearing where Ancadal kept watch at Rameil's side, his eyes flickering briefly over the captain's empty sleeping place before he sat down in the cool grass and leaned his back against a tree, resting his forehead against the rough bark.

Sleep eluded him.

Restless, he rose and slipped quietly from camp, unmarked by any eyes. He had no tools with which to do the deed but he would see it done.

With a little careful searching, he found it: the Haradrim lay where he had fallen, still and lifeless. With toil, the Lórien soldier managed to build a small pile of sweet-smelling pine branches, dead and dry. Setting the man's cloven helm at his feet and wrapping his stiff brown fingers about the hilt of his pitted weapon, Rúmil laid the man upon the branches.

Covering over the body with the last bits of pine, he prayed the wolves would leave it as he stepped back to return to his fellows.

"Why do you care so?" The voice startled the younger elf who had worked long in silence.

"Orophin."

His brother stepped into the moonlight, his brow furrowed in puzzlement and perhaps a little irritation. "Why care you for a slain enemy?"

Rúmil looked away from his brother's piercing stare and across the road dappled in moon shadows. "You remember, my brother, when we were children- you were my playfellow. You and I and Haldir would race about the trees, waving our stick swords as though we were the greatest warriors who had ever lived! All the vermin of Morgoth fled before our faces!" He laughed as he spoke and yet his eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

His clear eyes fell to the grave at his feet. "His play-brother will grieve tonight."

Orophin said nothing, following his younger brother's gaze. Wordlessly, he placed a hand on Rúmil's shoulder.

Dark eyes marked them as the elves passed away into the stillness, leaving the moon-shrouded tomb to the night.


A stout coil of rope wound about his chest, keeping him effectively immobile against the tree girth. Another shorter coil bound his wrists together. They creaked as he shifted uncomfortably. His back felt as though it had molded itself to the bark contours. A dank-smelling hood fastened over his face hid the stars from his sight as well. Despite his blindness, it still felt like night to him for he could see nothing but the inner blackness of the hood and the grass felt damp under his fingertips.

Tergon had left him some hours ago to return to his duties, and the elf missed his presence. The young guard had been relieved by two silent sentinels that would guard him until dawn. He could see them blearily: indistinct dark shapes through the cloth. He could sense their gazes upon him every once in a while and they spoke in low whispers to one another to pass the time.

For hours, he had sat in the dark and damp. His face still hurt from where Ramir had struck him and blood had dried over his split lip. The tight bonds pinched his wrists and endless questions raced through his mind, snatching sleep away from him though his body cried out for it.

Who had killed the other guard? One of the Haradrim? Somehow, he didn't think so. The dark men of Harad were not known for risking their lives for others than themselves… But, he knew whoever had would not have the courage to reveal themselves. The tenuousness of his position was not lost on him. As a suspected enemy, now prisoner of war, he could hope for little mercy as Ramir had darkly hinted.

Even on such a cool night the hood stifled him and the bark dug into his back as he stirred restlessly again.

"You'd do better to try and sleep," one of the guards grumbled down at him, irritated by the elf's ceaseless movements. He was tired and dawn was yet long off.

"Anaric's talking about moving out soon," his companion muttered, leaning on his javelin. "Soon as the scouts come back with the reports."

"'Bout time," the first man growled, his eyes darting over the trees hissing overhead. "I'm sick of this wood. Everywhere I look I see the darkies watching us from those trees."

"Bah! You're tired and seeing things."

"Mebbe and mebbe not. I tell you the longer we stay here, the worse it gets. It just keeps getting worse- that's all it is. The ambush last night- uncanny I call it. Not natural. It's as though they were waiting for us… knew we were there…"

"Cease that kind of talk! You're raising the hair on my arms."

Haldir listened for a while but slowly, he drifted away, his thoughts meandering into a dark river of rushing waters where silver leaves whirled in eddies and rushed away into shadow…

The hood jerked away from his face and Haldir woke with a start, half-blinded by a torch suddenly thrust in his face.

"Get him up. Hurry- we don't want to be seen," a voice hissed. Haldir felt the ropes around his chest shift a bit then loosen. As he blinked the popping purple lights from his vision, Haldir was able to see who stood over him. Chagrin bristled through him at letting them catch him unaware.

Ramir leaned over him, a torch in his hand. Five others scattered about him, indistinct faces in the dark. Haldir turned to his right where a man knelt, loosening the ropes. By the look on his face, Haldir could tell they weren't here to free him. Then his face darkened as he realized that the man carried Cálivien's saber strapped to his side.

The one untying him shot him a sharp look and smiled at the elf's dangerous glare. "This is a fine blade- I've never seen the like before. And will be proud to own it," the man patted the deep polished hilt, grinning.

The ropes loose enough, Haldir lunged and caught the man's jaw sharply with his head. The man's mouth snapped shut like a window slamming and he fell over backwards, cursing and spitting blood from a bitten tongue.

One of his companions laughed at him. "That'll teach you, Baranir. Keep your lip buttoned."

Haldir shot a look at the speaker. These were not men of Gondor. Mercenaries, more than likely with Gondorian forces wearing thin throughout the war. They dressed in green and brown tunics and carried worn, sharp blades. Way-hardened men who had traveled the wilds most of their lives, accustomed to sleeping on the ground and doing as their will wished it. They had been hit hardest last night by the attackers.

Ramir stared down at the elf, his face white, dark eyes glittering with pinpricks of amber as the torchlight shadowed his rough-edged face. "You know where they hide."

Haldir hated looking up into the man's eyes. Tall himself, he was not accustomed to looking up into the eyes of others. And having to reminded him far too much of his former imprisonment. But he did not look away from the man's pale gaze, reticent to grant the submission such an act would require.

"I know nothing. You conjure my faults so you do have to feel neither the guilty burden of the dead nor the blame for failure," Haldir snapped, his toleration for this treatment utterly broken.

Haldir tensed for the blow; the force when it smote his cheek snapped his head viciously to one side.

"Don't try your tricks on me, elf. You lie!" Ramir snarled, his fist drawn back again. The elf's words stung. Stung badly. For they were, in part, true. The second in command hated the guilt and blame his own lack of attention had granted him. His friends' and brother's deaths lay heavily on his shoulders and he longed to purge that guilt and finally be able to act.

"I don't have time for mind games. Anaric might not be willing to bend the rules a bit. But I am." A sinister smile passed across his face. "Let's continue our little chat in private, shall we?" The smile fell from his face, replaced by a look of ice.

"Get him up."

Baranir and another seized the elf under the arms and pulled him up, quickly fastening his arms in front of him with cord that cut into the elf's flesh like wire.

They dragged him hurriedly out of the light of any fire though Ramir kept his torch close to handA path of crushed undergrowth wound through the trees for fifty yards or so- just out of sight of camp. The near-invisible trail had obviously been walked a time or two before this hour.

A sick cold dread dropped into Haldir's stomach as his eyes adjusted almost instantly to the deep darkness. Where were they taking him?

Leaves rustled overhead, the trees clamoring warnings and fears to the elf's ears, prickling the hairs on the nape of his neck. The trail ended abruptly in a little clearing. Empty- save for the dead tree trunk hewn that afternoon; white splinters gleamed like shards of bone in the moonlight.

One of the men shoved him forward roughly. Haldir stumbled but quickly regained his balance, half-turning but Ramir's sheathed sword cracked against the back of the elf's legs, dropping him beside the old trunk. Haldir gasped at the sharp pain that rocketed up his side and shoulder, ignoring the dull throb in his knees.

Two of the men grabbed his shoulders while a third stood over him with a drawn knife glinting. Moving swiftly, Baranir seized the cord that bound the prisoner's wrists and stapled it deeply into the wood of the sawn trunk, driving the u-shaped piece of metal home with a small mallet, forcing the elf to remain on his knees.

Ramir gave him a sideways smirk from where he stood watching.

"Now, we'll get some proper answers," he growled, his lips close to the elf's ear. He flicked something lazily against his thigh- which Haldir realized with a sinking feeling was a long switch newly cut from a rosebush.

He inhaled sharply to ready himself. He held no illusions. He knew exactly what kind of interrogation this was going to be.

But that knowledge did not prevent his hands from shaking.

He had tasted the lash before if not one quite like this. And the memory of it still lay heavily on him. Turning his face from the men, he took a deep breath to try to calm himself, to force his thoughts away from what he knew would happen. But he was so tired. Chafing helplessness and fear battered against his weariness. Already, maintaining his stony indifference had become difficult- even before the implement touched him.

Ramir swallowed tightly as he circled around the other side of the elf. His pale eyes narrowed slightly as he carefully watched the prisoner, making sure the staple was embedded deeply enough. He paused a moment, reflecting, wondering if he could do this. As much as he knew the elf deserved it, he wasn't accustomed to torturing prisoners- such methods were not condoned in Gondor; and Ramir in all his years of service had witnessed only a handful of times when such measures had to be used.

But Gondor was far and Ramir had been pushed far beyond his tolerance in the past few days. The thought of his brother's broken, blood-matted body he had buried that morning. And the memory of what had happened at Calen still burned behind his eyes. Those memories strengthened his resolve as he forced himself to calmness.

"You sided with those filthy darkies," he accused. "We all know it, don't we gentlemen?"

The mercenaries nodded their grim agreement. They had formed a tight semi-circle around the prisoner, fingering knives and sword hilts. Flat and hard, their eyes bored into the elf. He could feel their gazes on him and anger and fear both seized his chest in a constrictor's crushing grip.

"Our commander would rather you starve to death before he gets blood on his hands. So, we're going to do him a bit of a favor. And, it's that simple," Ramir laughed forcedly, wrapping a strip of cloth around the switch's thicker end so he wouldn't cut himself on the long thorns, gleaming dead and wicked in the sparse moonlight.

He knelt next to the prisoner's head. "I'm going to ask you questions and you're going to answer them, all right? This could be really easy or it can be really hard, elf. That choice I leave in your hands. The repercussions of silence, I think you know." He dangled the lash in his prisoner's face to accent his point. He almost hoped the elf would be stubborn and not answer. To his mind, it was long since time someone took the initiative and taught this one a lesson. His brother and every other good soldier that had died last night would finally be avenged.

And he would see it done.

He leaned forward and took a knife to the elf's tunic, slitting the fabric up the front. He pulled the slashed garment over the elf's head, leaving his trapped arms looped through the sleeves to avoid having to unbind him. The man's eyes lingered a moment on the bandages that covered the ragged hole in the elf's still-healing shoulder. His grip on the cloth handle tightened in anticipation.

Haldir closed his eyes.

"Hey, what's this?" a voice asked suddenly. A cold finger traced an unsteady path along one shoulder blade; Haldir flinched away from the contact, stopped sharply by his bonds.

He made no answer.

He knew perfectly well what the man was referring to. Knew without seeing that the weals still stood out against his flesh as though he had received them hours ago instead of weeks. He bet there were a few splinters he had missed too…

Ramir frowned, noticing how the elf refused to raise his head and meet their eyes.

"So this happened before," he said softly, realizing. His keen gaze caught sight of a meticulously placed line of stitches along one side of the smooth elven skin. Slowly, he knelt again, looking upwards to try to catch a glimpse of the elf's eyes.

Haldir said nothing, his silver gaze staring dead ahead, schooling his countenance to utter impassivity.

Ramir stared at him a long moment, his eyes darting down to the elf's bound hands which shook uncontrollably. Noticing his gaze, but still without looking at the man, Haldir clenched his fingers into fists to try to still their trembling, the ropes creaking.

"You've been hurt before." Standing, Ramir leaned again over the elf's back, examining the lash marks. "By a proper whip too by the looks of it. You don't learn too well do you, elf? What'd you do?"

Ghosts of the past taunted him with resounding words he still heard in his nightmares. How does it feel to be completely at my mercy? Helpless? Vulnerable? Tell me... Haldir shook his head, keeping his eyes still facing the trees. "I have done nothing other than give help where perhaps it was not needed."

Ramir's jaw tightened and the lash snapped suddenly forward.

A line of fire erupted from his left shoulder blade to the middle of his back; Haldir hissed between his teeth but managed to keep his silence.

"Now, I know you're lying. I don't even know why you insist you're telling the truth- we held the Haradrim witch you traveled with. You tried to run and we caught you and now you're in a tight spot. Telling the truth will get you farther by now, elf. Maybe if you give us the answers we want, Anaric might even set you free."

Haldir knew this game well. And he also knew that nothing he could say at this point would ever free him. Ramir knew that. "I know nothing of what you seek and cannot answer your questions. So then what can I tell you? You fear your enemy and yet you waste your efforts on me when you could be searching for them," he gritted out, knowing how well his bold words would be taken.

Predictably, another sharp strike gouged three thin lines from right shoulder to spine, the thorns slicing in deep. Inhaling sharply, Haldir swallowed the pain, forcing it back. He felt the familiar fear gnawing at his insides.

"Don't presume to speak so boldly to me of what I must and must not do, elf."

Haldir did not cringe. He would not give them that power over him. Straightening his shoulders as much as his bonds would allow, he raised his head and met his captor's eyes squarely.

Ramir glared right back at him, staring him down. They locked eyes, both unblinking. Suddenly, the man flinched and looked away, striking sharply out with the switch, catching the elf across the face. "Your demon eyes won't work on me, elf!" His voice cracked.

He didn't understand how this creature could make him so… afraid but there was something in those eyes… a hidden power he couldn't comprehend, a deep weight of memory and sorrow that made him feel as though the elf could see through his skin. Through muscle and bone. Heart and emotion, reading him as easily as the cover of a book. And that sense of vulnerability made him furious.

The sharp strike that followed cut a little too close to the stitches in his side and Haldir instinctively jerked away from it.

He clenched his fingers tightly, keenly aware of the eyes that watched him as his body tensed. He lowered his head until the strands that had worked loose of their braids fell forward over his shoulders, providing a flaxen curtain for him to hide behind. He would not let these men see his pain; he had let that happen once… the shame of it had not yet left him and he determined that it would not happen again.

Ramir watched the elf intently, searching for a chink in that formidable armor. What had this creature done that he seemed so… accustomed to pain? What could possibly make him so damn well-guarded? He waited patiently for the pain to wear away a little of that defensive guard as he worked the lashes he'd already inflicted on the elf's back, feeling immense satisfaction that this animal was finally getting what he deserved.

Haldir squeezed his eyes shut as the lash plied his shoulders, trying in vain to steady his breathing. He did not like losing control like this. He could not afford to lose control like this. But he knew he was losing the battle. Every muscle in his body tightened as the human swung the bloody thorn-switch before his eyes.

"This can all be over, elf, if you only tell us what we want to know," Ramir said soothingly. "Where are they? What direction did they head in?" he plied him with questions now, hoping the pain had been sufficient enough to erode a little of that daunting stone wall thrown up over the elf's implacable features.

But the men had not even brushed the surface of what the elf could endure. He had known far worse than this and Haldir remained silent, concentrating on steadying his ragged breathing, head still lowered beneath the protection of his hair.

Ramir cocked his head. A beat of silence passed. "Who hurt you?"

The abrupt switching of tactics threw the elf off-guard and he opened his eyes before the vivid image of a haunting dark gaze could pierce his, before he heard that wicked, hissing voice in his mind again that he still could not forget in his dreams.

Being bound as a prisoner among the Gondorians was not the only reason Haldir did not sleep at night.

That time in Mirkwood was over now, he knew that. But he could not forget…

You will learn that a thing does not have to be sharp in order to hurt.

He did not allow himself an answer, keeping that pain locked deep inside him where none could see it. None would ever see it; he could not allow it. Pain rippled across his back again and cut deep; this time he could not keep back a soft moan, shifting more violently in his bonds. The ropes groaned, almost apologetically, as though asking forgiveness from the fair creature they held ensnared.

Slowly, the human reached forward and brushed the golden hair away from that no-longer-expressionless face, knowing very well what the elf was doing. "You can't hide, Haldir."

Haldir stiffened at the sound of his name.

His heart sank like a stone in his chest. As long as he had remained unknown, he could pretend he was somewhere else, that the elf this was happening to was not he. Another… unimportant… while he drifted away, walking under the soft shade of his mellyrn. But that false reality crashed around him like shattered glass.

They knew him now.

At last! A reaction. Ramir smiled privately in triumph, silently thanking Tergon for telling him the prisoner's name. "Yes, Haldir. I know who you are."

He circled around the elf again, pausing at his shoulder. "So, men hurt you before. Now, you think by siding with our enemies you can get your revenge, is that it? You feel you can kill as many innocent as you like just so you don't have to face pain anymore, right?" The whip raked another bloody line across his back.

"No…" Haldir ground out, a gasp catching in the back of his throat.

One of the hooked barbs caught and tore at his side, ripping the stitches mercilessly. Haldir bit his tongue to keep back a scream as blood slowly rolled down his side in a deepening crimson stream. He shuddered deeply, rocking slowly in his bonds as the lash jarred him forward again, licking at the back of his neck.

"Is your pain so great you'd rather see innocent men- men like my brother- die? Do you matter more than they? You're not worth a single one of the men that died last night." The lash fell harder and harder, digging deep, bloody scores in the elf's back, the man's anger beginning to master him.

Haldir shut his eyes tight and kept himself bent over his bound hands as the pain began to draw more and more of a reaction out of his weary, protesting body.

"And you're scared. I know it. I can see it."

The pain was quickly becoming unbearable under the weight of the man's words. He did not like this. Ramir was delving into things he had no right to dig through, bringing up painful experiences Haldir had no desire to relive. Haldir shut his eyes against the pain and the memories, one blending with the other until Ramir grasped him under the chin, forcing his eyes up.

"You're frightened of us."

Haldir jerked his head out of the loathsome man's grasp, fighting desperately to keep his control. "I know creatures worth true fear, human, do not flatter yourself."

Another cut drew blood along his spine.

Despite his proud words, Haldir was afraid. Not of the men precisely though he himself could not have differentiated between the pain and the ones administering it. They would hurt him as surely as his own kind had.

Another searing stroke was dealt to his back, slow, deliberately painful. Ramir would have his vengeance and he would enjoy it too. But already it was growing too much. Haldir felt awareness waver in his grasp.

"Hey, careful, mate. You're going to kill him," a man carrying a crossbow jauntily in the crook of his arm spoke up, his face white in the moonlight.

"Elves are hard to kill, Garen," Ramir answered gruffly. "This one's got a lot to pay for."

Unexpectedly, Baranir spoke up. "Come on, Ramir. Let up now. You've made your point- and it'll be light soon. The last thing we want is your commander looking for us. He was already asking too many questions."

With a frustrated growl, Ramir flicked the switch at his prisoner one last time, and slowly lowered his arm, breathing raggedly. "All right. Get him back to camp."

Too full of pain to feel relief, Haldir let his head sink slowly between his shoulders to rest on his bound, bloodied hands.


The young soldier of Lórien exhaled softly. Morning had come, predicated by a gradual lightening of the pall of dark clouds overhead. The low cover rolling in from the east threatened a renewal of the rain a few nights ago. As though the sky echoed his thoughts, or his thoughts the sky, Rúmil walked with his head cast down, his heart heavy.

His commander had not even glanced at him since last night. Not a word, a look of… anything. By now, Rúmil would have gladly welcomed his ridicule, his disdain- anything other than this cold, disappointed silence. But it wasn't just that that bothered the elven soldier.

A darkness shadowed his heart.

He himself could not explain it but he felt it nevertheless. Something lurked at the edges of his inner vision, a premonition of something… Catching a concerned look from his brother, Rúmil lifted his head and tried a smile that felt very forced on his lips. He looked quickly away from Orophin and dropped back to walk with Ancadal and Déorian who carried Rameil between them.

The dark-haired elf had been thankfully stable enough to carry by morning but he could not walk so the elves took it in pairs to carry him on a makeshift litter of their cloaks lashed to pine branches. Rúmil felt a renewed sense of guilt looking down at his friend's pale face. He could find no peace of mind today and he shook his head with a sigh.

"What troubles you?" Déorian's voice broke his brooding and Rúmil gave him the same false-cheery smile he had given his brother.

"Nothing."

"And dragons breathe clouds of dandelions. Your face will bring on the rain, my friend," Déorian's attempted lightness brought a small reluctant smile to Rúmil's lips. He wondered if any others had marked what had happened last night and his shameful castigation. If they did, they gave no sign. Hastily turning his eyes elsewhere, Rúmil stared ahead at his brother's back.

But Déorian would not be deterred. "Well?"

"It is nothing, mellon nin. Please."

Ancadal shifted the litter gingerly to ease the ache in his arm while trying not to jostle its occupant overmuch. "I give it an hour," he muttered, changing the subject for Rúmil's sake.

"What?" Rúmil asked blankly, snapping out of his thoughts.

"So soon? We're wagering on how long it will take your brother to drive Fedorian to madness," Déorian grinned with a wink at the younger elf as he jerked his head towards the argument that was quickly growing heated between the two.

They all laughed heartily, the first in what felt like a long time.

Towards mid-afternoon, the threatening rain finally fell, a light spittle only that served to make everything damp and uncomfortable. Orophin and Déorian set Rameil's litter under the shadow of an old ragged pine whose thin spines dripped and gleamed with misty droplets. The tracks they had been following were already a day old and the rain would fade them considerably. A fleet runner, Déorian had gone on ahead to scout the terrain before them.

The track they had been following had split asunder and petered off into the woodlands; the Haradrim had split their forces though for what purpose, the elves did not know.

Rúmil knelt worriedly beside his wounded friend. "How do you feel, mellon nin?" he asked, his voice soft with concern, brushing a gentle hand over the clammy brow.

Rameil smiled weakly, his eyes glassy, unfocused, wandering. "Fit as ever. If only my legs would move…"

"He's delirious," Ancadal put in solemnly, crouched at his friend's other side. "He drifts."

They had scavenged what little they could find in the ways of herbs among the brush of the dry needle floor. It was not enough. Rameil's condition continued to worsen, his skin an ashy grey. The wounds on his back had become terribly inflamed. He needed help and soon.

Rúmil sat beside Rameil's litter tiredly, leaning his back against the damp trunk of the pine. With every passing day, their hope waned. With every passing day, it seemed less likely that Haldir still lived. Even now in the lengthening dusk, he could be lying lifeless in the dust, grey mist shrouds sweeping over him.

Rúmil shook the image from his mind firmly. They would find him. They had to. He looked up as Déorian raced into camp, speaking in a low urgent tone to their commander who nodded and stood.

"On your heels, troop. Save you, Rúmil, stay with Rameil."

Disappointed curiosity burning in him, Rúmil sullenly sat under the tree and awaited his friends' return.

They were not gone long.

A fleet runner, Déorian had come back with news of a party of men traveling close at hand who had halted for the rain deepening dusk.

"Scores of little tents and flickering torches- must be close to an hundred of them! Many men move among them- they bear winged helms and shields of silver-pointed stars."