Chapter Eleven: Burning Embers

As though to curse their errand, it rained.

The scent of wet grass rose from their boots as they trod lightly over the thigh length blades bending under the weight of water. Despite the uncomfortable dampness, he kept alert, searching for startled game. Everything had gone to ground to get away from the rain.

Admitting defeat, he ran his fingers through the nodding grasses, beading rain drops on his fingers, cold and sharp. He tried not to roll his eyes for the thousandth time as his compatriot cursed the miserable wet that clung to the back of his neck and soaked his leggings through

"This wretched country and its foul weather," the man grumbled, hiking his hood up further over his head. But it did little as he was already chilled through. "I would that we had turned back south by now."

"Oh, stop your grumbling; it doesn't help matters," his companion snorted water scornfully off his upper lip. "Captain Ramir says we will be going into the forest soon—that will help slacken the rain a little."

"And make us prime targets for the darkies. I wonder what Ramir thinks he's doing; captain for a week and already he's too big for his boots." The older man shook his head. "We don't even know if it's a trap—they could be lying in ambush for us and he's willing to walk right into it." He turned his eyes to the murky grey meadow and the mass of darker grey rising out of the earth like a bank of clouds. He lowered his voice. "Ramir's gone a bit funny if you ask—"

"I don't. Speak not of your commander in such a way." the other who would have liked to have agreed with his friend glanced over his shoulder uneasily. "He has been of a strange temper of late."

"That elf missed his throat and clipped his head, you think?"

The younger guard shook his head, unsmiling. "I'm not sure. But he is in no mood to run afoul of."

"I always spoke of you as having an old head on young shoulders, boy." He sighed and resumed his complaints. "At this rate, the harvest will be upon us before we see Ithilien again."

His friend was no longer listening to him, eyes fixed with sudden intensity on the dark bank wreathed in silver mist far below them.

"What are you looking at?"

Shading his eyes to narrow his field of vision, the younger soldier didn't answer as he peered steadily at the swirling mist-shapes across the moor. After a tense few minutes, he sighed and dropped his hand. "Hm. I thought I saw something amongst those trees a minute ago."

"It's this cursed rain curtain."

"No… not that… It wasn't rain, I'm sure of it." The man shielded his eyes again and squinted as hard as he could in the direction he thought he had seen the shape. "There is nothing now."

"I think you got knocked on the head one too many times in that last skirmish, Tergon, my friend."

Tergon smiled and shook his head at the older man. "I? Look at you—sporting a warrior wound your wife can be proud of."

The man touched the bandage around his head and winked slyly at the other ranger. "Aye, that she will!"

The shrill whinny of a horse startled both of them and they drew their swords, wheeling towards the fog-shrouded forest.


The banners of the silver tree flapped in a damp wind over the heads of their miserable soldiers encamped below. Huddled under any kind of shelter they could find: tarps of burnt cloth, under the wagons that carried their supplies, crouched miserably beneath simple homespun cloaks, the soldiers waited out the foul weather.

One large tent that had somehow managed to survive the Haradrim attacks had been set up in the center of camp. Beneath the awning, many men took refuge including Ramir, now commander of the Gondorian forces. Slouching in a makeshift chair, he idly toyed with the handle of a black and silver knife in his lap, listening to the rain drumming in his temples. Had that knife spun any closer he would have lost his head. As it was, he was lucky. He still couldn't believe it had taken nearly a score and a half to bring the blasted elf down. And not a one of that number had escaped unscathed either.

Breath wheezed through a badly healed nose as he turned his eyes bad-temperedly to the two rain-washed soldiers rushing up to him. "Well? What do you have to report?"

"Sir, Tergon and I were keeping watch as you ordered and… well, sir, with the mist and everything it was difficult to see…Not that we weren't watching! But then, we—or rather—Tergon saw something and he—"

"Get on with it, Garen! I don't have all day," Ramir snapped, cutting short the man's ramblings.

"Sir, we have… strange visitors." The older one blurted, his eyes wide with awe and fear. Ramir noticed his face looked whiter than parchment and felt the first stirrings of unease.

"Well? Who are they?"

"They did not give their names but one is a captain and said he would speak of his errand only to you… sir," Tergon added hastily also rather wide-eyed but less afraid.

"'Captain?'" Ramir said blankly. "Captain of what?"

"Sir, I think you should see them."

As Tergon spoke a murmur arose from near the front of the tent. Six figures stood at the entrance, garbed in long grey cloaks against the rain. Even squinting, Ramir could scarcely make them out against the rainy backdrop. "Bring light in here!" he snapped.

Immediately a sentinel set steel to flint and managed a small spark on scavenged tinder with which he lit the braziers set in the four corners of the tent.

Without pausing for the light, the visitors paced soundlessly forward. Fully two ranks of tall, green-cloaked men stood to either side of them, swords and bows nearly as tall as they resting close to hand. They stared in astonishment at the company that now walked among them and a few whispered fearfully among themselves. The faint brasier-glow made the men—if men they be—seem almost insubstantial, the firelight flickering over their cloaks causing them to disappear and reappear eerily, like wraiths.

Watching them, the older guard leaned towards his superior and whispered his fear unwisely aloud. "Sir, I think they're elves."

Ramir froze then abruptly his face blackened with terrible wrath. "You fools! Letting elves into our camp!" he thundered, hurling a beaker at the hapless guard. "Why didn't you kill them!"

"Sir, they sued for peace; they did not come heavily armed," the guard pleaded, hands raised to protect his face. Since the escape of the prisoner, the commander's tempers had taken an unpredictable turn.

"Peace, my foot! You know who they are in league with! You know what they can do to us! Not while Meneldil is king 1 will I parley with elves!" He raged.

"With all due respect, we did not come here to fight with you." Haldir spoke, forcing his voice to remain level. Fortunately, the deep hood shielded his face from the man's seeking eyes and he kept back to the shadows, taking care that his voluminous cloak hid the brace on his arm.

"Oh? Then why have you come, elf." the man spat with forced calmness, staring down at his faceless visitors.

"I am Captain Arenath of the Golden Wood. We have come to speak to you regarding your pursuit of the dark men past our boundaries." Haldir wisely did not add the end of Arenath's sentence which might have ended this peace treaty very quickly.

"I have nothing to say to the Elves," Ramir replied, his hands clenching the arms of his chair. "Nor to those who keep their true faces concealed." He eyed Haldir balefully, unknowingly. "Face me as men—perhaps then we will talk."

Hearing the words spoken through Haldir, Arenath stepped forward and threw back his cowl, scarcely able to conceal his hatred. Behind him, Déorian, Ancadal, Rameil, now fully recovered, and Rúmil who had refused to let his brother go without him, also lowered their hoods. Haldir did not.

Ramir pointed at him. "You, interpreter, why do you cover your face? Surely you are not frightened of us that you must hide like a rabbit in his hole?" He laughed at his own jibe.

Haldir shook his head, forcing his anger under a layer of cool detachment. "I am merely a translator; my place is small in these proceedings."

"Indeed." Ramir's eyes narrowed. "I suppose you do not want us to hunt in your trees for your friends, eh, elf?" He addressed Arenath who bristled at this lack of respect but Rameil's subtle hand on his back warned him that any angry outburst would be taken very ill.

Arenath spoke rapidly which Haldir translated just as quickly. "It is better to sue for peace and pardon than risk the spilling of blood."

"I need neither! Darkies skulk behind your trees!" Ramir snarled in return. "You harbor them and we will take them from you by force if we have to!"

"This is not our conflict," Arenath said, his eyes refracting the firelight. "We do not deal in the affairs of Men and to needlessly shed the blood of your people is foolishness."

"Are you calling me a fool?" Ramir's voice dropped to a dangerous growl though a strange smile flickered around his lips as though daring the elven leader to provoke him further.

Tension thickened in the air. Only the long low plaintive sound of the wind rolling over the canvas broke the silence of the tent.

Rúmil stared around at the hard-faced men. An anxious dread began to gnaw at his stomach as he realized they were outnumbered by more than six to one. He gripped the long dagger hidden under his cloak. If they had to fight, he would be ready. Though they had been issued with strict orders by their Lord to keep this bloodless, Rúmil did not see how they could manage that if the rangers decided to attack.

The elf's keen eyes settled on the grizzled leader's face—he had killed Fedorian. If it came to battle, Rúmil had found his first target.

"We do not wish to fight—but if you threaten us, we will have no choice."

"You 'do not wish to fight?'" Ramir echoed as he rose from his chair. With a wry chuckle, he shook his head and stopped three paces from the emissaries, eyes full of malice. "Your friend squealed for death. You will too."

"No! You lie!" Rúmil roared one of the few phrases of Westron he knew as he lunged rashly at the man with dagger drawn.

The blow of a spear butt drove him hard to the floor, groaning.

A hard-soled boot pinned him firmly to the ground by the back of his neck. "I could quash the life out of you right now, elf-brat," Ramir snarled, leaning his weight heavily on Rúmil's throat until the younger elf choked.

"Know that you will die if you do," another voice snarled; Ramir's eyes widened as he recognized that dangerous, defiant timbre at the same time as a razor-sharp edge scraped across his jaw.

Ramir glanced out of the corner of his eye at his assailant, keeping his head carefully still lest he cut his own throat. "You!"

Haldir had boldly bared his face with the firelight behind him. "I."

Rúmil slid out from under the man's boot, coughing and rubbing his bruised esophagus as Ramir stepped slowly back. None of the Gondorian soldiers had moved yet.

Haldir withdrew his knife from under Ramir's chin, adrenaline pounding through his veins like fire. "We will not shed blood here. We came for peace. You do not desire it." The elf's eyes hardened. "But know now, human, you have brought death upon your people. I promise you, on the field of battle, I will find you in honorable combat." He stepped away.

Outnumbered and outflanked, the elves still possessed a hidden power that even the skillfully trained men of Gondor dared not engage. They did not move as the elves swept through their ranks.

Tergon darted out of the shadowy entrance where he had concealed himself and intercepted Haldir on his way out. "You must come with me," the young man said, pretending to escort the elves hurriedly away as he gripped the elf's upper arm lightly. "We do not have much time and he doesn't have long."

Haldir regarded him in confusion. "'He?'"

"Please, you must come."

Asking Arenath to keep going, he followed after the young man, slightly annoyed when Rúmil broke off after him. They both cast their hoods up once more against the rain as Tergon led them to a secluded part of camp.

Blowing rainwater from his lips, he stopped next to a muddy depression, half-filled with twisted brambles and ditchwater. "Ramir was… not merciful," he said, damp dark curls clinging to his forehead.

Haldir looked down and froze in shock.

Below them, half-submerged in filthy water lay a still figure, face concealed by a matted tangle of hair, hard to tell what color through all the mud.

"Who—?"

Rúmil's face blenched. "Impossible."

Burning with shame and humiliation, Ramir shoved two of his soldiers aside as he stumbled out of the tent. "Stupid fools! Never mind those elves' damn fox-tricks! After them!" Swiping rainwater from his eyes, the man stared around wildly, chest heaving as he seized his bow.

You won't escape this time.

Rúmil scrambled into the ditch beside the pitiful figure that had neither spoken nor stirred. Indeed, it hardly seemed to breathe. With shaking hands, Rúmil gripped the bony shoulders and gently turned it over onto its back, smoothing away the now visible, pale-gold hair from a battered face.

Rúmil gave a small wordless cry of relief and distress. Head spinning, he could not think clearly enough to form words, his fingers fluttering at Fedorian's neck for a pulse.

"Haldir," Rúmil's cracked voice broke his brother from his shock. "He's alive!"

In an instant, Haldir was beside him, kneeling in the mud to affirm what Rúmil had already insisted was true.

A muffled groan escaped his lips when Haldir saw the blood matting his old friend's pale visage. A long gouge slashed the elf commander's face from hairline across his cheek, passing through his eye. His leg had been twisted in an abominably wrong way and his skin looked pallid beneath all the mud.

Fedorian's wrists had been tightly bound with cord. Rúmil fingered it angrily, noticing the red marks cut into the tender flesh beneath. With a few furious swipes his dagger slashed the ropes to strands.

Fedorian lay limp and still with the rain rolling down his face.

"We have to get him back to Caras Galadhon." He weighed so little, Rúmil could lift him easily. Grasping the right arm carefully and the left uninjured leg with the other, Rúmil hoisted his former commander onto his shoulders gingerly and began trudging back upslope.

"We can never thank you." Haldir turned to Tergon, gratitude shining in his face. "You know there will be battle between our kinds."

"I know," the young man affirmed quietly. "And I know I cannot expect you to protect me from your own soldiers in it. Take care of your friend; he needs it."

Haldir undid the clasp on his cloak and pressed it into the man's hand. "Wear this when battle breaks. I will make sure every single one of my soldiers know its meaning. You will have nothing to fear from the Elves, Tergon, you have more than earned our respect and gratitude."

Tergon clasped the brooch tightly in his palm and bowed low with a hand to his heart. "Go and live well, Haldir. You have my honor and loyalty for as long as you live in Middle Earth."

An arrow bedded in the dirt next to Haldir's boot and the elf whirled round to see a line of Gondorian archers facing them, bows drawn tightly.

"Go! Get out of here! Get back to your woods!" Tergon urged, shoving him back down towards the ditch. Rúmil with Fedorian on his shoulders slid awkwardly back down the muddy slope with Haldir right behind him. Arenath and the others were already far ahead, hidden amongst the long grasses.

Haldir turned as Rúmil raced away, following the line of the ditch, ducking low to sure the earth trenches covered his head from enemy shafts. "Thank you, Tergon."

"Haldir, go on." Tergon urged him fearfully, leaping back as one or two arrows nearly struck him. One hit his leathern shield and bounced off.

The elf nodded once and vanished.

"Halt your fire! Can't you see they've gone!" Ramir raged. He stalked up to the ditch edge and peered down. Not even a trace of the elves had been left behind despite the thick mud. Striding furiously up to the young ranger crouched near him, he swung out open-handed.

Tergon took the blow and fell hard, his head cracking against the rain-soaked ground.

Ramir glared murderously down at the soldier sprawled at his feet blood from his lip mingling with the rain.

"I'll see you burn for this."


Quarrels and lethal arguments broke out daily in the encampment. Even more when it rained. Two wargs, six feet at the back, wrestled and snarled, setting their teeth into one another's shoulders for the the scrap of venison lying helpless between them. Their furious barks and growls thundered over the wet trees.

An orc leapt up, laying about with his thorn cane. "Hie! Hie! Gerroff o' that piece or I'll whip yer mangy hides to dollrags!" The warg driver broke his switch over the back of one of the wildly fighting animals and threw the haft down bad-temperedly, dancing on the spot with rage.

"Ah, give your whining tongue a rest, Dagluf!" an umber-shaded human woman lounged beside a large female wolf. "They stop when they not hungry any more." She flashed a white-toothed smile and ruffled her compatriot's coarse ears.

The orc was beyond furious. "Order yer damned bitch to tell 'em to quit—the racket they're makin'll have every cursed pointy-ear in the forest coming round!"

As though resenting not being directly addressed, the warg leader flattened her ears and pulled her black lips back in a semblance of a gruesome smile, barking a short series of commands.

Instantly, the two battlers broke apart, sides lathered with froth and blood, and simultaneously pounced. One launched its teeth into the orc's chest, the other his leg. Dagluf screamed once and serene silence fell on the camp once again.

High above, elven eyes narrowed in silent speculation of the grisly spectacle. The owner of the eyes snorted in aristocratic disgust. "Tchach! No manners among the lot of them. Bad form, the bounders."

"Well, in all defense, Captain, they are orcs," a young archer, one of many in the trees, remarked blithely. She perched on a slender branch with one of her legs dangling lazily over the side.

Alfirin reached up and tugged it sharply. "Defense? Pish tush! Not the sort of thing one would expect from a pretty first officer like yourself."

The archer regained her balance with a grin, testing the icy edge of a knife on a rosy apple she'd pulled from her pack. "When's the fighting going to start, sir? My fingers are twitching for lack of something to do."

"I know, my girl. I know. But we can't get into the old tussle 'til the boss wallah gets back."

"I thought you were the 'boss wallah.'"

"I bend to the whims of the higher-ups, you know." He adopted a dignified, noble air. "Modesty is the best policy."

She nudged his shoulder playfully with her boot, lacking the decorum usually afforded to a superior officer. "Yes, right. Regimental stiff upper lip."

"That's a girl!"

Up one branch higher, Orophin shook his head in frank bewilderment. He had taken up with Alfirin's group to hunt out the Haradrim and keep an eye on them until his brothers returned. Stationed around them and across from them, ringing the entire grove were at least a score of elves. They had been there since early morning.

The rain finally stopped when the sun passed his zenith and the elf peered up through the latticed branches blinking away the white popping lights as a sun ray caught his eye.

The archer smiled up at him. "I don't know, warrior. You might not reach your wife with your sanity intact—you're with the 'mad hares' now, you know."

"The what?" Orophin didn't know whether to laugh or not. He had been up here the better part of the morning, listening to the two banter back and forth and trying to stifle his laughter which would surely give them away. But the orcs and humans gathered below seemed horrendously deaf to all but their own petty squabbles.

"It's what he," she motioned down-branch. "—calls us when he thinks we can't hear. Takes too long really to explain what it means and what we do but you'll see."

"Yes, well, I've got about sixty blinkin' nicknames I can't manage to keep track of thanks to you lot," Alfirin murmured under his breath without looking up.

Orophin shot him a quizzical look which the female archer caught. "He may talk funny but don't let that fool you. Dead perilous in battle." She winked conspiratorially. "You'll be glad to have him on your side when push comes to shove."

"Linwen, my dear, you blather on more than a bunch of hens at a pecking party."

She glared down at his head. "I do not 'blather'" she retorted. The very picture of injured dignity. "Whatever that means," she muttered out of the corner of her lips to Orophin who tried to muffle his laughter. He started in the next second as his brother landed lightly beside him, his sword nearly clipping him in the jaw.

"Haldir. Where've you been? What happened?" Orophin questioned him fiercely. His brother's face looked wan, his hands smeared with dirt.

"Orophin… something urgent has come up that cannot wait. I need you to stay here for a few hours and keep an eye on our friends down there."

His younger brother was instantly concerned. "Was someone hurt? Rúmil?"

"No, Rúmil is all right." He lowered his voice further and pulled his brother away from the trunk where the archer below stared with exaggerated care at the quieted enemy.

"We found Fedorian."

Orophin stared blankly at him.

"He is alive."

"What?" Orophin's sharp, hissed exclamation made Alfirin looked around and one of the wargs sniffing around looked up, ears twisting.

"I need to tell Geilrín and Silivren—Arenath has gone on ahead with him and Rúmil for aid." Haldir told him, careful to keep his voice low.

Orophin nodded, his mind whirling. "All right."

"Well, what in stars' name are you waiting for then?" Alfirin stood on a branch above them now. Neither Haldir nor Orophin had even seen him move. "Shift yourself. Quick's the word and sharp's the action!"

"Let me know what happens," Orophin made his brother swear to it as he leapt off into the branches the next tree over, following a sure path only elves knew.

Orophin shifted restlessly, scarcely watching the human and orc hunting parties returning with fish filched from the Nimrodel. Fedorian… alive? It didn't seem possible. Would they make it with time enough? What would happen if they didn't?

"You aren't doing a whit of good out here with a face on you like a rain-cloud at a picnic." Alfirin's voice broke through his chaotic thoughts as the old warrior tossed his head in the direction Haldir had taken. "Go on. I'll hold down the old fort here."

Orophin did not argue. "Thanks, sir." He made to jump down from the branch when Alfirin grabbed his tunic and hauled him back.

"Wait a tick. That bounder over there has his beadies on us." He gestured with the haft of his bow towards a warg circling near the foot of the tree.

Orophin reached for his bow. "Not for long."

Alfirin stayed his hand. "Don't want the entire camp roused up after us, do we?—blow the old wheeze to bits. Leave me to it." Alfirin glanced over his shoulder. "You ready yet, my girl?"

Linwen finished coiling a long length of silvery rope and fashioning a loop from the end. "Ready when you are, sir." She passed the length to him with a mutinous mutter. "Why do you get to have all the fun?"

He chucked her under the chin in a businesslike manner as he slung the rope over his shoulder. "Because I'm the jolly old superior officer and risking life and limb is my fun."

Nimbly leaping from his current perch to the beech across the way, he lowered the rope carefully until it hovered tantalizingly above the warg's had. "Come on, slobberchops. Sink your greedy ugly fangs into this lot," the elf muttered as he swung the silvery loop nearer the beast's head.

The warg snapped at the annoying noose, trying to bite through the cord but Alfirin jerked it just out of reach and with a sharp movement, dropped it over the beast's neck. Tying the other end off swiftly, he lashed the creature to the tree like a hound on a leash.

Orophin had lost sight of Alfirin so he kept his eyes fixed below.

The dark woman had heard the wolf's yammerings and risen to investigate, kicking out at the creature. "What're you barking at?"

Suddenly, an elf appeared beside her as though he had materialized out of the tree itself. "This abominable thing of your breeding?" He nodded distastefully at the warg still twisting against its makeshift halter.

The dark woman did nothing more than stare shocked speechless by the boldness of the elf.

Alfirin leaned forward a bit, scrutinizing the woman critically. "Look at the shape of your uniform, miss. That's not regulation. All the tears and scuffs and what-have-you's. Deplorable, marm."

The woman found her voice. "Get him! Get the elf!" She lunged for her pike but Alfirn danced away, flitting like a shadow past two astonished orcs, dropping one with a knife in his gut.

"I say, old thing, Valar forbid you reproduce. Nasty tempers are hereditary."

Enraged, the woman chased after him but the elf was gone again like smoke.

"Have to move faster that that, eh. Get the old blood flowing."

Orophin nearly stumbled as the archer shoved his shoulder. "Go on! What are you waiting for?"

"But—he—"

"Go! That's what he did that for!" She slapped his back heartily. "Wish I could too. Go on! You'll have to tell us later how the captain's doing."

Orophin slipped to the ground as the orcs, wargs and dark men fruitlessly pursued fleet-footed Alfirin who continued to lead them a merry chase through the woodlands.

"Come now! Come now! Forward the buffs, you sloppy lot!"


"How is he?" Orophin asked breathlessly, leaping up the last of the ladder rungs. He had made the trip in less than an hour and though his legs trembled with exhaustion, he could not rest.

Not even looking up, Geilrín remained where she was, arms folded, eyes dark with terrible fear. "I do not know."

Startled and discomforted, Orophin did nothing more than stare for a moment, still breathing heavily. "Will they not let you see him?"

"It's too soon." Haldir spoke up from his vigil near the door.

There was no healer's ward for the injured so close to the perimeter. The great mallorn where the healers stayed had been too far away and they had dared not try to take Fedorian that far in his condition. Instead, a space had been cleared on one of the screened flets near the borders. Eremae had volunteered to care for the severely injured captain whose wife was her good friend. Neither knew if he would live.

Rúmil joined them a short time later and took a seat beside his brother on the stairs without a word. Orophin did not know how long they waited but he had nearly dozed off when the door creaked open behind him.

Geilrín was on her feet already as Eremae, looking haggard and wiping her hands, swept aside the leafed branches they had hung to create a screen over part of the flet.

"May we see him?" Haldir asked, rising to his feet.

Eremae ignored him and addressed Geilrín. "I've got him settled now. I will be honest, my friend, it looks to go ill. I removed the haft of a broad-headed arrow from his calf… there are numerous contusions… broken ribs and fingers… They badly fractured his skull. And none of it has been treated in days. If—by," she hastily corrected herself. "the time he does recover, he… may not be the same again"

Geilrín took it calmly, her healer's mask concealing her emotions.

Eremae looked less composed. "I managed to save one of his eyes. The other… will be blind—if and when he heals."

"When." Geilrín said, her face taut with determination. "I already buried my husband once. I will not do so again. I will take him home again, Eremae, and do not dare tell me different."

Her friend bowed her head in acknowledgement.

"May we see him?" Haldir persisted.

Eremae looked at him dispassionately. "Family first."

"They are family," Geilrín put in shortly, brushing past the younger healer.

Haldir, Rúmil and Orophin filed in after her, apprehension beating hard beneath their ribs.

The overhanging boughs of the mallorn leant a deep shade to the makeshift chamber. In the center on a pallet lay a small bundle draped in white sheets. Geilrín went immediately to it and took her husband's hand, lacing her fingers through his cold ones.

Seeing their reluctance to approach, she beckoned them forward. "It's all right. He should sleep for a long while yet."

Swallowing hard against the lump rising in his throat, Rúmil approached the bed soundlessly, looking down at his commander. Even though he had been there when they found him, he still could not believe that was his mentor lying so pale and wasted beneath the light sheets.

Bandages wrapped across the visible parts of his body, his wrists, his face. The cheeks were sunken, yellow-black bruises painting the cleaned alabaster skin beneath; his entire face held a gaunt, tormented look. But what scared the younger elf most of all was his captain's eyes.

They were closed.

Slowly, he sank beside the paillasse. His back still throbbed from the spear blow but the silence was more difficult to bear.

None spoke. What could they say?

"Naneth? What's happened?"

Rúmil looked up as Silivren rushed through the branches. Geilrín leapt up and embraced her fiercely, telling her quickly in a rushed whisper. Face white, Silivren knelt at her father's side, taking his other hand as though scarce able to believe he was there. She smiled weakly at Rúmil who could not muster the strength to smile back.

He had no idea how long he knelt there but he had ceased to feel his legs and his feet tingled. Quite suddenly, he started, realizing that he had nearly fallen asleep and found himself staring into a single green eye.

Fedorian was awake.

Geilrín had noticed too and squeezed her husband's hand with a soft smile, tears shimmering in her eyes. Leaning over her shoulder, Haldir smiled through tears of relief pricking his own eyes. "We thought we had lost you, my friend."

Rúmil nodded, his voice choked. "Your mourning rites were a ten-day ago."

A weak smile flitted across the tired, grey countenance. He couldn't draw up the strength to speak yet. But seeing his visible eye open was enough to break the horrible tension in the room.

"Go…home."

Rúmil looked at him, frowning. "You want us to leave?"

Fedorian weakly shook his head, his eyes heavily glazed from the poppy extract Eremae had given him to kill his pain. "No. Me… home."

Geilrín knew instantly what he meant. "He wants to go home."

Eremae heard as she entered. "Well, he will simply have to wait. His injuries are far too grievous to let him move yet."

"I can take care of him."

Eremae gave her friend a conciliating look. "You cannot look after him day after day—at least not until he is a little stronger. Please, Geilrín. He needs rest now. And so do you."

If Fedorian heard, he gave no sign. Despite his will, his eyes kept fluttering closed.

"Let him rest," Eremae repeated, laying a hand on her friend's shoulder. "I will call you if anything changes."

"I will stay with him," Geilrín said, firmly putting aside her friend's hands.

Rúmil looked around as Haldir touched his shoulder. "Come," his brother told him. "We should go." Rúmil rose shakily, realizing he felt uncommonly exhausted

"Yes, you all get them some sleep," Geilrín embraced each one of them as they left.

Haldir led the way, none of the three brothers saying a word. He did not know if Rúmil and Orophin were too shocked or thoughtful to say anything but Haldir's mind was awhirl with too much. In the Gondorian camp that afternoon, his concern had outweighed his anger. But now, a fury deeper than anything Haldir had ever known cut him to the veins. He knew exactly who had done this. Now, he would see them brought to justice. Peace be damned!


Rúmil brushed past nodding ferns towards the guard flet; he had taken to checking on Geilrín and her family in his spare hours. He was surprised to find them near the bole of the tree with their arms around one another. Since his return, they had had trouble letting go of Fedorian's hand. A chill seized the younger elf as he hesitantly stopped beside them.

"Is he all right?" his voice was not as strong as he wanted it to be, little more than a hoarse whisper.

Geilrín held her daughter close, stroking her hair lightly. The younger woman seemed very upset. Her mother looked up at Rúmil's anxious face. "We do not know. He is… not well. He is not well, Rúmil. Perhaps you should come back…" She didn't get a chance to finish as Rúmil rushed past her. Eremae leant busily over some task or other and Rúmil did not think it wise to interrupt her as he rushed up the soft, grey ladder. .

Reaching the platform, he stepped light-footed across the floor, hearing a soft, rough voice and wondering at it. Easing the screen aside with suddenly damp hands, he glanced into the room. Lit only by a single dying candle, the chamber lay in near-darkness with shadows whirling in the corners, the mangled arms of trees thrown up against the floor, raking one another in the wind.

Fedorian lay flat upon his back, staring upwards his single eye never blinking. But he did not sleep. The sheets lay tangled about his waist and a pillow lay slumped and abandoned on the floor. He whispered low under his breath, audible enough for only Rúmil to hear as he apprehensively approached the bedside.

"No, no. no. They never said that. They couldn't have said that. Who have you been talking with? Laer doesn't like rabbits… doesn't like me much either to tell you the truth. Where did they all go? My head hurts… Why—why did they leave?"

The younger elf swallowed hard against a dry mouth. "Captain? Fedorian, sir? T-they didn't leave. I'm here." Rúmil's voice sounded small in the stillness.

Fedorian did not even look at him. There was no recognition in his face. "Not that way. The river takes two days to overflow. The trees flood quicker. Rope braiding is a silly thing; why she took it up—who knows how females' brains work? There's blankness behind your eyes." His eye suddenly and unexpectedly snapped to Rúmil's face, making the other elf jump. "There's nothing. You're nothing! Where's your face? Nothing where your face would matter… They get you in the flames… flames and ash… to dust… dust. Stop asking me that! I don't know how females' brains work!"

Rúmil could not stand it anymore. Backing away from the bed, he forced himself to stride calmly onto the platform and not bolt as he wished. As the branches swung back into place behind him, muffling Fedorian's ravings, his legs began to tremble violently and he leaned his head back against the solid trunk protruding from floor's center, fighting the sobs that threatened to burst out of him.

"What's wrong with him?" he asked when he had managed to pull himself together and rejoin Geilrín and Silivren on the ground.

Disapproving, Eremae looked up from where she rolled bandages. "I told you the wound to his head was serious. He has no knowledge of what he is saying. I'm hoping it will pass."

"You don't know?"

"No."

Rúmil glanced back up into the dark branches, his heart still hammering with horror and fear. But he could not help the sympathy that radiated through him. "I—I think someone should stay with him… just in case," Rúmil offered uneasily, having no desire to revisit that horrible room.

"Will you stay with him, Rúmil?" Geilrín spoke up, her face suffused with relief and thankfulness. "Then I can take Silivren home then and get in an hour or so of sleep." They had been here all day and looked haggard and drawn.

Rúmil stared at her; he could not say no and see the gratitude die in her eyes. "I will." His voice was stronger than he felt, his knees still trembling faintly.

"If he is lucid, I left a cup of tea he ought to drink. I will be here if you need anything," Eremae offered, her eyes understanding and silently praising his bravery.

Rúmil felt their gazes heavy on his shoulders as he turned his steps back towards the platform. But Fedorian lay mercifully quiet now, seeming to sleep for which Rúmil was incredibly grateful as he settled himself for a long vigil. The room lay swathed in shadow and Rúmil could not help his mind drifting as he leaned his head back.

The pain-roughened voice startled him awake as he sat up.

A soft rustling told him Fedorian tossed restlessly; Rúmil could see a sheen of perspiration gleaming on his forehead, dampening the sheets.

"Go."

Rúmil blinked, thinking for a moment that his commander was talking to him. He nearly-started when he realized this was indeed the case. Fedorian's eye had focused on him.

"Fedorian… sir… do you know me?" Rúmil asked, scooting closer.

"Rúmil, youngest brother of Orophin, wed, and Haldir, the most nuisance of a lieutenant I've ever had. You are a young tracker, have been for years, and broke your arm last yèn falling off a bridge during training."

"That was an accident." Rúmil smiled.

Fedorian said nothing and brushed a hand over his face, lingering over his eyes.

The younger elf was immediately on the alert. "Are you in pain?"

"My head aches. Terribly," Fedorian admitted. "I've been…" he trailed off as though unsure how to finish that sentence.

"Trying to rest," Rúmil put in helpfully.

"Yes." Fedorian blinked heavily, still shielding his eyes. "Rúmil… turn down the light would you?"

Rúmil glanced at the dim, guttering candle beside the bed and immediately snuffed it; the only light in the room now came from the blue-white moonlight filtering through the branches.

Slowly, Fedorian lowered his hand from his eyes. "Better. How long have I been—?" He dwindled into silence again.

"Hours. Most of the day, I think."

"What's the time now?"

Rúmil glanced upwards. "The stars are turning westward."

Fedorian thought about that a moment. "My lady went home, I hope?"

"She'll be back soon." Rúmil said, his stomach twisting uncomfortably.

But Fedorian shook his head, turning over on his side fitfully and cradling his face in his arm. "No… no," his voice muffled against the mattress. "It's better…" He raised his head a little and Rúmil caught the glint of moonlight reflected in his commander's pain-stricken eye. "I want you to go. No, listen to me," he grabbed the younger elf's hand when Rúmil looked about to protest. "I want you to go. And until I'm out of this wretched bed, I don't want to see you."

"Oh," Rúmil said, dropping his eyes, wondering if his commander was angry with him.

Fedorian must have realized he had said something hurtful for he corrected himself quickly, his eyes closing tightly against some pain. "I… I don't want you to see me like this. I've been… saying things… rather out of it…"

Rúmil tried to placate him without hurting his dignity. "No… you've been hurt—you just need time to—" The grip on his hand tightened, painfully. Rúmil grimaced and tried to pull away but that steely clasp was too desperate.

"Stop! Stop, stop! Stop looking at me like that! Not like that. I hate that! Why do you stare? I will close my eyes and you will go away. Away, away. Away like dust. Go!"

The hand released him abruptly as Fedorian turned again to his nightmare world. Rúmil staggered backward, through the screen and fell with a thud.

Alert to every noise, Eremae rushed up. "All right?" she threw at Rúmil who could only nod shakily.

The healer slipped to the bedside and threaded strips of cloth through loops attached to the wooden supports of the cot. With difficulty and much wrestling, she managed to lock them around Fedorian's wrists, fastening him down tightly.

"He does not need to injure himself further," she said over her shoulder to Rúmil's shocked look.

Fedorian struggled furiously against the bonds, wrenching at the knots that held him as Eremae tried to keep him still. Rúmil left, closing his eyes and wishing he could close his ears against the small mewling sounds of distress that broke past his commander's lips. They wrenched the younger elf's heart as he fought down to the ground, gasping in the cool night air as though he had been drowning.

Geilrín nearly ran into him on her way up. One glance at his white face told her all and she took his cold hand in hers, gazing solemnly up into his face. "Tell no one of this please, Rúmil. He does not know what he's doing and if he ever wishes to regain his command, I—I would rather—"

"I understand, Geilrín. I won't say a word," Rúmil promised.

"He will get better," she said, smiling assuredly.

Rúmil hoped so as he fled from the one thing, despite all his prowess, that he couldn't face. .


Author's Notes: Footnote:

1 At this time, the King of Gondor is Meneldil son of Anarion son of Elendil. Third Age