Chapter Sixteen: Addiction

Ramir slept badly. The Gondorian Chieftain's dreams were troubled with visions of fire and shadows. Smoking leaves rained through the dusty air… brittle branches snowing ash on his shoulders…an incongruous stream slipped past his feet, steel grey and cold. Across, in dark shadows, gleaming pale eyes peered at him. Pinpoints of flame locked and a sharp pain erupted in his stomach.

A strangled cry tore from his lips as he woke himself up. He winced and reached under his body, tossing the hunting knife he had rolled over aside. His cloak slid from his shoulders; and he shivered, the night air cold on his damp skin.

"Sir?" A sentinel— clearly hesitant at disturbing his commander—peered under the tattered tent flap.

"What is it?"

"Something has come from the forest." He ducked his head and disappeared from the opening.

The remnants of roast pig crackled over the fire pit's embers a few yards from his tent. Ramir threw his cloak about him and staggered out to find most of his men gathered close to the dusty road they had crossed last night. The forest stretched elusive and wild beyond their sight, nearly invisible in the dim greyness of dawn. He stared out at the shrouded branches, mist draping the trees like gossamer.

The remnants of his dream clung to the edges of memory and he shivered again, pulling his cloak closer about his shoulders, approaching a rarely fair-haired scout who stood upon a tall, smooth rock, staring into the distance.

"Your eyes are better than mine, lad. What do you see?"

"A dark shape, sir," the scout answered, staring even harder at the dim figure. "I can't really see in all this mist but it came from the forest."

"Calenon's group?"

"There's only one, sir. I fear no good can come from those woods."

A soldier standing near raised a creaking bow drawing an arrow tight as a distance-dimmed figure came staggering up towards them. It meandered around the rocks, crossed the road, staggering drunkenly in their direction.

Ramir narrowed his eyes through the blue hazes of morning watching the creature wander closer; a dark hood shadowed his face, a long cloak concealing any revealing signs.

"It is within our range, sir," one of the archers told him, his bowstring drawn tight against his jaw.

Their commander nodded grimly. No good could come from that wood. "Bring it down."

Four bowstrings twanged. Two missed wide the mark but one took the shape in the calf, the other in the chest and it tumbled out of sight without a sound.

Gliding forward cautiously, the rangers of Gondor slipped down the rocky slope, rustling through the high grass until they came upon a flattened space and looked down at the crumpled body lying in the heather.

It was Calenon.

The man lay supine on the ground, seeming not to see the men around him, nor did he take any notice of the arrows in his flesh. He stared into the sky, his mouth working soundlessly, his wide eyes staring.

"You!" he suddenly screamed, pointing upwards, accusing, at Ramir who had begun to move towards him. "You! Geilrín, Silivren—you killed them. You, you, you, you, you, you, you…" The madman's eyes rolled wildly. The arrow stuck fast in his breast. "The trees… the trees…" Shuddering, he rolled over on his face, snapping the shaft and moved no more.

Ramir stepped back, appalled. "Take this thing away and bury it," he snapped as his men started murmuring fearfully among themselves, glancing towards the woods.

"Now!"

Flaming Borgil, the red Star, sank slowly below the shoulder of the eastern horizon. Haldir blinked and raised his head, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. Guilt burned like a live coal in his chest. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Tergon's muddy face staring up at him, accusing.

A stream ran thankfully close. Haldir all but fell at its edge. Kneeling at the bank side, he all but clawed aside the fastening of his tunic, exposing the raw, angry wound Tergon's knife had carved in his flesh. For a moment, he relished in the cool caress of the water through his fingers before splashing it liberally over his right shoulder. The water soothed the burning pain a little.

He sighed and swiped the cool sweat from his brow with a sleeve, leaning back against the tree trunk and resting his head against its smooth skin, waiting for the trembling to subside.

"That needs to be stitched."

He opened his eyes.

Fedorian crouched beside him, his sleeves rolled-up and the knees of his leggings caked with dirt. "I thought I might find you here." He had a small bundle under his arm; Arenath stood a little ways away, looking out over the water. Fedorian sorted through the gauze and held up a long thin needle. "Your brothers would worry if they saw you like this."

"You will not remove them?"

"I cannot bring the dead back to life." Fedorian's eyes glinted as he threaded the needle with catgut.

"Nor can I," Haldir closed his eyes briefly as the needle pricked. "I cannot do this."

Arenath remained silent, his arms folded over his chest, head lowered.

Fedorian narrowed his eyes, intent on his task. "There is a cost to everything, my friend. If nothing else, this is your duty."

Arenath stirred. "I believe I will excuse myself for the night if I have your leave?" he asked of Fedorian.

"Go then."

Fedorian folded a patch of cloth into a square and pressed it to the new stitches. "We must finish this, Haldir. You and I. Or their shadows will never leave us peace." He drew his friend to his feet.

Haldir looked up. "I have never shirked my duty."

He sat in the cool shadows, watching the sun glint in his youngest brother's hair, the golden light shining through the leaves whirled across the faces of his friends. He kept to himself, choosing to answer only briefly when questioned. None had noticed his absence last night. Rameil had not returned until dawn himself though Linwen was uncharacteristically quiet. Rúmil did not look or speak to him at all.

But Ancadal watched his friend closely, worry clouding his blue eyes. Escaping momentarily from Rúmil, he made his way into the shade and sat beside his friend. Close enough now to see, Ancadal felt his heart sink faster.

Haldir looked like a pale shadow of himself.

"You look tired."

Haldir rubbed his fingertips over the corners of his eyes and smiled a little. "I fell asleep by the river. Not the greatest of places to bed."

"I know." Ancadal shifted, uneasily it seemed to Haldir and a growing anxiety gnawed familiarly at his stomach.

"What is it, Ancadal?"

The younger elf inhaled. "I know what happened last night."

Haldir felt his blood freeze in his veins, colder than the shadows. What exactly had he seen? What had he heard? Involuntarily, his hand tightened on the blade at his side, what he thought he was going to do with it…

"Rúmil told me."

"Rúmil?"

"It wasn't right of him to leave like that—but I know you," Ancadal smiled a little. "You have an irritating habit of protecting those you care for."

Haldir relaxed, his white-knuckled grip loosening with shock and relief. Rúmil had told Ancadal about their fight last night which he had completely forgotten.

"But I also think you should let him stay. Let him prove his mettle. He fought alongside the best of us during the fire." Ancadal could speak easily of it; he had suffered no great loss or injury. For that, Haldir was thankful.

He sighed shortly, glancing at his brother deep in conversation with Rameil. "It is out of my hands. If I had my will, Orophin and Rúmil both would be gone. I would not have them see this—either of them. It is not that I distrust their skill. I distrust my own ability to keep them safe."

"You cannot spare them the pain of this world forever, Haldir," Ancadal reminded him gently, shaking his head at his friend's stubbornness.

Haldir remained silent. A short silence passed between them. Away on their right, the clacking of practice blades rang together. Finally, Haldir clapped his friend on the shoulder and rose.

Rúmil glanced at his brother as he walked past, snapping his gaze away before his older brother could catch him.

Rameil turned to Ancadal who came up beside him, his youthful face somewhat darker than usual. "What did you speak of?" the dark-haired elf asked his friend, noting the crease between his brows.

"He has been uncharacteristically quiet today."

Rameil shrugged. "It's been hard for all of us."

Ancadal nodded but did not seem convinced. "When did he come in last night?"

Rameil shook his head, trying a smile. "I did not return until dawn myself. He returned shortly thereafter." He smirked. "Mayhap there is finally a maiden who has captured our stalwart friend's heart?" Though he did not seem to believe his words.

Ancadal shook his head, still more troubled. "He would have told me. Or you, for that matter. What is he hiding?" He did not even seem to be talking to the other elf now.

"I do not know." Rameil said, frowning at Haldir's back as he disappeared from their sight.


Over the Redhorn, purple heat-lightning flickered beneath twilight-shaded thunderheads. But no rain would reach them this night. Haldir held his breath until the rolling echoes of thunder reached his keen ears from miles and miles away. The honeysuckle and hemlock bent their wavy stalks in deference to the eastern wind as it rushed through the whistling grasses lining the pale road.

Lightning lit the hollows with a lurid flash leaving popping afterimages of grey-purple grass in its wake. With a voiceless signal the three elves ghosted onto the open ground, skirting the road and gliding through the tall hemlock like ripples of wind-tossed stalks. The air sweetened with electricity racing through the heather.

Flanking Fedorian on the left side, Arenath on the Captain's right, Haldir brushed aside the tall grass, careful to keep his breathing even. Fifty yards beyond them, an orange light glowed through the dry rustling stalks and, when the wind swung westward, the sharp tang of smoke reached their nostrils.

"Quietly now," Fedorian cautioned them as they neared. "They startle easily when they know the hunter is near."

Haldir acknowledged his words with a nod and loosened the saber in its sheath concealed under his cloak. With the swift silence of moon-tossed shadows they soon faded into the high grasses.

The sentinel on night watch knew nothing in the instant before Fedorian plunged a knife in his throat. He lowered the dead sentry noiselessly to the ground and sheathed his knife. It had taken less than three seconds.

Like Jackals, eyes glowing, the hunters passed among the sleeping soldiers sprawled in the dusk like the dead on a battlefield. They paced around the perimeter, unseen and unheard. The camp was quiet; the men worn from a long hot day of scrounging enough food to support them, the last of their supplies eaten or spoiled.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, a blaze of blue lightning sweeping across the plains.

Black as a night-shadow, Haldir slipped past the smouldering embers of a fire throwing light on rough, weathered faces smoothed in sleep. Haldir forced his thoughts away from Tergon as a soldier's face, supple with youth, stirred near him. He had his duty to do and the quicker the better.

Eyes gleaming like two stones under clear water, he shifted almost to a half-crouch, moving through the bedewed grass without bruising a blade. He searched the glowing, slumbering faces for one especial among them and did not find him. He dared not penetrate farther into the camp. He was cautious. They were to take only one or two if they could, small numbers to not cause overt alarm or wake the sleeping soldiers. He paused at the edge beside an old grizzled man resting with his pack under his head. How many elven soldiers had he killed at the Nimrodel?

Taking a deep breath, Haldir quieted his thoughts, forced all of himself into the back of his mind, made himself hard and cold as the steel blade in his hand. There was nothing but this. Silence pressed on his ears save for small, shifting movements and snuffling breaths.

The tip of his blade pressed into the hollow of the man's throat. The grizzled officer inhaled sharply, his eyes fluttering open, widening. Haldir threw his whole weight behind the hilt, almost falling on his work and the lame sank deep into the earth. His hands clenched so hard around the leather-wrapped hilt, his knuckles whitened. His eyes shut tight, he dared not look, wondering why it felt as though he were the one stabbed. The blade wrenched back and forth with the man's death struggles, his heels beating the earth, a hand clasping the blade as though trying to wrench it out of his throat.

When the death throes finally stilled, Haldir, without looking down, pulled his blade free. He breathed shakily and swiped a hand over his face, glancing around to make sure none had woken. Justice was served… His people had to be avengedGeilrín and Silivren were avenged. Hardness overtook his horror and he straightened his shoulders.

He nearly jumped when Fedorian's voice murmured nearly in his ear. "Telo (Finish up)," he said in a low tone, fearing to whisper lest the sibilance carry to mortal ears. Arenath met them on the other side and they vanished into the purple-shadowed hills, leaving the stench of death behind them.

Later, as he walked back to barracks, Haldir raked a hand through his hair, pressing the memories to the back of his mind, far from what he really longed for—the peace of his woods, the comfort of good friends, the love of his family—not this blood-soaked night under a clouded moon, this endless nightmare.

But he was a soldier. To protect his home and his family was his duty. He would slay men on their knees or in their sleep if it meant keeping them safe. And he could not entirely forget nor forgive the injury done to him in that camp. Simply seeing their faces again had reminded him of the days of dehydration, blindness and blood. The humiliation and helpless rage. Now he was finally managing to correct that…

Then why did he feel so empty?

His chest throbbed, a single acute point under his tunic. The stitches felt ready to burst and sweat had gathered on his brow though his hands were clean.

"Haldir."

The elf addressed started as if electrically jolted from his jumbled thoughts. He spun around and exhaled slowly as a familiar, troubled gaze met his. "Rúmil, what are you doing out here at this hour?" He rubbed a hand over his face to conceal the trembling in his muscles.

"I did not mean to startle you," his youngest brother seemed hesitant as though he himself did not know the reason for his appearance. "I—I looked for you earlier today—you said you wanted to talk before…"

"I did, yes." Haldir ran a hand through his hair, again slowly calming. He had completely forgotten the quarrel with his brothers.

Rúmil took a deep breath, seeming not to notice his brother's disarray or the continued hunted look in his eyes, keeping his own lowered. "I am not saying what you did was right… I still do not think that you had a right to do what you did… But I understand why…"

"He's not going to transfer you. You are staying here," Haldir said, already beginning to walk away.

"What?" Rúmil caught up with him. "Why not?"

"He needs the bodies."

His younger brother stopped. "Are you all right?"

"Fine." Haldir sighed. "I'm fine, Rúmil… I'm rather tired."

"I should not have come so late," Rúmil shrugged apologetically. "I will see you tomorrow."

"Rúmil, I am glad you came." Haldir smiled, touching his brother's shoulder. "I do not like it when you are angry with me—and neither do my command, I get cranky."

Rúmil laughed and slapped his brother's shoulder. "Valar forbid I should make you cranky!"

"Only you and Orophin it seems have that ability."

He watched his brother climb up to the flet he shared with Thillas and waited, casting his eyes away when a lantern glowed palely from the platform. I will keep them safe… no matter what the cost.

It was harder to get to the camp the next night. Upon missing their companions, the remaining men of Gnodor grew warier and ever more fearful, sleeping closer to the center of the camp, closer together so it became more difficult to single out one. Difficult but not impossible.

It was easier when he did not look into their faces. Did not see the dark eyes and darker hair that reminded him so much of the young man whose body even now rotted deep in the woods. Something deeply buried inside him twinged, warning him not to go any further with this, that he could be lost, drowned in the blood he shed. Haldir plunged his blade in swiftly, Tergon's wide eyes and Geilrín's lifeless body flashing before his vision as he drew it back. Another dead. His chest continued to plague him.

A cool blade of pain slipped through his temple and he closed his eyes against it as he slipped back into the woods again with his companions several hours before dawn.

Fedorian tore a loose thread from the black, silver-embroidered tunic he had never removed since his wife and daughter's deaths. A solemn peace seemed to have settled over him in the last few days such as had not been seen since Geilrín's death. He knelt and rinsed his hands and steel in the Nimrodel's clear water, straightening his back in satisfaction.

"Our dead will rest well knowing their murders are avenged."

Haldir mirrored him, bending quickly to wash the stain from his hands, wincing at the spatter-marks on his grey sleeves. "And if they know nothing of our deeds?"

"Then I shall sleep the better for it."

Haldir lowered his eyes to the pulsing stream slipping through his fingers, following the river's current, the night-depths overarched by skeletal branches. Briefly, he met Arenath's stony eyes then his commander's.

The wound grew worse.

By the following day, he had grown concerned. The swelling had not receded, indeed, it seemed to have flourished in the oppressive humidity, absorbing moisture from the very air to torment him. The Gondorians found a certain ironic justice in using the enemies' own poisoned weapons to kill them. He had refused to see the healer.

But by the next nightfall, he could scarcely stand, cold sweat poured down his face. Rameil said he looked like a ghost and pestered him until he promised to do something about it.

Wearily, he trudged to Fedorian's flet where he knew Eremae to be staying, close to the borders to be on call for those injured who yet needed her care, and the one who she knew needed her most. She came to the door swiftly. For a moment, she stared at the gaunt, hollow-eyed figure on her doorstep. Then she beckoned him in. "What ails you?"

He told her as he followed her through the dark dining area into the small room that she had allotted to herself. The room looked as though it had once been a study: shelves of books lined the walls, a desk in one corner which was currently cluttered with assorted vials and leaves, a cot had been pushed into one corner under a window. The only lantern in the house sat on her bedside table beside carefully sorted piles of dried herbs that filled the air with a sweet, cloying scent.

Eremae shifted aside several sheaves of parchment (which contained neatly and cleanly written instructions for some mixture or other) so he could sit down.

"Your tunic." Blunt and business-like at this time of night, she wasted no words and pressed the wound under her fingertips, watching his face, the tensing of his shoulders. He felt nervous being here, as though by bending to the whims of his body he was betraying an unspoken law, showing a forbidden weakness. But the sharp pain stabbing through his chest made him inhale sharply and push aside the dissenting voice.

The healer's cool fingertips pressed his skin, burning. Haldir could not meet her eyes and she did not ask how he had come by the wound. He struggled to hold himself still despite his restlessness, concentrating on watching the swaying leaves outside the window.

"The stitches kept the poison in—that's why it has bothered you so," she snipped through them and wiped away the clear fluid that seeped out. "You should have come to see me right away."

He made a small noise in the back of his throat.

She turned her back a moment and crushed a few herbs into a shallow bowl of water which she then warmed over the lantern's open flame. Plastering the sticky, warm paste over his skin, she folded a clean square and tied it off with a few strips of linen to keep the pad snug against his chest.

"Make sure to let it air, wear looser clothes. It should heal up."

"Hannon le." Haldir shrugged his tunic back on, looked up. And into his Commander's eyes. Fedorian stood on the threshold, staring at the healer and her patient. Haldir's heart lurched though he didn't know why.

Eremae turned briefly over her shoulder to glance at the elf in the threshold. "You are early. It's not yet dawn."

Fedorian ignored her, his eyes never leaving Haldir's face. "I shall see you tomorrow."


Ramir rolled onto his side and shut his eyes tight to try to block out the voices beyond the fire embers. Too many had gone missing in the last few days. None of them found. Enchantment, his men whispered, huddling close to the light and warmth that seeped into the darkness. We are doomed to die here from entering that cursed wood. With these thoughts troubling his sleep, Ramir slipped deeper into his nightmares of fire and bright eyes.

Another soldier slept near the dying embers of his own campfire, little more peacefully than his commander. He shifted and turned over on his back. A sharp pain spiked into his it and he groaned. Cursing the inhospitable ground, he reached underneath and tossed the stick away. Still he could not get comfortable again, the previously soft earth turned to stone on him. Blearily his eyes fluttered open and he looked up into blazing eyes like cold stars that stared down at him from the heavens.

The soldier sucked in a sharp breath and held it as the eyes did not look at him. As the man's gaze traveled down the near invisible-figure's arms, he saw the crimson-streaked knife. "Valar," his involuntary gasp snapped the elf's head around to face him. He managed one cry before the knife found him.

But the damage was done.

As the cry echoed around the camp chaos erupted. The soldiers scrambled for their weapons. Confused shouts and curses rent the air as they tried to ascertain the nature of the threat upon them. The fires went up in broiling smoke as something kicked them out.

Haldir blinked through stinging smoke, seeing only hazy figures and hearing screams ringing painfully in his ears. Something seized his shoulder and pulled him backwards. Twisting out of his captor's grip, he spun to face Fedorian.

"Come on!"

The Gondorians were quickly recovering from their surprise and, the elven faces and forms finally revealed, their weapons leapt to hand.

Among them, Ramir staggered to his feet, cursing and whirling towards the fleeing elves. "Kill them!" he screeched, fumbling for his sword blade.

Fedorian viciously slashed out in a wide arc as he forced his way back to the perimeter. A Gondorian soldier fell back with a scream, writhing in the dirt.

"Kelo! Kelo!" The elven captain yelled above the cacophony.

Arenath sprinted to their sides, his torn tunic spattered with blood, a soldier reeling from him. Then they were away, melting into the long grass.

Ramir raced to the edge of the perimeter, sword dangling under his arm, a dagger in his other hand. But he did not pursue. "What happened?" he snapped at another soldier who stood close by, tunic unfastened and hanging off one shoulder, eyes wide.

"Elves, sir! They were elves! I saw them! Fire-eyed, cursed elves!" the soldier spat, kicking at the charred ash and sticks that had been their fire. "It's them that has been taking us!"

Ramir stared towards the wide grey patch against the lighter sky, heard the rustling of thousands of dry leaves like a malevolent grating whisper. "Rise and arm yourselves. Leave everything you can spare behind—we travel unhindered."

He was tired of this cat-and-mouse game. It was time to end this.

Matching pace with Fedorian and Arenath, he did not look back. Blood warmed his hands and he grimaced, attempting to clean it off on his tunic, wanting the feel to go away, the horror and disgust—not only for the men who did this to him. Hanging back, he breathed deeply, his heart only now beginning to slow. The touch of the blood on his hands cooled.

Fedorian did not speak when they crossed the Nimrodel once more. Arenath glanced at Haldir, his face unfathomable and followed after his Captain into the darkness.

Haldir closed his eyes and glanced once towards the river which gleamed almost out of sight as the moon began to set over it. All was still. He could neither see nor hear any sign of pursuit.

Rameil looked up from a book as he stepped up onto the platform in his bloody clothes. "What happened to you?"

"I was helping Fedorian with a late hunt—venison for the troops tomorrow." He would have to go hunting in the morning. Crossing the talan, Haldir pulled his tunic off and flung it under his cot.

"How is he?"

Haldir stared out over the woodlands unseeingly. "He…" Russet stains rinsed from black-handled blades…Compassion cannot be tolerated. "You know he has not been well since the fire."

"You saved our lives that night," Rameil said, staring keenly at his friend from across the platform.

"I did only what needed to be done," Haldir said without looking up. An unsettling feeling like dread gnawed at his stomach.

"Nevertheless that is more than some." His name hung like a ghost between them.

"He is grieved." While speaking, Haldir reached for the stoppered bottle on his bedside table and quaffed the contents, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste left in his mouth.

"He nearly got us all killed," Rameil replied, even quieter. He paused a long moment, considering his next words before he spoke again. "You alone gave the order to retreat… You have been working harder than any to bring the borders back to what they were… And not only I have noticed it. If it comes to it, we will follow you. You are our Captain if not by official ceremony then by will."

"Not mine!" Haldir sat bolt upright. "Not my will!"

Rameil did not react to the anger in his voice, hearing the underlying fear in it. "You saved our lives in Mirkwood too."

"You were nearly slain because of my error." Haldir shook his head. He didn't want to have this conversation now. Not when guilt already ate at him so much.

"You did not fail us. You did all that you could and none could ask more." He gave his friend a half-exasperated, half-admiring look. "You always give of yourself to ensure the safety of others. Without heed to danger or death. I think you would make a fine commander."

The dark-haired elf's lips quirked in a slight smile. "Though whether you live so long will be another matter." His face grew suddenly hard as he closed his book and set it on the trunk at the end of his bed. "I saw his face during that battle. Fedorian seeks vengeance. And in so doing he will bring Death down upon all our heads."

Haldir felt a shiver deep in his heart at the foreboding in those words and rolled over with his back to his friend. Staring into the dark summer night, he wondered what Rameil would say if he knew the real truth.

Rameil let the silence stretch a little longer before changing the subject. "We'll have to rotate the Nimrodel's patrol in a two hours—they've been out there for I don't know how—that injury still troubling you?" he asked with a creasing frown as he noticed his friend's hand lingering over it.

"A little," Haldir replied neutrally.

"Did you speak to Eremae about it?"

"Yes."

"Let me have a look." He eased the loose bandage aside and probed the swollen, tender area gingerly, looking up at his friend's hiss. "How old did you say it was?"

"Days, only," Haldir said through gritted teeth. "It is worth little concern. Eremae looked at it."

"But it still hurts," the dark-haired warrior put in mildly, his face still concerned. "Let me at least ease it a little."

Haldir did not refuse. His chest truly hurt and he longed for as much sleep as he could manage to achieve this night. The draught he had drunk would aid that but he would relish a dreamless, painless night.

Rameil leaned over his friend and placed his hand over the wound. A soft coolness flowed from his hand into his friend's body. Haldir sighed and relaxed his tense muscles, the pain lines easing from his brow. He did not need to thank him, Rameil understood. Such was their friendship. It was the easiest feeling in the world.

Drawing back, Rameil sat on his bed, elbows resting lightly on his knees as he watched his friend sleep for a time. Realizing it was time to relieve the Nimrodel patrol, he rose and near-started in surprise.

Fedorian stood on the edge of the platform, an unreadable expression on his face. His eyes were not on Rameil but the dark-haired warrior felt an odd shudder pass through him as he looked into his Captain's face.

"He's had a bad night, sir," Rameil explained, half-rising.

Fedorian ignored him and bent over the sleeping elf, shaking his arm lightly. "Haldir."

Rameil persisted. "You'll not wake him, sir. Eremae gave him something to help him sleep. He will not rise until morning."

"I must speak with him."

"At this time of night?" the dark-haired warrior queried with a frown.

"He is a soldier in my command. He is to come whensoever I call."

"If you have need of something, perhaps I can be of service," Rameil said reasonably, slipping his tunic over his shoulders. "I am also a soldier under your command."

The Captain made no answer but to shake Haldir more forcefully, fingers digging into his shoulder.

A sudden irrational anger burst inside the dark-haired warrior and before he could fathom what he was doing, Rameil pulled the other elf off his friend. Then realization struck and he released his Commander's arm as though dropping a snake.

Fedorian stared straight through him, eyes burning with an unfathomable rage. Rameil quickly dropped his gaze and stepped back, his tongue cloven to the roof of his mouth but the Captain said nothing and after a long, interminable moment longer, pulled his eyes away. He gazed down one moment more at Haldir's sleeping form.

Then without a word, he left.

Rameil stared after him for a full minute before slowly sinking onto his bed and raking both hands through his hair. What on earth had come over him? Assaulting an officer like that could easily have earned him at least a demotion… maybe even lashes! Though that hadn't happened in a while…

"Has he gone?"

Rameil looked down at his friend whose eyes had cleared of sleep. "I'm sorry he woke you."

Haldir sighed and rolled onto his side with his back to the dark-haired warrior. Concerned now, Rameil rose and rounded the bedside, looking down at his friend.

There was a deadness in Haldir's gaze that had never been there before, a hardness behind those gentle eyes. In the waxy moonlight, his face looked paler, thinner, colder—like steel. His eyes, always dark, revealed a reddish tinge within the irises.

"What is going on?"

"Nothing."

You're lying. Rameil shook his head, disappointment wrenching at his heart. When did I lose your trust, mellon nin? "I have not seen you for more than a few spare moments in over a week… You come in at all hours. You never sleep anymore—whether Fedorian allows you or not. And worst yet, you will not tell me what is going on."

Haldir sighed, forcing his frustration and rising annoyance down before it became too great for him to control. No, my friend, you do not know. With a mental shake, he rolled away from under his friend's scrutinizing eyes.

"How did you come by that wound?" Rameil watched his friend's spine stiffen at the question he had evaded for so long.

"I'm very tired, Rameil."

"Haldir… please. As your friend, I want to know—so I can help you."

"It is not for you to know; I do not need help."

"Why was Fedorian looking for you?"

"Why are you questioning me so?" Haldir sat up, eyes suddenly fierce and blazing. "It is not for you to know, soldier. Leave it be."

The dark-haired elf's jaw tightened. "My apologies, sir." His face was calm, composed, but his eyes had darkened with alarm. Rameil dropped his eyes. In all their years, he had never seen his friend like this. And it frightened him.

Haldir threw back the sheets on his cot and rose without a word.

Rameil, passing an agitated hand through his dark tresses, closed his eyes, and sank onto the empty bed.

Ramir paused, staring up at the rustling leaves their golden edges tipped crimson. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. The Gondorians had woken earlier. A shadowed dell dropped suddenly away from them like the trough of a sea swell, the branches spirited over it like birds skimming crested waves of a foaming ocean. The far-reaching sunlight sheened the wet leaves with crimson beads rolling softly to the tips, glittering on every keen grass blade.

Beautiful. Deadly.

Ramir felt eyes watching him from all sides in that golden foliage.

Sunlight was both their ally and enemy. They could see their enemies and, if the elves were not watching this part of the forest too closely, they might make it inside without being immediately shot and killed. He sent them in two at a time, waiting for them to conceal themselves and give the all clear before sending two more in. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right and bring the rest of his men home.

The nagging thought of the poor dead bastards who would not be clung like ghosts in his mind. Those soldiers should be here now. His brother should be here now. He would be here if not for… His hand tightened until his knuckles whitened on the leathern hilt of the sword at his hip.

A stream close murmured on their right, falling across their path until it disappeared into the vague haziness at sight's end. Once across, there would be no going back. A strange feeling pricked at his spine—a feeling as though the trees were closing in behind them. A solid, impenetrable wall of green and gold.

Beautiful, deadly.

Taking a deep breath, he plunged forward.


His booted foot pressed the dew-wet earth as Rameil descended from the empty flet. Pale, watery sunlight brushed dimly the shifting leaves. Rameil—always an early riser—relished this time of morning when the entire forest glittered and sparkled, clean and new.

Shadows hung deep purple beneath the foliage. Further away over a crest of heavily-wooded hill he could make out the skeletal limbs of the burnt river edge. Looking away, he slipped his bow over his shoulder, his quiver bouncing gently against his back as he walked towards barracks and the paths beyond, considering a hunt for rabbit that morning. The usual provender of waybread on long patrols had begun to stick in his throat.

The sun began to burn away the hollow shadows as Rameil sat in the grass, back against a tree trunk, scatterings of fur and bone around him. His hunt had been successful and smoked over the coals he had carefully kindled at his feet.

Movement at the edge of the grounds made him look up from testing his catch on knifepoint. Haldir avoided the dark-haired warrior's eyes as he crossed the clearing, a deer slung heavily over one shoulder for dressing, the toes of his boots and knees damp with dew.

Few soldiers lingered about at this time of day. One or two sparred at the edge of the clearing, warming up for the day's long patrols searching for an enemy they doubted even now that they wanted to find. Others, just returning from an hours-long night sweep of the forest, looked haggard and dark-eyed as they straggled in in pairs and small groups.

On the heels of one of them was Fedorian.

It was the first time Rameil had seen the Commander on the parade ground since the fire. He looked thinner, harder. His face, white and cold as marble, never once averted itself from Haldir's as he paused before the younger elf, ignoring the others who stared at his approach. They spoke briefly but Rameil could not hear what was said from where he was. Though he did see Haldir's face darken, grow rigid as bone. He nodded once.

Fedorian looked across the clearing. Rameil turned away his eyes, busying himself with crushing the lingering coals of his fire with a boot heel. He looked up only once under half-hooded lids and watched as both Haldir and Fedorian left together, heading east towards the river.

In the busy activities of the day's labors, the morning's event dropped from the dark-haired elf's mind. It was only upon twilight when, finally relieved of his post near mid-night, Rameil entered the talan, saw the empty cot across from his own, and remembered.

The long sleepless hours passed. Still, Rameil waited, listening, praying that he was right and fighting sleep that dragged at his weary body.

His patience was rewarded. Soft bootsteps, barely distinguishable from rustling leaves, sounded on the platform… the scrap of something hard slid from underneath the opposite bed… light steps going away again, down the rope ladder…

The dark-haired warrior waited two breaths longer then threw back the sheet, fully dressed, and, seizing the dagger from under his pillow, slipped down the ladder. It took him a moment to find his friend, a form of pale silver and black in the watery moonlight, passing the lighter spaces between two trees

All weariness fell away as he bounded silently into the undergrowth after his friend. Employing all his warrior skill, he grew doubly cautious when Haldir met Fedorian and then Arenath in the midst of a small clearing. Rameil concealed himself in the brush, straining to listen to their words but the night wind carried them away; and they were soon moving again, deeper into the woods.

The Sickle of the Valar swung over the western horizon. Those ancient guardians of the West who had always radiated comfort in times of darkness seemed menacing now. Curving overhead, they glittered cold, hard and distant. The Blessed Earendil hid swathed in cloud. Only Borgil, the red Star, glimmered in the pieces of sky glimpsed through the net of black branches.

Heart thumping with apprehension and excitement, he followed, cat-footed and silent. He did not know how long they journeyed under the dark branches but it seemed long to him. He took advantage of every bush and tall tuft of grass, every glimmering tree bole for cover as he silently trailed the three warriors. The shadows fell thicker here. They were in a part of the forest seldom visited by the elves, a place where the canopy grew thick and moonlight scarcely reached. The trees whispered to one another, warningly, Rameil thought. But not to him. He slowed as his quarry did. They seemed to be listening.

Rameil held his breath.

He heard… voices. Garbled and indistinct from distance but they were low, rough, fearful voices. Men's voices. Far away he thought he saw a glimmer as though of light, of fire. But that quickly extinguished if had even been there at all. Faintly, the creaking of bowstrings met his ears, the hiss of drawn steel. He had lost sight of Haldir and the others so he concentrated on this new sound as he slipped forward, darting from tree trunk to tree trunk.

The noises grew louder.

Like a bird's winged shadow, he leapt into the air, caught onto a branch above his head and pulled himself easily into the treetops for a better look at what was happening below.

Small, dark shapes below had formed a ring around a gleaming monolith that jutted out of the turf; they had found one of the ancient rock formations erosions of earth from rain and wind had wrested from the land. It was a good defensive position. Bare of trees for at least a hundred yards in every direction, the enemy would be forced to race across open ground and expose themselves to the defenders' arrows while the overhanging formation gave some protection from returning missiles. But not all. Several of the dark shapes had already broken the circle and lay on the ground, motionless.

The wind blowing towards him, Rameil heard a man's voice shout. "Don't waste your arrows, fools!" They were too far away and trying to hit too few enemies to afford to waste their precious shafts.

Something shifted beneath him. Rameil looked down and spotted a lean shape moving slowly below, twigs crackling under the weight of a heavy careful boot. Apparently not all of the man-shapes had retreated to that spar of rock.

Ignorant of the enemy perched almost above his head, the man tightened his grip on his blade, trying to still his shaking hands. He saw his companions out there, waiting to be picked off like apples on a fence. He had no desire to share that fate and hung back in the deep comforting shadows.

Fear thrummed just under his tunic though, his mind spiraling for though the shadows promised concealment, he knew wraiths waited there, shifting and whirling in vague patterns. He screwed his eyes up against them and tried not to think of what those shadows might conceal. Heart slamming against his ribs, he swallowed convulsively, sweat pouring down his temples in the humid night.

A glint of gold flashed in a patch of moonlight.

Rameil heard someone crash through the underbrush, stealth abandoned, breath sobbing loudly surprisingly close… A sharp scrabble in the leaves… A soft, pitiful moan slowly forming audible words…

"No… no, please…"

Rounding the corner, Rameil could see a figure in the moonlight near the edge of the clearing, on his knees, his face raised to the shadowy apparition that held his throat at blade point. Sweat glazed his face. Rameil could read fear in the man's wide-stretched eyes. He did not want to die. Breathless, the dark-haired elf strained to see through the shadows but the glaring moonlight and thick branches hindered his sight.

"No…Please, a boon… Mercy, pl—"

Rameil flinched in the spiraling silence.

Sharp bark edges stabbed into his lower back and shoulders but Rameil did not feel it, a cold hand of dread squeezing around his heart. One part of Rameil's mind tried to rationalize that this was normal—they were soldiers after all and accustomed to the brutalities that that particular occupation warranted. These men were their enemies.

Stomach muscles aching with tension, he slid down from the tree, his blade slippery in his grasp. Not far from his tree lay the form of a man, revealed in the moonlight, young and brown-haired, his green hood thrown back over the leaves. His eyes, glassy and vacant, stared up at the moon, a glinting blackness pooling just beneath his gaping throat. Another shape stood over the corpse.

Rameil knew what and who it was before he approached. His blood ran ice-cold as his gaze flicked from the bloody saber in one hand to the deep-shadowed face and gleaming eyes that seemed to glow almost vermillion in the dark, flecks of moonlight splintering in them like keen-tipped knives.

"Haldir." The word was a hiss of numbed disbelief.

The crimson-tinted eyes shifted, the shadows falling away as his friend stepped into the white moonlight. "Rameil."