A/N: okay so I owe you guys an explanation for missing my update schedule, and that is: this website has been completely inaccessible across all of my devices for some reason and only just started loading for me again. I apologize for the weird delay! Here's the next chapter. Chapter 9 will be up on Sunday.

Thank you for your patience and support!


08.
Crossroads


They found Master Lindir in Lord Elrond's solar. Beetle was loath to step inside. She hung back at the door while Lady Arwen stuck her head in.

"Lindir?"

Master Lindir looked up from where he was sorting papers on Lord Elrond's desk and bobbed a bow. "My Lady."

"Do you have anything small that needs to be done? Beetle would like to help."

Master Lindir's round blue eyes fell to Beetle. She squirmed a little, painfully aware of the fact that she currently only had one arm that would be of any use.

In the pause, unable to stand the scrutiny, Beetle blurted: "You won't need to mind me. I'll stay out of your way. I'll do anything. I just- I just want to be useful."

Arwen patted her arm. To Beetle's surprise, there was something soft in Master Lindir's voice when he answered: "Help would be most welcome."

She hadn't expected him to say yes that easily. Arwen flashed them both a smile and told Beetle to let her know if she needed anything later, warned Lindir not to work Beetle too hard (to which he insisted passionately that he would do nothing of the sort), and then left them alone.

In the wake of Lady Arwen's footsteps, Lindir cocked his head to study Beetle again.

"How thoroughly do you dust?"

"As thoroughly as I am told to," Beetle answered immediately.

He held out a cleaning cloth and gestured around. "I will tidy. Lord Elrond is particular about where his things go. Dust, then?"

Beetle accepted the cloth and paid him a little curtsey, to which he smiled and returned his own bow. That made Beetle blush, but she didn't say anything and got to work, starting at the outer bookshelves and working her way around the room.

Lindir was content to work quietly alongside her, straightening up scrolls and stray books, collecting pens and other tools which he returned to their rightful containers, and sorting through various notes and papers on Lord Elrond's desk- which was no small task, considering Lord Elrond, for someone so "particular" about where his things were left, seemed to leave everything lying about.

After some time, Beetle whispered: "Thank you."

Lindir was filing a stack of books in his arms. He glanced over at her. "I like to be useful as well. When I first came to Imladris as a guest, I was completely unable to stop myself from cleaning, which exasperated my lord to no end. He loves nothing better than being a generous host. So…" he trailed off and turned back to the books. "I- I understand."

Beetle had misread him. She had thought Master Lindir to be, well , cross. He always seemed to be. Or, at least, he seemed harried. She supposed that part was true. He flitted around the solar like a hummingbird, utterly silent but radiating a nervous energy that reminded Beetle, with a twist to her chest, of Mouse.

Mouse.

No, she mustn't think about her. She might cry, and that was the last thing she wanted to do. She focused on the fine wooden bookshelves, removing books to dust their covers and dusted the spaces beneath them, careful to take only one book at a time so she was in no danger of mixing them up by accident. It would have been easy to do. All of the covers were similar.

"Rhovanion isn't so far from Greenwood," Master Lindir said. He was watering Lord Elrond's plants now.

Beetle searched her brain for what Greenwood was . She couldn't be sure. But- oh - Lady Arwen had mentioned he was from there. A kingdom, then. For lack of anything more intelligent, she just said: "Oh." An awkward pause. She decided to swallow her pride and admit: "I'm sorry. I don't actually know what that is."

"Greenwood the Great?" Master Lindir sounded almost indignant.

She felt her face heat. "I was never allowed to go anywhere beyond the bounds of Lord Frumgar's halls so…"

When she looked up at Master Lindir, he had blushed right to the tips of his pointed ears. For the life of her, she couldn't understand what he had to be embarrassed about.

"That was insensitive of me," he said at last. The words seemed to trip over themselves as they tumbled out of him. "I apologize."

It was so sincere that Beetle had no idea how to react. "It's- I mean- I really am ignorant about the world, so…"

"-I was as well before I came here," Master Lindir interrupted, sounding nearly as anxious as she felt. "I traveled little before I came to Greenwood, and I never left Greenwood until I came to Imladris. I had heard about other places, but I had never met any men, or dwarves, or other creatures. But all types pass through Imladris at one point or another."

Beetle worked her way around to the next shelf. Master Lindir finished with the plants and then walked over to a second writing desk by the window and took a seat to open up a ledger.

Lady Arwen had said there were no thralls in Imladris, but she had said nothing about Greenwood. Only that Lindir had moved here because he hadn't…"fit in". Beetle wondered if whichever Elven king ruled Greenwood was anything like Lord Frumgar. Maybe...and this was a silly thought, she felt sure...maybe Master Lindir had been a thrall of some kind? She was curious, but she didn't know how to ask him.

Besides, he looked to be concentrating very hard on the ledger. Beetle knew enough about the use of ledgers to leave him alone. She focused on dusting, making sure to get the baseboards, woodwork, and windowsills and panes: every nook and cranny she could find.

Tentatively, with a glance over her shoulder at Master Lindir (he was still glued to the ledger, brow furrowed), she went to Lord Elrond's desk and began to wipe it down, immensely careful to put every single item back exactly as she had found it, down to the most minute rotation.

It was calming to work. Beetle liked it. Work meant direct commands, direct rules. It was safe. She didn't have to think while she was working, not about Lord Frumgar's court, or Mouse, or even about how Little Worm was faring. Her focus narrowed to her cleaning cloth and the stripes she drew across the red oak wood, one after the other, in a methodical rhythm until all of the dust was gone.

...And she was left alone with her thoughts again. They crowded around her as soon as she returned to them.

"Master Lindir?"

He looked up from the ledger and turned pink again. "Just 'Lindir' will do nicely, please. I hardly deserve a title."

But you're the steward. It felt wrong to refer to him by only his name. She faltered before correcting herself, awkwardly, to: "L- Lindir, um - I'm finished."

Master Lindir- Lindir - glanced around the room, eyes owlish. She tried not to fidget as he got up to run his finger along some of the less obvious places, like the windowpanes and curlicues in the doorframe.

"So you are," he said at last, sounding both surprised and pleased. He turned back to her. "If you need to rest, you may do so."

Beetle shook her head. Her mind was clear and she had no desire to stop. "Is there anything else I can do?"

Master Lindir held up a finger and then spun to his writing desk and pulled out a list from his desk drawer to hand to her. "Would you like to run this to Gwaeleth?"

She enthusiastically nodded, unable to help a small smile. "I know the way."

Master Lindir- Lindir - dipped his head in another one of those confusing bows. Beetle bobbed her own and then was off to the kitchen.

To Beetle's delight, Lindir allowed her to spend the rest of the day as his shadow- though he insisted that they break for lunch and once more for tea. Much of it was simply running messages to and from Lindir's writing desk so that he could focus on his ledger and schedules. The messages were what Beetle liked best. With Lindir's clear directions and descriptions, it was easy to learn the layout of Lord Elrond's home, and she even learned the way to some of the places in the city below. The fresh air felt good, the excuse to go somewhere felt even better ( so much better than aimlessly walking around , as Lord Elrond and Lia and Lady Celebrían encouraged her to do), and above all else: she finally felt useful . In between errands, she checked in on Little Worm. He slept mostly, and when he was awake he was too tired to say much. Beetle always squeezed his hand and promised she was doing well and told him to rest, making sure he was comfortable before heading out again to ask Lindir for her next task.

It wasn't until Lindir walked her down to the Hall of Fire for the evening meal that she really felt how tired she was. That didn't stop her from asking him if there was anything else she could help with once they were finished eating and the tables were being cleared.

"Are you certain you are not tired?" He looked so concerned.

"I'm not. Not yet." Or, 'not very' would be less of a lie. But more work meant she could put off having to go to sleep in her room by herself and face her own mind.

"I do need to update the inventory, if you would like to assist me," Lindir said. "It goes faster with two and Gwaeleth will be much too busy with tomorrow's preparations. We both have neglected it."

Beetle had no idea what 'updating the inventory' entailed, but she nodded nevertheless. It wasn't until she followed him down into the massive cellar beneath the kitchen and handed her a pad of paper with some letters on it and a pen of her own that she realized, with horror, that she was supposed to write something .

"You are good with numbers?" Lindir asked, giving her a strange look- which Beetle supposed was completely fair. She'd rooted herself to the spot, staring down at the page he'd put in her hands like he'd given her a snake.

Numbly, she nodded. Lindir murmured a happy sort of sound and flew off to count the cheese wheels on the far wall, Beetle couldn't stop staring at the sheet. The stupid squiggles sat there in their neat little rows, mocking her. Her hands felt cold.

" Um -" Beetle wet her lips and looked up, her throat constricting in on itself. "M-mast- Lindir ?"

He finished counting his row, made a note on his paper, and then gave her his attention.

"I- um -" She looked back down at the paper, then back up at him. "I can count and do sums but...I can't…I can't…" oh, why was it so hard to admit? It was just that it seemed so normal , here. Everyone kept expecting that she was able to read. Mentioning books. The library. And now this.

"I can't write it down," she finished at last in one slurred rush. "I don't know how."

"There's no need to use the Tengwar numbers," Lindir replied, unbothered. "The list is in Common anyway. Easier for shipping orders."

Beetle couldn't tell the difference between the two, much less write either of them. "N-no, that's not- that's not it."

She hung her head as her throat closed completely, hoping he would figure it out. He stared at her. She could feel it lancing into the top of her head; the anxious energy he radiated only worsened the longer they stood there in silence.

At last, he spoke in a very delicate voice, as if afraid of offending her: "You...cannot read?"

Miserably, Beetle nodded.

She heard him suck in a breath. He crossed the room toward her and she took a step back without thinking. He stopped short.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. I just- I can do something else. Anything else. I just can't- I can't-"

"No! No. " he interrupted. And again, Beetle was shocked to find that he sounded just about as ashamed as she felt. "Ae! I should not have assumed. I apologize."

"I'm sorry," she said again, impulsively.

On the exact same impulse (and nearly at the exact same time), Lindir countered: "No, I apologize, truly." A little pause, then he floundered into: "It isn't your fault nobody taught you." He reached for the paper and she gave it over, unable to look at him. He tucked hers beneath his and, when he spoke, a smile warmed his voice. "If you can count, then why not count? I will write it for you. We can work together."

"That's more work for you," Beetle protested.

"Hardly," Lindir sniffed, as if there was no room for debate. "I will count this half of the room. You count the other. When you finish a category, call it to me and I will make note of it. It is only one extra step, and we still will count things twice as quickly."

She was still so confused as to why he was entertaining this obvious shortcoming, but before she could make any more protestations he had already gone back to the cheese. That left Beetle to wander to the other side of the room to the cabbages, which she began to count.

In the end, Lindir was right. It took no time at all for them to meet in the middle. Beetle reported to him the exact number of casks of wine. Lindir wrote it down. When they were done, he thanked her and then walked her back upstairs.

When they reached the hall, she asked: "Can I come back tomorrow?"

Lindir's smile was gentle. "The solar does get very dusty."

Beetle grinned. The two of them exchanged bows -Lindir's stately nod with his hand to his chest and Beetle's excited curtsey- and then went their separate ways.


The trail of blood had disappeared beneath the falling snow some time ago, but it didn't matter. Elrond had no need of it now. Dread, like wind in a ship's sail, pulled him in the direction they needed to go. When he began to feel ill again he held up a hand to stop the company and motioned for two of the stealthiest soldiers, Findon and Nelchanar, to creep ahead through the trees and then report back.

Nobody spoke. Elrond focused on staying upright in his saddle. The nausea came in waves that threatened to unhorse him, and his shoulder screamed in pain as if he had been struck with an arrow. He found himself surprised when he glanced down to find it intact.

He could feel Erestor looking his way.

"I am well," Elrond told him. He only needed to take deep breaths in and out. The pain was not his. He let it pass through him from the crown of his head and out through his left foot, just like a lightning strike.

Erestor's hands tightened in his reins. "The air smells foul."

Elrond had to agree. A stench sifted to them from somewhere up ahead: old blood, rotting meat, and waste. He wanted to say Orcs, but it could have just as easily been a group of mountain trolls.

His hand went to his sword when he saw figures approaching, but it was only the scouts.

As Nelchanar swung back up into his saddle, he confirmed: "Orcs."

Elrond's breath hitched. "How many?"

"Many," Nelchanar said. "I did not count."

"Any wargs with them?" Erestor asked.

"No," Findon cut in with that Silvan drawl of his. "Just a whole lotta Orcs. They're in a cave on the north side of that hill, cozied up to keep the snow off."

Elrond and Erestor exchanged looks. Orcs in any number were dangerous, but it would be much easier to dispatch a grounded war party from horseback.

Elrond urged Lumuíel forward, drawing his sword. "We'll surround them. Erestor, take the archers and go to the west. I will take the rest of us around to the east side. Drive them into the hill. They cannot run if we trap them against their own cliffside."

Erestor nodded and broke off with his group. Elrond led his men to circle the opposite direction.

Sure enough, there was light between the trees: a fire which gave off little smoke, and a pack of Orcs huddled up around it, bickering about the cold and the division of food. Elrond had to fight another rush of nausea that had nothing to do with the Sight and had everything to do with the humanoid leg roasting over the red-hot coals.

He fought back all thoughts of whether or not it was one of the twins. He could not afford to lose focus. None of them could. More Orcs shouted and bickered and snored in turns, the noise amplified by the dark cave. There was no way to tell how deep the cave was, nor just how many Orcs were inside.

Elrond gripped his sword. One of the Orcs shot up, elbowing one of his companions and telling them all to shut up. Past them, between the trees, Elrond could make out the misty shapes of Erestor and the archers drawing back their bows.

None of the Orcs at the fire had a chance to wonder if they smelled Men or Elves. Four arrows whistled through the air to pierce eyes, hearts, and throats. Some screamed. Others had their larynxes punctured before they were able, and the rest who were still standing barely had a chance to sound the alarm before the second volley knocked them back. The cave behind them roared to life as Elrond sounded the charge.

The Orcs streamed out of their hole disoriented and unprepared: fewer than Elrond had feared. He took an Orc's head off at his shoulders, sending it flying into the thicket, then slashed down to cleave another in two as Lumuíel kicked a third back before he could attempt to stick his sword in Elrond's thigh.

A bolt screamed past his ear. From ahead of him, one of Nelchanar's arrows answered it. Elrond didn't have to look back. He heard the Orcish archer screech and fall to the snow with a crunch.

The skirmish was bloody, but over in a matter of minutes. Elrond slid out of his saddle to land amid the carnage and beelined for the cave. Erestor called after him. He didn't listen. The fighting was over but the dread threatened to overtake him completely. He had to go inside. He had to see what was inside.

Before his eyes even had time to adjust, the voice screamed:

"Ada!"

It choked off. Elrond skidded to a halt, sending a pile of half-chewed bones skittering into some forgotten corner of the cave.

One huge Orc had Elladan in a chokehold, a blade pressed to his throat. He bared all of his razored teeth in a wolfish grin.

"I walk out of here, or he dies."

Fury swept through Elrond like nightfall. "Let him go, filth," he hissed. "We outnumber you seven to one."

The Orc spluttered a wet laugh. The blade dug into Elladan's throat and drew blood. To Elladan's credit, he didn't flinch. He just met his father's eyes, his own still hazy with terror but shining in relief.

Erestor came barreling in just a second later. Elrond threw out an arm to stop him. He cut short, nocked an arrow and drew it back.

"I will not ask again." Elrond's voice was ice cold.

The Orc hauled Elladan up by his throat as a shield. "And how good is your aim, elfling?"

Elladan locked eyes with Erestor. Erestor's fingers twitched on the arrow's haft.

With a crack! Elladan snapped his head back into the Orc's and dropped. The Orc hardly had time to howl in pain before Erestor's arrow lanced through his skull. He crumpled like a doll.

Elrond rushed forward to catch his son. Elladan, brave Elladan, was shivering from head to toe and covered in blood and sweat.

"Where are you hurt?"

Elladan shook his head. "Most- most of this isn't mine. Elrohir-" his voice caught.

Elrond swallowed, fearing the answer.

"He's back there," Elladan disentangled himself and shakily supported his own weight so he could point. "The cave takes a turn. They have him caged- he's- they shot him. I couldn't- they wouldn't let me help him. They thought it was funny." His knees gave out and Erestor slipped an arm around his waist and took his cloak off to wrap around him.

Elrond didn't waste time. He sped off, sword still at the ready, passing a pile of rotting, half-butchered bodies that he couldn't bear to think about.

The inlet Elladan directed him to somehow smelled even worse than the rest of the cave. It was worse than rot. Worse than waste. It stank of death. That sense of impending dread peaked. Every hair on his body stood on end.

The room was stacked with cages. Most lay open and empty. A few housed rotting occupants in various states of butchery and decay. He found Elrohir at the back, pale and covered in sweat, with a black Orcish bolt lanced through his shoulder. Elrond choked out a sob and ran to him.

The cage had been hastily fashioned out of saplings, merely lashed shut with a thick rope. Elrond cut it loose and bent to take Elrohir in his arms.

Cloudy gray eyes met his. Elrohir frowned and reached for him.

"Ada?"

Elrond's eyes filled with tears. He smiled. "Yes. I am here."

"Dream," he muttered.

"Hush now. It is no dream, I promise. I've come to take you home, ion nín."

Elrohir burned with fever. The bolt had run straight through him and lodged in his scapula, probably shattering it- one of the most painful injuries anyone could ever endure. He was far too injured to ride, and even lifting him to carry him out made Elrohir scream - a sound that struck Elrond straight to his heart. His son clutched at Elrond's cloak with weak, shaking, blood-stained fingers.

"Ada, Ada- w-wait ." His voice was so small. "There- the other- there is someone else- please. You have to help him."

"Shh. I will. Where?"

He turned to follow Elrohir's line of sight. The cage opposite held another body slumped in a heap of bent armor and cloth. Elrond couldn't even be sure they lived.

"Erestor!"

Erestor was there in half a second. "Elladan has been taken outside," he said at once. "Nelchanar has him. He isn't hurt...badly." His gaze fell to Elrohir, curled against Elrond's chest, hands white-knuckled in Elrond's burgundy cloak. When Erestor looked up to meet Elrond's eyes, his own were just as full of hot, unshed tears, but his face was still bravely set.

Before he could say anything, Elrond adjusted his grip on Elrohir, which only made him wail. "I have him. See to that one," he jerked his head in the direction of the other cage. Erestor's expression swam and he crossed over to it.

Elrond wanted to take Elrohir out of this foul room immediately, but the healer in him cautioned that he ought to see just how badly Elrohir was wounded before he made much of an attempt to move him.

That bolt would have to come out before he could remove Elrohir's armor. It had punched straight through it and trying to take the breastplate off would only cause more damage. He took the time to loosen and remove his pauldrons and examine the bones in his neck, relieved to find that nothing seemed out of place.

From across the room, he heard Erestor swear. Elrond looked up.

Erestor had rolled the body over to check his pulse. The person's hair was sandy blonde and matted with blood and his ears were round. A Man, then.

"He lives, but-" Erestor brushed the blonde hair back from the man's face.

It was Elrond's turn to swear, for the broken soldier in the cage was none other than Prince Fram of the Éothéod.