"After the fall of Sauron, Isildur, the son and heir of Elendil, returned to Gondor. There he assumed the Elendilmir as King of Arnor, and proclaimed his sovereign lordship… When he at last felt free to return to his own realm he was in haste, and he wished to go first to Imladris; for he had left his wife and youngest son there, and he had moreover an urgent need for the counsel of Elrond. … He knew the land well, for he had journeyed there often before the War of the Alliance, and had marched that way to the war with men of eastern Arnor and the company of Elrond."

-Disaster of the Gladden Fields, Unfinished Tales of Numenor and Middle-earth

Elrond woke slowly, coming out of sleep as if he were stumbling through fog, towards the daylight. Body stiff and sore, head aching, the elf groaned as he awoke, comforted only by the warm body close at hand.

"Good morning,"

Turning, Elrond faced his lover with a tired smile. "Morning," He turned in Azog's hold, until they were facing one another. "How long have you been awake?"

"For some time," Azog replied, shrugging. "Orcs sleep but little."

"I am sorry for keeping you."

"I am not," The orc said, leaning in to press his rough lips against Elrond's throat. It was both gentle and abrasive, and altogether too enticing. "I enjoy holding you."

"Yes, I – I can see," Chuckling, Elrond leaned away. "But I do not think we have time for such – enjoyment. I believe I heard something of a meeting yesterday, to happen this morning?"

The relaxed, pleased expression on Azog's face twisted into an irritated scowl. "Yes, you are right." He sat up, and Elrond followed suit, though more slowly. He felt stronger today than he had in many weeks, yet he was still far from recovered. The exhaustion of the trip on top of his illness wore him down, and he found himself moving very slowly and carefully. Azog helped him out of the hammock, and then stood with him.

"Goi-suk is led by our Elders," Azog explained, approaching the table with his claw, and re-attaching it. "Those who have been here longer than all others. They have the final say on all decisions pertaining to the city and her welfare."

"Goi-suk?" Elrond asked, tripping over the harsh tones. By Azog's smirk and the shake of his head, it was clear he'd butchered it. "Is that what you call the city here?"

"It is the only name we have for it, though it once had another, as I'm sure you know." Azog told him. He was striding about the room, slipping off what he was wearing, to replace it with clean clothes. Elrond chuckled at the sight. Azog, half-dressed from the waist down, glanced back at him with a quirked brow.

"I'm sorry, it's only, I did not think I would see the day that Azog the Defiler gave a thought to his state of dress." More laughter followed his words. "Lindir would be beside himself!"

A sly grin on his face, Azog continued dressing. "I am certain he would." His clothes were leather-made, and thick, to protect against the harsh Northern winters. Long leggings, tucked into fur-lined boots, covered him, along with a tunic tied with a thick belt, which held Azog's sword. Atop that was a short cloak which fell down to Azog's backside, and tied in the front. It was crudely made, well-worn, and stained with blood in places.

Elrond, meanwhile, had little in the way of clothes. All his belongings were with his horse, and he did not know where she was. He was quite honestly afraid to ask. If all went well with the Elders, he would seek her out, and hopefully find her wandering the roads nearby, looking for him.

Glancing down at his sullied traveling clothes, he begrudgingly accepted that they would have to do. Yet, even given their wear and damage, his elven robes were much finer than the finest orc cloth Azog had.

"Well," Sighing, Elrond looked to his lover, fighting the nerves which were rising up his throat. "What should I expect?"

Azog, perhaps sensing the elf's fear, approaching him, taking hold of his hand. "The people of Goi-suk are not unkind. They are – fearful, as they should be. All of them are deserters fleeing Sauron's wraith, and here they looked to escape all their enemies. Including elves." Frowning, the orc paused, gripping Elrond's hand tight. "I do not know what the Elders will say. But whatever their decision, I shall stand by you. I will not willingly leave your side again, golugizub."

Those words were a balm to Elrond's worries, though his heart still fluttered in his chest. "Coming north, I feared most your reception. I did not think of what your people might say, or how I might be received… I do not want to cause trouble for any of you."

"You are no trouble." Lifting his hand to cradle Elrond's chin, the orc lifted his downturned face. "I am honored to have you here with me. The others will see reason in time."

"Ahem."

Both turned as one, Azog's hand dropping quick as he saw someone standing in the doorway. It was the same orc as yesterday, Elrond realized; not the surly Zlurik, but the other.

The orc seemed to be there for Azog, but they kept glancing Elrond's way every other breath. Eyes darting up and down his form as they gnawed at their lip. Their sharp teeth, strangely alien eyes, and scarred skin marked them as so very different from his people – yet, Elrond thought he could see what was in this orc's eyes nonetheless. Nervousness. Azog was right; the orcs feared him.

"I do not believe we have met." He said finally, stepping forward, ignoring the way the orc jumped in shock. "I am – Elros, of Rivendell, a friend of Azog's." Holding out his hand, he awaited the other's reply, though he knew he waited mostly in vain. The orc was jittery, glancing from his face to his hand and back, as if afraid a knife would materialize there at any moment.

Azog sighed. "This is Thurag. She has been a good friend to me during my time here." Finally, the orc seemed to come to herself, and gave a little half-wave.

"Hi."

Elrond dropped his hand, an amused smile on his face when he replied in kind. "Hi."

They took to the streets, walking down old stone pathways lined with rubble and debris, towards the center of the town. The roads inclined ever higher and higher as they approached the top of the hill, walking through winding roads and streets. Most of them were empty and quiet, where none lived, as there were hardly enough orcs to fill the entirety of the enormous city.

"Most of us live within a few miles of the central palace." Azog explained as they walked.

"But you've got to live on the fucking outer walls, you antisocial bastard."

Thurag's crass, blunt tone took Elrond completely by surprise, and for a moment he wondered if he should be offended and insulted that someone was speaking to his lover in such a way. But then Azog laughed.

"Where else?" He told her. "Attacks from Sauron's forces will come from without, not within."

Elrond gave a dark chuckle at that. "Do not be so sure." He glanced round at the falling buildings, crumpled and crumbling into disrepair, covered in dust and rats and the corpses of the long-dead. "We stand among proof of the dangers of the enemy within."

"How's that?" Elrond turned; Thurag, on his left, seemed mighty curious at his words. For a moment, the elf was flummoxed; back home, any elf would have understood the reference, but then, he was not at home, was he? And it seemed that knowledge of the history of the world was not so well-shared among the orcs. Glancing to his right, he saw even Azog had a curious look upon his face, as if he did not know.

Looking ahead, Elrond gathered his thoughts together, to tell the tale. "This is the ruins of the city of Minas Vrûn, once part of the kingdom of Arnor, a kingdom of men. It's downfall came at the hands of its own people; soldiers sent from Fornost to assist in its defense, who defected to Angmar, and with their knowledge of the inner workings of the city, brought Minas Vrûn to this bitter end."

"Angmar?" Thurag asked, frowning. "As in the Nazgul? What'd they want with this place?"

"That," Elrond said, as they came round a corner and entered into the marketplace, "is a much longer story."

The marketplace was as bustling as any in a city of dwarves, men, hobbits, or elves; music could be heard all around, particularly drums and metallic chimes, and the echoing voices of shoppers and sellers filled the air. It was a mix of Westron and Black Speech, sometimes both, slipping from one to the other with ease and fluidity. But such voices and music lulled when Elrond entered the courtyard.

All eyes fell on him; he bristled under the attention, unsure of how to react to it. Part of him desperately wanted to slip back into the shadows, and away from the dozens of pairs of eyes watching him. But he kept on, flanked on either side by Azog and Thurag, following their lead to the ruined palace.

He felt Azog's hand touch the small of his back, and smiled, drawing comfort and strength from it.

The palace was as decrepit as the rest of the city, if somewhat more grand for resembling what it once had been. A mighty, tall structure, built in the center of the city, a tower extending skyward to look over all of Minas Vrûn.

The three ascended the stairs side by side, eyed by the guards keeping watching over the entryway. But they were allowed to pass; Elrond imagined they were expected. As they stepped onto the higher platform and approached the door, the elf's eyes wandered over its exterior, and the beauty carved into its surface. It was worn with age, and fading, but still gleamed with some of its ancient majestry.

Elrond hesitated, wide eyes set upon the door, and both orcs faltered. Azog turned, perhaps mistaking his pause for fear, but at the sight of him, his brow furrowed. "What is it?"

"Forgive me, but this," He approached the door, running a hand over its surface. "It depicts things long lost, which I have not seen for an age." The memories assaulted him with over-strong emotions, and in his present state he was all but overcome by them. Tears pricked his eyes as he gazed up at the top of the image, of the scene depicting the glory of Men, the greatest of Numenor and Arnor, and at its center, a band of silver, with a sparkling white gem at its center…

"You are troubled."

The man startled at Elrond's approach; then, chuckled, though the laughter was heavy with forced cheer. "You should not sneak so, Lord of Imladris," Isildur muttered. "I might have taken you for a trespasser."

"I do not think so." He approached the younger mortal, looking out over the valley. They stood in the Homely House, on a balcony overlooking all. Night had long since fallen, and it was far too late to be awake, on the eve of such a day. "Why are you not at rest?"

The man frowned. "It is - difficult to do so." Turning, Isildur braced himself on the railing, a deep sigh escaping him. "Tomorrow, we march upon Mordor." His frown deepened. "Perhaps it is folly, but there is a great fear in my heart. Fear for all I love, and for myself. Fear that I might never lay eyes upon this valley and my dear ones who remain here again."

"It is wisdom, not folly, to fear danger and darkness," Elrond insisted, turning to face Isildur. "Yet I do not think this war shall be your end. You may yet bear the Elendilmir and rule as King."

The man turned to him, some light and hope brightening in his eyes. A weak smile lit his lips. "I hope you are right."

"Elrond?"

The elf blinked, and was back again in the world of today. Drawn from dark memories by the voice of his beloved, Elrond let his hand fall from the doorway, though his eyes lingered on that white gem.

"What is it?" Thurag asked behind him.

"The Elendilmir." Elrond told her. "The gemstone of the King, worn upon his brow to confer upon him the right to rule all of Arnor."

"Fancy," The orc said. "Is it here, then? In the city?"

"It was lost." Elrond replied quietly. "Lost with its bearer, King Isildur, when he fled the Gladden Fields and fell into the Anduin."

"Oh," Thurag muttered. "That sucks."

The words prompted something of a scuffle behind Elrond's back, and an argument entirely in Black Speech, with Azog spouting violently at the shorter orc. Elrond hardly noticed; he was still somewhat lost in his own mind, memories floating on the outskirts of his thoughts, a brooding mood drifting over him.

Azog came to stand in front of him; their eyes met. He seemed concerned, but kept his thoughts to himself, moving to open the door.