Chapter 4

443, Second Age

Days went by without interruption. They followed Elrond's instincts, as they did not come across any other Fëanorian constructions. The next human village was a three days' ride away, and they found no one willing to help there. Elves were considered dangerous, to possess magic and all kinds of other nonsense that would usually drive Erestor to laughing himself to tears. Now, it was simply annoying.

They rode on and on, and population grew scarcer. It seemed like the perfect place for an elf who wanted to hide from the rest of the world. Yet the elves did not feel much triumph when they caught sight of smoke on the horizon.

"Humans," Elrond said.

"And not just any. They are most likely bandits," Erestor replied with a grim expression.

The half-elf was not so quick to assume the worst.

"Let's go and see."

They were more careful now. They wanted to avoid being seen, but did not know the area. However, Elrond and Erestor had mastered harder tasks. They left their horses behind and carefully neared the source of the smoke.

To their horror, they had been wrong - the camp was not occupied by humans, but by orcs! Some twenty orcs were sitting around, cursing, insulting, shoving, punching, and, of course, eating and drinking in the most disgusting ways.

Elrond's lips turned into a snarl, and his hand twitched towards his sword. It was useless: there were too many orcs, and only two of them. They retreated, wordlessly mounting their horses and urging them to a trot.

"So darkness is gathering once more," Elrond remarked.

"It was inevitable," Erestor replied. "Yet this is only one group; let us not jump to conclusions."

"You're right: it was inevitable. Whether these orcs were an exception or not, they should serve as a warning to us," the half-elf argued.

Erestor shrugged. "We'll keep it in mind, and be careful on our way back. Now we neither have the means nor is it our purpose to deal with them."

Elrond grimaced but nodded. The next human village would need to be warned, but they did not even know how far away that was. They followed their own road, stopping to rest only when it was too dark to travel onwards, and leaving again once the moon had risen and gave off enough light to see by.

And just when Elrond thought that their journey would end fruitlessly at the Gwathló or perhaps even at the Isen River, things changed.

It was early morning when Elrond awoke, much too early for his comfort. Staring at the rosy sky, he did not realize it at first that someone was singing nearby. He knew that voice. Within a moment he was on his feet. Erestor, having somehow felt his sudden movement, stirred, his hand reflexively reaching for the sword next to him.

"Wha-?"

"Makalaurë!"

Elrond left the horses where they were. His foster-father was within hearing range, so he had to be close. All sense of propriety left him, and he jogged towards where he thought the sound came from.

Erestor, once he realized why the half-elf had run off like that, followed him, caught him by the arm, and stopped him.

"Slowly! You can't even tell where the voice is coming from, running like that!" Erestor admonished him.

Elrond shot him a dark look at the delay. He didn't say anything, however, when Erestor took him by the hand like a child, and they walked on together more slowly.

They couldn't always decide on a common direction. To Elrond it seemed to come from ahead, while Erestor thought they had to turn right. They pulled each other along, but no matter where they went, it seemed that they got no closer to the singer.

The sun rose behind the plains, and the light brightened, the seagulls started crying, and before they knew it, the singing had stopped, and they were a lot farther from the camp than they had intended.

Erestor swore. "You keep searching. I'll get the horses."

And he ran off as quickly as his swift feet would carry him. Erestor was by no means a fast runner, but he was faster than the average human.

Once at their abandoned camp, he quickly saddled the horses, tied their belongings behind the saddles and mounted his horse. His stomach complained against not having received breakfast. Ignoring it, Erestor took the other horse's reins, drove his heels into his own horse's flanks, and rode back to where he had left Elrond.

The half-elf was no longer there, of course, but he had left clearly visible tracks – usually a disadvantage of being a half-elf, but in this instance it served them well – and Erestor had no trouble following them on horseback. He finally tracked him down to the beach, where Elrond stood in front of a hut very much like the one they had come across some weeks ago. It was empty.

"Has he moved on?" Erestor inquired as he jumped off the horse. Now that they seemed so close to the end of their journey, he found himself excited rather than dreadful.

"I don't know," Elrond replied. "Perhaps he will return. I say we stay the night and find out."

Erestor nodded. He unsaddled the horses again while Elrond restlessly walked about the area. Time went by slowly, and both elves were bored. Unfortunately, an elf's eternal life was often filled with boredom, and had they been in Lindon, they would have gone to the library for some quiet reading, or played a game of chess.

The sun wandered across the sky westwards, and the elves tired. Erestor left once to go hunting, returning with a couple of conies which they cooked over an open fire. Before they knew it, they fell asleep in bright daylight.

Elrond was the first to wake. It was beginning to get dark, and the late hour jerked him fully awake. Had they missed Maglor?

Only then did he realize that he could hear, and see the flickering light of a fire. They had put out the cooking fire, and Erestor still lay fast asleep next to him.

Elrond sat up quickly and turned to the fire. His gaze met a pair of bright grey eyes. Grief and a hard life in isolation had dulled them somewhat, but only an elf would have been able to tell. The figure sitting across him seemed calm – outwardly. But he had suffered a thirst no water, wine, or even Miruvor could have quenched, and now that he had found the solution, he would not let it out of his sight; he had been starved for company. Anyone else he would have avoided; his foster-son, however, he could not leave sleeping on obliviously while he wandered on. He had suffered solitude too long, missed the half-elf too much that he had not been able to deny himself – and thus he had stayed.

"Ada," Elrond breathed, and he sounded centuries younger and on the verge of tears.