The ruins were like nothing he had ever seen in his short time on Middle Earth, but he had no eyes for them, only the bodies lying on the grass. Wynn couldn't stop staring. The flies gathered around the corpses' mouths like drunks at a bar, jostling each other for room.

"Hardly any sign of struggle," Hayden was saying. "They just… died."

Emlynn spat on the ground next to one of the expired hill-folk, his casual irreverence still very much intact.

"Look at the wounds. Small, and perfectly level, like they never saw it coming. Like they didn't even get a chance to fight back."

"I can understand getting the drop on one, but all of them? There's magic afoot here, and no mistake."

"I agree. There's something awfully fishy about this whole thing." Emlynn replied. "I knew Elden's father before he was killed in the Umbar campaign. He was a good man, and he taught his son an honest living."

"What about his mother?" Hayden said.

"Died in childbirth. He didn't talk about it much."

"We've all had our share of hardship. It's still no excuse to steal the Lord Regent's betrothal ring."

"Do you honestly think we're still chasing after that, Theongal?"

The second youngest member of their company shrugged.

"What do you think we're after?"

"I don't know, but it's worth sending the twelve of us on a wild goose chase far outside the Mark. The Lord Regent could buy another ring in a heartbeat." Emlynn said.

"What about the sword?" Theongal inquired, not shaken.

"He's got a dozen of those locked away in that little castle of his. None of this makes sense. I've seen a thousand criminals more hardened than this little farm boy, and yet here we are, chasing him all over hell and gone. It's obvious he's never coming back, just like it's obvious that that ring is a lot more than a betrothal trinket-"

"ENOUGH!"

It was Vorath, the leader of the company. His voice was enough to shake Wynn out of his reverie and make him look up. They were gathered around the site of the apparent massacre, their horses tied off just a few paces away. Vorath was a huge man, easily fifteen stone and as tall as a mountain. His voice carried a lot of weight, and not merely because it was deep and loud.

"It doesn't matter why the Lord Regent wants the ring. You swore oaths to the house of Rohan and all its executors, and now you will fulfill them, reasons be damned. I don't want to hear any more questions about the purpose of our mission, am I making myself perfectly clear?"

The deafening silence that followed bore no objections. Vorath turned to look each one of them in the eye in turn.

"Good, mount up. These bodies are fresh, he can't be far ahead."

Elden sat in the shade of an old oak tree. Smoke was grazing in a clearing a little ways ahead. In his hands was an old tome devoted to the elves that he had stuffed in his pack before leaving. It reminded him of the stories his father used to tell him of distant lands and strange peoples. He enjoyed reading a great deal, and now that the monotony of farm-life was behind him he had all the time in the world to devote to it. It was a very old book, and some of the pages were missing, but what was there was entertaining enough to wile away the morning hours with.

At first glance, the mannerisms of elves can seem strange, impulsive, contradictory, and at times completely alien to those of men, but upon closer inspection these conclusions are a result of the inherent bias of our perspective. Humans live amongst one another for mere decades, but elves must maintain for millennia. Friends, even elven friends, say and do stupid things that they regret just like humans, and so grievances and disagreements must be carefully managed and politely assuaged, as elven wars are long and terrible, and bad blood can endure for entire ages. This is why the fair folk can seem at times transparent and conniving and at others blunt and impatient.

Something broke his train of thought. At first he couldn't tell what it was, just an odd feeling, like the sensation one gets when their fingers grasp two pages instead of one. Then he felt the ring tug at his neck. He looked down into his tunic at it. It had not changed size or shape, but it felt like its weight was changing, pulling the chain taut against his neck.

Then he heard the hoof beats.

He threw the book back in his bag and raced towards Smoke, his sleeping roll and blanket forgotten on the ground. He leaped into the saddle and spurred the horse on. It responded immediately. The hoof beats were growing louder and louder by the minute, and when they broke clear of the tree line he could see the Eorlingas, and they saw him.

They were still some distance away, but their horses were already warmed up and his was still protesting the fact that it had been ripped away from its delicious meal of shoots and leaves.

For the first time that week, Elden was afraid. The Bruinen was closing in on his left, cutting him off, and the Misty Mountains on his right, impassable for hundreds of miles in either direction, save by the goblin-infested passages of Moria which he had already passed by.

Ahead of him the wood grew thicker, the gaps in the foliage merging into one until they were no more. To the northeast, across the river, he could see the thick beech trees of the Trollshaws. If he had not slowed down somewhat to avoid the trees, he would have tumbled right off the side of the cliff. It came upon them suddenly, and as he gazed down into the valley, and then back at the approaching Eorlingas he was filled with dread. If they could find him then they must already know what he carried, and if so they would not be easily fooled by a mere disappearing act. Besides, they would probably kill the horse out of spite if they could not find him, and he had grown deeply attached to Smoke in the long hours of solitude on the road.

He cast around wildly, and as luck would have it his eyes settled on a small path that wound down the sheer side of the cliff face and into the valley. It was his only hope.

"Whoa!"

The company turned their horses sharply to avoid sailing off into the mighty chasm. Emlynn slid off his steed an examined the ground, his thin frame looking very much like a bloodhound as he crawled over the grass, examining the hidden markings it contained. He pointed a finger at what at first looked to be a deer-trail, but upon closer inspection was revealed to be a way down into the valley. He and Vorath ran forward, leaning out over the abyss.

There, halfway down the trail, was Elden. He had dismounted, and was leading his black horse behind him by it's halter. Their eyes met briefly. Vorath cursed and spun around.

"Blast! Wynn, Theongal, dismount and follow him. Your horses are small enough to fit."

The two youngest members of the company did as they were told, removing the bit from their respective horses' mouths and unhitching one side of reins, so as to have a rope to lead them by.

"I am relying on you two. Don't let him escape by this route. Sleep on it if you have to."

"What are you going to do?" Wynn said.

Vorath hopped back into the saddle.

"We are going to circle around to the east and block off that end of the valley. It might take a whole day, so don't abandon the trail once you get to the bottom, or else he will just slip away."

As the rest of the company thundered off, Wynn and Theongal regarded one another, and then the valley.

"Is it true what they say? That the magic of the elves is still in this place, guarding it?"

Theongal shrugged.

"If Rivendell is still guarded, then he is walking into two traps and our task will be easy."

Both of them stood silent a moment, looking at the trail. It was awfully thin, and not designed with a fear of heights in mind. Wynn nudged Theongal's arm.

"You first."