Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and I make no money from this writing.

(A/N I have been doing some research. I hope I haven't strayed too far from book canon. If anyone knows any reference which contradicts the age I have given one of the characters, please let me know. I am assuming all of Aragorn's people age at more or less the same rate, even if they cannot expect to live as long as he does.)

We draw closer to the confluence with the Mitheithel just as the light is beginning to fade. I am paddling now, steering the boat down the current. The air cools and I pass a blanket to Estel, who puts it over his knees.

"Is your arm aching?" I ask, and he nods. I will gather comfrey for him tonight and he can have a new poultice. I should have checked his arm earlier. I did not have time to gather up my herb bag, so I hope he will be well. He sits straight-backed on the front thwart, turning his head now and then as a bird or a tree catches his attention. His eyesight is keen, by the standards of his kind, and the fading light is no bar to his interest.

We will be at the meeting place in two more turns of the river now. I remind him to keep quiet and he crouches down a little. I begin to take more care to keep the boat from the shallows as the Bruinen widens and slows.

There, ahead, the landing place, and no sign of anyone, though I am uneasy, and warn Estel to be on his guard. He nods and steps warily out of the boat, then helps me drag it out of the river. We hide it with branches and I take our fish, the blankets and some rope out.

"Go on," I encourage him. He keeps close by now that it is darker but he sets off at my word, up the bank and over into the scrubland beyond. "To the right. There. By the three trees."

That has been our meeting place for years without number. But we are a day early at least, and the chances are we will wait out the night and meet them tomorrow morning. I begin to doubt the wisdom of my plan to re-unite Estel with his own people for a few days. I weighed risk and gain and perhaps have made the wrong choice.

Yet as we draw nearer the trees I catch the distinctive smell of a campfire and then see the tiny glow, close by the tree. Two forms sit by the fire, one taller than the other.

I call out our greeting. The taller figure rises but does not return my call. He stands, and the smaller figure, a boy, stands close by.

"Are the Dúnedain become so distrustful they do not recognise two of the House of Elrond?" I say, keeping Estel a little behind me, and my hand on my knife. There is about this place an atmosphere I have not felt before. I listen, hear noises which need my full attention for a moment, and then Estel steps forward.

"Are you really one of my people?" he says, a quiet awe in his voice.

I put an arm round his shoulders and pull him to me. He knows only that he is of the Dúnedain and that is all his words meant, though in time it will come to mean more. His people know his identity must be kept secret but will this child know that?

"What is your name?" The other child speaks and steps forward. He is taller than Estel and seems to my eye older, though guessing the age of mortals is not an easy task.

"Estel," my brother answers, glancing up at me for permission. I push him forward gently. "What is yours?" he asked, falling easily into trusting the other boy.

"Halbarad," he says. "I'm twelve. I'm taking my Test."

"I'm nine," my brother says. He is a month past his birthday. "What test? An archery test? I'm learning to pull the bigger bow now."

"The Test to join a Company, of course. Where do you live?"

"Before we exchange more greetings, let us go to the fire," I suggest, liking less and less the sounds which come to my ears. The man looks round as well, and his hand is on the hilt of his sword.

We shepherd the two boys back to the fire and I hear their talk, Estel friendly and open, the older boy less so, yet I can hear already the warmth in his voice as they talk, swapping little tales of things they can do. Does this Dúnedain boy know that he is speaking to his Chieftain? From the ease and freedom of their communication I am inclined to think not.

The noise grows louder and the stench hits me. Orcs, more than a few, and they are travelling fast. Abruptly, we decide the fire must be put out.

"We must hide. We are not strong enough to resist. They may be about some other business." The man, who has not given his name, voices my thoughts as he stamps out the fire and gathers up his pack and cloak. Halbarad does the same. We have little to take and I catch hold of Estel's hand, whether to reassure him or myself, I do not know.

"To the river," I say. "They hate the clean waters from the mountains. We may be able to hide there."

And so we move, fast and low, both boys running hard to keep up and we arrive at the dark and silver waters as the orcs do. We leave grasses which close behind us. They will leave a trail which will not heal for weeks.

Have they seen us? The boys are afraid. The orcs will smell that. I wonder desperately, as I push Estel ahead of me, if we can fit four in the boat but I know it is impossible. We cannot ford the river here, either, although we might swim it. It is cold, and deep in the centre, but we could swim. Perhaps with the boat to help. My mind turns over all the possibilities but there is no time to communicate a decision.

Harsh voices fill the air. They have reached the water but they are arguing, I think, though to my ears it always sounds as if they are angry with one another. We slide down the bank, Estel holding onto me with a fierce grip, and we try to push the boys into the deeper darkness where the river has cut into the bank.

A yell, and I know we are seen. Now we must make sacrifices, for the boys must be kept alive. I reach for the boat and pull it to the water's edge, then pick up Estel and throw him into it, nearly upsetting it. Halbarad next, and I hand him the paddle. Then the rank stench is all round us, and the Dúnedan is fighting for his life and ours, hand to hand, sword against scimitar, grace against brutish strength. There are too many and as soon as I know the boys are safe I turn to help him as I may.

Two things stop me. First, the man falters, cut over the back with a scimitar, then down upon his knees, lost in a welter of black shapes, surely dead in the next few moments.

The second? Estel's cry, "Elrohir! No! Don't leave me!"

I turn away from the fight and push the boat fully into the river, jumping as lightly as I can, and, as arrows rattle into the water around us, I let the water carry us away.

tbc