Notes: 2MFriedmanFreak: the elven words were from the song of Galadriel (it's referenced in Chapter 6 of this story, I think, and also in Chapter 3).

Incunabulum 21: In the Halls of the Elvenking

"What is going on?" asked Elrohir, entering Thranduil's private sitting room and carefully skirting the indoor swimming pool. "I can't get anything coherent out of Halrodil."

Thranduil was standing with his back towards him and did not reply.

"All the other elves could tell me was that they captured an orc and you sent it down to your laboratory," Elrohir went on. "I don't see why that should be cause for so much commotion."

"What commotion?" asked Thranduil, turning around with an unsuccessful attempt to look unruffled.

"Halrodil fainting and you shutting yourself up in your chambers and refusing to admit anyone."

"Oh, yes. Speaking of which, what are you doing in here?"

"Well, my father made me Rivendell's official ambassador, so it's my duty to know what's going on," said Elrohir firmly. "I'm tired of your secretiveness. You've taken to hiding away in your room most evenings of late, locking the servants out and making ominous sounds like falling furniture. I want to know what you're up to. And why you experiment on orcs in your laboratory."

"Why should you think there's some connection between my erratic behaviour and Halrodil's unaccountable breakdown?" asked Thranduil.

"I think there's something odd about that orc and I want to know what," said Elrohir.

"Really?" asked Thranduil in so meaningful a tone that Elrohir immediately changed his mind.

"Well, no. That is...well, what's odd about it?" he asked with an anxious expression. "It's not so awful as all that, is it?"

"Perhaps you should know," said Thranduil thoughtfully. "It might be worse for you to find it out on your own."

Elrohir looked even more anxious. He rather thought it might be best to leave, but his curiosity kept him there.

"I am having the orc examined in the laboratory in case I should be mistaken," said Thranduil, "but unfortunately there is little likelihood of that. The miserable creature it appears is not an orc..." - Thranduil paused sinisterly - "but an elf."

Elrohir started in horror.

"His brother recognised him as well. It is the same elf your father has been searching for."

"But what happened to him?" asked Elrohir, recovering the powers of speech with an effort. "I mean, it looked exactly like an orc."

"It is an orc - now. There's no doubt on that score."

"But how is such a thing possible?"

Thranduil turned and looked thoughtfully down at the reflections in his pool. "It was said in the old stories that orcs were once elves, tortured by Morgoth out of all semblance of good. A legend, perhaps, but even legends can hold a germ of truth."

"Then one of us can actually turn into one of - them?"

"So it would seem."

"But that's horrible! I mean, then there's not really so great a difference between us and - and - those creatures - as we thought. Only a step..."

"I am telling you this in the strictest confidence," cut in Thranduil. "I have already made arrangements. No one but ourselves must know of this."

"What arrangements?" asked Elrohir. "What are you going to do?"

"The orc will be taken beyond the confines of Mirkwood and slain. The soldiers who carry out the sentence will know nothing - of course they will think it only an ordinary orc."

"But what if it could be cured?"

"There is no cure," said Thranduil. "And if there were, it would be too dangerous to keep the creature alive. The truth might leak out."

"What about my father? Aren't you going to consult him first? That was the agreement."

"Not even he must know."

"Why not?" said Elrohir. "That's why I'm here, after all, to tell him what goes on. How can we just not tell him?"

"Do you want him to know?" said Thranduil, invading Elrohir's personal space in so intimidating a manner that Elrohir was compelled to back away. "Do you want anyone to know about this? This is the blackest stain on our kindred that has ever come to be. It will never be washed away. It can only be covered up."

"Are you sure?" asked Elrohir.

"Of course," said Thranduil, turning away again. "There can be no question of its former identity. His eyes were distinctive."

"That's not what I was asking," said Elrohir.

"Don't I get any kind of trial?" asked Etwol, staring at the elf who had read his sentence.

"Be grateful we've kept you alive this long, orc," said the elf, rolling up the elvenking's instructions. "However you have yet a little while to live. We will not stain our fair soil with your blood."

Etwol felt rotten after an agonising night in the elvenking's laboratory. He had spent hours sitting in a crummy waiting room, sent purposelessly to various parts of the facility, required to fill out endless forms, and at last examined, poked, prodded, and discussed by multiple white-robed specialists. His arms were sore from all the blood tests, most of which had come back inconclusive and had had to be done over again. Worst of all, they had taken away his weapons, although they had left him his hammer, no doubt thinking it harmless.

Etwol was marched through the winding passages leading from the dungeon to the upper halls, but instead of going out through the main gate, Etwol soon saw (from his memory of the palace lay-out) that they were leaving the palace through the small water gate generally used for barrels. Thranduil apparently wished to keep the whole affair as quiet as possible.

Two elves stood over the gate guarding it somberly as the boat carrying the execution party passed through. One of them was Halrodil who looked stern and kept his eyes studiously averted. Etwol watched him anxiously as the boat floated away from the gate. Only once did their eyes meet and Halrodil looked quickly away.

Before very long Etwol and the two guards with him reached the outskirts of Mirkwood where the river flowed across the plain before running into the lake. Here they disembarked and dragged Etwol to a likely-looking place for an execution.

"Here is a good place," said one elf. "Tie him to that tree and I will shoot him."

"No, we should slice his head off," said the other.

"We can do both, but I will shoot him first."

"What we ought to do is throw him up in the air and the one who gets an arrow closest to his heart wins."

Suddenly a horrible sound came from directly over their heads and a shadow thrown by the early morning sun passed across the trees behind them. The elves shuddered and loosed their arrows upwards, but before they could draw their swords the shape and shadow were gone. The orc was gone too.

"You missed," said one of the elves accusingly.

"I wasn't aiming for the beast," said the other elf. "I was aiming for the figure on its back and my arrow went straight through it...without leaving a hole."

The two elves stared at each other in confusion.

"If they are taking him to Mordor he will be killed for a deserter," said the captain, finally. "Our task is finished."

There was a fog that morning on the Dead Marshes - thick, greenish, almost luminous murk that masked objects but made even distant sounds startlingly clear. The fell beast (whatever its name in the zoology books) landed gracefully on one of the few stable bits of ground and the nazgul, holding tightly to Etwol, slid off.

"Fanks for saving me," said Etwol. "Was it you who was after me all the time?"

"Yes," said the nazgul. "Sauron sent me after you. The others were busy chasing Faramir around. What were you doing in Mirkwood?"

"I tried to warn the elves, but they wouldn't believe me."

"Why did you want to warn the elves?" asked the nazgul in surprise.

"Because," said Etwol. Seeing the nazgul still stared at him quizzically he went on. "Because I used to be one."

"Oh," said the nazgul. Then he added, "I used to be a man once."

"You did?" said Etwol. He was suddenly struck with an inspiration. "Then maybe you know why deaf was a gift to men."

"Death? A gift? It's not. It's awful. Although, I suppose..." said the nazgul slowly, "it might be nice not to have to worry about anything anymore."

"You mean it's not? I fought it was. I fought all men lived for was dying well."

"Really?" said the nazgul.

"You have to know!" said Etwol. "You used to be one!"

"But that was a long time ago. I don't remember it very well."

Etwol slumped onto the ground in depression.

"Why does it mean so much to you?" asked the nazgul.

"Never mind," said Etwol. "Anyway, we have to save the elves somehow. If they won't believe us, we'll have to save them some other way."

"I can't," said the nazgul. "They're the enemy and I have to obey Sauron's orders."

"But you saved me."

"That was different. Sauron told me I had to get you. He didn't say I had to bring you back."

"I can't do it by myself," said Etwol.

"I'm sorry, but I can't help it."

The nazgul put out its hand.

"Good bye."

Etwol slowly took it.

"You won't forget your promise?"

"What promise?"

"The ring."

"Oh, yeh," said Etwol. "I won't forget."

He watched the nazgul vanish into the mist above him and then he sank down again on a clump of marsh grass and stared glumly at the dead bodies in the water.

Middle Earth would soon be taken over by Sauron's forces, which meant that he would soon be caught and killed. That did not bother him much at the moment, however. As an orc he had always avoided thinking about his own death and as an elf he had never needed to. Now that it was quite certain, he could only think of what his brother had once said about men's lives being summed up in one glorious moment. He rather wished he knew what such a thing was like. He had always rather wanted to know because it had always sounded more interesting than living forever.

Hours passed, but still he sat there. There was really nothing else to do. At last he became aware of a strange noise penetrating the fog, coming from the direction of the Black Gate. It sounded like singing.

"Oh, you were a vampire and baby, I'm walking dead..."

Etwol stood up and tried to see through the mist. The song was getting clearer and closer and sounded as if the singers had decided to cross the marsh rather than stay on the road. Eventually he was able to make out figures walking single file and keeping time to their song, save for when one or another was obliged to leap a pool or dodge a soft spot.

They passed Etwol about twenty metres away and the mist swallowed them again. But Etwol hurried after them, following the sound of their singing, and soon overtook them.

"Hi; you!" he said. "Stop!"

The leader of the column stopped but the rest kept going and consequently commenced tripping over him.

"Who's that? Oh, it's you!" said the small orc who was leading the party. It was Ghashbug and he was in fact the only orc. The rest of the group consisted of zombies and vampires.

"What are you doing here?" asked Etwol.

"That's just what I was about to ask you," said Ghashbug. "We heard the Eye was looking for you, but we never heard no more about you. If he'd a found you, we'd've heard of it, so we wondered what could have happened."

"I got away, that's all," said Etwol. "But what are the lot of you doing here? You're not going to attack Gondor on your own, are you?"

"We're leaving," said a vampire firmly. "We got tired of sitting around in Mordor and we don't think the Eye is cool anymore. We're going back to Isengard."

"What? Haven't you heard?" said Etwol. "Isengard got knocked to blighty. That's why Saruman and Grima came here. It's too dangerous to go there now."

"Then what should we do?" said Ghashbug. They all looked at Etwol complaisantly, as if he were their new leader.

"I don't know," said Etwol impatiently. Then he stopped as a sudden idea occurred to him. "Wait - I do, as a matter of fact. How would you like to do some fighting?"

They seemed perfectly agreeable to this. Their main reason for leaving Mordor was boredom, so they were ready for anything as long as it was interesting.

"Come on!" said Etwol, growing excited. "We can save this yet. Do like I do."

He turned and floundered into the nearest water hole.

"What are you doing?" asked Ghashbug.

Etwol emerged from the water dragging a corpse. "Come on," he said. "There's nuffing to be afraid of. Our mates have done it often enough."

He plunged in again and fetched out another. The others began to follow his example and a stack of bodies began to grow.

"What're we goin' to do wiv 'em?" asked Ghashbug.

"They're our army," said Etwol. "There's fousands of 'em. Pity Sauron didn't see the potential of these dead marshes, eh?"

"Who're we going to fight?"

"Well..." Etwol paused, uncertain how to deliver the news. "We're going to fight orcs."

This went over well with the zombies and vampires. Ghashbug, seeing he was outnumbered, made no comment.

They continued their task in silence for some time. At last Ghashbug straightened up and made an observation.

"The fog's blowing off."

Etwol looked westwards. The sun was setting behind a bank of thick cloud over Gondor.

"We 'aven't much time," he said.