Lathron stood on the rise, gazing down at the Vale of Thrain. The snow was thicker than he had ever seen it before, blanketing the ground, piled against the cliffs in great drifts. Although it was only late morning, the sky was steely grey, and the towering façade of Thorin's Hall was all but invisible. The drifting snow was not the only reason for this - across the valley, a series of chimneys had been built, which belched out a haze of smoke that had stained the snow the colour of charcoal. Lathron sighed as he remembered the pristine wilderness the vale had once been - the Dwarves had a lot to answer for.
Turning back, he strode into the campsite. The Elves had pitched their tents among the ruins of the old gatehouse of Edhelion Watch. To the north, the road curved up the hill towards the refuge itself.
Two contingents of Elves had met here, at the behest of Elrond. One, led by Elladan and Elrohir, had set out from Rivendell over a month ago. The other, led by Dorongúr Whitethorn, had come from Duillond to meet them. Elrond wished at least some members of the party to have knowledge of current events within the Ered Luin. So far, that plan had not gone well. It appeared that ever since Thorin's death at the hands of Bolg, son of Azog, during the Battle of Five Armies, the Dwarves of his hall had cut off all contact with the rest of the Ered Luin. At first, this was understandable - after all, the Dwarves had lost a beloved king, the last of the ancient line of Durin. After years of silence, however, and not just towards Elves but fellow Dwarves, suspicions had formed, and the news from Elrond just added to the suspicion.
Lathron strode through the camp, heading for its northern end. Elladan stood there in the middle of the track, gazing up to where the spires of Edhelion could just be seen above the ridge. He made no motion that he had seen Lathron as the other Elf appeared beside him. After a while, he said, "It is sad to see how beauty and wisdom can be brought low by greed. You are fortunate indeed to have seen this place in its full glory."
"The Vale is polluted," Lathron reported curtly, ignoring Elladan's comment for the moment. "There are chimneys and strange devices upon the western side, and the snow is blackened by the smoke they emit."
"Black snow, you say?" questioned Elladan, intrigued. "Just like in my Father's dream. I wonder if that is what it means, although it is rather literal for a riddle."
"I think, for the moment, it is our best lead," sighed Lathron. "What do you wish me to do next?"
Elladan looked at him gravely. "I do not ask this of you lightly, but someone must do it. Dorongúr knows this land better than any other Elf with us here, yet his scouts report that he made for the refuge upon arrival and has not been seen since. Will you seek him within Edhelion? I know you did not wish to come here, but you know the refuge best, and I must consult with our scouts. Find Dorongúr, and ask him what he thinks of the riddle. Find out if he has discovered anything to our advantage.
For a moment, Lathron considered refusing. Then, he hardened his heart. It was time for him to face his fears, he told himself. Talagan would not have hesitated. "Very well," he said, and strode off up the path.
The wind was bitingly cold, blowing up from below and threatening to pluck Lathron off the narrow track. Then, he turned the corner and there, before him, was Edhelion.
The stones of the refuge were grey and crumbling, and the courtyards were filled with thick snowdrifts. As Lathron walked between the tumbled pillars that were all that remained of the gates, a lynx darted out past his leg, shooting him a mistrustful glare and a hiss. Instinctively, Lathron reached for his bow, and had it drawn and an arrow nocked before he realised the small wildcat was no threat.
Eerie silence filled the ruins, and the wind whistled through empty archways and around pillars. Under a roof, where fresh snow had not yet piled up high enough to cover them, Lathron saw a set of footprints. Only a day old, made by an Elf of medium build and height, heading towards the central courtyard. He followed them, slipping through the gates, which were slightly ajar. There were still drag marks in the snow from where they had been opened. Silently, he paced across the courtyard, remembering his swordplay lessons and the wounded lining the flagstones.
He stepped through the Inner Gate and turned up the stairway. At the top stood Dorongúr. But for a faint haze of breath crystals, one might have thought he was frozen. Snow had piled up around his feet and settled on his hair and shoulders. He was staring across the chasm, to where Talagan had fallen so long ago. Lathron stood beside him, but he did not stir, even when Lathron put a hand on his shoulder. When he called Dorongúr's name and there was still no response, Lathron began to get worried. For the first time, he noticed that, although snow had settled in Dorongúr's hair, the actual hair was also prematurely white, where once it had been brown. The Elf's face was lined and impassive. The sight of his old comrade looking so old and frail shocked Lathron. "Dorongúr," he pleaded. "It's me, Lathron. Don't you remember me?"
Slowly, the old Elf's eyes twitched, and he turned slightly to face Lathron. "Lathron?" he whispered. "Is that really you?" Tears had frozen on his cheeks, and his lips were blue.
"Yes, it's me!" exclaimed Lathron, but you've got to move. If you stay here you'll die!"
Lathron's words seemed to rouse Dorongúr slightly. He looked around bemusedly, as if wondering where he was. "Lathron," he said again, his voice fading. "Little Lathron? But it can't be. You died. Or was it Talagan, I can't remember. Was it me?" He giggled alarmingly. Suddenly, Lathron was gripped with the fear that here, Dorongúr, too, would die.
"Oh no you don't," he growled, hefting the other Elf in his arms - he felt as light as a feather and terrifyingly frail. "I've already lost one of you here, I'm not going to lose another."
By the time he had carried Dorongúr back to camp, the older Elf had slipped into a coma. The healers rushed him into their tent, where they lit a fire, supplying him with tinctures and muttering words in Quenya while Lathron could only sit outside and watch them helplessly as they scurried back and forth. He felt like a failure. If Dorongúr died too, how could he forgive himself?
After a tense hour, a healer came out to speak to him. "We have done what we can," she said. "He will recover from the cold, although I suspect he may lose some fingers. What may never recover is his mind. He seems delirious, and keeps mentioning names - Talagan, Skorgrím, yours.
"Can I speak to him?" Lathron asked. "It's urgent - about Elrond's dream."
"I'm afraid he is asleep at present. I will inform you when he wakes. Until then, I must request that you do not disturb him."
It was a long day after that. Lathron paced up and down the camp, until everyone around him was thoroughly on edge. Finally, Elladan approached him. "Would you mind hunting for some more food?" he asked. "We're low on meat, and I can't spare many others." Lathron knew it was a lie, but he went anyway - anything to distract him from Dorongúr's awful condition.
The woods around the camp were alive with hares. He shot half-heartedly at any he came across, not caring if he hit or missed. Only when his arrows ran out did he take in the damage - eighteen dead hares, and almost twice as many lost or broken arrows. Talagan would not have been pleased. Elladan raised an eyebrow when he saw the pile of corpses, but said nothing, merely gestured towards the cooking tent.
At least now, Lathron had something truly constructive to do - he worked late into the evening making new arrows - whittling the shafts, trimming fletching from hawk feathers and fixing iron heads to the ends. He couldn't stomach the bowl of hare stew that was brought to him, so he tipped it into the bushes and let the lynxes squabble over the meat. When his fingers were raw and his eyelids heavy, he crawled into his tent and fell asleep instantly.
His dreams were troubled by howls and cruel laughter. Three shadowy figures stood over him - one short and stout, with glowing green eyes, one thin and hunched, with blood dripping from his fingers, and one tall and terrifying, seeming to draw light into himself. Behind them, a darker shadow loomed, remote, and yet its malice beat at him. They mocked him with strange words and called his name over and over. 'Lathron, Lathron.'
"Lathron!"
He awoke, lashing out with his knife, and narrowly missed hitting the healer as she tried to wake him. She leapt back, angry. "Careful!" she scolded. "I only came to tell you that Dorongúr is awake. He wants to speak to you."
"Oh. Sorry." Lathron took several deep breaths to calm himself. "Just give me a minute - I'm coming."
The woman snorted and stalked out of the tent, muttering something about ingratitude and the violence of youngsters. Lathron sat for a few moments, until the image of the shadowy figures had disappeared from his mind, then followed her.
She appeared to have calmed down when he met her outside the infirmary. "He asked for you specifically when he woke up. I must warn you, he's very frail, and his wits tend to wander. Are you sure you want to see him?"
"Positive."
"Very well, come in."
Dorongúr lay under a pile of furs at the centre of the tent, nearest the fire. Despite this, he was shivering, and his eyes stared blankly up. For a moment, Lathron was afraid he might have fallen unconscious again, but then he coughed, sat up, and saw Lathron. His face brightened. "Lathron!" he wheezed, then lapsed into another coughing fit.
Lathron drew closer. "Don't hurt yourself. Lie back down."
Dorongúr ignored him. "I knew it was you. You rescued me, thank you."
"What in Arda were you doing up there?" Lathron asked. "Were you trying to kill yourself?"
Dorongúr looked abashed. "Sorry. I just needed to... to see it again. See where it happened. You understand, don't you?"
Lathron nodded. "It's good to see you again, Dorongúr."
"And you too. My, how you've grown, although you're still wearing that scarf, I see." Lathron touched it self-consciously, but Dorongúr seemed to have forgotten him for a second. He stared into the fire, muttering. "Black snow, red footprints, cold flesh. The Dour King cannot sleep, oh no, oh no."
Lathron recognised the words. "The riddle," he asked. "What do you know of it?"
Dorongúr gripped his arm suddenly and stared past him. Lathron noticed with a shock that two of his fingers were stiff and blackened from frostbite. "No, it can't happen!" the Elf cried. "Talagan... all for naught. Bloody flowers. Poisoned water. The Dourhands know, oh yes. They're behind it, but who's behind them?" He chuckled maniacally. "Who indeed? You must stop them, you must, or all is lost."
Lathron tried to break free, but the vice-like grip held him fast. Healers rushed forward to calm Dorongúr, laying him back down on the mat. The woman turned to Lathron. "I think it would be best if you go now."
"No!" Dorongúr sat up again. "Wait! Go back to the refuge. The footprints of blood... find them there. Below too. Seek the fallen. Find his footprints, the dead footprints. Find where the dead have walked!"
He began coughing again, and solemnly, Lathron turned to go. The woman gave him a sad look as he left. "I'm sorry."
Outside, he found Elladan waiting. Elrond's son looked tired and wan. "Elrohir has not come back," he said, when he saw Lathron. The other Elf had gone to seek clues further in the valley, and explore the situation further before the Elves attempted to initiate contact. This was bad news. "What does Dorongúr say?" Elladan continued. "Anything of use?"
"Perhaps," Lathron mused. "He kept mentioning the footprints of blood. He told me to go back to Edhelion and look for the start of a trail, and then look below, to follow them and find where the dead had walked. He mentioned the Dourhands too. Suggested they were behind whatever is going on."
"That much at least is the only thing clear in this sordid affair," growled Elladan. "Nevertheless, it is worth following his advice. His talk of the dead walking troubles me. Go back to the refuge. See if you can find these 'footprints of blood'. Meanwhile, I shall go and see if there is a way to get below the refuge. The Dwarves must have dug a mine or something into the abyss below Edhelion."
Once again, Lathron headed up into Edhelion. The night was at its darkest, so this time, he took a torch with him. Grey owls swooped overhead and the lynxes stalked through the ruins, watching him warily with glowing green eyes. He thought of his dream again and shivered.
At the fallen bridge he stopped and scanned around. After a short search he saw it - growing from the rubble on the far side was a thin, scraggly plant, with a thorny stem and clusters of spiky red flowers. A scent of rottenness wafted over to him and he gagged. Here, then, was a 'footprint of blood'. Now he just had to find where it led.
Hi readers. Normality resumes, after a long wait. Holidays make it very easy to write, but very hard to get around to posting, but I'm back now. I wonder who the spooky figures in the dream are. If you know the game, you can probably guess. If you just know the story, at least one should be fairly obvious. I hope you're enjoying it so far. I know I am.
Just a warning - I am now starting my A-levels (if you're not English, just in case you don't know, they're your final two years of exams before university). I have been reliably informed that they are absolutely shit-nasty and require a lot of extra time. I shall strive to write (it might be the only way for me to relax after all) but never assume. This is, after all, a hobby.
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Lathrond Aleniel, Elf Hunter, Firefoot Server.
Disclaimer: almost all of the names of people, places and general things are owned by Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema or Warner Brothers, and are fictitious, or if real are used fictitiously and solely for the purposes of entertainment within boring disclaimers. The others are owned by me. Any similarity to any real life person, alive or dead, is probably almost but not quite certain to be entirely uncoincidental.