Hi everyone! First of all, I hope those of you who celebrate Easter are about to enjoy a great long weekend!

Posted this one a bit later than usual, since AO3 was having some issues and I wanted to post on both sites at the same time.

Also, I've been seeing a few concerned reviews regarding the chances of this story being discontinued. Rest assured there's no risk of that happening. Not anymore, at any rate ;) I do have one story I had to put on indefinite hiatus when my inspiration just upped and walked out one fine day, but those were the days of carefreeness (and youth), when I'd still post as I wrote, and I've learnt my lesson since. This one is fully done as I'm writing this, so not to worry. Everybody's getting their story told!

Now, onto the story itself. Enjoy!

Chapter 41

August 18th, TA 3020

A song broke the quiet of the forest; to an untrained ear, it may have sounded like the call of some bird, up in the canopies, but Elladan had spent enough time in the wilderness to recognize a signal. Behind him, Amdirfel too had acknowledged the greeting, whistling in return in the likeness of a shrike not long before Faineth stepped out of the shrubbery, her bow slung across her back.

"What news from ahead?" Elladan called out as the small group came to a halt in the center of a narrow clearing.

"The woods are peaceful, my Lord, but I wish I could say the same of the rivers." She jerked her head towards the trees in her back. "The Dogstail is roiling with rain, and the stones beneath are too slippery to cross."

She accepted the flask Amdirfel proffered, despite having her own, more than half-full gourd – from the sound of water sloshing inside – hanging from her belt. Their fingers brushed as she did so; Elladan averted his gaze, the all-too-familiar pang of loneliness stinging his side like a stitch. A pang dulled when he thought of Mehreen, and her enticing responsiveness to his own gruff ways.

"How far to a ford?"

"Half-a-day, my Lord, if we are to head uphill."

The shadow of a grimace crept across Faineth's impassive face as she spoke, for the evocation of the West, and the growing proximity of what lay beyond the Ephel Dúath, weighed down on everyone's mind. Yet there was no viable alternative. From what Elladan knew, the only other way was to double down to Osgiliath, and follow the Anduin until Cair Andros – the only place where it could safely be crossed again, and a detour that would cost them another day, if not more.

"Very well," he sighed, "lead on." And nodded to the others to follow.

The summer storms prophesied by Eredhwen had ceased less than a week before, their low-hanging clouds relinquishing their position over Ithilien to drift eastward, towards the summits of Ered Nimrais which, Elladan hoped, were sharp enough to gut them of what poison they may carry. The ground, which had been dry and crackled but days before had soaked up the water until it could hold no more, releasing the excess in the form of puddles that slowly evaporated in the rising heat. Mud squelched under their feet as they walked, caking the leather of their boots and sticking to the soles; swarms of mosquitoes buzzed between the boughs, preying on those unfortunate enough to venture so deep into their territory.

Beside Elladan, Gaerlin swore as he squashed a bug against the flesh of his neck, leaving a bloody stain upon his sweaty skin. While each member of the group carried a bag filled with remedies the man had lumbered himself with two, the straps criss-crossing upon his wide chest. For an instant, Elladan caught a glimpse of the warrior he had once been, before the swelter and the insects drove him into muteness once more.

For the umpteenth time that day, Elladan wondered whether his decision to take Gaerlin along had not been a mistake.

His thoughts strayed towards Mehreen, of all people. Had anyone told him they would someday become…what? Friends? He bristled at the term with little desire to pinpoint what it was that vexed him about it. Friends. Elladan would not have believed it. Yet, there was no denying she had changed. Though not humbled – and Elladan found he preferred it that way – the spoiled, haughty woman had turned into a conscientious member of the Houses, and if such a transformation could be performed on one so reluctant, the right mission could well pull Gaerlin out of his apathy.

If he did not attempt anything grievous first, that is, despite Elladan watching him like a hawk.

Behind Gaerlin walked the Hopeful Three, as Legolas had come to call them: Annahad and Taniel, conversing in a low voice and swatting at the mosquitoes that interrupted their conversation, and Bruiven, who brought up the rear, appearing lost in thought. Though little, in their garb, distinguished them from Faineth and Amdirfel, the incongruity was evident in the slight looseness of their belts, causing the pouches and bags to slap against their thighs with every step, and their obliviousness to their surroundings. The distant rattle of a rail surprised them as much as a sudden silence did not, while Elladan's skin prickled at the change.

He stifled another sigh. Had he and his brother looked so out of place, once, when they had first joined the Dúnedain in their watchful travels through what remained of the lost kingdoms of Cardolan and Rhudaur? Or had he, Elladan, grown too weary and suspicious for a world in peace? Saineth would not have failed to remind him they had not applied as rangers but as healers, and that it was best their hands were not as calloused as to lose their sensitivity. Despite his doubts, as well as the grudge he still held against Bruiven, Elladan vowed to do his best at judging the three justly, and even teach them a thing or two about life outside of the settlement.

It was not yet midday as they reached the Dogstail, a stream that took its source in the Ephel Dúath and curved through the woodlands to join the Anduin, thus earning its name from the inhabitants of North Ithilien. As Faineth had reported, the once peaceful, shallow brook had turned into a foaming current that rushed over the stones that once bordered its bed, tearing off the moss that grew upon them, drunk on its newfound strength. Amdirfel dove under the low branches of the spruce trees that grew upon the bank, holding them up for the others to follow and earning a smile from Faineth. Grateful for the coolness of the river mist that settled on his skin, Elladan waited for the Hopeful Three to make their way into the makeshift tunnel of green needles before closing the march.

Another few hours, and he called for a halt. The group had reached a small glade, secluded by rising walls of stone on its western side, and by dense vegetation on the other three. The firs and dogwoods seemed to huddle close to each other, made uneasy by the lingering presence of their once formidable neighbor; as the sun had set over the Ered Nimrais the heat had subsided, and a small breeze rustled their leaves, carrying the scent of the nearby Nindalf fens and of stagnant waters closer still.

"We shall make camp for the night," Elladan commanded.

Both Amdirfel and Faineth sprung to action at his words, as though biding their time until that very moment. Faineth unstrapped her bow and disappeared amidst the trees, Amdirfel setting off to gather firewood with the eager, if untried, help of the apprentices. Elladan remained with Gaerlin, who surveyed his surroundings with a slightly less dispassionate eye than his usual, and lowered his bags to the ground. His tunic clung to his back where the straps had crossed, the fabric imbued with perspiration.

"How are you feeling?"

The man shrugged for all answer before plodding across the clearing to slump down, his back against the stone wall. His large hands twitched in his lap, the remaining fingers drumming an unknown tune, as though remembering their previous life.

"Fair enough."

Elladan came to sit beside him, his own satchel propped against the granite, stretching out his legs towards where the fire would soon be kindled; for now, all there was, was darkness, and the flicker of stars high above. He squinted at the sky. At this time of the year, Manwë reigned on the firmament, through the presence of Thoron, whose milky wings glimmered through the canopies. Nessa's harp shimmered below, starry strings vibrating under unseen fingers; yet Elladan was searching for another constellation.

There. Five stars, placed to resemble a single tear. Nîr.

Small and pale, Nienna's mark was as discrete as the Vala's influence in Middle-Earth, yet just as undeniable. Hers was the sorrow that rent hearts and cleansed them, and hers was the calm that came after, far from the clamor of battlefields and the noise of the feasts. Dwarfed by the proud shine of Varda's sparkling crown, it held a special place in Elladan's heart, and he murmured a prayer to the Weeping Lady whose presence so often graced his halls.

"I don't like this place," Gaerlin grunted beside him.

Thus interrupted, Elladan did not begrudge the man for speaking, and turned to look at him instead. Gaerlin's gaze shifted from one tree to the other, searching the night for monsters of his own making. Elladan, too, was loath to sleep in the shadow of Mordor, but he had little choice, lest he wished for one of his young wards to sprain an ankle in the darkness.

"Why did you bring me here?"

He pondered the question. The simplest answer was that it was time Gaerlin saw something else beside the confines of his room or the four walls of the forge, between which he paced like a caged bear. In substance, Elladan's work as a healer was long since finished; yet, instead of releasing the beast into the wild, he had brought it along, chained not by iron but by guilt. He had been taught how to stitch up wounds, and how to quell hemorrhaging.

Yet Gaerlin had bled out its will to live, and for that, he knew no remedy.

"You have faced grief," Elladan said eventually, lowering his voice as the sound of footsteps on a bed of dry needles signaled the others' return, "and have come out alive." Gaerlin smiled in the darkness – a bitter, mocking grimace – not realizing Elladan could see it. "There, beyond the woods, there are others who need my assistance…and I am hoping that somehow, I may also find a means to help you."

"So, you're doing it for yourself, then?"

Elladan returned his smile. "In a way…yes."

"Then you'll be disappointed. There's nothing else to be done for me. You should've given up long ago." Drawing his knees to his chest Gaerlin turned away, and the wind carried his next words to Elladan's ears: "I have."

oOoOoOo

Despite his size, Gaerlin ate pitifully little. Elladan suspected that his quickly melting muscles had something to do with such a habit, or perhaps had the man never acquired a taste for venison. Across the fire, Taniel nibbled on her own portion, her nose turned up in distaste, wiping her greasy fingers on the grass every now and then while Bruiven and Annahad made short work of the pheasants Faineth had shot, and which she and Amdirfel had shared amongst the group. Even now, a wing and a piece of breast tossed and turned in Elladan's stomach, as restless as his thoughts.

Tomorrow.

He ran the inventory through his mind – the herbs, the bandages and utensils they had brought, along with spare clothing so as to avoid spreading the disease amongst those still untouched by it. Only would it all suffice? Would their potions prove quick enough, potent enough to relieve the villagers from the Sauron's poison? Providing they not come too late….

Closing his eyes, Elladan inhaled the scent of smoke from the fire, and the fragrance of the forest itself: the petrichor of damp earth, nourished by the rain and bearing new life, and the sap that beaded from a branch broken in a storm. The flames crackled, dancing behind his eyelids, their warmth upon his face and the coldness of stone in his back. The eternal duality – just as the one that hung over his head ever since birth. Elf and man. Mortal and immortal both, suspended in time until he had made his choice.

Irritated as the inner peace he sought evaded his mind, Elladan shifted his position, noticing how a stone he could have sworn was not there moments before poked him in the kidneys. He focused on the voices of his companions – a familiar murmur, reminiscent of times not long past.

"Is this why you chose to become a healer?" Faineth was asking in her distinct, raspy tone. Whoever the question had been aimed at did not respond. Perhaps had he or she nodded, for Faineth continued: "And what about you?"

"The path of healing chose me, so to speak," Annahad murmured, the sadness in the young apprentice's voice unmistakable.

Elladan held his breath. Not so long past indeed. A strange thought, that Eriador was free from orcs at last; that after centuries of watchfulness and vengeance, the youth of Imladris could venture into the woods again, and safely return. He and Elrohir had been coming home, that day, weary from their travels, gladdened by the sight of the jagged, snowclad jaws of the Menelanc flanking the narrow path into the valley. A shriek, and the thunder of clawed feet…. When they had slain the last of the orcs, Eniel had lain in Annahad's arms – her brother then but a boy of less than a hundred, wounded as he had tried, and failed, to defend them.

A sadly familiar story, for many had lost a child, a sister…a mother to the incursions of Morgoth's offspring.

Elladan must have fallen asleep, for when he opened his eyes once more, the flames had shrunk from tall and proud to homely, casting a strange light into the eyes of those still awake. Amongst those were Amdirfel and Gaerlin, who had moved away from Elladan's side to sit by the fire. They were sharing a flask of something that smelled nothing like water.

"My Aeben loved to hunt," Gaerlin was saying with a nod towards the strung bow the scout had lain out at arm's reach, "a right little adventurer." He took a swig from the flask and passed it back to Amdirfel before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand; Elladan propped himself up all the while cursing himself for not having warned the scout beforehand. "My friends and I used to joke that he wasn't mine but some vagabond's, but I never believed that. He…." Gaerlin hesitated, squeezed his eyes shut. "He had my eyes."

"How old was he?"

"Seven."

A solemn silence fell upon the camp, soon broken by Annahad's voice: "It is unfair." Bruiven woke with a start as he stabbed the nearest log with his knife; the blade sung and wobbled, mirroring Annahad's tormented expression. Taniel stirred from her position under a nearby thornapple tree, shaking down the last white petals that still clung to the haws. The tree that cured any heartache, Elladan remembered. If only it were that easy. "So many lives lost. Young and innocent…plucked by war from their parents' arms."

Elladan winced, and Gaerlin…

…Gaerlin laughed.

He threw his head back and laughed…and laughed, mindless of Annahad's bewilderment, until his guffaws turned into sobs. He curled into a ball, his face buried into his knees.

"I believe it is enough for tonight. Amdirfel, take the first watch," Elladan sighed, moving to sit next to Gaerlin, his stiff limbs protesting at the sudden effort. "The rest of you, try to get some sleep."

While Bruiven and Taniel both slunk back to their respective places, pretending at the very least to take his advice, Annahad remained unmoving, staring into the flames. The scar on his cheek appeared deeper than it was by daylight, Elladan noted – a proof that not even his father's skills were boundless.

"You should rest," he advised again. "Tomorrow may be a day longer even than this one."

Yet Annahad did not budge, sitting cross-legged, a hand on the hilt of his dagger. His expression was that of defiance…and anguish. "It is unfair," he muttered once more; wood creaked as he twisted the knife inside the log, the sinews of his hand bulging with the effort. "For this man to lose his family so cruelly, despite doing all he could to defend what was his."

"A word of advice, one you will not learn in the Houses of Healing." Annahad looked up, his stare hazy with memories. "Do not draw your blade unless you mean to use it…and do not speak of what you do not know."

The apprentice stared at the knife embedded into the log, as though waking from a dream to find himself elsewhere. Slowly he unwrapped his fingers from the grip and watched his hand in confusion, before blushing as bright as the very heart of the fire. "Forgive me, my Lord."

"There is nothing for me to forgive. It is you who must do that."

Annahad avoided his gaze. "I do not know what you mean."

"I think you do."

Stretching out one leg, Elladan pushed a foot against the log and reached out to pull the knife out, wiping the blade on his thigh before handing it back to the apprentice. "I have been where you are…." He nodded towards Gaerlin, whose sobs had finally exhausted his strength, lulling him into a slumber as heavy as the man himself, "and so has he. Trust me, remorse is a grim place to linger in."

The muscles of Annahad's jaw constricted as he took his knife and sheathed it. "I will not disappoint you, my Lord. This will not happen again."

Had Taniel moved in her sleep, or was she listening in? Elladan wondered as he surveyed the camp, taking it the calm before the proverbial storm of tomorrow. A heron squawked in the forest depths, disturbed in his nocturnal hunting by some predator larger than himself; a night owl hooted in reply, its reflective eyes flashing in the darkness.

"It should," Elladan murmured at last. "Not here, not now, not like this…but it should. This guilt you are carrying is no fitting companion for one intending to bear the burdens of others. You shall have to unload yours first."

And, as Annahad reluctantly nodded, acknowledging the counsel – Eru alone knew whether he would find the courage to follow it! – Elladan heard another voice, one much like Saineth's, asking why he so seldom hearkened to his own advice.

oOoOoOo

The morning mists had not yet dried upon their cloaks when they resumed their journey, trekking northbound, the escarpment on their right both a guide and a warning. Annahad spoke little and Gaerlin not at all, his eyes sunken deep and rimmed with red; yet the two walked side by side in improbable companionship. Faineth led the way once more and, with every step, took them closer to her home. Lothlórien lay far away, beyond the crags of Emyn Muil and the rolling vastness of the Wold, unseen to even the sharpness of elven eyes; yet Faineth strode nimbly forward, her gait unburdened by the many miles that separated her from her the Golden Woods.

Was it Amdirfel's presence close behind her that lent her such spirit?

Elladan himself had visited Lothlórien but once, a stranger in the land of his mother's kin; and though his grandmother had welcomed both him and Elrohir with open arms, his soul had never found its place under the mellyrn. He oft had wondered whether the same question had troubled his twin as much as it had him: if the Lady Galadriel saw the future, why had she not warned her daughter against her last, grievous journey?

Thus thinking, Elladan paid little attention to those walking ahead, and all but collided with Taniel as Faineth's whistle bid them halt. "What is it?" he demanded after making his way towards the scout.

"We are almost there, my Lord," she said, "but…." She pursed her lips. "Listen for yourself."

Waiting until the murmurs of the group died down, Elladan trained his ears to where the path disappeared over a mound of grass sprinkled with forget-me-nots, plunging into the vivid greenery of summer woods.

A woodpecker's drumming echoed down the shallow ravine that lay below, breaking the expectative silence. A gust of wind thrummed through the canopies, carrying the occasional crack and snap – a twig breaking under the weight of a deer or a sow. Down on the forest floor, the shuffling of a hedgehog amidst helleborines in bloom betrayed an unexpected boldness, paces away from the thatched rooves glimmering golden through the boughs.

"I hear nothing," Elladan stated as he exchanged a knowing look with Amdirfel, the implications dawning upon him in all their gravity.

There was but one reason for the beasts to venture so close to a settlement.

Why were the dwarves returning to Gundabad? Why did the halfling children dare each other to visit the Barrow Downs after nightfall, calling chicken those who balked? Why, at last, had Taur-nu-Fuin become Eryn Galen in the tongue of his own people, who remembered the past so well and so unyieldingly?

They had learnt not to fear it any longer.

A.N.: Thoron is a made-up Elvish name for the Aquila constellation (shaped like an eagle). Nessa's harp is the Lyra constellation, and Nîr, which means 'tear', and is a made-up name for the Scutum constellation (the shield).

The Menelanc is a made-up name for twin mountains meaning 'skymaw' (from 'menel' = sky and 'anc' = maw/jaw/row of teeth).