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Chapter Text

There was in those days a tale sung around the hearths of Mirkwood, one carried upon the wind from Elves to the always-hearing ears of trees, and one they spread further.

Its tragedy was great, for the tale itself was at first a prayer whispered to the moon, and through time formed a lament.

In the endless years of Elves and forests, it had not been long before when it occurred. Pain and grief was still fresh within the minds of those whose kin had been lost.

By the name of Úvaniel it became known, named for the memory of what dear was lost. Elves of Mirkwood who had lived few years or many all knew it, of descent Silvan or Sindarin, they dared not to sing the tune where their dear Prince or King could hear.

Those lost were by descent Noldorian as well, though the lament was not known to their ears, for it would be wild words of no meaning to them. 

They chose details more befitting, as they deemed, of their assumed higher status. Their tale they chose to be spoken in the old language, as befitting of all their tragic songs. 

Mirkwood Sindarin the Noldor thought to be wild and archaic, and the Sindarin of the Noldor or other Sindar the Mirkwood people thought to be laden with needless speech and laden with too much of Quenya.

The Mirkwood told it as this:

Ríniel, fairest of our land…
The forest bent where she walked…
Her eyes shone like a mist over hidden vale…
None could hold her spirit.

Her hair flowed like silver rivers…
And her steps echoed in the forest’s light…
Shadows of the woods leaned towards her…
Dear things… that hearts still cherish…

From Ered Luin they came in embassy…
Anardil the Bold was among them…
A warrior of ancient kindred…
Dear things… that hearts still cherish…

A bond endured beyond the years…
Thalion rose in honor…
Strong and bright they named him…
Dear things… that hearts still cherish…

Hithriel, our beloved child…
The paths of Greenwood sigh in her absence…
Her fëa wanders, unbound by the earth…
Hithriel, her spirit… like a shadow drifting…

Greenwood found no cure…
Nor did the fair Galadhrim…
Finally, Imladris was sought…
Dear things… that hearts still cherish…

Now Belegaer’s path pursued…
Fair Ríniel and brave Anardil beside her…
With love’s devotion they travelled…
Our heart is lost…

Among the slain, her small form unfound…
Whether stolen or vanished unknown…
Whispering trees sing in a half-remembered song…
Our heart wanders the land…

Hithriel… will not return to us…
The forest sighs with shadows of her passing…
Dear things… that hearts still cherish…
Dear things… that hearts still cherish…

Since the time of the Last Alliance the borders of Mirkwood had closed off to any outsiders. They allowed strangers few onto their lands, and protected the little that remained.

Mortal ears had not been graced with this song, the tale was for Silvan and Sindar alone.

The Lady’s brother, Thalion, had never ceased in his quest to find her. He and the Prince of MIrkwood had been away during the time the health of young Hithriel failed. They had returned after the other realms were sought, after the orc-attack.

Quickly had everything occurred, and naught had guards been sent with the family, for the task required swiftness that more bodies would slow. 

Thalion numbered two centuries at the time of the death of his sister and parents. Barely an elf grown. The family was meant to split upon reaching the mouth of the River Angren.

Anardil intended to accompany Hithriel, and Ríniel intended to return to Mirkwood. They had ne’er made it as far as that.

So quickly the kin of Thranduil went from many to few. The wife of Thranduil and mother to Legolas, Ellurian, had passed not long after.

Ellurian herself had lost a little elleth of her own, years before she bore Legolas. Much had she doted upon little Hithriel. Many gifts had been given to the young elleth, many songs sung. 

Ellurian also had grown as close as a sister to Ríniel. Their boys had been as close as brothers, and Ríniel a close cousin to her husband.

Such a close grief had caused much strife within Ellurian, who had been fragile since the birth of Legolas, and she had quickly faded.

It was nearly three centuries past then when Thalion fell. It was in Rohan, south of Mirkwood. It was said by each and every elf part of the patrol which found the horse that bore the body of their Lord, that his fëa walked it to them. A figure beside the horse, they claimed. Clad in the same cloak the body wore, covered in blood as he was.

Once had the halls of Thranduil been bright and joyful, though Orcs and war had dwindled it, and with it the joy of Thranduil himself. 

Two centuries more years passed from the death of Thalion, and much unrest grew in the world.

Chapter Text

Some 500 years ago

Most of what the elleth had heard in her few years was the joy of music, laughter, and singing.

Mirkwood was not a place with no joy, even though her ada had informed her that people of other places believed it so. It was one night when she struggled to rest. He had spoken of his home, of trade with other lands.

The elleth had asked about trade, a thing most foreign to her young mind. He had told her that the Elves of Mirkwood existed without needing others and their things, but that was a case most special.

He had told her that it was due to this that the people of other places believed nasty things of Mirkwood and its people, a fear of what they did not know.

Later he had told her that not all of the earth was wooded as Mirkwood was, that there were plains of grass where one could run freely.

How scary that must be, the elleth had told her father. The forest gave them cover. 

It was only a few years later, when the elleth grew deathly ill, that she would see those open plains, would view what she had once thought scary.

She would draw back to that story while cowering under the roots of a tree unfamiliar though welcoming. A tree that had not paused for a moment while her nana had set her at its base and begged in that language the trees understood to protect her daughter.

The roots had curled around the elleth, pulling her out of sight of those creatures her muindo had said were called yrch.

He had gone off just before the elleth had grown ill. A camp to train his skills, he had told her it was. He and Laer would be gone for many months, but they would return warriors.

The elleth had just laughed at the idea then, though she wished now that Thal was here and would use his fancy new skills to rescue her.

Under the roots was dark and damp, the sun’s rays blotted out as the tree had moved again to block her from view of any above.

The elleth shivered, curled up in a ball. Her breaths were short and came quickly, labored with the sickness still upon her. Tears made tracks down the dirt upon her fair face, though her sniffles were long dried up.

Her place did not fully block all noise from making it to her. Yelling, thumping, the sound of metal on metal so foreign to her little ears.

Ne’er had the elleth heard battle before, and nor should she have. Metal was rare in her home, though from whence they had travelled now it was more common.

Many weeks had she rode upon her ada and nana’s fair horses. The elleth was often too ill to sit up on her own, and hardly could she open her eyes most days. Her ada or nana would wrap their cloak around her and pull her close to their warm body.

Few times had she awoken and found herself in a true room, in a true bed. Often it was her nana waking her to eat, or to bathe her.

Once, she had opened her eyes to find a Hiril with hair of spun gold sitting at her bedside. They had spent the most time within that home, not all different to Mirkwood. 

Less time had they spent in the only other place her ada and nana had brought her. Cold stone had encased that place, and the elleth had fled her room to lay within the grass.

Her ada had found her and scooped her up. Tears had glittered in his eyes, and he warned her to never do such a foolish thing without telling any elf around again.

Through the haze of fever, it had taken the elleth several days to piece together that he had been scared. She was not slow by any means, but this fever had muddled her brain.

Men were the ones to grow sick, not elves. Her daer had said that when he believed her sleeping. She was strong, ne’er was she supposed to slow and grow ill.

The elleth’s eyes drooped, and when she awoke again the outside had grown quiet with only now the sounds of nature, and pains of hunger tore at her stomach.

She dragged herself from her spot closer to the roots, and weakly tried to part them. 

Without any tools, likely a full-grown elf could not part these roots relying upon their strength, and the elleth was no full-grown elf nor held any strength within her frail body.

It took until the elleth begun to weep for the roots to part and allow her free. She dragged her way from her hiding spot underground back into the sunshine.

The scene made her freeze, eyes wide. Blood bathed the beautiful earth around them. A body lay only a few feet from the tree that had hid her.

A beautiful morning it was not, a bloodbathe of black, for that was the color of the blood of the yrch.

The trees the elleth had thought were beautiful when they first came through had grown very dark in the time she had been under the tree.

She used the tree to climb to her feet, and swayed upon her feet as if there were a strong breeze. Her clothes were covered in a layer of dirt and it was summer, though the elleth pulled her cloak tight around herself as if it were the midst of winter.

“Ada?” called the elleth. “Nana?” She stumbled forward a few steps, and stepped in some yrch-blood, and shook her foot off. She whined softly in disgust, and continued to try to find her parents.

As she walked, the elleth continued to call for her parents. Many bodies she passed, though all were surrounded in pools of blood blacker than the night sky. 

“Rhovan, Silivren!” she begun to finally call. The horses of her ada and nana she sought out. Never had those great steeds been far from her parents, and were gentle with her.

Indeed, the horses were not far from her ada and nana, though they could not have answered her pleas. Brave horses they were, to stay near their owners even in dire peril.

The yrch had eaten them, and the heart of the elleth was so overcome by the nature of death finally she fell to her knees and wept.

Truly it was a few yards between where the horses lay and their owners. Her nana and ada lay with feet between them, and here was the only trace of red blood.

Tears blurred her vision badly enough that the elleth could not see them clearly, though that did not matter to her weary body, tired mind. She laid herself between them, and slept.

From there she knew not how much time passed, for she had not the strength to do much more than open her eyes for a minute at a time, then they would drift shut again.

A pungent smell had made its way to her, though all she could do about it was bury her face into her arms. It did not escape her even then. Even then, escape it she could not.

The trees kept watch as the young elfling grew sicker and sicker between the bodies of her parents. They watched, though could not do anything for her that would heal her from this state.

So small she was, curled next to her nana. The yrch had not been kind to the Elves, though it was fortunate they had not known there had been an elfling with them.

Light came for the elfling. Morning. It would darken again, then grow light. The elleth took little notice, faded into feverish and restless dreams.

When finally, something blotted out the sun, the elleth had not the strength to fight it as she was lifted from the ground, and only leaned into the warmth of the arms.

Chapter Text

Within the Company of the Sons of Elrond many seasoned warriors resided, and many of those warriors had hunted with the twin Lords for centuries.

One elf there was in particular that strayed from this usuality. A most peculiar elf, the others believed. Not of their kin, and not of any they might recognize.

He named himself to them Anarfin, and kept a cloak over himself at all times, a hood shielding his face from view. 

Certainly Anarfin was still young, under a milennia, though prior to a hundred and fifty years ago no tales had been told about him or any kin.

The elf spoke nothing like the kin of those of Imladris, and spoke very little about any past he might have had. The air of the Galadrim was not within his voice either.

Long had they grown used to the strangeness of Anarfin, though the rest of Imladris the same could not be said for. It was due to the stares and whispers that Anarfin spent very little time in larger Imladris when they were within the realm. The woods were his place most retreated to, and rarely it was the Halls of Elrond.

For it was Glorfindel who requested the elf join their company. Half a century prior to that request, it was said by many of the guards of Imladris that a hooded figure had appeared in the woods and Glorfindel he asked to be brought to.

It seemed, from then on, that Anarfin had stayed within the Halls of Elrond, until the time that he came to hunt with the companions of Elrohir and Elladan. 

Great Glorfindel had trained only two other Elves in the Third Age, the sons of Elrond themselves. Time had long passed since then, over two-thousand years.

Long had the topic of Anarfin’s past been spoken of between the other elves, when the elf himself went off alone.

A thought of theirs was that the kin of Anarfin was of the Lothlorién for he spoke more like them then Imladris. Anarfin had certainly left that place many years before.

Anarfin had told them little things about his life. One of such things was that his family was killed by yrch. That would ne’er have happened in the borders of Lórien, and if it had, the Elves of Imladris would have heard much of it.

Only had the company seen Anarfin’s hands, and warm the color of skin there was. Strange for Noldor, though not for Sindar elves. His hair had slipped from under his hood several times in battle, and it was due to this they knew it was black.

The cloak Anarfin had been given before arriving to them. It was as the other members' cloaks, so Glorfindel had been certain that Elrohir and Elladan would agree to hunting with him.

Rumors of yrch south of the Angle and nearer the ruins of Ost-in-edhel had travelled upon the wind to the ears of the twins. Many days had they sought the pack out, joining with a group of Dúnedain as they reached the Angle.

Upon meeting the pack, the yrch had been nearer to the Glanduin, nearer to the Misty Mountains.

Here, it was only over the mountains where Celebrían, the mother of Elladan and Elrohir, had been rescued by her sons. A host of yrch had waylaid her and captured her.

Five-hundred years it was numbered since that time. Since dear Celebrían had departed over the Sundering Seas.

The attack upon this host of Orcs was a surprise. Elves seemingly appeared from the grasses, from the rocks, and attacked without mercy.

Anarfin drew his sword. He was clad in the armor of Imladris, a mix of silver-steel and mithril. His cuirass was highly flexible, and he wore a fine mail shirt under his breastplate. 

The sword of Anarfin cut through yrch-flesh like butter cut by a simple-knife. Large yrch or small, it mattered not.

Tens of minutes it was, before the fighting was finished. Yrch blood bathed the earth around the elves. A few Elves had suffered deep gashes from weapons, though their healer got to work on that quickly. None of their wounds would take a life.

“All are well?” asked Anarfin with that tone of strange-Sindarin. He had a talent of making it more like Imladris when he wished, though that was mostly used by he when clarifying words the others had not understood.

Six Elves and four Dúnedain set out, and Anarfin had scanned the field and found no trace of men or elven bodies.

“Of the Elves Lindarion took a deep gash by his brow,” said Aerandir, one of the three other Elves that travelled with the Twin Lords and Anarfin, “Of the Dúnedain Tarlon caught his ankle in a burrow. Sore, though unbroken. Halvor took a wound, though bandaged it should do well.”

Anarfin nodded, and turned to watch the men building the pyre for the dead yrch. Best to be rid of them quickly. “I shall assist,” he said, and left Aerandir to stand there.

Six Elves and six Dúnedain had set out from the Angle. A party of twelve they were, an even number.

Of the remaining elves, Aerandir was the sentinel and scout of the group. He wielded many weapons, as a watcher. Spear, long knife, and longbow. He used the long knife only if an enemy reached very close and his spear was out of reach. Aerandir was nearly the age of the Twin Lords, and his skin fair, his eyes sea-blue, and his hair long and lightly brown.

Next was Lindarion, one much skilled in stealth and infiltration. He wore not as heavy armor as the others did, for he was meant to move silently across the earth. His weapons were twin short-swords, a shorter bow than Aerandir, and many throwing knives. He was older by nearly five centuries than the twin lords, his hair black as midnight and eyes green as leaves.

Last was Nimrion, who was their messenger and healer. He kept his strength mainly for when of their company became injured, and held only a small sword. He wore no armor and a light cloak that could easily camouflage into forests or over plains. Younger was he than the other four, though his years still numbered over a thousand. A highborn-elf of Imladris, was he, and his hair was fairer than any of the others. Near-golden, and his eyes amber.

The six Dúnedain were Rathor, the second only under their chieftain; Arvadan, a nobleman though much skilled with a bow; Baranor, one of quick temper but loyal and would go where many would quit for an ally; Halvor, who unlike his name spoke much; Círeth, scout for the men; and Tarlon, who the Elves had never heard say a word.

Unlike the elves, the Dúnedain all held small shields. They were not be quick enough to always dodge a blow, so they deflected it instead.

The Dúnedain built the pyre without complaint, though many of them breathed heavily by the time it was completed and lit.

Anarfin stood closer than any of the men. The smell was something he was much used to. Orc-Slayer, he was called.

“Come away from there, Anarfin,” bade Nimrion after some time. “How fares you? Are you injured?”

“I am well,” said he, tone clipped, “How fares the Lords?

They had gone to scout, ensuring there were no more yrch nearby. Anarfin knew not if they had returned in the time the pyre built and burned.

“Absent are they still,” responded Nimrion, and drew closer to his companion, placing a hand upon Anarfin’s shoulder. “Come. We will await them then retreat for the ruins.”

Nothing more did Anarfin say, though he followed Nimrion from the pyre that lit faces with its glow. 

The sun had begun to set before the time Elrohir and Elladan returned to the group. Alit was the sky with oranges and reds and golds. Nearer the light of moon and stars became.

A few leagues the cohort of men and elves walked west, until stone ruins they began to pass, ruins that were much older than what the Dúnedain could fathom.

They passed the ruins before some of the men and elves found sticks and rocks to build a fire. The air had much chilled, and even the elves seemed to be tired by now.

Anarfin was often quiet, though now he did not speak even after the others began to laugh and chatter around the fire. He sat among them, though stared low into the fire as if he thought deeply of something troubling.

“You have been acting strange as of late, my friend,” Lindarion told Anarfin, a smile upon his face as he delivered his next phrase: “stranger than you usually are.” He spoke in Westron, so all the rangers would understand his words.

Anarfin did not move, though he spoke after several moments more. “Stranger things than I prowl this land, as of late,” he said most ominously. “I ponder a way to proceed.”

Elladan leaned closer to him, “is there something you hear?” he asked.

“No,” murmured Anarfin, though he did not explain further.

Rangers and Elves traded stories by the fireside for many hours more, and finally laid down to sleep. Aerandir kept watch, though Anarfin did not even pretend to sleep.

He sat by the ashes of the fire until the full moon was very high in the sky, and the stars glittered down upon them. His head tipped back, and he stared up at them.

Finally, when he did sleep, he retreated to the edge of the group, away from all others, and laid there with his back to them. Elves did not sleep like Men, it was not necessary to close their eyes. In fact, Elves did not close their eyes to sleep unless they were very, very ill.

Immediately, Anarfin opened his eyes into a dream. He no longer laid down and was instead standing.

He was uncloaked, wearing no armor. A simple tunic that reached his midthigh, a dark green, and dark grey trousers. He stood where the tide reached, the water lapped at the hems of his trousers.

Anarfin turned, attempting to gain his bearings. The sea was in much turmoil and the sky above dark, though Anarfin did not move away from it.

The stretch of beach was one he did not recognize at first glance, though the sense was upon him that once he had truly travelled through this shore.

The dull rhythmic thump of something upon the sand came from behind Anarfin, though when he was turned that way only moments before nothing had been there. 

He turned again and–there, a figure cloaked entirely in black, riding upon a jet-black horse.

It galloped towards him at full speed, unafraid of the water.

Thunder boomed overhead, and lightning flashed to the east. It did not slow the rider.

Anarfin held no weapons. Not in four-hundred and fifty years had that been a fact.

The horse skidded to a stop a few paces from Anarfin, and its rider dismounted in one swift movement. It stood beside its horse for several moments.

Anarfin could not see under the eyes of its cloak, but felt that the eyes of the morath were trained upon him.

It drew the sword at its side, and extended its arm to point the tip at Anarfin as a threat. It spoke words, many words, though it was in no language Anarfin understood, and a language that caused a piercing pain to shoot through his head.

He could not move, though he tried to do so to ease his pain and then move out of the way as the morath charged for him.

It reached Anarfin in a few paces, and thrust the sword through his chest.

The morath held Anarfin there, held him in the air even as his legs gave out underneath him. Even up close he could see no features of the creature’s face.

It spoke again, and it was those same exact words, as if his pain was not severe enough.

Thunder and lightning boomed and flashed directly overhead, and Anarfin’s head tipped up towards the stars, searching for the star that might give him comfort.

Gil-na-Thalon shone not, as if extinguished by the storm above. Though Anarfin could see many other stars above, the star he most dearly wished to see was not one of them.

Anarfin let out a shudder of a breath, and closed his eyes. The morath grabbed tightly to his shoulder, and wrenched the sword from the chest of the elf.

He dropped to his knees as rain began to pour, the tears of the night sky. Wind began to whistle through trees and they creaked in concern.

There was a warmth that came along with the pain. Both radiated from his chest, though the warmth spread downwards while the pain spread to all directions.

His blood. It must be that. Never had he faced a wound so mortal before, never had he felt like this. Elves were meant to be immortal, though a sword through the chest would kill any creature. 

Gasping-wheezes could Anarfin hear from his surroundings. It took several seconds for him to realize he was the one gasping.

Anarfin let his eyes fall shut, and fell back into the surf. The water depth was a few inches by now, but it soaked through his few layers quicker than the blood currently pouring from his chest.

The rain pelted his face and soaked the rest of his body that wasn’t touching seawater. He let out a breath, and let it all go.

Chapter Text

Anarfin sat there for nearly an hour after awaking from his dream.

He had awoken violently, jerking awake, hand reaching up to his chest to feel for blood. Nothing he had found.

It had grown lighter, and Anarfin listened to the woods and watched the other elves and men for a long while.

Halvor kept watch near the edges of the wood, ready in case anything attacked or he heard anything out of the ordinary.

Kind, was Halvor. He was good with a sword, lethal, though he cared much for all of those he fought beside. The Dúnedain were kinder to Elves than most other groups of Men, though some distance was still kept. Halvor did not seem to believe it mattered to keep distance, and was kind to all.

He glanced Anarfin’s way as the elf rose from his sleeping-spot, though simply gave him a nod and disregarded what Anarfin was doing.

Anarfin walked silently around the fire for where the twin Elf-Lords lay feet from one another. He stood between them for several moments, before crouching down beside Elrohir and lightly touching his shoulder to rouse him.

It was effective. He rolled over to see who was there, eyes focusing from awakening. He found Anarfin’s hooded form beside him.

“I wish to speak with you,” said Anarfin, and he glanced at Halvor, who pretended he had not been listening, eyes quickly flicking away.

There Anarfin stood again, and made for the woods. It took Elrohir only a moment before he too followed. They did not go far before Anarfin stopped suddenly and turned to face Elrohir.

“What is it?” asked Elrohir, tone short. Anarfin presumed he was not pleased by being awoken so early. Imladris Elves favored their rest more so than other groups of Elves.

Anarfin stood fully still, in that way of her kin. It was a way that other Elves did not find strange but Men and Dwarves did. Only his cloak blew in the slight breeze.

“I will depart,” said he plainly. “My heart has not rested, and now my Dream has named it. I must go to hunt it.’

Elrohir drew closer so he would not have to speak as loud and others would not overhear. A frown grew upon his fair face. “If this evil is as great as you claim, do you think we would shrink from pursuing it?” asked Elrohir, tone defensive. “I did not know you wielded foresight like my father.”

“No,” Anarfin responded sharply. “Not as Lord Elrond.”

They let the silence draw between them, and it was Anarfin who finally broke the silence. “Your company is needed here, where the yrch are. A noble pursuit, which is why I joined you.”

Though Elrohir did not speak, Anarfin could feel anger grow in him suddenly. His shoulders tensed, his jaw clenched. “Do you not think us capable? We have hunted for millennia, hên, and you for a century. What prey is it you think you can hunt and we cannot?” Sharp is his retort.

Anarfin and Elrohir hold little care for one another except in keeping the other alive, as companions in battle.

Anarfin squared his shoulders. Hên, young one. Elrohir was proud, though so was Anarfin.

“Do not think it an insult. This place is not one you care for. I wished to allow you to continue your quest for yrch, not be dragged across the plains searching for an evil that may not exist.” He said, an edge to his voice.

Console Elrohir it did not, for it seemed only to make him more tense, more angry. “You know nothing of this place, Anarfin. Speak not as if you do.”

Anarfin made to turn, though Elrohir was there in the blink of an eye, grasping his wrist tightly enough to keep him in place, to bring about a little bit of pain.

Anarfin kept his face turned away, as Elrohir was close enough to see under his hood. “I am not seeking your permission. I am stating my intent, My Lord.” 

Elrohir’s grip tightened on Anarfin’s wrist. Anarfin released a huff of annoyance, and maybe mild pain.

“If this evil is as great as you claim,” he repeated, putting much emphasis on the final word, “You may not return to us. Show your face. I am owed that much.”

From here, Elrohir could not see under the hood of Anarfin just yet. They stood very close. Anarfin was several inches shorter than him, and Elrohir knew that if Anarfin could draw his sword and have it at Elrohir’s throat if he truly wished that.

Anarfin did not draw any sword. 

The two stood there for nearly a minute. The breeze blew past and stirred their cloaks. Anarfin seemed to be judging if there was any way out of this. There was, if he wished to attack one he had pledged himself too.

Finally, Anarfin turned his head back in the direction of Elrohir, though the latter stood too tall to see much. The posture of the strange-elf relaxed.

The free hand of Anarfin drifted from his side up to his hood. How strange, Anarfin thought, that one of the Lord sons of Elrond wished most to see his face.

In one swift move the hood was pulled free, and Anarfin tipped his head up to meet Elrohir’s gaze.

The Elf-Lord released Anarfin’s arm, and he took a step back to gaze openly upon the elf. The first thing he noticed was the grey eyes. They were beautiful, though currently they were stormy, for they watched Elrohir with anger and pride.

Some had whispered that Anarfin must be ugly, under the hood. What other reason would an elf hide their face so stubbornly? Even then there was glamor. They had said Anarfin was an ugly, unskilled elf.

Neither thing was true, Elrohir decided. Neither ugly nor unskilled.

A breath of shock escaped him, and he took another step backwards.

The grey eyes, of stormlight and steel, tracked Elrohir’s movements like a predator with its prey. Those hands were certainly capable of killing, he had seen it before. 

Youth was upon Anarfin’s face. All elves showed youth, though this was true youth. Young in years as well as appearance. Not a child, no, but Elrohir guessed Anarfin was not far from it.

The lashes of Anarfin were long and dark but not delicate. This was not an elf to flutter lashes to gain favors, though certainly Anarfin could get most of what he asked for if he did so.

Golden skin Elrohir noticed. It seemed to be sun-warmed even though Anarfin had worn a hood for over a century. This was a hue rare among highborn of Imladris, though there was nothing else this Elf could be but highborn. Maybe not Imladris-born, but highborn in some capacity.

His hair was black as the darkest part of the night, and held a slight wave. It was unadorned except for small strands braided on the underside by his ears. In the moonlight that peeked through the trees Elrohir saw that the dark-hair shone with a silver natural to his own kin. There were only hints of it, instead of a proper silver.

Anarfin’s cheekbones were high, jaw strong, and nose stick-straight. The brows were dark and well-shaped, lips naturally slightly downturned.

Elrohir gazed openly at this star fallen from the heavens.

Silver features, grace, and warmth. There was something truly wild there, as if nature had claimed Anarfin for itself.

“I am leaving,” decided Anarfin, voice soft, and then the elf was gone to Elrohir’s eyes.

While the Elf-Lord stood in shock, Anarfin had returned the hood to his head and walked through the camp.

“Go north,” a voice said, so soft he thought he may have imagined it.

Anarfin turned. Halvor still kept watch, though his eyes were trained upon the elf.

Halvor was sixty years of age, though still looked very young for a man. Anarfin had seen Men in their late twenties to look older than Halvor.

“Many evil things currently seek the same thing our chieftain does. Find him, your evil will be found soon after.” said Halvor.

He must have understood Sindarin. He must have been listening in.

Anarfin did not feel any annoyance at this. He had not led Elrohir far enough away for prying ears not to listen in.

“Who shall I ask for, when searching for your chieftain?” asked Anarfin, stepping closer to the spot he stood. “I have heard you refer to him, though not his name.”

Halvor studied Anarfin for several moments, as if he had vision that could see under his hood. Finally he responded. “Ask for him as Strider. Ask him if he is the Dúnadan. “

Anarfin turned from Halvor to the direction where his few items lay at the edge of the group. “Thank you, Halvor,” said he before departing for the spot.

His items were few, though he took each of them, and then disappeared into the woods again.

It was many minutes before Elrohir returned to the campsite in a daze. Halvor did not comment upon it.

Elrohir shook awake his brother. Elladan’s eyes focused and he blinked slowly at Elrohir, then turned his gaze to the sky. “It is early,” he noted, then turned his gaze back upon his brother, frowning at the look on Elrohir’s face. “What is it? You look as if you have seen a Maia.”

“Anarfin has gone. I have seen his face,” Elrohir told Elladan. He was still crouched by Elladan’s side and the calmer twin now sat, gazing at his brother. Elrohir was in awe. Elladan could tell, though he knew his brother like he knew himself, it would be obvious to many.

Amusement quirked at the edges of Elladan’s expression. “Never have I seen you in this way, my brother. Why has Anarfin gone? How fair was he to shock you so?”

Elrohir did not notice Elladan’s teasing tone, though his voice did lower as he spoke next. “A noble-elf beyond doubt, and the fairest I have seen in my many years. He spoke of hunting the evils of the world, and his resolve was pure… yet I demanded that I see his countenance. I was unworthy, to look upon one so hallowed.”

Elladan’s eyebrows shot up, and he dipped his head, hair falling over his face, coughing into his hand to hide laughter. “She’s turned you into a poet, brother-mine,” he said when he’d finished laughing. “Speaking like a bard! Was his beauty truly so great? To pull song from your tongue?”

At this, Elrohir snapped out of it enough that he glared at his brother for all the teasing.

“You did not see him. Some was Noldor, though that golden hue was from elsewhere. Silvan, perhaps. They say Silvan folk can enchant. If he enchanted me, I would go along gladly.

“Silver-eyed, with a wildness within them. Black of hair, yet gleaming as the wind moved it. And I injured that fair being in a fit of anger. Gripped his wrist when he tried to flee, and demanded to see his face,” despair had crossed his face as he realized this.

Elladan just stared for a moment, before realizing what Elrohir had said. “He is a warrior. A bruised wrist will not hurt him much. He once broke a rib to save you and rode for five weeks after without one complaint.”

This was most strange of Elrohir. He was hot-headed, a warrior, and when they were in Imladris, always held different elves in his bed. Ne’er had he been so struck upon one elf.

“He is young. He may perish in his hunt,” worried Elrohir.

“How young?” asked Elladan.

“Not a child. I would say under a thousand.” Elrohir shook his head, and stood hurriedly. “I cannot let him go off alone.”

Elladan glanced to where previously Anarfin had been laying. The area was bare, with little sign that any elf had ever lain there. “Gone is he already. If he spoke of where he was headed we may follow, though if he did not we shall never find his heading.”

Despair filled Elrohir’s expression, so Elladan continued. “Anarfin has left and returned before. He is a steadfast warrior. He will return this time as well. Fret not.”

Elrohir did not respond to his brother, and instead turned his face up to the stars. The sky had lightened some. Sunrise would come soon. He found the Star of Eärendil in the sky and watched it for a long time.

Elladan assumed his brother prayed to the star, and let it be. Their grandfather was up there with a Silmaril bound upon his brow, it was said. The father of Elrond, who had sailed to Valinor as a Peredhel and rallied troops to help against the Enemy after his wife Elwing had turned into a bird to escape the sons of Fëanor. It was there where he had gained the Silmaril, for that was the very thing the sons of Fëanor had sought.

Elladan rose and relieved Halvor from watch-duty. The Dúnedane was so glad to rest he hurried to his place before Elladan could change his mind, and slept quickly.

It was several hours before Elladan awoke the others, and they ate a small breakfast.

“Anarfin is not near. Did you know him gone?” asked Nimrion to Elladan, glancing around.

“Yes. He has set off on a quest of his own,” Elladan murmured in response, glancing at Elrohir who had composed himself now that the others were awake. There was a slump to his shoulders that had not been there prior, however.

Nimrion followed Elladan’s gaze, confused, though he nodded and dropped the subject quickly.

The news spread from there, and it was before long that all the company knew Anarfin had left them.

“Is that permitted of your kin?” asked Baranor to Lindarion, as if Anarfin’s absence had personally offended him. “To leave whenever you wish?”

“Anarfin would have not left if there was not a reason,” responded Lindarion, an edge to his tone. “If he did not take us with, it was for a reason. Though one only he knows, I assume.”

Baranor’s lips thinned as he pursed them, as if he bit back his words. He nodded and jogged to a group of three other Dúnedain, and joined them.

That morning Elrohir had been strangely quiet. The others dared not to ask as his mood seemed most foul, and they did not wish to be on the other end of that temper.

They left before the sun was too far risen, and headed northeast.

Chapter Text

Not quite yet did Anarfin head north as Halvor had suggested to her. Instead she headed south-west, a detour from what she claimed to pursue.

That Dream haunted Anarfin as she walked through the land. The beach, the storm, the morath.

None of it made sense. It could not be a thing that would truly happen for Anarfin felt most of what would happen would be away from any beach.

He had to know anyway, and headed to find information.

It was nearly a fortnight before Anarfin began to head north again. Though when he finally caught the trail of the morath it was only due to this search for information.

Anarfin followed the footprints of evil-horses north. Trees whispered of these evil creatures, they whispered of terror. The horses and riders themselves were no longer present, though the effects lingered.

He made haste as much as he could. Alone he could move faster than with the other eleven elves and men.

As he travelled further and further his dreams began to worsen. His kin did not often sleep much, even for Elves and their ways, though Anarfin now went without sleep as much as he could manage.

Very little food Anarfin found on the way, both by means of foraging and hunting. Anarfin had long since learned which mushrooms were edible and which were not, and in his earlier years had found as many types of food from foraging as he could.

It came in handy now, when meat dwindled. He also had a square of Lembas, and he rationed it much. He only took  a bite from it when he truly could find no other food and hunger pained him.

The terrain was very bare, from centuries of inhabitation and then war. Anarfin would truly give anything to have seen the great Elven realms of old in their primes, before destruction and death and war hit them.

He used to dream of these places. Some dreams may have been his mind making up things, though some had felt so real. Gondolin and Doriath and locations now long gone, under the sea, or in ruins like Lindon and Eregion.

Many days after leaving the coast Anarfin tracked those hoof-prints. The distance between prints showed that the horses had been moving swiftly, quicker than Anarfin was able to move on foot. 

He hoped that they had not yet found their prey, that he was not too late to find the chieftain.

Anarfin reached a northern town of Bree. It was a town he had heard of over the many years, yet never been through. He had been to the Blue Mountains west of Bree, had lived near them for some time. He had been to Imladris, had been south of Bree, yet never to the town itself.

The morath, several of them, had passed through this town a few days prior. In the short amount of time they had spent there, much chaos had been stirred up.

“What has occurred here?” asked Anarfin in Westron. He had approached a man who did not recoil from her as if he was one of the creatures who had sacked their inn.

He wore his dark-green elven cloak, not a black one, and had arrived on foot, not on horseback.

“A strange hobbit,” piped up one of the men behind the one Anarfin had spoken to. “Pulled a magic trick on us, he did. You one of those ranger-folk? One of your men was here too, left with that hobbit.”

“Stranger men than you was here and is the cause of this,” spoke up another. “Raided the inn, loosed all the horses. Rode through town like Death itself.”

They eyed him, a group of the men. Anarfin did not react, and turned his head to observe the scene, taking in the view of the bedrooms from the outside.

Several days it had been since, and in that time the inn-owner had tried to fix the bedrooms, though Anarfin could still tell the shutters had nearly been ripped from their hinges.

Another man came up to the group and gossiped that the inside had been more torn up. The room had been tossed to search for what the morath were looking for, and then they had left.

Anarfin headed into the inn, and sat down with a group of hobbits. They liked to gossip, and he knew he could learn quite a lot from them.

They told him all about this strange hobbit (“Mr. Underhill”) and his unusual magic trick. They told him that the rooms that were torn apart were his and his companion’s rooms.

Also, they spoke more about the ranger who had set off with these four hobbits. They called him Strider, and Anarfin suddenly felt very glad that he had asked Halvor about the name of his chieftain.

“You one of his folk, then? You’re certainly as strange as him.” asked a hobbit with a large belly, who eyed Anarfin nervously. Certainly had Anarfin met a few hobbits before now, but had learned them to be very favorable to food, a smoke, and enjoying themselves. They did not care terribly much for new things like big people, travelling, and adventure.

“Yes,” said Anarfin simply. The less truth he could tell would be better here, for there may be spies of the Enemy around, listening in.

“‘nd you’re looking for Strider and those other-hobbits, are you?” asked another, slightly thinner and with a little darker hair to the first. His cheeks were already rosy with drink, though it was not late into the day yet.

Hobbits were also naturally suspicious creatures, though these times were very dark and Anarfin did not judge them for that. “I am here to ensure Strider lives. His kin sent me. He is overdue to return.” said Anarfin.

The innkeeper, Mr. Butterbur, was the man he next approached to ask about the hobbits.

“How do I know you’re not one of them dark shifty folk that passed through?” asked Butterbur, also suspicious of Anarfin. “I mean, you look more suspicious than old Strider, and we only deal with him because he’s been coming around so long.”

He and Butterbur were in a back room with no others. “The gate-keeper said those creatures of evil struck fear in him, and they trashed your in. I am not here for either thing. I wish to find Strider and return him home. I am not a harm to those hobbits either.”

Butterbur, for as much a fool as he looked, was not as gullible as he seemed. Good, thought Anarfin, a hope that Butterbur would not betray this Strider or the hobbits.

He told Anarfin very little, except the direction Strider and the hobbits had set off in the day prior. They must be heading for Imladris to find protection, thought Anarfin.

He set off after a meal and after he bought dried meats for the road. They were a day ahead of Anarfin, though they had set off on their journey with a starved pony and four hobbits on foot. Anarfin might be able to catch up to them with relative ease.

Their trail was found by him within a few hours, and Anarfin followed it deep into the woods. He hid the trail as he walked, a hope that others may not follow.

Whispering trees sounded from around Anarfin. They told of strange, terrible things they had seen of late. It was more thoughts than true words, though Anarfin had always been able to understand trees. Fear and footsteps, of pity for a poor starving creature, they spoke of it all.

Anarfin travelled for three days with little rest, and as he went the tracks began to grow fresher and fresher. Through the marshes he certainly struggled to find their path, though here he mostly sought to get through the marsh.

The group of hobbits, Strider, and the pony headed for Imladris, and Anarfin knew the way.

Few animals or foraging was here, and Anarfin slowly began to go through the food he had brought and bought. A strange thing, it was. He was used to the forest of Imladris that was packed with many creatures, or Fangorn, Mirkwood, the woods upon the coast.

Many Enemy spies he skirted, or shot out of the sky or from branches. These were the creatures that drove away all others. The landscape always went too quiet while they were near.

Wading through the marshes was slow, and Anarfin quickly grew tired of it. His steps were lightly enough that he did not sink into the marsh nearly as much, though it was still miserable.

Finally, the walk grew interested three days out from Bree.

A figure came upon him from behind. Anarfin heard them from far off, and slowly shifted one hand casually to the hilt of his sword, though continued to walk as if he had not sensed them yet.

The figure drew close enough, and Anarfin drew his sword, whirling around, just in time to meet a sword pointed at him.

Anarfin knocked the sword off course to stop it from pointing his direction. The figure still held it, though they had to right it to meet swords with Anarfin again, and that they did.

“Who are you, and why do you follow us so?” Hissed a voice. Certainly male. The mist was thick, and though the elven eyes of Anarfin were keen, this bog disoriented him.

The figure also wore a cloak, dark and shabby, and his hood was raised.

Swords clashed for several seconds more, the clang of steel on steel a sharp noise in the marsh, though it got swallowed by the mist quickly. 

Footwork within a marsh was not pleasant, though the figure sank into the ground deeper than Anarfin did, and that gave him an advantage.

He managed to disarm the figure, his sword flying off and falling into the water. He attempted to move, likely to retrieve it, though the sword of Anarfin was at his neck within a moment.

“I have been instructed to ask by the Ranger-folk for the Dúnadan, and the hobbits of Bree directed me this way after I asked for the same man under the name Strider. Have you come across him? I search for him and four hobbits.” said Anarfin boldly.

The figure stood still. “Why do you search for them? What is your name?” he demanded, though Anarfin still held a sword to his throat. 

He sensed no further figures near to them, though the fog obscured that sense. Anything could be waiting out there.

“I am Anarfin, friend of Imladris, Orc-Slayer. You are lucky I did not mistake you for Orc,” he said, voice sharp and prideful.

The figure relaxed at that, and slowly raised his hands in a sign of peace. “There is no need for that now. I am truly the one you search for. My companions rest upon a turf-hill not far from here. Join us now.” He offered, and slowly reached one hand up and pulled down the hood of his cloak.

His face was revealed to Anarfin.

“I have met you before, Orc-Slayer. I was raised in Imladris.”

Anarfin studied the face of the figure. Certainly he was male, and his hair was shaggy and dark, streaked with grey. His face is pale and his eyes are grey, showing his heritage.

It was a familiar face overall, though some features were ones she did not recognize. A certain Dúnadan woman came to mind, one Anarfin had not seen in many years.

“You are Estel, son of Gilraen, are you claiming?” asked Anarfin sharply. “Named hope because you were the hope of your people, Gondor and Dúnedain alike.”

Strider-Estel nodded. “My true name is Aragorn, though the men and hobbits of Bree name me Strider.”

“Yes, a noble name. Son of Gilraen and Arathorn. I met Arathorn a few times, and Gilraen many. Noble people, they truly were.” 

Aragorn nodded, though did not say more. Anarfin finally lowered his sword, and resheathed it. He shook his head in disbelief.

The man went off to find his sword, and it took several minutes because the patch of water it fell into went up to Aragorn’s knees. Anarfin felt only amusement as he watched from his place upon a raised area of land. Aragorn had not a light enough step to stand upon it, though Anarfin did.

“You were with Dúnedain?” asked Aragorn midway into the search. “And Elrond’s sons, I assume?”

Anarfin nodded. “Yes. A party of twelve, an equal number of Men and Elves. We took down a pack of yrch near Ost-in-edhil.”

Aragorn paused only for a moment at the name of the place, the knowledge he held in his mind of that significance. Then he continued the search.

When Aragorn found it, he resheathed the sword and gestured for Anarfin to follow him.

They went off to find the four little hobbits in this hopeless marsh.

If Anarfin never had to wade through a marsh again he would be very happy.

Chapter Text

Several minutes of walking led Aragorn and Anarfin to a small patch of land where four hobbits and a pony lay.

One of them who was a little more stouter than the other three, shot to his feet as he spotted the two.

“Strider! Who is this?” he demanded, and seemed to be on edge.

Strider did not answer him immediately, and instead introduced the hobbits to Anarfin. “This is Meriadoc Brandybuck, Pippin Took, Sam Gamgee, and Frodo Baggins,” he said, pointing at each as he spoke their name. 

Meriadoc had sand-colored hair and grey eyes, and insisted to be called Merry. He was taller than the other three, and looked keen-eyed and intelligent. He eyed Anarfin with suspicion.

Pippin’s hair was lighter than Merry’s. He looked younger, hobbit-wise, than the others, and was smaller as well. His eyes were hazel, and he loked to be a trouble-maker, though Anarfin could always enjoy that. Joy could be taken in some light mischief.

Sam was the one who had spoken, and he had curly light-brown hair and brown eyes. He was red-cheeked, and seemed miserable in the marshes.

And lastly, Frodo was fairer-skinned than the others, with dark brown hair and clear blue eyes. He looked young like Pippin, though he was not small as Pippin was. He watched Anarfin quietly, and looked very serious.

Sam frowned still and stepped in front of Frodo protectively, watching Anarfin with distrust. “Strider, we were told to keep Mr. Frodo hidden. If you tell his name to every hooded creep we meet within a bog, we shall get found.”

Anarfin smiled, though they could not see it due to his hood. He dipped his head respectively to Sam Gamgee.

“You are correct and smart to be wary, Master Hobbit. The morath are what I hunt, not hobbits. I tracked them to Bree. I was told Strider sought what they were after, and if I found him I may find them. I passed through Bree and saw the damage they caused. You head for Rivendell. Two who know the way will be better than one. Two with swords are better than only one.” He said.

Sam did not seem any more trusting after hearing those words. “I do not trust those who do not show their faces, especially those who will not give a name. You will not come near Mr. Frodo.” he said.

Aragorn opened his mouth likely to defend Anarfin, though he could handle himself. “My name is one that you will not know, Sir Sam. You are brave, and your companions are lucky to have you on their side. My name is Anarfin, warrior that hunts alongside the Sons of Elrond and the Rangers of the North, and my title is Orc-Slayer. I met your guide many years past, when he was just a boy.”

Frodo stepped forward, past Sam. “How have you found us?” he asked.

“I Dream of that evil which pursues you, Frodo. I parted with the Company to seek out these creatures. In my tongue they are called morath.”

Aragorn watched Anarfin. “I received a note when I first reached Bree from a ranger named Halvor. He warned me of your coming, though you were meant to arrive several weeks ago.”

“I needed information. When I gained it I set off to follow the hoofprints of their dark steeds,” responded he shortly, tone that gave off he would not say any more on the topic.

Aragorn did not push it.

They rested soon enough, upon that damp ground they stood upon. The hobbits grumbled much, though looked thrilled when Anarfin gave each of them a small part of his remaining Lembas and pieces of dried meat. Aragorn did not look displeased by his gift either.

Much of the square of Lembas still remained, enough to last them a few days if they ran out of other food.

Anarfin did not sit or lay as the others did. Aragorn sat not far from him. They were silent for much a time, until Aragorn broke that.

“How fare the sons of Elrond?” asked Aragorn, though there was a hint of something to his voice.

When Anarfin glanced at him but said nothing, Aragorn clarified. “In the letter from Halvor… he mentioned a conversation he overheard just as you left. You showed Elrohir your face.”

“Yes,” said Anarfin, and glanced back up towards the sky. “He demanded it.”

Aragorn observed him for several moments. “You are not the type to take well to demands,” he noted lightly.

Anarfin did not turn his gaze from the sky. “Gil-na-Thalon,” he murmured softly, with reverence and prayer. “Until it is quenched, I will not stop my slaying or my vengeance,” vowed he in his native tongue. Certainly Aragorn could understand it. 

“Elrohir is the same. The fire that comes with loss is within him as it is within me, and we were near the place his mother was harmed. He said I would die in my search so he wanted to see my face.” Bothered Anarfin seemed not by those words. It was very likely he may die at any time, that was true. Death was not a strange thing to him. Much death he had seen in his years.

Aragorn nodded at those words. “You hunt for a reason alike his. You know his pain.” He had learned Sindarin in Imladris, so he spoke much like the elves from there.

“Yes.”

They were silent for a long while after, until Aragorn spoke again. “Do you know what is occuring?”

“No,” said Anarfin slowly. “I Dreamed of the Morath skewering me upon a beach, so I sought out that beach. There were none there. Then I headed to find you.” said he simply.

The look Aragorn gave him was as if he had gone crazy. “You dreamed yourself dying, and then went to that place?”

“My other dreams were of the view of trees, of grass. I wished to know if it was true. There was a storm in the dream, and Gil-na-Thalon was gone from the sky. I vowed that to myself two-hundred years ago, and there it was absent.” Anarfin still had not looked away from that star, as if it might wink out before his eyes.

Aragorn stared in shock. “The Star of Eärendil, gone? When we reach Imladris, you must speak to Lord Elrond.”

Anarfin nodded. They stay there in silence for quite a while.

A light came from the eastern sky: it flashed and faded many times. It was not yet dawn. Anarfin gazed that way, though even with the fog having cleared more than before he could not see anything to lead her to know what had happened or where it came from.

Aragorn stood.

“What is that light?” Frodo asked and gazed out upon it.

“I do not know,” Aragorn answered. “It is too distant to make  out. It is like lightning that leaps up from the hill-tops.” 

Anarfin glanced down at the several hobbits. The other three slept still. He thought quickly, though his mind was plagued with options. 

“I will scout ahead,” he told Aragorn. “If I do not return by the time they awaken, go on without me. Turn a little further north or south. I shall find you again either way.”

“What?” said Frodo, eyes wide. He stared at Anarfin in surprise.

“Things more dangerous than yrch are out there, little Frodo. I have tricks I can use to take them out before they reach you. I am at home in dark environments such as this, and I know how to move swifter and more hidden than you.” Anarfin told Frodo softly.

Aragorn dipped his head at the elf. “Novaer an uir, mellon nin,” he said.

“Bado vae, Estel,” Anarfin responded, amused. He clasped forearms with Aragorn in parting. “Your Sindarin has certainly grown better.”

He laughed in response to Anarfin’s words. “And yours is reminiscent of Mirkwood. I have visited there recently. I had not noticed until now, with your comment of dark lands and Gil-na-Thalon.”

“I have heard the tales Imladrians tell their young of my kin,” Anarfin said. “I will not eat you, or land upon you from a tree, or enchant you with runes drawn upon my skin. Some have claimed we eat solely yrch and morlhíng, as if there is no other food in the woodland realm.”

Frodo’s eyes were properly wide now. “Morlhíng?” he asked, trying out the pronunciation.

“The giant spiders of the woods,” said Anarfin as explanation.

“They truly claim that?” asked Frodo. “Bilbo said they put dwarves in the dungeons, but nothing of eating spiders or orc.”

Aragorn explained: “The elves of Rivendell believe the elves of Mirkwood… strange. They are cut off from all others, and live much in the dark. I saw no truth in the stories while I was there.”

There was a huff from Anarfin much like laughter, and then he spoke: “I am off,” he announced, and disappeared into the marshlands.

Anarfin scoured for quite a long time, all through that night. He crept through the marsh, cautiously but quickly.

As far ahead around them as he could he searched. The sun begun to rise, and Anarfin decided to turn back.

He crept up on the group when he found them, and it was as if he appeared suddenly beside Aragorn, in the front.

“Hail, Estel,” he greeted. “We are not far out from the edges of the marsh. I did not see more lights, or their origins. Several leagues ahead I scouted, though no enemies found. There were several rabbits upon the plains. If we can risk a fire later I will catch a few and make them a meal.” He spoke this in a soft voice where the hobbits could not hear, not wishing to get their hopes up about rabbits and fires. He knew not if any understood his native tongue.

Aragorn nodded, content with that at the moment. “I thought of another tale of the Mirkwood-folk,” he told Anarfin. “They say you eat wolves there.”

“Only if the other choice is starving,” said Anarfin, voice still low. “I have not been there in a long while. Imladris elves farm, the woodland realm does not. You have been there, you have seen it.”

The man stared ahead. “Yes. Homes built from tree-roots and within trees, passed by easily. The Halls of Thranduil carved into stone rather than built up. A fortress rather than a palace. Hidden villages, walkways between trees that I would not dare to attempt.”

Anarfin found himself watching the man as he spoke, but snapped out of it a few moments after Aragorn had finished speaking.

“The Halls a tribute to Menegroth,” he murmured, as if realizing something. “It did not used to be that way,” said he to Aragorn. “Amon Lanc was built above ground. Now it is called Dol Guldur and is in ruins. Oropher abandoned it after hearing rumors of a rising dark power, and settled west of the Emyn Duir. Then again the darkness spread, so Thranduil brought the realm north. That was when it was called Mirkwood.”

“The dark power… The very one who sent his lieutenants after us,” Aragorn murmured.

“Yes.”

It was an hour before they left the last straggling pools and reed-beds of the marshes behind them. The land began to steadily rise from there. Away in the distance they could now see a line of hills. The highest of them was at the right with a conical top, slightly flattened at the summit.

“That is Weathertop,” said Aragorn. “The Old Road, which we have left far away on our right, runs to the south of it and passes not far from its foot. We might reach it by noon tomorrow, if we go straight towards it. I suppose we had better do so.”

“What do you mean?” asked Frodo.

‘I mean: when we do get there, it is not certain what we shall find. It is close to the Road.”

“But surely we were hoping to find Gandalf there?”

“Yes; but hope is faint. If he comes this way, he may not pass through Bree, and so he may not know what we are doing.” said Aragorn, and continued to explain.

Anarfin gazed up, and found no birds in the sky. “I shall know if any spying creature comes close, little Hobbits. Strider’s eyes are good, though mine are better.”

Pippin made a noise of disagreement. “How can you see from under that hood?” he asked. “You need not hide anything from us, we are simple hobbits. Might you show us your face?” Pippin certainly was a curious thing, and did not like things unknown to him.

Anarfin huffed out a laugh, and they truly knew it a laugh now. “You are a clever one, little Pippin. Though in my 150 years in Imladris I have shown only three my face. Though if I were to show it to any hobbit, it would surely be you first.”

Pippin just shrugged, not very bothered by his failed attempt.

They walked on. As they went, Anarfin kept as many senses as he could focused upon their surroundings, trying to ensure none snuck up on them.

Chapter Text

At the day’s end they came to a stream that wandered down from the hills to lose itself in the marshland, and they went up along its banks while the light lasted. It was already night when at last they halted and made their camp under the alder-trees by the shores of the stream.

That night Anarfin set himself as watch, though Aragorn tried to offer to take the second half of the night.

“You need to sleep, mellon nin,” said Anarfin firmly. “I may sleep while we walk if I am not scouting. You cannot.”

Aragorn finally relented and headed to lay down.

Anarfin kept a hand firmly upon his sword hilt as he kept watch that night. There was a chill up his back, and he did not allow himself a second of distraction.

If these hobbits came to harm due to him, he thought very early in the morning, never would he be able to forgive himself as long as he lived. They were innocent creatures, and did not deserve to come to harm.

In the early hours a cold grey light lay upon the land, and Anarfin silently drew his bow, and aimed it for the sky. He let it loose, and the noise made Aragorn jolt awake in alarm.

“Are we under attack?” his hand was on his sword before he was even fully awake.

Something flying above fell towards the earth.

“No,” said Anarfin in Sindarin, and then switched to Westron. “A winged spy of the Enemy. I shall return, watch the hobbits,” he instructed, and set off into the wild with his bow.

It was several minutes before he came upon the body of a large, dark bird. His arrow had pierced the thing through its center, and it was well and truly did. Red-eyed these creatures were, and he had killed many by now.

Anarfin retrieved his arrow and dug a shallow hole for the bird and buried it there. He softly sang in Silvan, asking for the bird’s soul to be released from Sauron’s grasp and for it to be redeemed after.

Then, he returned with his arrow to the camp, and found the hobbits now awake. 

“Strider said you struck down an Enemy spy,” Pippin said, wide-eyed. “Is it true?”

“Yes,” said Anarfin easily. “The creature was scanning the land. It had not yet seen us, though I did not give it the chance. I have killed many on my journey here. It was a bird, jet-black with red eyes. If you see a thing like that, hide as quickly as you can.” he instructed, and showed the hobbits his arrow. “Black blood, it is a most unnatural thing. Once natural, and then it was twisted and made into a spy. I buried it.”

Pippin and Merry looked scared, as did Sam. Frodo just watched the arrow for a moment, and didn’t seem bothered.

“I did not think Elves buried their enemies,” said Frodo curiously.

Anarfin wiped off the arrow upon the grass. “We do not often. We bury our own, and we burn enemies to purify them. Any creature we kill to eat we use every part. I would not risk making a fire. I purified it as well as I could with ceremony.”

Frodo seemed content with that answer.

They set off within a half hour, and proceeded cautiously. The hill drew nearer and nearer. There was a frost in the air, and the sky was colored pale blue. Along the crest of the ridge Anarfin stared down upon the ruins of walls and other stone things.

Anarfin rested for minutes at a time as they walked. He would awaken and study their surroundings for a long while, and then sleep again.

They spoke very little still, which Anarfin was fine with.

That night they reached the feet of the westward slopes, and there they camped. Anarfin learned that it had been six days since the hobbits and Aragorn set out from Bree.

They did not light a fire that night, so Anarfin did not hunt any. He found some edible mushrooms and berries that the hobbits scarfed down alongside their minimal other food.

Again he took watch, and allowed Aragorn to sleep.

In the morning they found a track plain to see even to the hobbits. They followed it southwards, and it kept them as much hidden as they could be. Aragorn went at front and Anarfin flanked the four hobbits, bow and sword close in case of trouble.

The path dove into dells, hugged steep banks, and where it passed over flatter  and more open ground on either side large boulders and stones screened them like a hedge.

“I wonder who made this path, and what for,” said Merry, as they walked along one of the avenues. “I am not sure that I like it: it has a – well, a rather barrow-wightish look. Is there any barrow on Weathertop?”

“No. There is no barrow on Weathertop, nor on any of these hills,” answered Aragorn. “The Men of the West did not live here; though in their latter days they defended the hills for a while that came out of Angmar. This path was made to serve the forts along the walls. But long before, in the first days of the North Kingdom, they built a great watch-tower on Weathertop, Amon Sul they called it. It was burned and broken, and nothing remains of it now but a tumbled ring, like a rough crown on an old king’s head. Yet once it was tall and fair. It is told that Elendil stood there watching for the coming of the Gil-galad out of the West, in the days of the Last Alliance.”

The hobbits gazed at Aragorn in surprise. “Who was Gil-galad?” asked Merry, but Aragorn seemed lost in thought.

Suddenly a low voice from in front of Anarfin murmured:

Gil-galad was an Elven-king.
Of him the harpers sadly sing:
The last whose realm was fair and free
Between the Mountains and the Sea.

His sword was long, his lance was keen,
His shining helm afar was seen;
The countless stars of heaven’s field
Were mirrored in his silver shield.

But long ago he rode away,
And where he dwelleth none can say;
For into darkness fell his star
In Mordor where the shadows are.

The others in front of them turned in amazement, for the voice was Sam’s.

“Don’t stop!” said Merry.

“That’s all I know,” stammered Sam, blushing. “I learned that from Mr. Bilbo when I was a lad. He used to tell me tales like that, knowing how I was always one for hearing about Elves. It was Mr. Bilbo as taught me my letters. He was mighty book-learned was dear old Mr. Bilbo. And he wrote poetry. He wrote what I have just said.”

“He did not make it up,” said Aragorn. “It is part of a lay that is called The Fall of Gil-galad, which is in an ancient tongue. Bilbo must have translated it. I never knew that.”

“There was a lot more,” said Sam, “all about Mordor. I didn’t learn that part, it gave me the shivers. I never thought I should be going that way myself!”

“Going to Mordor!” cried Pippin. “I hope it won’t come to that!”

“Do not speak that name so loudly!” said Aragorn.

Anarfin was silent until they went around another corner. “It is a more faithful translation than any other I have heard in the common tongue,” said he. “Indeed they met upon Weathertop, to rally troops and plan for their attack which would last seven years. A strong point: the Dúnedain and Imladris east, and hills to the south. My sire marched with the elven host, and fought in that war.”

“Your sire was of the Noldor?” asked Aragorn. He attempted to hide the curious tone in his voice, but failed.

Anarfin went quiet for a moment, though Aragorn waited patiently for his response. “My sire was many things…” he said finally. “He did not fight with the host of Noldor.” and Anarfin left it at that.

They found a sheltered hollow on the western flank of Weathertop, a bowl-shaped dell with grassy sides.

“I do not wish to see Frodo out of my eyeline for the moment,” said Aragorn. “Though the seven of us may draw more attention and be slower to scout out Weathertop.”

“I shall go with you and Frodo,” said Merry.

Anarfin turned his gaze upon the land below them, thoughtful. “Leave the pony with Sam and Pippin,” said he, “and let me patrol below. I shall return with more food, if there is any.”

Aragorn agreed easily. “Bado vae,” he told Anarfin, taking on the sayings of Anarfin’s people rather than the Imladrians he had been raised with. He left up the hill with Merry and Frodo.

Pippin, the pony, and Sam was what Anarfin’s eyes scanned over before he headed the way they’d come.

He searched the hill and watched the land below for a few hours. The black spots he spotted long before it was in the sight of any of the others, and he headed back up the hill.

Sam and Pippin had wandered into the sparse trees, and Anarfin tracked them down easily enough. He warned them to stay out of sight of anything below, and left them with the food he’d gathered.

Then, the elf headed further up the hill, creeping up slowly but swiftly.

It was a dozen or so minutes before he reached the top of the hill. “Drego dad!” he hissed sharply, and pointed out into the plains.

Aragorn’s head snapped Anarfin’s way, and then towards the plains and the Road. In the next moment, he flung himself on the ground behind the ruined circle, pulling Frodo down beside him. Merry threw himself alongside.

“What is it?” Merry whispered.

Aragorn crawled slowly to the edge of the ring, and peered through two jagged stones. “The enemy is here!”

“I saw the others and warned them to stay out of sight,” said Anarfin. “Do you wish me to draw the morath away?” That was said in a low voice only for Aragorn’s ears.

The man quickly shook his head. “No,” he said, “they would kill you.”

Frodo’s eyes widened. He knew the word kill in Sindarin, it seemed.

Aragorn crept away, and the two hobbits and the elf followed him down the north side of the hill, out of the sight of the Road and the black dots that rode upon it.

Sam and Pippin told of what they had found. They had explored the small dell and surrounding slopes. Not far away they found a spring of clear water, and near it footprints not more than a day or two old. In the dell itself they found recent traces of fire, and other sign of a hasty camp. Sam had found stacks of firewood.

“I wish I had waited and explored the ground down here myself,” Aragorn said, hurrying off to the spring to examine the footprints.

“I wish I had too when I came to warn these two,” Anarfin murmured to the hobbits, gesturing at Sam and Pippin. “Though it cannot be helped now.”

“It is just as I feared,” he said, when he returned. “Sam and Pippin have trampled the soft ground, and the marks are spoilt or confused. Rangers have been here lately. It is they who left the firewood behind. But there are also several newer tracks that were not made by Raangers. At least one set was made, only a day or two ago, by heavy boots. At least one. I cannot now be certain, but I think there were many booted feet.” He paused and stood in anxious thought.

“I should have explored with them,” said Anarfin. “Then I could be certain if it was those down below whose boots it belonged to. I did find signs of Rangers below, as well as signs of the Mithrandir.”

Aragorn nodded. “We found signs of him above.”

“Hadn’t we better clear out quick, Mr. Strider?” asked Sam impatiently. “It is getting late, and I don’t like this hole: it makes my heart sink somehow.”

“Yes, we certainly must decide what to do at once,” answered Aragorn, looking up and considering the time and the weather. “Well, Sam,” he said at last, “I do not like this place either; but I cannot think of anywhere better that we could reach before nightfall.”

He continued to tell Sam why this was the best spot to stay for the night.

Merry then asked about the morath, and Aragorn told him much on the topic.

“Let us take this wood that is set ready for the fire as a sign,” said Aragorn as Frodo seemed to lose hope. “There is little shelter or defense here, but fire shall serve for both. Sauron can put fire to his evil uses, as he can all things, but these Riders do not love it, and fear those who can wield it. Fire is our friend in the wilderness.”

Down in the lowest and most sheltered corner of the dell they lit a fire, and Anarfin left them there for several minutes as he disappeared into the trees. He returned with a rabbit and pheasant, enough to supplement the food they already had.

Anarfin skinned the rabbit first, and hung the pelt near the campfire, rubbing in wood ash and some tree sap he mixed with water to seal the skin. 

The pheasant they plucked and saved the larger feathers of. The beak and claws were kept by the elf. Anarfin and Aragorn wrapped the bird in leaves and other things to give it taste and cooked it over the fire. 

When they had eaten all the meat from the bones and made them into a small pile, Anarfin cleaned them more thoroughly and kept them.

“I will find uses for them,” he told the hobbits when they shot him curious looks. “Needles, charms, whistles. These rabbits-feet are seen as a sign of good luck. If you would like one, there will be one for each of you within a few days.”

“You take what elves of Imladris would not,” noted Aragorn. “Bones, for one. Sinew. They bury what they do not use below trees. They would not take the claws as you do.”

Anarfin did not comment for a moment, quietly thoughtful. “You would call Mirkwood a hostile environment,” said he. “It is. Anything we can get is a blessing, something to be used to its fullest extent. Necessity causes it. Imladris trades, Imladris grows, and they do not face as many attacks as Mirkwood. I was taught to use all I can, for the sacrifice of the animal for my survival is great.”

Aragorn regarded Anarfin as if under a different light. He nodded, and they fell silent, nearly full from their greater-than-usual meal.

Chapter Text

It grew colder as it grew darker, and the hobbits bundled up in every garment and blanket they possessed, though Anarfin and Aragorn were content with what they had.

As night fell and the light of the fire began to shine out brightly, Aragorn began to tell the hobbits tales to keep their minds from fear.

Anarfin began to clean the rabbit-skull as Aragorn spoke, careful and quick with it. He half-listened as the man spoke of the kingdoms of men and elves of old. Aragorn talked of Lindon, Eregion, and the founding of Imladris.

Merry asked once for something older, and Aragorn glanced at Anarfin finally, who glanced up as he felt attention upon him. Secretly had he added some smaller pheasant-feathers to the ends of his two small braids, though none could see it now.

“You might know these stories better than me,” Aragorn said. “Might you tell one?”

Anarfin considered that request for a moment, hands still working though he paid attention not to that task any longer. “Yes. Strider has told you stories of elven-kingdoms on this side of the Ered Luin, but there is no kingdom now that came close to those of the land now under the sea, Beleriand.”

Merry’s eyes widened in excitement, though he did not interrupt.

“The great evil of that time threatened all, though beauty was possible still.”

He paused, as if trying to get his words in order.

“In that land there was a place called the Encircling Mountains, far to the north. If you went to those mountains they were nearly impassible, and elves settled there. The city was one hidden from all outsiders, and once you entered you were forbidden to leave, though none ever wanted to. Its towers caught the light of dawn and gleamed brighter than the sun. Fountains sang with more beauty than the elves, and flowers bloomed even in winter. This elven-city was one of white, filled with lords, warriors, craftsmen, smiths, jewelers, and families.”

“What was it called?” asked Sam in wonder.

Anarfin smiled sadly, though they could see it not. “Gondolin, it was called, and its people the Gondolindrim. The great city held twelve houses, of archers and musicians, miners and blacksmiths, guards and royals. They say even its hourly bells sounded like pure music, needing no flutes or lirulin as back up.”

He lowered his head and took a soft, though readying, breath. “That beauty did not last forever. This city held seven gates, seven ways inside, and each heavily guarded and kept secret. The fall of Gondolin began with love, and the ensuing bitterness of that sickness. Only the city of peace and love could be felled by hate.”

A pause comes after these words, the grief of a city long-felled. He felt it as his own grief, though he had not been present.

“What happened?” Merry asked impatiently, though Pippin shushed him.

“The sister of the king departed this grand city, though later she returned with a son named Maeglin. The son was orphaned soon after, though his uncle King Turgon took him in and raised him as his own. He became an elven-prince and was given his own house. The House of the Mole, a house mainly of miners loyal to Maeglin.”

Anarfin stared down at the skull in his hands with much sorrow. “Maeglin fell in love with Turgon’s daughter Idril, though she was his first cousin. It is disapproved of to have a romantic relationship between such close kin, and Idril did not share his thoughts and rejected him in such a way he thought harsh.

“The prince grew resentful, even more so when Idril married the man Tuor, and bore a son named Eärendil.” The name seemed to lighten their spirits, though most of the hobbits did not know why. 

“Maeglin left Gondolin and was captured by the Darkness, who threatened to torture him and said he would be freed if he would give up the location of the fair city of Gondolin. His fëa was hateful and he was afraid enough to give up the location, and the Darkness promised him rule of the city and the hand of Idril when Turgon was overthrown.

“After he was freed, Maeglin returned to the city. When it was breached, the prince attempted to kidnap Idril and young Eärendil, but was himself thrown over the wall by Tuor and killed.”

Those words settled over the six of them for a moment.

Frodo stared upwards, though, at the sky. He could see Gil-na-Thalon from here. “The Star of Eärendil. That is the same man?”

“Yes, Eärendil the mariner. My kin calls it not by that name, for we have no connection to Eärendil. I will tell you more of him in a moment,” he promised Frodo.

“The Darkness released orcs, balrogs, dragons, and many more creatures under him into the city, and Gondolin was caught by surprise. The gates were held for some time, though broken through eventually. The city was burned and destroyed, and all would have been lost except for the brave elves that fought in that battle.

“Survivors fled through a secret tunnel to the river Sirion, hoping for safety. Only a small group of citizens survived the attack, those people of joy and brightness slaughtered. The place of light and music burned and pillaged.”

Anarfin’s voice had grown quieter and quieter as he reached the end of that tale. Mournful, for a city he would never see. “It sits now at the bottom of Belegaer after the War of Wrath. Further destroyed.”

A heavy silence ensued. Anarfin was finished with speaking of Gondolin, yet Frodo had now asked about Eärendil.

“As for Eärendil the Mariner… He and his parents survived the attack, and sought refuge in Sirion. He was seven years of age. Around the same time Doraith was destroyed as well, and refugees from that place mingled with the refugees of Gondolin. Eärendil met the daughter of High King Dior, Elwing, and wedded her only a few years later. They both were of peredhel lineage, half-elven, and aged differently to men or elves solely. Elwing bore twins a few years later, boys named Elros and Elrond.”

The four hobbits all certainly recognized this name, especially Frodo.

“Elrond of Rivendell? These were his parents?” asked Frodo.

“Indeed,” said Aragorn. “Though let us not tell any further in this tale. I wish not to speak of the complexities of the Sons of Fëanor and Silmarils tonight.”

“It is too uncertain a night to talk of dark things such as that,” agreed Anarfin. “Though I would not dare speak of it in the House of Elrond.”

Merry seemed to wish to not sit in silence, so he said: “Tell us of Gil-Galad. Do you know any more of that old lay that you spoke of?” He asked.

“I do indeed,” Aragorn answered. “So also does Frodo, for it concerns us closely.” Merry and Pippin looked at Frodo, who was staring into the fire.

“I know only the little that Gandalf has told me,” said Frodo slowly. “Gil-galad was the last of the great Elf-kings of Middle-earth. Gil-galad is Starlight in their tongue. With Elendil, Elf-friend, he went to the land of–”

“No!” said Aragorn interrupting. “I do not think that take should be told now with the servants of the Enemy at hand. If we win through to the house of Elrond, you may hear it there, told in full.”

“By the mouth of one who experienced such a thing,” added Anarfin. “It would be such an honor.”

“Then tell us some other tale of the old days,” begged Sam, “a tale about the Elves before the fading time. I would dearly like to hear more about Elves; the dark seems to press round so close.” Sam glanced to Anarfin as well, though she did not say more.

“I will tell you the tale of Tinuviel,” said Aragorn, “in brief–for it is a long tale of which the end is not known; and there are none now, except Elrond, that remember it aright as it was told of old. It is a fair tale, though it is sad, as are all the tales of Middle-earth, and yet it may lift up your hearts.”

He was silent for quite some time, and then finally he spoke. Anarfin closed his eyes and listened. When Aragorn was finished with the tale, he explained the story to the hobbits.

They were silent for a moment, and then Sam glanced to Anarfin again, silently asking for a story.

“There is no happy tale I have for you, Samwise. Nothing that would raise your spirits,” said he. “I could tell you more of the Old Lands with longing in my heard, of the Lothloríen, of the Mirkwood, of the last king of Arnor and Gondor jointly, Arvedui the Drowned.”

His gaze shifted to Aragorn as he spoke those last words.

“Since I have recently been to Mirkwood, I have been reminded of a story. I have only heard it in the way of elves of Rivendell, though not of the Mirkwood. Do you know the story of Anardil and Ríniel?” asked Aragorn.

Anarfin stared. “No,” he said sharply, and his gaze dropped back down to the skull hurriedly. “That is not a story meant to be told outside the kin of elves, Estel. It is as if you asked an elf of Imladris about Celebrían.” 

The gaze of Aragorn softened in understanding. “I apologize. Though I admit I have been eternally curious.”

Anarfin stayed quiet, fiddling with the skull further.

Merry looked up after a few more moments. “Look!” said he. “The moon is rising: it must be getting late.”

The others glanced up. Anarfin felt a chill of dread up his spine, and the wind whispered warnings of something evil.

Sam and Merry had gotten up and walked from the fire.

Anarfin stashed the skull quickly and stood. “Come away from there,” he called, “stay close.” His hand shifted to grip upon his sword.

Sam came scurrying back. “I don’t know what it is,” he said, “but I suddenly felt afraid. I durstn’t go outside this dell for any money; I felt that something was creeping up the slope.”

“Did you see anything?” asked Frodo, springing to his feet.

“No, sir. I saw nothing, but I didn’t stop to look.”

“I saw something,” said Merry; “or I thought I did – away westward where the moonlight was falling on the flats beyond the shadow of the hill-tops, I thought there were two or three black shapes. They seemed to be moving this way.”

The six of them stood with their backs to the fire. Anarfin crouched and picked up a longer stick, and dipped one end into the fire to light it.

He drew his sword, and it glittered silver in the moonlight. It was a strange, wild sword. 

It was Anarfin who first spotted the figures. Five of them, upon the slope.

Pippin and Merry threw themselves flat on the ground. Sam shrank to Frodo’s side.

Frodo disappeared, somehow. The figures still continued to advance towards where Frodo had been, though here he seemed to not be any longer.

In one hand Anarfin held a sword, and in the other a flaming stick of wood.

He let out a cry, the first thought that came to him. It was a note of a song that felt very instinctual to him.

The figures recoiled from where Frodo had been and where he wasn’t any longer, and turned towards Anarfin.

Terror struck him, the memory of the dream he’d had. It quickly turned from fear to anger, which was the more productive thought.

“Ecthelion!” cried Anarfin, he let out another cry and song of anguish and anger, and launched himself at the figures, sword and fire in all.

A powerful name it was, a war cry. Ecthelion had given his life protecting Gondolin, had slain the lord of balrogs: Gothmog. As effective the name Glorfindel would have been, though as Anarfin knew Glorfindel himself it felt strange to battle-cry his name.

The Leader of the morath did not come to meet her. Instead, the four others approached, and three paused while one drew closer.

It drew a sword, and Anarfin would not stand still while it ran him through this time.

The sword of the morath met with the sword of Anarfin. The morath had tried to make a killing move out of the gate, and Anarfin blocked that with ease, expecting it.

Aragorn was there too, with a burning stick of his own in hand. The three morath let out a horrible screeching noise, and fled. The morath seemed to wish to recoil from Anarfin, though wished to kill him more than it wished to flee.

They did not seem to recoil nearly as much from Aragorn.

Aragorn chased off the other four, while Anarfin fought one. Their swords clashed, and the noise was loud in the otherwise nearly-silent night. The morath's blade was dark and reeked of evil. After nearly a minute of attacking and dodging and blocking, Anarfin managed to nearly stab the morath and get the fire close to it as well. It let out a nearly-identical screech to the one the others had let out, one that sent a chill down Anarfin's spine and nearly deafened him with his good-hearing.

It fled, following its companions and leaving the four hobbits and Anarfin atop the hill alone.

When all five were gone, Anarfin nearly fell to his knees, overcome with illness. He managed to keep his feet just barely, though hid his hands under his cloak to hide the slight shake in them.

Exhaustion washed over him as he watched Frodo appear in front of them again. The hobbits carried Frodo to the fire, and Anarfin stood still for nearly a minute, trying to push down the exhaustion and ill-feeling.

Aragorn had already disappeared by the time he was able to sit, turned away from the fire, gazing out to watch in case the morath returned.

There was a tightness upon his chest, a lightness in his head. His bones ached, and he felt like he had not rested in a century. Anarfin could not breathe. Ne’er had he been one to panic under any circumstance. He had surely felt fear, panic, but never before had it enveloped him as this did.

He sat within a daze.

Chapter Text

Aragorn returned finally. He ordered for Pippin and Merry to heat as much water as they could, and to bathe the wound Frodo had.

It was then when Anarfin finally rose to his feet again, and made his way to the other side of the fire, pushing away his illness in favor of Frodo’s.

He had been stabbed. Pippin and Merry begun to bathe the wound on Frodo’s shoulder.

“Keep the fire going well, and keep Frodo warm!” Aragorn told them, and left.

Instinctually, Anarfin felt drawn to the wound. He urged Merry and Pippin out of the way, kneeling next to Frodo. They each shot him a strange look, and the look grew stranger as Anarfin put a hand over the wound.

Then, he began to sing, the words coming to mind as he spoke them. He had heard them rather recently, a song sung by his minstrel-friend.

Á astanya i hröa sina,
(Let this body be rekindled)
ve laiqua súrë nu lóme;
(Like green breath beneath night;)
á hlarë i nurta lómello,
(Let it hear the deep sleep-song)
ar á rucë i nacil huinëo.
(And let the biting-fangs of darkness be driven back.)
Nai hlaruva lómë, nai asta sahtië,
(May the night hear, may the wound be healed,)
ar á entulëa, órinya, ve celumë atalya.
(And return to me, my heart, as the stream returns to its bed.)

The words were not Sindarin as his mother-tongue, it was Quenya, the ancient language of elves.

His voice was hesitant at the start, though the more he sang the more confident he became. His voice was still soft, though it did not shake as it had at first.

On the other hand, his hand shook more as he sung that song with those words of healing.

Frodo’s complexion warmed much, and his breaths were less in pain. Anarfin then drew his hand back. The wound was not healed completely, but the darkness there from the Morgul blade had lessened much.

Anarfin felt more ill than he had previously, the tightness in his chest worsened, and his stomach lurched. He gave no explanation as he disappeared into the woods.

When the elf returned from being sick and trying to regather his dignity a half hour later, Frodo did not look any worse, and Merry and Pippin continued to bathe his wound.

The exhaustion had not eased any, so Anarfin lay down at the very edge of their camp in a little alcove. He closed his eyes, and slept. 

He awoke later to Aragorn shaking his shoulder. It felt like no time had passed at all, like he had not slept any.

The man pulled away from Anarfin when he began to move, giving him space. “We must go,” Aragorn told the elf. “They said you sung to Frodo. It has helped him, I thank you. I was not aware you could heal.”

“I do not often,” said Anarfin, rising to his feet slowly and with a slight unsteadiness most strange for any elf. “I had heard that song before. It was meant for me to sing in that moment.”

Aragorn studied Anarfin as much as he could by only seeing his cloak and some of his well-worn travelling clothes. Then he turned, and headed for the others.

Again they set off, with Frodo upon the pony Bill. They began south, though it meant crossing the Road in order to get to the woods in which they would be more protected. They needed fuel too; Aragorn said that Frodo must be kept warm, especially at night.

They made their way cautiously round the south-western slopes of the hill, and came onto the plains a little ways to the edge of the Road. Anarfin gazed out in each direction, but saw no sign of the morath.

As they hurried across the bare land they heard two cries: a cold voice calling and a cold voice answering. They sprang forward and made quickly for the thickets that lay ahead. The others seemed gloomy, though Anarfin was not.

Much was he used to gloomy woods, he had lived in many woods throughout his years.

They spoke little as they trudged along.

They kept watch in pairs by night, even Anarfin. The first night from Weathertop he had taken the last shift, though had slept so hard Aragorn could hardly wake him.

His dreams were filled with morath, chasing her through the woods. He feared that if they caught her in dreams he might never wake again, though his eyes droop much by the time they stoop to rest each night. It is most strange, to sleep as Men do.

Each night Anarfin goes off to hunt for them, returning with food mostly for the hobbits, mostly Frodo. Aragorn and him share the remaining lembas, and only take a bite at night.

One night Anarfin caught a fox. Though the hobbits did not seem pleased to be eating fox, Anarfin was able to dry the pelt well enough that he could wrap it around Frodo to keep him just a little warmer.

“A bear would be nice for you to kill. Then we all might have blankets.” Pippin grumbled, grumpy.

“Do not wish for bears, little hobbit. They may eat you before I could kill them.” Anarfin said. “It is both good and bad we have not found anything larger within these woods. It means something is scaring them off, and it is not us.”

Pippin’s face went white with terror at that news, and he stuck very close to the others.

“Do not scare them, mellon nin. This life is foreign to them,” Aragorn said.

Anarfin shook his head. “I mean not to scare. I mean to be truthful.”

On the sixth day from Weathertop they reached a slow-climbing slope, and saw far ahead a huddle of wooded hills.

“I am afraid we must go back to the Road here for a while,” said Aragorn. “We have now come to the River Hoarwell, that the Elves call Mitheithel. It flows down out of the Ettenmoors, the troll-fells north of Rivendell, and joins the Loudwater away in the south. Some call it the Greyflood after that. It is a great water before it finds the Sea. There is no way over it below its sources in the Ettenmoors, except by the Last Bridge on which the Road crosses.”

The next day, very early in the morning, they came down to the borders of the Road. Sam and Aragorn went forward, but found no sign of travellers or morath. Rain had fallen two days past, and no horseman had passed since then.

They hurried along with all the speed they could make, and saw the Last Bridge ahead after nearly an hour.

Aragorn made them take cover in a thicket at the side of the Road.

“I shall scout ahead,” said he.

“Why not I?” asked Anarfin, staring out at the Last Bridge. “You are skilled, though might miss details.”

Aragorn shook his head. “Guard the halflings, I ask it,” he said, “and what you did for Frodo has drained you. They might not notice, though I do.” The tone of his words is placating and softens near the end.

“Very well,” Anarfin decided, though he was not happy about it.

The man left them to scout ahead to the Last Bridge, while Anarfin stayed with the hobbits. They kept very quiet while Aragorn was gone. Before long he came hurrying back. “I can see no sign of the enemy,” he said, “and I wonder very much what that means. But I have found something very strange.”

He held out his hand, and revealed to them a single pale-green jewel.

“I found it in the mud in the middle of the Bridge,” he said. “It is a beryl, an elf-stone. Whether it was set there, or let it fall by chance, I cannot say; but it brings hope to me. I will take it as a sign that we may pass the Bridge; but beyond that I dare not keep to the Road, without some clearer token.”

Anarfin, however, smiled. “You hold many friends, Estel. It is a sign of that. Help comes for us, though we cannot rely on that fact. I agree we should turn away from the Road.”

At once they went on again. They crossed the Bridge in safety. A mile further on they came across a narrow ravine that led northwards through the steep lands on the left of the Road. Here Aragorn turned aside, and soon they were lost in the sombre country of dark trees winding among the feet of sullen hills.

This new country was darker, more ancient and untouched. Anarfin had been through here a few times before.

“Who lives in this land?” Frodo asked suddenly. “And who built these towers? Is this troll-country?”

“No!” said Aragorn. “Trolls do not build. No one lives in this land. Men once dwelt here, ages ago; but none remain now. They became an evil people, as legends tell, for they fell under the shadow of Angmar. But all were destroyed in the war that brought the North Kingdom to its end. But that is now so long ago that the hills have forgotten them, though a shadow still lies on the land.”

“Where did you learn such tales, if all the land is empty and forgetful?” asked Pippin. “The birds and beasts do not tell tales of that sort.”

Anarfin came up closer behind the hobbits and made a noise of amusement. “The trees and hills remember much more than you think, Aragorn. Especially in these times.”

“The heirs of Elendil do not forget all things past,” said Aragorn, likely ignoring him; “and many more things than I can tell are remembered in Rivendell.”

“Have you often been to Rivendell?” said Frodo.

“I have,” said Aragorn. “I dwelt there once, and still I return when I may. There my heart is; but it is not my fate to sit in peace, even in the fair house of Elrond.”

The hills began to shut them in. Now they advanced slowly, picking their way through a pathless country, encumbered by fallen trees and tumbled rocks. They avoided climbing for as long as they could for Frodo’s sake, and because it was difficult to find any path up the sides of the narrow dales for the hobbits and Aragorn.

It was their second day into this country when the weather began to again turn wet and the wind began to blow steadily out of the West. By nightfall they were all soaked, and their camp was cheerless, for they could not get any fire to burn.

Anarfin ran warm, as an elf, though even he was cold now. His cloak was not thin by any means, though it was not thick enough for this weather. He dreamed of being chased through snowy mountains, and they woke him last the next morning.

The trees began to whisper things he wished not to think about, about blood and death and evil.

The next day the hills rose higher still and steeper before them, and they were forced to turn away northwards out of their course. Aragorn seemed to be getting anxious: their food began to run low. 

He didn’t wish for Anarfin to often go off alone in the woods, though Anarfin would have to now to find more food. If they could find cover enough which they could light a fire, they would be fine. But they slept under the stars, and all the wood they came across was soaked.

It was another full day before the rain finally stopped. The clouds were thick, but they were breaking, and pale blue appeared between them. The wind was shifting again.

Immediately after breakfast Aragorn told the others to remain in their shelter and went off alone. He said he was to climb up the cliff if he could, and get a look at the lie of the land.

Anarfin would be better suited for that job, certainly, though he was much glad Aragorn had not asked him. The weariness had not eased, and the whispers of the trees disturbed his thoughts and sleep even further.

He had finished the rabbits-foot charms for each of the hobbits. Even Sam, who had said little to Anarfin since his arrival, took one.

When Aragorn returned his news was not reassuring. “We have come too far to the north,” he said, “and we must find some way to turn back southwards again. If we keep on as we are going we shall get up into the Ettendales far north of Rivendell. That is troll-country, and little known to me. We could perhaps find our way through and come round to Rivendell from the north; but it would take too long, for I do not know the way, and our food would not last. So somehow or other we must find the Ford of Bruinen.”

The rest of that day they spent scrambling over rocky ground. They discovered a passage between two hills that led them into a valley running south-east, but towards the end of the day they found their road again barred by a ridge of high land. They could go back or climb over.

They decided to attempt the climb.

“I can carry Frodo up,” said Anarfin. “He is not heavy, and I can make the climb easier than any other.”

Aragorn nodded reluctantly. Anarfin went ahead while the others struggled to find a way to bring up the pony. When they finally reached the top, all were exhausted, including Anarfin and Frodo.

The land fell away steeply again only a short distance ahead. Anarfin set Frodo down and he threw himself upon the ground, shivering. He was pale and there was a sheen of sweat upon his face.

“We cannot go any further,” said Merry to Aragorn. “I am afraid this has been too much for Frodo. I am dreadfully anxious about him. What are we to do? Do you think they will be able to cure him in Rivendell, if we ever get there?”

“We shall see,” answered Aragorn. “There is nothing more that I can do in the wilderness; and it is chiefly because of his wound that I am so anxious to press on. But I agree that we can go no further tonight.”

“What is the matter with my master?” asked Sam in a low voice. “His wound was small, and it is already closed. There’s nothing to be seen but a cold white mark on his shoulder.”

“Frodo has been touched by the weapons of the Enemy,” said Aragorn, “and there is some poison or evil at work that is beyond my skill to drive out. But do not give up hope, Sam!”

Sam turned his gaze to Anarfin, who stood at the top of the ridge and gazed out upon the land. “Can you help him any more? Can you do the same thing you did before? It eased his pain before.”

“I will try,” promised Anarfin. “Though it drains me much, and I cannot do it again for a while after this.”

Aragorn watched curiously as Anarfin crouched again by Frodo’s side. Frodo stared up into Anarfin’s hood, eyes unclouded though he was injured and ill due to it. His lips parted, and a look of awe overcame his expression. He could see Anarfin’s face, though Anarfin did not care in this moment.

He pulled the cloth back from Frodo’s shoulder until it was bare to the air. It was true, a silver-white scar where it had before been a stab wound.

Anarfin put one hand over the scar, and his other held onto Frodo’s other shoulder. He closed his eyes, and again, he sung that song.

His voice was firm as he spoke this time, and shook only at the end, when his hands had again began to tremble from exhaustion.

The song trailed off, and Anarfin drew back from Frodo, drawing his hands back into his cloak. Exhaustion blurred the edges of his vision, and he stood still, refusing to allow himself to be blown over as he was weak.

Aragorn stood as well, and stared at Anarfin. There was curiosity and awe upon his face. “Nai lómë hlarë,” he murmured in response. May the night hear. A Quenyan blessing.

“That song is older than any shelter in these parts,” said Aragorn half to himself, half to the hobbits. “A healing of the kind sung in the wake of the First Days.” He put a hand upon Anarfin’s shoulder and the elf swayed slightly under the touch. “Rest now; you have truly given much to him.”

“It is not enough,” Anarfin murmured in his strange dialect of Sindarin, choppy words and phrases meant for speaking quickly when little time may be had. “I do not know how to make him whole, only how to hold the darkness back again.”

Aragorn shook his head, taking a step closer not to spy under Anarfin’s hood but to grab him in case he fell from exhaustion. “More than any other could have done. He will last until Imladris, if we get back on our road again.”

Anarfin went silent for a moment, before he murmured to Aragorn that he would go to find food, and left the five of them and the pony there alone. Aragorn allowed him this, allowed him not to be seen weak in front of the hobbits and himself.

Chapter Text

Anarfin did not return to them until dawn, though he did return with plenty of food for them to eat for breakfast.

Some was berries and mushrooms, though most was meat.

After breakfast, Aragorn took Merry with him and went to survey the country from the height to the east of the pass. The sun had risen and was shining brightly when they returned with comforting news. Now they were going more or less in the right direction.

If they continued on, down the further side of the ridge, they would have the mountains on their left. The road to the Ford lay on the side of the river nearest to them.

They set out again and climbed slowly down the southern side of the ridge. This way was much easier than expected, for the slope was far less steep on this side, and before long Frodo was able to ride again.

Anarfin kept very quiet as they walked, and to anything the others said he did not respond or react. Aragorn presumed he slept while they walked, for he had likely not slept any that previous night.

Pippin was a little ahead of the others. Suddenly he turned around and called to them. “There is a path here!”

He made no mistake: clearly there was the beginnings of a path that climbed with many windings out of the woods below and faded away on the hilltop behind. They followed the track for some while, for it was the easiest way down, but they went cautiously.

When they came to a corner they looked round and saw that the path ran on over a level strip under the face of a low cliff overhung with trees. On the wall of stone there was a door hanging crookedly ajar.

Outside the door they halted, and Anarfin, Aragorn, Sam, and Merry all pushed the door open a little wider. Aragorn and Merry entered, though did not go far.

“Surely this is a troll-hole, if ever there was one!” said Pippin. “Come out, you two, and let us get away. Now we know who made the path – and we had better get off it quick.”

“There is no need, I think,” said Aragorn, coming out. “It is certainly a troll-hole, but it seems to have been long forsaken. I don’t think we need be afraid. But let us go on down warily, and we shall see.”

Anarfin gazed out upon the woods as the others had gone inside. “I will scout ahead for trolls. If I do not appear to you, think of it as a good sign,” he said to the hobbits and Aragorn. Aragorn gave him a nod of permission and Anarfin left them there.

It was in fact he who found the Road again first, who found another elf.

Anarfin had heard hoofbeats on the earth, and hid himself well before the horse and rider came within sight. It was not a jet-black horse bearing a black-cloaked rider, as Anarfin had expected.

In fact, it was much the opposite.

Anarfin dropped down from the tree from where he had hid, and glanced up as he heard the sound of steel being drawn.

The rider upon the horse was holding his sword, ready in case he meant to ambush and attack.

Beautiful was the horse, pure white and wearing an ornamental headstall instead of the typical bridal and bit. Its rider was sunlight in elven form, a familiar elf to Anarfin.

He relaxed as he spotted the cloak of Anarfin, and returned the sword to its sheath. “Anarfin,” he sighed in relief. “So it is you. You were with Aragorn and the halflings. Where do they remain?” he asked.

“I travel ahead,” responded Anarfin, stepping forward, closer to this elf and horse. The horse nuzzled at Anarfin’s head and neck, nipping at his hood. “I have strayed from the path to hunt for food like a warrior of the woods. The halfling Frodo is injured by a blade most evil.”

The elf Glorfindel scanned Anarfin carefully. “You are tired, my friend. Come with me, and we shall seek them.” He held out a hand as the horse side-stepped so he himself grew close enough to Anarfin that he may take the hand.

Anarfin took the hand, and allowed Glorfindel to pull her up behind him. The elven lord guided Asfaloth forward again, and they swiftly continued down the road.

Anarfin watched as well as he could, trying to spot any sign of Aragorn and the others. With Glorfindel’s presence the trees quieted some, spouting things not as dark. He saw none, at least not until Aragorn sprung suddenly out from a hiding spot and dashed down the road, leaping with a cry of joy.

Glorfindel reined in Asfaloth and halted. Anarfin dismounted first, swiftly landing upon the ground from the back of the horse. Glorfindel dismounted next.”

“Ai na vedui Dúnadan! Mae govannen!” He greeted. Ah, at last, Dúnadan! Well met!

He spoke with Aragorn for many minutes while Anarfin pet Asfaloth calmly. The white horse again nuzzled into Anarfin and licked him in the face, sticking his tongue under the hood.

Pippin snorted from the bushes, though Anarfin was unbothered.

Aragorn suddenly beckoned to the hobbits, and they left the bushes and hurried down the Road. “This is Glorfindel, who dwells in the house of Elrond,” said Aragorn.

“Hail, and well met at last!” said Glorfindel to Frodo. “I was sent from Rivendell to look for you. We feared that you were in danger upon the road.”

“Then Gandalf has reached Rivendell?” cried Frodo joyfully.

Anarfin joined them now, slowly guiding Asfaloth closer.

Glorfindel shook his head, and explained to them how Elrond had learned of the hobbits, and sent him out to find them about the road. He explained that he came to the Last Bridge and cleared it for them.

“There are five behind us,” said Glorfindel, meaning the morath, “and when they find your trail upon the Road they will ride after us like the wind. And they are not all. Where the other four may be, I do not know. I fear we may find the Ford is already held against us.”

Frodo swayed, and clutched at Sam’s arm.

“My master is sick and wounded,” said Sam angrily. “He can’t go on riding after nightfall. He needs rest.”

Glorfindel caught Frodo as he sank to the ground, and taking him gently in his arms he looked in his face with grave anxiety.

Briefly Aragorn told of the attack upon Weathertop, and of the knife. He drew out the hilt, and Glorfindel shuddered as he took it.

“There are evil things written on this hilt,” he said; “though maybe your eyes cannot see them. Keep it Aragorn, till we reach the house of Elrond! But be wary, and handle it as little as you may! Alas! The wounds of this weapon are beyond my skill to heal. I will do what I can – but all the more I urge you now to go on without rest.”

“You shall ride my horse,” said Glorfindel. “I will shorten the stirrups up to the saddle-skirts, and you must sit as tight as you can. But you need not fear: my horse will not let any rider fall that I command him to bear. His pace is light and smooth; and if danger presses too near, he will bear you away with a speed that even the black steeds of the enemy cannot rival.”

“No, he will not!” said Frodo. “I shall not ride him, if I am to be carried off to Rivendell or anywhere else, leaving my friends behind in danger.”

Glorfindel smiled. “I doubt very much,” he said, “if your friends would be in danger if you were not with them! The pursuit would follow you and leave us in peace, I think. It is you, Frodo, and that which you bear that brings us all in peril.”

They walked swiftly from there, too fast for the feet of a hobbit and even Aragorn began to falter.

It was not until the grey of dawn did Glorfindel allow them to halt.

The others cast themselves down in the heather a few yards from the Road-side, and fell asleep immediately.

Anarfin and Glorfindel kept watch, though Glorfindel tried to tell Anarfin he could sleep. His eyes drooped with exhaustion, though showing weakness in front of his former-mentor was not something he wished to do.

He kept his hands busy instead, carving the bones he had collected from their meals.

Glorfindel stood, and drew Anarfin away from the group. “You are ill also, do not think I did not see that,” said he. “Stand here, they will not see you. Draw down your hood.”

Anarfin slowly moved first to where he suggested, and then pulled down his hood to reveal his face to Glorfindel. Those keen blue eyes searched Anarfin’s face, though said nothing, and his expression did not seem to give anything away either.

“From Weathertop,” said Anarfin as explanation. He dropped his gaze in shame. “I feel it in my chest, a clamminess on my skin, and exhaustion in my bones.” He shook his head, and stowed his bone-carving. “I sang to them, and the morath were driven away. I sang to Frodo, and it has helped somewhat, yet drained me more.”

The ancient warrior’s expression softened much, and concern Anarfin now found there.

“You must sleep,” he put a hand on Anarfin’s shoulder in reassurance and familiarity. “Drive away this illness. I fear it is like before. Your energy was pulled from you, and then you were not strong enough to regain it. Sleep, mellon nin.”

Anarfin’s shoulders slumped in surrender, and he gave Glorfindel a nod.

The elf-lord bade him to lay there, that he would watch and ensure none of the others came near while his hood was removed. Anarfin listened, for he trusted Glorfindel, and laid where he stood and closed his eyes.

It felt like no time at all before Glorfindel woke Anarfin, concern pinched in his face. He did not say much, but kept close to Anarfin.

The fact that he had slept with his eyes closed meant that he was truly ill, it was not any mere exhaustion. 

Anarfin pulled his hood back up and they woke the others. It was not long before they continued on the road. The two elves could hear that they were being pursued, and Anarfin could hear the trees whispering for them to run.

He pushed them to go faster, though he knew it was certainly rough on the hobbits and even Aragorn.

Six leagues they managed to cover before nightfall, an the hobbits could go no further than that.

Anarfin stayed awake all through that night, even with Glorfindel urging him to sleep. Anarfin kept half his focus upon the trees, and the other half he glanced up every few seconds to watch the trees.

He continued with his carvings. Anarfin had been taught to use every piece of an animal he could, and by living alone for many, many years he had picked up many of these skills. Needles he could make, clasps for cloaks, whistles, and many other uses could bone have.

They awoke the hobbits and Aragorn early the next morning, and continued on again.

“Our peril will be greatest just ere we reach the river,” said Glorfindel; “for my heart warns me that the pursuit is now swift behind us, and other dangers by the Ford.”

Anarfin met eyes with Glorfindel and nodded. They were being swiftly pursued now, and morath were slowly closing in behind them.

Worry filled Anarfin’s heart, for they were not near enough to the river to escape those evil horse-riders.

Chapter Text

In the late afternoon they came to a place where the Road went suddenly under the dark shadows of dark pine trees, and then plunged into a deep cutting with steep moist walls of red stone. Echoes ran along as they hurried forward; and there seemed to be a sound of many footfalls following their own.

It was due to this that Anarfin did not realize until it was nearly too late.

All at once, as through a gate of light, the Road ran out again from the end of the tunnel into the open. There at the bottom of a sharp incline they saw before them a long flat mile, and beyond that there was the Ford of Imladris.

Anarfin could see much further than that, though he dared not to hope, especially as he perceived that there were still an echo as of following feet from behind them.

He whirled around, hand upon his sword-hilt. Glorfindel turned and listened, and then sprang forward with a loud cry.

“Fly!” he called to Asfaloth. “Fly! The enemy is upon us!”

The brave, beautiful horse leapt forward and headed for the Brunien. The hobbits ran down the slope, and the three larger folk followed behind as a rearguard.

They were halfway across the flat when the morath exited the wood behind them.

“Ride forward! Ride!” cried Glorfindel to Frodo.

The others ran to the wood on their side of the river to make fire while Frodo was being chased. He made it across the Ford, though the morath were close behind.

Anarfin changed his course from the others to race after Frodo, though Glorfindel cried a warning not to. It was hopeless for Anarfin to raise a sword to them without fire, though he cared not. Whatever he had done upon Weathertop had worked.

From upstream, the river surged forward, an unnatural amount of water heading their way. It roared and caught three morath while they were trying to wade through. The remaining six were on their side of the bank.

They turned as Anarfin drew nearer, as he drew his sword against them as he ran. One dismounted, and drew his own sword again.

It was smoky still and made him feel horrible, though he certainly already felt that so it made not much of a difference.

“Úvë ná!” He cried in Quenya. A war cry, meaning evil, be gone!

It was not this time either that the Witch-King had dismounted. He had been in the river when it swept him and two others away. Anarfin’s sword would not break against this one either.

An angry cry escaped him, much like the one on Weathertop though fueled by more anger and fear for Frodo. The poor hobbit was already injured.

It was like before, though this time the cry caused the dark, evil horses to spook and they bore their riders into the still-raging water.

The morath who had dismounted from his horse did not falter, and continued still for Anarfin.

Weak as he felt, never would he back down from a fight if it meant protecting someone innocent. Someone long ago had taught that to Anarfin.

They met within seconds, and their swords clashed. This time, it was as if smoke curled around them, and the water still roared behind the creature.

All of the others were too far away to help Anarfin in this moment, even if he needed it. The other creature was quick, though he was evil.

Anarfin turned and whirled and used every trick he could think of, trying to push the creature back towards the water.

The creature’s sword shot past Anarfin’s own, and went for his neck. Managed Anarfin did to move away enough that it would not kill him, though the sword left a deep gash across his collarbone, and cut through one side of the cloak that kept it fastened upon Anarfin.

Anarfin continued to fight, barely realizing as the cloak fell away, the hood going with it.

Hair and face free to the sky, the wind rushed past them. The morath and the elf continued to fight like a whirlwind, meeting each attack with steel.

Anarfin spotted a glint of gold. “Elbereth!” cried Glorfindel, running for them with fire in hand.

The creature faltered, fearful of the invocation of that word. Anarfin disarmed him in a moment, and then stabbed viciously. There was no flesh for the elven blade to meet, but the morath let out a screech that sounded like it was in pain.

It was harsh and piercing to Anarfin’s ears, worse than the time previous.

Grasped it did at Anarfin, and pulled the elf close. The sword fully pierced through it, cutting through the cloak behind the creature. It got a hand around Anarfin’s throat, squeezing tightly for only a few seconds before Glorfindel thrust a burning stick at it.

The morath released the elf, and pulled back, off Anarfin’s sword. It fled into the water, the only way it could have gone with all the horses gone, and with the three hobbits and the man running towards them with flaming sticks.

Anarfin fell to a knee, head dipping, gasps of shock and regaining breath coming now. Glorfindel shielded Anarfin from the sight of the others.

“It is fine,” said Anarfin, and waved Glorfindel off. The elf’s head raised finally, and gazed up at the elf-lord. “I have hidden long enough. Find Frodo now.”

Glorfindel studied Anarfin’s face for a moment, before dipping his head and crossing the river to be at the halfling’s side.

Anarfin’s hands shook as the sword was resheathed.

Aragorn made it to Anarfin while the three other hobbits rushed across the river to get to Frodo’s side.

The man regarded Anarfin curiously. His first words were: “There were rumors your face was deeply scarred,” he said bluntly. “Now I see that is not the case. The rumors and Elrohir never mentioned you may be female.”

Anarfin smiled tiredly. The smile of someone most mischievous having successfully deceived many for so many years.

“He was shocked enough by my face he did not realize, I assume. All he did was stare.” said Anarfin tiredly. Her collarbone stung with pain, and her blood had already begun to pour down her tunic and minimal armor. 

“Are you alright?” asked Aragorn, and offered a hand to her.

Anarfin took the hand, and allowed Aragorn to haul her to her feet. “Yes. Though I hope to not have to fight another until I have rested much. I would rather fight a bear, as Pippin said.”

Aragorn was much amused by that.

It was only minutes more before elves arrived to help. Anarfin and Aragorn had made it over to Frodo’s side by that time.

Asfaloth nuzzles at Anarfin again, and though she was exhausted she took the time to pet the horse and comb her fingers through his mane to try and fix his tangles.

She pulled an apple from her bag. A treat she had been meaning to give to Frodo if they did not reach Imladris by that night.

There would be many apples in Imladris, so she fed it to Asfaloth instead.

As their party entered Imladris, many elves gaze after them in surprise, curiosity, and wonder. They gaze at the hobbits, at injured Frodo, and then most curiously to the she-elf within the party, whom none have seen before.

She wore pheasant feathers at the ends of her two braids and she freely bled onto her tunic. She wore the warrior’s garb of Imladris, though they did not know her and other than the garb she looked little like them.

Frodo himself was rushed to the healers, and Elrond himself was called down to the healer’s halls to help the poor halfling.

Anarfin reached the Halls of Elrond as well, though as soon as attention was away from her she disappeared off into the woods and did not reappear for many, many hours.

Though she was uncloaked and looked dissimilar to the other elves, she disappeared with an ease that showed her skill.

Glorfindel sent out several of their best elves to search for her, but they returned alone, no sign of the she-elf.

Anarfin did not reappear until the next morning, when a guard reported to Glorfindel they spotted her scaling the walls to climb onto the balcony outside her rooms.

Even after that, she spent much time sleeping. She did not socialize with any other than Glorfindel and Elrond.

Glorfindel frog-marched her to the healer’s halls as soon as he found her, and forced her to sit for an examination from Elrond.

Her wound was not nearly as bad as Frodo’s, though she was still greatly affected by it, and the exhaustion and lack of strength made it worse.

“You are stronger than you were when you were small,” said Elrond. “You will heal, if you allow yourself to rest. On your own you might not have, for that was a morgul blade, and you may have Faded.”

There was a sorrow in his tone most peculiar, and Anarfin did not understand it even as she gazed upon his face.

Though she was curious why, she dared not ask, and he did not give any further explanation.

Elrond fixed up her wound and then gave her a drink that made her feel much better.

Other than that, Elrond granted her solitude in the chambers she had long since not spent any time in. He ordered guards to bring her meals, though it was rare when she ate all of any meal because most often she slept.

There were a few times she thought she caught glimpses of gold above her when she half-awoke, though there was always a calming voice there urging her back to sleep. Glorfindel, she assumed. Though he should be busy with other things, he watched over her.

That type of sleep was very vulnerable for an elf. All senses shut off to the world, a very deep sleep forced by the body to rest and heal.

It was several days before Anarfin awoke and felt better. She spent much of that day with Glorfindel and Erestor. Erestor was annoyed to be dragged from his duties, but would not complain much because it was Glorfindel who asked.

They talked and walked through the gardens and Glorfindel told her of the happenings of the court in the time she had been gone.

“Estel told me the strangest thing,” said Glorfindel with an air of nonchalance. “Almost as bad a gossip as us, I think. He told me that you showed Elrohir your face, and he was so stunned he did not realize you were an elleth.” Glorfindel looked between Anarfin and Erestor, a smile growing on his face.

Erestor’s usually solemn expression shifted, and he ducked his head as a huff of a laugh escaped him. 

Anarfin scoffed and shook her head, though her ears slowly grew redder and redder. “It was dark,” she argued. “And Elrohir… we were south near the mountains. He was already on edge, and my news of leaving made him more upset.”

Both Glorfindel and Erestor knew exactly why Elrohir had acted this way, and their amusement fell quickly.

“Yes… I can see how he would have been distracted,” said Glorfindel. “Though not being able to tell an elf from an elleth is for dwarves and men, not elves themselves.” There was still a hint of amused look to his face, though not nearly as much as before.

It is for much of that day they chat and walk, and Anarfin does not rush off into the woods as she would wish to normally.

Peaceful, it is, but it also sets Anarfin’s skin alight with nerves, with restlessness. It will not last.

Chapter Text

Erestor had been the one to give Anarfin the news the next day, when a gown and cloak meant for a special event was brought to her rooms by a seamstress and Erestor himself.

“There is to be a feast, and festivities in the Hall of Fire after. You are not ordered to attend either, but encouraged to show up for a time if you have the strength. I am told Glorfindel wishes to show you off.” said he.

“Told that by Glorfindel himself, I assume.” Anarfin studied the clothes with a little distaste. “I do not believe I have worn a gown in my five-hundred years, Erestor. When I made my own clothes I made myself trousers.”

Erestor cleared his throat, and Anarfin assumed it was to hide his slight smile behind a hand. “It was made to your measurements. You will not trip. Walk as you do in pants, and do not spread your legs when you sit.” He sounded, for Erestor, most amused.

“Very well. I shall see,” decided Anarfin. “I will not attend the feast, but the festivities I shall.”

“As I assumed,” Erestor said, and left her there alone.

Erestor had said that he had sent for more everyday clothes for her, though the seamstresses had been unable to make them in time for that day, and they should be finished by tomorrow.

Much of the day Anarfin spent worrying about the festivities. Never had she been invited to them, for before any other than Elrond, Glorfindel, and Erestor had not known who she was or what she looked like.

Anarfin began to ready herself several hours before the festivities were due to begin.

The clothes she had been given were of much better make and a higher quality than anything she wore usually.

The gown itself was of a dark green, with a glimmering silver-blue fabric used in the chest area above the waistline, and a leather belt with jewels embedded at the waist. The sleeves were long and flared at the end, and there were leaves embroidered in silver upon the hem.

Erestor had sent for a cloak instead of the cape that the Noldor favored for festivities as this.

Silver it was on the inside, and a darker green on the outside. Near the hem small animals were embroidered in silver again, along with more leaves.

It took Anarfin some time to figure out what she might do with her hair. Finally she decided to braid silver into it, and fasten it back with a rabbit pin of the same metal.

Green ribbons she used for the ends, more earth-toned than the rest of her clothing. 

No jewelry was necessary, nor any powders and tints to enhance her beauty.

Though it was wholly unnecessary, Anarfin had asked Glorfindel for a ceremonial knife, marking to the people of Imladris that she was not just a Lady, but a warrior to.

It was a thing they did not do. Their elleth did not fight. Never had it been a rule, but through the years it had grown to something unspoken. Imladris was a realm of goodness and peace, the elleth did not need to fight.

Soon, Anarfin left for the Hall of Fire, and came upon Aragorn standing with Frodo and an older hobbit she did not recognize.

“The Dúnadan,” the older Hobbit said. “He is often called that here. But I thought you knew enough Elvish at least to know dúnadan: Man of the West, Numenorean. But this is not the time for lessons!” He turned to Aragorn, and noticed Anarfin there as well. “Where have you been, my friend? Why weren’t you at the feast? The Lady Arwen was there. And who is this? I do not recognize you.” He asked the last to Anarfin, though with much kindness and warmth.

Aragorn glanced at Anarfin, and then down to the hobbit gravely. “I know,” he said. “But often I must put mirth aside. Elladan and Elrohir have returned out of the Wild unlooked-for, and they had tidings that I wished to hear at once. Elrohir asked about you,” this last bit Aragorn said to Anarfin. “Asked if we had seen you.”

Anarfin shot him a look. “I have it on good faith you were gossiping with Glorfindel on this topic,” she said lightly. “The teasing shall be nevereending if you share this with him.”

Aragorn dipped his head to laugh softly. “He asked. Who am I to deny such a grand elf?”

The Lady shook her head in exasperation. “Very well. Anyway, that news is a surprise. We have never been close. In fact the opposite.”

“I believe that change was likely due to him seeing your face,” said Aragorn, still amused. “Though I shall like greatly to see his face when he sees you here and realizes you elleth all at once.”

Anarfin glared at the man, though there was no heat to it. Then she turned to the hobbit and gave him a smile instead. Certainly there was a bit of mischief in it, as if she knew exactly who it would shock by revealing this. “In truth, I have been going under the name Anarfin for many years,” said she softly, as if sharing a secret. Truly, she was, though a secret it would be for not much longer. “I am truly an Elf named Hithriel.” She put her hand to her heart and extended it to the hobbit in greeting.

The older hobbit’s eyes widened, and he jumped up from his seat to bow to her. “My Lady, it is truly an honor. I am Bilbo Baggins. The Dúnadan told me of your great heroics in the wild! How you healed my dear nephew Frodo!”

Aragorn had completely frozen, and stared at Anarfin-Hithriel in shock.

“You need not bow to me, my friend. The one with all the heroics is your dear nephew, friend Bilbo. Along with his three friends. Had I been in their position I would not have had their bravery.” She said. Bilbo straightened and seemed quite pleased by that.

Frodo gazed up at her, that same expression of awe upon his face as he’d had when she’d healed him the second time. “I believed I was seeing things, when I first gazed upon your face. It makes much sense now why you wouldn’t tell your own story in the Wild. And why they call you Orc-slayer,” he said. “Are you well now?”

“Yes, I have recovered from my illness and my injury, thank you,” said Hithriel. “And… my story I shall tell soon. I did not wish to tell of my own strife as if I was merely an outsider. There is a lament my people made that I will sing an altered version for you before I retire tonight, though anything further will have to be for another time.”

Frodo nodded, looking relieved.

Bilbo took Aragorn aside to tell his own song, and Hithriel was left with Frodo to chat for several minutes. Frodo asked about the song she had sung to heal him.

“I do not know much about it,” admitted Hithriel. “I heard it only once, though it came to me again when I saw your wound.”

Frodo asked about lighter things, about how she liked it in Imladris and such, and it was a few minutes more before Glorfindel arrived, and asked Hithriel to dance.

Hithriel bade Frodo goodbye, and then took Glorfindel’s hand. He led her to the dance floor.

“You hate to dance like this, don’t you?” Hithriel said as they danced to a song Glorfindel had likely suggested just for this purpose. “Erestor said you wished to show me off.”

Glorfindel smiled at that. Truly, he was stunning. Men were beautiful in a different way than elves, and Hithriel knew she would never get over the beauty of the elves.

“You hold the attention of the whole hall. Why would I not wish to show you off?” he asked, leaning closer to her ear to speak into it.

Her head was nearly on his shoulder now, and she allowed her gaze to wander from the elf-lord she was currently dancing with to the rest of the room. Certainly there were others dancing at well, though their attention seemed to also be on Hithriel and Glorfindel whenever they were within sight. Indeed most of the room chatter has ceased, and most watched them dance.

Hithriel spotted familiar, nearly identical looking faces watching too. They were at the edge of the room, just having entered, and they still wore travelling clothes.

Then Glorfindel spun Hithriel away again, and she turned her attention back to the dance.

She had not danced as this in many years, and the one who had taught her to dance like this in the Fangorn all those years ago was dead now.

The dance ended before much longer. Each dance partner bowed and curtsied to the other. The dance had rejuvenated Hithriel, though the gown still sucked.

Elrond ushered Hithriel his way, and she quietly murmured a goodbye to Glorfindel before heading the way of the Lord of Imladris. She dipped her head respectfully to Lady Arwen and then to Elrond himself. They were side-by-side.

“My Lord,” she greeted. “My Lady.”

Arwen was stunning, and very youthful. She regarded Hithriel with a curiosity. “You returned with Glorfindel and Aragorn, did you not?” she asked kindly. “I heard that much, though I did not catch your name.”

Hithriel bowed her head to Arwen again in acknowledgement of the question. “I am Hithriel of the Greenwood, my Lady. Many years have I been going as Anarfin, and travelling in your brother’s company.”

Arwen smiled. “I have heard the name Anarfin, mentioned as a brave warrior. A brave elleth is always needed in times such as these. I believe we shall be great friends, Lady Hithriel, beautiful as you are strong.” said she.

Hithriel’s smile in return was genuine, and surprised. Arwen was as genuine and charming as she was beautiful.

Arwen offered for Hithriel to sit with her, and Hithriel did. They chatted together for a long time. Arwen asked about Hithriel’s adventures with Elrohir and Elladan. The twins themselves were across the room, chatting with Erestor and some others they were familiar with.

Elrohir’s eyes often drifted Arwen and Hithriel’s way, however. Hithriel pretended not to notice, though Arwen did after some time, and laughed softly behind her hand.

“Many in this room cannot stop admiring your beauty, my Lady,” Arwen said cheekily, a glimmer in her eyes.

Hithriel glanced over to Elrohir, for though Arwen did not mention her brother’s name or look in his direction, Hithriel knew who she spoke of.

“I have never seen that look upon his face before. Truly he must be furious,” said Hithriel, shaking her head. “And I grew up in the company of Men, the beauty of elves is still very new to me. You truly live up to your name, Lady Arwen.”

Arwen smiled, as if she hid a secret. “That expression is not one of fury,” she leaned closer to Hithriel. “The only way my dear brother may be upset is because he was robbed of your elegance for a century. I heard of the beauty of your mother, and you truly live up to those tales. A wildness in you adds to that.”

“It is an honor to hear that from you,” admitted Hithriel, though her eyes flicked back to Elrohir, confused.

Aragorn eventually wandered his way over, cloak thrown back and now clad in elven-mail with a star upon the chest.

Hithriel stood. “It was good to talk with you, my Lady. I hope we get to talk more soon,” she said softly, and Arwen murmured something similar in return.

Aragorn’s eyes searched Hithriel’s face when he drew closer to her. He gave her a half-bow, and then straightened. “I was unaware the story I asked you to tell was your own, my Lady. Please accept my apologies.”

“No apologies are needed, Estel. If you still wish to hear it, I will sing it for you and any others who wish to hear it still when most have cleared out. Until that time I shall walk the gardens.” she told Aragorn. “The story truly shall not be told until the sun is out. The light of the moon is too sacred for such things.”

The man agreed, and gave her a nod.

Hithriel gave polite goodbyes to Elrond and Aragorn, and then she left. A cool breeze blew her cloak and gown as she stepped outside, and slowly began to walk to the gardens.

There was no rush within her, certainly not under the light of the moon, which she basked in. Her steps were light and silent, her cloak and gown brushing softly against the ground in some places.

It was a half hour before she finally sat, and began to sing.

The language was not one any here would understand. It sounded harsh and wild to most, though it was the beautiful language of the elves closest to nature. Hithriel’s voice truly showed its beauty to all.

This was the language of the Silvan elves, more intentions than anything else. Hithriel had never heard it as anything but beauty and remembered the language being sung to her when she was very young. Not by her mother or father, but someone else that she no longer could remember clearly.

Many times had she been told that the elves held long memories. That their memories did not fade, that as far back as they lived they should be able to remember in some sense. Whether it was thoughts, things they touched, sensations.

For Hithriel, anything before waking up under the roots is few and far between. Nothing of the woodland realm did she remember, except someone singing to her in Silvan, and someone praying at her bedside. 

She remembered a little from the trip from the woodland realm to the river where her parents were killed. She remembered a woman sitting at her bedside, hair white and beautiful. She remembered staring up at the sky in Imladris, and she remembered her parents arguing with someone, begging for them to help.

There are a few flashes of Thalion before she’d met him in Fangorn those years ago, memories of comfort and peace.

Hithriel closed her eyes from the place she sat in the gardens, though continued to sing.

Her mortal mother, the woman who had found her and taken her in after the deaths of her elven parents, had never understood Silvan. It was not her way, and the trees did not answer back to her song like they did to Hithriel.

The trees had tried, when they saw how sad it made Hithriel that her mother was unlike her, though the woman had never understood their words like Hithriel did.

Hithriel sang to the moon, to the trees, for there was a foreboding within her. Things would only grow harder from here.

Chapter Text

It was several minutes before Hithriel heard a noise from behind her. She did not react, and finished with her song. By that time, the elf behind her had come up beside her. They kept a respectful distance, and kept standing.

Hithriel did not turn even then.

It was Elrohir. He gazed up at the stars as she did, and then looked back down to her. There was reverence upon his face.

“May I join you, my Lady?” asked Elrohir.

She still did not turn to look at him. “Yes. You may sit,” she said, and when Elrohir did, she continued. “I have felt your gaze upon me since I arrived. Have I acquired a second head?”

It’s a slightly curious question, though there’s a sharpness to it that told Elrohir plainly that she had not forgotten the rough way he’d grabbed her when demanding to see her face.

Though she understood why he had done it did not mean she had cared for it.

Elrohir’s head dipped as he attempted to hide it from embarrassment. His ears flushed red. “Forgive me. It–it was not my intent to… look upon you so brazenly. It is a joy to me… you are fair to behold returned, Lady.”

He stuttered over his words slightly, and seemed to be unable to put his thoughts into words as he usually could.

Hithriel’s eyebrow quirked nearly imperceptibly, though she continued to stare at the sky. “Ah, is that your certainty?” she asked, dry with a thread of teasing. “Had you some doubt I would not find my way back?”

She said it not in her rough Mirkwood dialect of Sindarin, but as one of the Imladris elves might, one of his people.

“No! No, I only meant… I wished for harm not to come to you.” Elrohir’s head snapped up to gaze at her, eyes widened.

Hithriel shook her head, and closed her eyes again. The breeze blew through. “A jest. The shadow did not come for me until I raised my blade and voice against it,” she murmured.

“I do not believe it will cease coming for you now,” said Elrohir softly, kindly. He drew only slightly closer. “You would be safe here, for you are a Lady, and your rank would be honored. I know not your true name but you certainly carry a title with features such as that.”

It was not his closeness that felt stifling, but his words.

Hithriel’s eyes snapped open and she gazed at him finally. There was a fire in her eyes, not quite anger but she would not entertain this thought. 

She tensed and rose gracefully to her feet, and Elrohir gazed on in awe for a moment before realizing she was upset.

“You would have me rest in finery while others fall, while I dream of horrors?” she asked, a tinge of exhaustion in her voice. Her pride was wounded terribly by this assertion.

Elrohir opened his mouth, though she held up a hand and cut him off swiftly. “I dream of death, of war, of great evil that I may hold back. I am a warrior, not your lady.” 

“Do I not have your respect, after a century beside you? It does not feel so, if you must ask me a thing. I thought you angry that I did not reveal to you I was elleth, but it is because I fight, is it not?”

Her words had begun with her usual Mirkwood tinge, though became more Imladris as she tried to speak with dignity though she was very upset.

Trees creaked and groaned from the wood around them, though Elrohir did not shift his gaze from her.

He stood as well, and dipped his head to her in appeasement.

When he spoke again it was not to dim her fire, but to soothe her. He spoke carefully, afraid she’d turn away. It’s more intimate than an elf-lord should speak to one of his fellow soldiers, or another high elf, though no one else was here to judge him for that.

“You hold more of my respect than you know… I did not mean that you should live in comfort while others fall; I only wish that you might be safe," he said, and gave her space. “I am not angry with you. It is strange to me for an elleth to fight, I admit, though never would I say you could not.”

He did not reach out for her, but was still closer than formalities would dictate. It would be right scandalous if anyone were to oversee them here.

Hithriel glanced away to the side, as if she could not bear to meet eyes with him any longer. “I am not destined to live in comfort. Those halflings deserve it more than I, and I will do all I can to ensure it. Your sister as well, Lady Arwen, she deserves it and she will have it if it is up to me.” She was upset no longer, her voice was quiet and full of sorrow. Mourning the life she might of had.

“Let me help you, then. Elladan and I.” Elrohir breathed.

The Lady drew back from Elrohir, and turned her back to him. “You are needed here. I intend to take Dol Guldur even if it kills me. I have caused too many deaths already, I do not intend to cause yours and your brother’s.”

An untold history there, and one she did not expand on in this moment.

Elrohir was silent for a moment. “Dol Guldur?” he asked.

“I have Dreamed. A morath will reside there, and many yrch. The forces of Men cannot stand against them all, and I do not intend to see Men fall.” Her tone has shifted to clipped Mirkwoodish again as she reported to her Captain as she had many times before.

Before he could say any more, offer any further help, Hithriel turned back to face him. “I have promised to sing my tale for all those who wish to listen. Will you escort me back to the Hall of Fire, Lord Elrohir?”

Disappointment flashed upon Elrohir’s face, though he hid it quickly. He made a soft noise of confirmation, and they walked in silence together back to the Hall and his family.

Elrohir bade her goodbye when they entered and went to find his brother. The Hall had much emptied by now.

Hithriel headed straight for the minstrels, and softly asked a younger minstrel if she might borrow their lirulin, an instrument most similar to man’s violin.

The minstrel nodded and looked half-thrilled by the offer. He carefully handed his lirulin over. It held many carvings that didn’t hinder the sound, and within Hithriel’s grip it looked natural, almost a part of her.

She asked also to borrow a stool, and the minstrel didn’t allow her to carry it herself and instead followed after her with it until she came to the position she wished to sing from.

Attention had turned to the elleth now, the attention of those who remained in the Hall. It was not many, maybe twenty in number. Hithriel spotted a few dwarves there, the group of hobbits, Gandalf, Aragorn, and nearly a dozen other elves including Elrond and his three children, Glorfindel, and Erestor.

The minstrel sat down the stool, and Hithriel gracefully sat upon it, and raised the lirulin to the crook of her neck.

Her back was straight, and her bow hand sure and ready as she rose it to the lirulin’s strings. It hovered over them as Hithriel readied herself.

The first notes she played were ones slow and sorrowful, though she was not hunched in grief and showed little of it upon her face.

Her hands were skillful with the lirulin, the notes beautiful. The way she played was not a style of Imladris, though haunting and beautiful nonetheless.

When she began to sing in Sindarin, any who might have still been in conversation stopped and watched.

Laegor-kin, known in elder days,
The woods bent low where she passed.
No chain could bind her spirit,
Nor shadow still her light.
Ah, fair things, that hearts still yearn for…

Her words were elongated and slow, and all those who did not speak Sindarin were overcome with the beautiful words and understood her sorrow, but not her words. It was here when another minstrel picked up a flute, and joined in to play with her. It was not overpowering, for Hithriel’s voice filled every corner of the room.

Over Ered Luin many followed,
Ríniel, jewel of Doriath’s twilight,
Daughter of crowns now broken,
Blossom beneath waning stars.
Ah, fair things, that hearts still yearn for…

Her laugh, clear as a morning rain,
Her hair, a river beneath starlight;
Her eyes, the secret mist of vales,
Trees took up her song.
Ahh, fair things, that hearts still yearn for…

From the West came riders proud,
Noldor of shining banners,
And with them Anardil the Bold,
To her he gave his heart unasked.
Ah, fair things, that hearts still yearn for…

Long they dwelt in peace together,
And Thalion their son they named:
Strong in spirit as his sire,
Steadfast in oaken root.
Ah, fair things, that hearts still yearn for…

Their house shone fair as a fallen star,
Joy reawakened among the leaves.
The child they called Hithriel came,
Eyes like mist above hidden vale.
Ah, fair things, that hearts still yearn for…

Yet soon her breath grew faint as dusk,
And strength fled her trembling form.
The wise were summoned in sorrow,
For none would yield her to death’s hand.
Ah, fair things, that hearts still yearn for…

Greenwood’s craft could not avail,
Nor the grace of the fair Galadhrim.
To Imladris at last they rode,
Yet even there hope waned.
Ah, fair things, that hearts still yearn for…

Then on the long and perilous road,
Ríniel and Anardil rode with their child,
And love was their only guard,
Till Orc-hosts came in dark wrath.
Ahh, fair things, that hearts still yearn for…

Among the slain her form was not found,
Stolen, or lost beyond knowing.
Yet westward winds still murmur her name,
And the Sea itself is hushed to hear it.
Ah, fair things, that hearts still yearn for…

Beneath the Mirkwood the minstrels sing,
Of one whom many hearts still seek,
Hithriel, the heart of her kin,
Whose kindness the leaves remember.
Ah, fair things, that hearts still yearn for…

Though this was the end of her song, Hithriel did not stop singing. She sang the common translation of these words, to allow the hobbits who had primarily asked for this to understand. The dwarves listened in closer now too.

In both the Sindarin and common versions her voice grew a lot quieter during the final three parts, when speaking of the orc-attack and herself missing.

When she is finished, Hithriel allowed the end-note to extend, and fade naturally. She did not quite yet lower her hands.

Finally, when she did, and glanced to the hobbits first. “Was that quite to your expectations?” she asked.

Bilbo stood quickly and began to clap for her. “It was that and beyond, my Lady. An honor it is to hear your tale from your own mouth, and the style of Mirkwood. I had not heard that in many years. A solemn song, though beautiful still.

Hithriel smiled, though there was a weariness to her that she had not had before playing. The memories weighed much on her. “The true words are not these, and shows the full grief of Mirkwood. I dare not sing it, but this is the closest I could get.”

Bilbo nodded, grinning. “It is still a beautiful thing,” he agreed.

Elrond stood from where he had sat, and drew towards Hithriel. When he came in front of her he held out a hand. The elleth shifted the lirulin bow to the hand that held the instrument itself, and took Elrond’s hand and rose to her feet.

“You play the lirulin most masterfully, Lady Hithriel. There is something familiar in your playing and singing. Where did you learn that style from?” Elrond asked.

Hithriel nodded in thanks. “The lirulin I learned from my brother, my lord. He learned from our father, and I assume that is the reason you find it familiar. I have been singing since before this lament was made, it is Mirkwood that shaped that.” She said politely, though she was not telling him the full truth.

Elrond dipped his head. “Will you tell the rest of your story at the meeting on the morrow? I desire you to be among friends. I believe your story is more bound to what is to come than any know.” Asked he.

“Certainly, my lord. I will walk beneath your stars long before I rest in the night. I shall see you at the meeting.” said Hithriel.

Elrond nodded again and she released his hand, and then left the elves there. Hithriel went out into the woods on her own, still dressed in that finery. She found no trouble there.

Chapter Text

When Hithriel returned to her room that night, clothes from Imladris’ seamstresses had arrived.

Some were fancy, like the gown she wore. Some were less elegant, for more practical purposes.

Hithriel did not bother with them at that moment, and instead moved the clothes off the bed and laid down, drifting off quickly.

The morning came very quickly, though Mirkwood elves rested for very few hours. They slept a few hours after midnight and awoke before dawn. The elves of Imladris slept around midnight and awoke after the dawn.

Now, Hithriel examined the clothes closer, and she chose the ones that were the least offensive.

The clothes were uncharacteristically bright. The tunic was made of full-linen, not the silk-linen blend the elves of Imladris wore themselves. It was a white that would stand out in any forest. The undertunic was cream-colored and linen as well. Her trousers were cream-colored, and the cloak was a pale blue fastened with a plain clasp, loose upon her body and not a mantle in the fashion of Imladris elves not meant to go to battle.

It was a show that she did not belong, that she was not one of them.

It showed in the embroidery too. The color of embroidery thread switched from silver to ash-grey mid-pattern on her cuffs, as if they didn’t care, and there were hounds facing away.

The other clothes she had been given had similar things wrong with them. One of the gowns had embroidered vines, though she spotted several purposefully browned and dead branches as if touched by frost.

It was not unkind, though alienating. She felt the distance between them, as though the cloth itself whispered she was undeserving of walking these halls, as if she was not fair enough.

Hithriel had grown up in a village of Men, so she was not unused to this. Men had been much more direct about it, they’d thrown things at her, whispered things within her earshot.

She dressed in these clothes anyway, and left her rooms as quickly as she could. A guard she asked for the directions to another’s room, and headed there quickly.

The door opened within two hurried knocks, and the face of a man peered out at her.

Aragorn. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Have you any spare clothes I may borrow for now?” asked Hithriel.

“Yes, though they are fit for a man such as I.” Aragorn’s eyes scanned her dress, and he recognized the insult for he opened the door and gestured her inside. “Come, before you scandalize the Court.”

Few clothes were in the closet of Aragorn besides his travelling clothes and the mail and cloak he had worn the previous night, though there were still a few tunics, trousers, and cloaks to choose from.

“These I shall borrow.” She chose a dark-green plain tunic and charcoal wool trousers from the options he gave her, and no cloak.

“This too,” Aragorn offered a grey mantle-cloak to her, fastened at the shoulder with a silver brooch in the shape of the Star of Eärendil. 

Hithriel shook her head. “Uncloaked I shall go. Large these clothes shall be, though it is better than wearing white as a bride would. Do not mention this to Glorfindel or Erestor.”

Aragorn frowned. “The seamstresses mean to insult you, to shame you in front of any elf of Imladris. Erestor may ensure they do not do this again.”

“I have dealt with much worse. They will only grow angrier and more spiteful if they are scolded.” Hithriel shook her head.

Aragorn was silent for a moment as Hithriel draped the clothes she had chosen over her arm. “Shoes you will need too,” he noted, for she was barefoot.

“I wore through my last pair. Barefoot I will go,” she decided.

The man just shrugged, and let her go.

A leather belt she had already to keep the trousers up when she returned to her room, and she braided her hair back with skilled hands. She reused the rabbit pin from the previous night, and the feathers she had been wearing when they had made it to the Ford she added to the ends of two small braids near the front of her hair that she did not braid back into the larger braid.

Breakfast was brought, and Hithriel ate all she could stomach before spending some time on the balcony and watching the sun continue to rise.

It was not long before she headed for the porch the council was due to be on. Hithriel was not early, though she was not late either.

It was still very early in the morning, though by now the Imladris elves were awake and moving. Hithriel passed several, and could feel the stares upon her and the whispers when she was far enough away not to hear their words.

Now they whispered about her bare feet, and her heritage, not her clothes as much.

Elrond was already there as she arrived, and several others sat around him. Glorfindel and two dwarves were there, and in the corner sat Aragorn, in the mantle-cloak she had turned down and other clothes not too unlike the ones she had borrowed, though they had a little more embroidery and were slightly different colors. Frodo, Bilbo, and Gandalf were there too, and sat by Elrond.

Elrohir and Elladan sat not too far from Aragorn, and Elrohir’s eyes immediately found her as she entered. Elladan’s gaze was slower.

There were several elves, some she recognized and some she did not. Erestor was there, along with Galdor: an elf from the Grey Havens. Also there was an elf who was not from Imladris or Grey Havens, clad in a darker green and brown than any other. He had straight black hair and green eyes, his skin tone warm.

There was also another man there, fair and noble, dark-haired and grey-eyed. He looked familiar, though Hithriel was certain she had never met him before.

Elrond did glance her way for a moment, but did not force her to introduce herself quite yet. 

The others dove into conversation, and Hithriel then spent a long while after listening to what they said.

She listened intently as Gloín the dwarf spoke of his kin in Erebor being troubled, of one of his kin attempting to reclaim Moria.

“And so I have been sent at last by Dain to warn Bilbo that he is sought by the Enemy, and to learn, if may be, why he desires this ring, this least of rings. Also we crave the advice of Elrond. For the Shadow grows and draws nearer. We discover that messengers have also come to King Brand in Dale, and that he is afraid. We fear he may yield. Already war is gathering on his eastern borders. If we make no answer, the Enemy may move men of his rule to assail King Brand, and Dain also.” said Gloín.

“You have done well to come,” said Elrond. “You will hear today all that you need in order to understand the purposes of the Enemy. There is naught that you can do, other than to resist, with hope or without it. But you do not stand alone. You will learn that your trouble is but part of the trouble of all the western world. The Ring! What shall we do with the Ring, the least of rings, the trifle that Sauron fancies? That is the doom that we must deem.

“That is the purpose for which you are called hither. Called, I say, though I have not called you to me, strangers from distant lands. You have come and are here met, in this very nick of time, by chance as it may seem. Yet it is not so. Believe rather that it is so ordered that we, who sit here, and none others, must now find counsel for the peril of the world.

“Now, therefore, things shall be openly spoken that have been hidden from all but a few until this day. And first, so that all may understand what is the peril, the Tale of the Ring shall be told from the beginning even to this present. And I will begin that tale, though others shall end it.”

They all listened while Elrond in his clear voice spoke of Sauron and the Rings of Power, and their forging in the Second Age of the world long ago.

Hithriel listened well, most when Eregion was spoken of, of Celebrimbor and the Rings. He spoke of Numenor, of its glory and fall.

Elrond paused a while and sighed. “I remember well the splendour of their banners,” he said. “It recalled to me the glory of the Elder Days and the hosts of Beleriand, so many great princes and captains were assembled. And yet, not so many, nor so fair, as when Thangorodrim was broken, and the Elves deemed that evil was ended for ever, and it was not so.”

“You remember?” said Frodo, astonished. “But I thought,” he stammered as Elrond turned towards him, “I thought that the fall of Gil-galad was a long age ago.”

“So it was indeed,” answered Elrond gravely, and Hithriel fought amusement, having to dip her head as a smile graced her face. “But my memory reaches back even to the Elder Days. Eärendil was my sire, who was born in Gondolin before its fall; and my mother was Elwing, daughter of Dior, son of Luthien of Doriath. I have seen three ages of the West of the world, and many defeats, and many fruitless victories.

“I was the herald of Gil-galad and marched with his host. I was at the Battle of Dagorlad before the Black Gate of Mordor, where we had the mastery: for the Spear of Gil-galad and the Sword of Elendil, Aeglos and Narsil, none could withstand. I beheld the last combat on the slopes of Orodruin, where Gil-galad died, and Elendil fell, and Narsil broke beneath him; but Sauron himself was overthrown, and Isildur cut the Ring from his hand with the hilt-shard of his father’s sword, and took it for his own.”

Hithriel herself leaned forward as he spoke. Never had she heard this story from his own mouth before. As she had told the hobbits on the trip there, it was an honor to hear this.

It was the second Man, Boromir of Gondor, who broke in after that. Elrond responded to him, and then continued his story.

Once Elrond ceased again, Boromir stood up, tall and proud, before them. “Give me leave, Master Elrond,” said he, “first to say more of Gondor, for verily from the land of Gondor I am come. And it would be well for all to know what passes there. For few, I deem, know of our deeds, and therefore guess little at their peril, if we should fail at last.

“Believe not that in the land of Gondor the blood of Numenor is spent, nor all its pride and dignity forgotten. By our valour the wild folk of the East are still restrained, and the terror of Morgul kept at bay; and thus alone are peace and freedom maintained in the lands behind us, bulwark of the West. But if the passages of the river should be won, what then?”

Boromir continued and spouted a poem about the broken sword, Imladris, Isildur’s bane, and a halfling.

“And here in the house of Elrond more shall be made clear to you,” said Aragorn, standing up. He cast his sword upon the table that stood before Elrond, and the blade was in two pieces. “Here is the Sword that was Broken!” he said.

“And who are you, and what have you to do with Minas Tirith?” asked Boromir, looking in wonder at the lean face of the Ranger and his weather-stained cloak.

“He is Aragorn son of Arathorn,” said Elrond; “and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil’s son of Minas Ithil. He is Chief of the Dúnedain of the North, and few are now left of that folk.”

“Then it belongs to you, and not to me at all!” cried Frodo in amazement, springing to his feet.

“It does not belong to either of us,” said Aragorn; “but it has been ordained that you should hold it for a while.”

“Bring out the Ring, Frodo!” said Gandalf solemnly. “The time has come. Hold it up, and then Boromir will understand the remainder of his riddle.”

There was a hush, and all turned their eyes on Frodo. Frodo pulled something from his cloak, and immediately as Hithriel’s eyes caught upon it a pain seared through her body, beginning from her eyes and head.

She closed her eyes tightly, leaning back. When that did not ease the pain even slightly, she lowered her head and moved a hand up to her head. She wished to get away from it, though was unsure if she could move any further in that moment without making much a fool of herself.

A terrified whispering had arisen from the trees as soon as Frodo had brought out that ring. A breeze blew through the porch.

“Behold Isildur’s Bane!” said Elrond.

“The Halfling!” Boromir muttered. “Is then the doom of MInas Tirith come at last? But why then should we seek a broken sword?”

“Put that away,” Elrohir told Frodo, but not unkindly.

Hithriel could not see when Frodo put the ring away, though it must have been within seconds for that was when her pain eased tremendously. Within several more seconds, in midst of Aragorn and Boromir’s talking, she could open her eyes again.

Elrohir was watching her, though with concern. She didn’t meet his gaze in return.

Chapter Text

Bilbo began to quote poetry about Aragorn, and then Aragorn told Boromir of his prophecy and how it tied in with the Ring Frodo had.

“Isildur’s Bane is found, you say,” said Boromir. “I have seen a bright ring in the Halfling’s hand; but Isildur perished ere this age of the world began, they say. How do the Wise know that this ring is his? And how has it passed down the years, until it is brought hither by so strange a messenger?”

Now it was Hithriel’s turn to rise to Frodo’s defense. She would not allow Boromir to believe falsely, and would not allow him to insult Frodo. “Sir Boromir, ne’er for a second should you believe that Ring there is not the true thing. Many evil things roam this world, and that is one of them. By the second that Ring touched air, the trees began to whisper in terror. You may not feel it, though you may feel the chill of the breeze that just swept past,” she said sharply, and attention was pulled to her.

“I have not been introduced to you, to know why you know that,” said Boromir, eyeing Hithriel with a strange look. She was dressed more casually than nearly any other elf in the room. She was barefoot, when all others wore shoes, and cloakless while nearly all others wore them. She could have been a man other than her beauty and ears. Her ears were something that were noticed now. Her style of braiding for the festivities had hidden the tips of her ears.

Noldor and Vanyar had shorter ears, that came to more of a taper. Sindar held longer ears, more leaflike meant to hear better in forests. Silvan ears were the longest, and pointed outwards.

Hers was some mix of Noldor and Sindar. Sleek, long and pointed. Though one of her ears had the pointed end cut off, and on her other ear a chunk of cartilage between the lobe and tipped joint had been taken out. 

Her hands and arms were scarred, though none of this detracted from her beauty.

Hithriel squared her shoulders and straightened her back. She stood from her seat. “I am Anarfin, Orc-Slayer of the company of Elrohir and Elladan,” she begun proudly, though her eyes flicked to the elf from Mirkwood and away before she continued again. “Though my true name has long been unshared, and I shall share it with any still unaware now. I am Hithriel Úvaniel of the kin of Laegor, though my father was Anardil of Gondolin.”

The elves, except for those who had been present at the Hall of Fire recitation of the Lament, stilled and stared at her.

The elf from Mirkwood rose to his feet swiftly though gracefully. He looked most surprised, and surveyed Hithriel with interest. He looked familiar to her. “I am Legolas Greenleaf of the Woodland Realm, also of the kin of Laegor. You are the sister of Thalion?”

“She is who she claims, Legolas,” Elrond said kindly. “Lady Hithriel, might you tell us your story after we hear Bilbo and Frodo’s? All will be clearer then.”

Hithriel inclined her head in respect and sat again.

Elrond asked Bilbo to tell his story, and Hithriel listened to this too. Bilbo told his story from the time a group of dwarves showed up on his doorstep to the death of Kili, Fili, and Thorin, and he would have told an account of his last birthday party if Elrond hadn’t gently cut him off.

Then it was Frodo’s turn, and he told the story from his home to the Ford of Imladris. All was questioned, and he told all he could about the Black Riders. Finally he sat again.

When Frodo was finished with his story and chatting with Bilbo about how to tweak his story to make it better, it was now Hithriel’s turn.

She stood again and faced the room as a whole. “Now, I assume, it is my turn,” said she, meeting Legolas’ eyes again. “I will tell you all I can, from the beginning.”

Legolas watched her, expression blank and silent, though Glorfindel gave her a nod of encouragement..

Hithriel begun her story.

“Some heard the beginning of this story in the Hall of Fire,” said Hithriel, “though for those who did not, I shall tell it fully.”

Silent she was for several seconds after that, gathering her nerve and words. “My mother was truly the cousin of King Thranduil of Mirkwood,” she told the room. “Her name was Ríniel, and they called her the fairest after Tinuviel. She held a talent ancient to our line. Nature listened to her, it cared for her as she cared for it. She could cause it to bloom in her presence, and she could communicate with it.

“I was born five-hundred years ago, when the Mirkwood was not as corrupted as it is today. Some of that talent passed to me. The health of the forest worsened, and mine with it. We did not know it then.” Solemn was her tone. Calm, but sad.

“None in Mirkwood could heal me, so I was brought here, and then to Lorien. The tale has it wrong. Had we gone to Lorien first then here, the Grey Havens we would have sought. No cure was found, so we went through Fangorn, through the Gap of Rohan, and were meant to follow Angren to the sea.” Here Hithriel paused, almost as if confused. “I was…” She faltered here, eyes flicking to Elrond.

He gave her a nod of permission.

“The ship meant to carry myself and my father to the Undying Lands carried another passenger as well. Lady Celebrían. She was kind enough to allow the ship to go south to Angren before departing for Valinor. I remember her, though barely. She sat by my bedside.” Hithriel shook her head, trying not to get distracted, and continued. “We did not make it as far as where Belegaer met the Angren. Yrch found us, and my mother hid me away before I could be seen or smelled by them.”

She paused, took a breath. From here her memories were greater, and of worse things.

“Tree roots curled around me, the damp scent of earth all around. I clawed at the roots, and it was until I began to weep and beg the tree to let me free that the roots parted. I called for my parents, and wandered around the puddles of blood for a while until I found them…” 

Legolas’ expression had shifted, softened much.

Hithriel sighed. “A mortal woman named Nienor found me three days later, half-starved and still very ill, lying between the bodies of my parents. She brought me to the nearest village, and tried to help me. She always said that one day I simply began to get healthier, that she could never do anything.”

Never had she told anyone the full story, never this detailed. Elrond seemed to understand, though. “The Fëagweth,” he said softly. “The breaking of the soul-bond between you and both of your parents at the same time would not have helped your illness. It is a shock you held on as long as you did. You must have formed one with Nienor.”

“The Gûraweth, we call it,” said Legolas. “Mirkwood children tend to be hardier. Though with your illness it would have killed you within a week still. It is why I held little hope that you survived.”

Hithriel considered that, and then nodded. “We moved south when I got better, and I spent the next forty years in a small village between Ethring and Edhellond, though we were nearer to the White Mountains. Nienor did not allow me out of the house or away from the forest for five of those while she taught me common.”

Legolas’ eyes narrowed, though he did not comment.

“She died of a mortal illness after forty years. Sixty she was. I next went to Dol Amroth, and met a former soldier of Gondor turned thief. I thieved for thirty years under him, and five more after he died. Then I grew bored of stealing and dumped everything into Dol Amroth and fled. I spent many years after living and travelling in forests and ruins up the coast.

“When I neared three-hundred I came east again, over the Misty Mountains. I spent much time in Fangorn, and Thalion found me there. It took me time before I revealed my identity to him, and we stayed in Fangorn for a few years after that. Then we went over the White Mountains and spent time going from eastern to western Gondor, then north into Rohan. I wanted to travel with a companion before going to Mirkwood.”

She cannot meet Legolas’ eyes as she speaks of Thalion, old shame and grief lingered there. “It was in the fields of Rohan where he fell. We saw Rohirrim fighting, and I wished to help for they were losing. Winning we were after the two of us joined, until more yrch came over the hill. Then all living Rohirrim fled, and I fled north with a horse and the body of my brother. There was a patrol of Mirkwood elves, and I left them with both body and horse.”

“It was you? They believed…” Legolas took a soft breath, “that his soul walked his horse home…”

Hithriel closed her eyes and nodded. She took a few seconds before continuing, voice quieter. “I could not bear to go to the realm of my kin, though I could not bear to leave Mirkwood either. Many yrch were there past the mountains of the forest, with Dol Guldur right there. Orc-Bane, they whispered in terror as I struck them down. I Dreamed then, of the short time I spent in Imladris, how my father had introduced me then to Glorfindel.”

She nodded to the elf, who watched her and did not react.

“I sought him out, told him my true name, showed him my face. He trained me for several years, and then I went off to fight as the Orc-Slayer.”

All listened, and hadn’t stopped her to question her as they had Frodo.

Hithriel continued on. “I have been Dreaming again recently. It comes to me every century for some or another reason. This time I dreamt of evil things. Morath and worse. One such Dream made me leave the company. I stood upon a beach, and a morath met me there on horseback. He dismounted and ran me through with his sword. I could not move. I departed to that beach at once, with the advice of a ranger named Halvor to seek out Aragorn. I was told he sought what the evil chased, to protect it not to harm.”

Boromir looked astonished, as did half of the room. “You went to the place where you forsaw your death?”

“I wished to find these creatures, and I recognized the beach. In the Dream, there was a terrible storm, and as I gazed upon the sky and died I searched for the star Gil-na-Thalon. It was absent, winked out. I vowed many years ago that I would not stop my hunt until it was burnt out. By this war my vengeance will be completed, whether it means my death or the end of my Enemy.”

Powerful words those were, and Hithriel looked unbothered to speak about her possible death.

She told the rest of the story from there, from how she’d arrived in Bree, to how she’d found Aragorn. The man did not seem as if he wished to hear about how she had disarmed him, though she told that anyway. Hithriel told about Weathertop, what she had done there and then at the river, and how she had healed Frodo.

Boromir was the one who held the most critiques of Hithriel’s actions from this part of the story. He was familiar with Mirkwood, and did not seem fond of the Woodland elves. Many stories of the Mirkwood were whispered to the children of men in Gondor that seemed to stick into their minds well into adulthood.

“You sang to two of the Nine? And that caused them to flee? That cannot be true,” said Boromir, looking astonished. “I have ne’er heard a thing more laughable.”

Legolas shot a sharp look to Boromir. “You accuse the Lady of Mirkwood of lying? Our line holds a gift. Hithriel and I both hold it, though my gift is much less. It is said that during the first war against the Enemy Lady Ríniel held the borders of Mirkwood by her voice and presence. The forest itself has mourned much after her death, and that is why the Shadow’s presence has increased to the point it is now called Mirkwood.”

“Mae, Legolas,” urged Hithriel, voice soft but firm. It was partially gratitude, though also an attempt to steady him before the others. It is well. 

He glanced her way, eyes gentling much. There was the faintest hint of surprise and recognition within them, as if she was an echo of someone he had once known. “Mae, gwadoren,” he decided with a warmth though much restraint. He relaxed back into his seat. It is well, my kin.

Boromir was a proud man, and would not be quieted so easily. “It is said that elves of Mirkwood did not fight in the first war against this Enemy. They hid within their wood.” The words were challenging, though with some long-held bitterness from not just him but his line.

The tension in the room raised, though Hithriel could handle her own. “You are mistaken,” Hithriel said calmly. “The Woodland Realm fought in Gladden Fields. It was not far from the former realm. King Oropher was killed in battle, and King Thranduil returned with a third of his troops. My mother held the borders of Mirkwood for refugees and those who could not fight. Fear of the unknown is what many of these Mirkwood rumors are founded on.” There was a warning tone to her voice.

Boromir looked a little embarrassed, and sat back down.

Chapter Text

Aragorn spoke up now, as if there was something that had just came to mind. “It was your words that helped scare the Riders, yes, but it was also your blade. It is of strange make, as I recall. Might I see it now?” He nodded down to the sheathed sword at her side.

It was a larger blade than it seemed she could handle with her size, though Hithriel was stronger than she looked.

This took Hithriel off guard, and her hand drifted down to the hilt. She blinked in surprise, and her eyes widened only for a moment before she schooled her face again. “It is most normal. Elven make. I found it long ago,’ she deflected.

Glorfindel frowned now, having thought back to the sword too. Tense had Hithriel grown at the mention of the sword, she did not wish to speak about it. “Yes…” said Glorfindel. “You stabbed the úlairi with that sword, and I remember runes upon its surface.”

Blank had her face grown as the elves did when they were uncomfortable or did not wish to reveal what they were feeling.

She squared her shoulders, and tightened her grip upon the hilt but did not make a move to unsheathe the sword.

“I dare not draw it until you have all heard this," said Hithriel with great reluctance. Legolas looked curious, unafraid of whatever her sword may be. “I called it Raugcirch, though it once held another name. It was found by myself in the ruins of Lond Daer, and before then it was long lost…” She slowly glanced over all those in the room.

Elrohir and Elladan had leaned forward, curious. They had seen her blade before, but had never seen it closely.

“A Dream led me to it. This sword will be redeemed by my hand. Many elves has it slain due to the will of its owner before, but I am no kin-slayer.” Low had her voice grown, a warning. She would not be persuaded to part with it.

“Draw it, Lady Hithriel,” urged Elrond. It was no order, but it was also not up for discussion.

Hithriel did, and she drew it slowly. The inside scabbard was lined with wolf’s fur so it was not a ssshink of steel on steel as men’s weapons sounded.

Glorfindel rose quickly as soon as it was drawn fully. He stared at the blade within Hithriel’s hand.

No evil came from this blade, it was not as the blade of the morath, though certainly it had killed many.

It was a long blade, and grew slightly curved towards the tip. The blade was a pale silver, typical of Noldor-blades, though at first glance the markings upon the metal seemed to be claw-marks. Those were the runes, which could be made out by afar only by a skilled eye and closely by many. 

The guard seemed to be normal, though it was white and carved to mimic bone, and at certain angles it truly seemed to be branching antlers. 

In newer leather than the blade the grip was wrapped in, though it was long worn smooth by use. It held no jewels, no adornments. It was battle-made, and not a weapon meant to be displayed.

Certainly this blade was very old, and had many times been covered in bone. The scabbard is typical and simple, for Hithriel had made it herself.

Glorfindel’s eyes had grown wide. “Rácarnë,” he hissed sharply, and Erestor rose as well to better see it. Erestor looked as if he had seen a ghost.

He very well might have, for this sword had been unseen, unfound in millennia.

Elrond seemed to recognize the name, though had been born only after the previous owner of that blade was killed and the sword itself lost. 

“The blade of Celegorm,” said Erestor. “Lost in Doriath when he was slain by Dior.”

Few knew of Erestor’s history. They knew that he had lived in Lindon, and Beleriand. Few knew why he had come to Beleriand, though Hithriel had found out not many years after becoming close with Erestor and Glorfindel.

Still, Hithriel had never gained the courage to ask Erestor of the blade, of his past. She was not certain he knew she knew what he had once been, what choices he had once made.

Elrond ushered her closer, and Hithriel shifted her grip so she wasn’t pointing it his way, holding it sideways with her non-sword hand flat below the flat part of the blade.

She approached him gracefully, and calmly.

The blade was truly wild, as had Celegorm the Hunter been. 

Elrond did not touch it, though he gestured for her to shift so he might see the runes a little better. “Indeed,” he confirmed softly, as if drawn into ancient memories by this blade. “The runes are Fëanorian. They write of the history and future of this blade. It speaks of the final one to wield it in battle. An unlikely wielder, one lost as the blade had been.”

“Shall it be lost again or broken?” asked Hithriel calmly. Never had she been able to read these runes, and her Friend had never mentioned what they said.

“It does not say,” answered Elrond. “It spoke of the gifting of this blade from Fëanor to Celegorm, and its life through three kinslayings. It spoke of the death of Celegorm, though not yours.”

Hithriel nodded, though had nothing to say to that.

Legolas spoke, however. “May I see it?” he asked, and when Elrond gave Hithriel a nod of permission for her to do so, Hithriel moved now to her kin.

Legolas had no qualms of touching the blade, and ran his fingers upon the flat side. “This is the blade that is said to have killed Finellach, the brother of your mother.”

Hithriel nodded as if she knew that already.

“What was your Dream that led you to this?” asked Legolas, and Hithriel let him examine the runes further. “These are certainly not Mirkwood runes,” he murmured to her.

Hithriel watched him carefully before answering. “That I shall tell another time,” she murmured in return to Legolas. “It is unneeded for other’s ears to hear.”

Legolas nodded, and pulled back from the blade.

Hithriel sheathed the sword again. “That is all of my story.” She told the room, and returned herself to her seat.

The others continued to speak, though Hithriel felt like speaking no longer, and listened silently instead. It was a long time she listened as Gandalf recounted his side of the past few years.

“Upon this very ring which you have here seen held aloft, round and unadorned, the letters that Isildur reported may still be read, if one has the strength of will to set the golden thing in the fire a while. That I have done, and this I read:”

Gandalf spoke words in a language unfamiliar to Hithriel, and in a tone that caused the piercing pain to return and the whispers to return to the trees.

The wound at Hithriel’s collarbone hurt the most, it felt as if a red-hot sword was being pushed into it, and Hithirel’s hand shot up to grasp at the wound, taking a breath more of a gasp in pain.

When Gandalf finished with this horrible language and Hithriel’s vision truly returned to her, she saw that every soul in that council seemed to be shaken. Elrond spoke: “Never before has any voice dared to utter words of that tongue in Imladris, Gandalf the Grey.”

She allowed her hand to drop back to her lap, though the pain still lingered, though less so.

An ill sense settled in her chest, in her stomach. Though it was not nearly as severe as it had been when she’d sung and fought the morath.

Gandalf continued to explain himself much more. Then they got finally to the task at hand: what to do with the Ring that was in Frodo’s possession.

“Then the Ring cannot be kept from him for ever by strength,” said Glorfindel, “two things only remain for us to attempt: to send it over the Sea, or to destroy it.”

“But Gandalf has revealed to us that we cannot destroy it by any craft that we here possess,” said Elrond. “And they who dwell beyond the Sea would not receive it: for good or ill it belongs to Middle-earth; it is for us who still dwell here to deal with it.”

Finally they decide: “We must send the Ring to the Fire.”

The noon bell rang, and they were still discussing. They did not know who would be sent with the Ring to Mordor.

“I will take the Ring,” said a small voice, though one Hithriel recognized. Her heart sunk with sorrow. “Though I do not know the way.”

Elrond agreed, though he claimed he would not force it upon Frodo. 

“But you won’t send him off alone surely, Master?” cried Sam, who had been sitting silently in the corner until now.

“No indeed!” said Elrond, turning towards him with a smile. “You at least shall go with him. It is hardly possible to separate you from him, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not.”

Sam sat down, blushing and muttering.

They decided that it would be Sam and Frodo, and likely Gandalf too, but for anything else they did not decide at that moment. Firstly scouts would be sent out, and then they would discuss further.

Finally they were finished with discussions, and the council members parted ways.

Hithriel kept stride with Legolas. “Are your fair feet with purpose, or did the Noldor not give you anything to wear?” asked Legolas, glancing down to her bare feet. It was an amused enquiry and teasing with a flicker of concern.

“I wore through the last pair of shoes Glorfindel got for me. Aragorn offered the boots of men, yet I turned them down.” she responded.

Legolas glanced back to ensure no others were within earshot. Truly, they weren’t. All the others had wandered off in different directions. “Is that where your clothes come from? Are you courting that Man?” He asked, his voice lowered.

Hithriel’s neutrality broke, and she looked at Legolas with wide eyes and then laughed. “Yes, my clothes come from Aragorn, though we do not court one another. I would not spread this rumor to any other, for I believe he holds Lady Arwen’s eye and favor.” A gossip she truly was, though she had come across it honestly. With having Glorfindel as a teacher, it was hard not to become a gossip.

Legolas held warmer skin than Hithriel, though his other features were much similar to hers. Half Silvan he was, through his mother, and half Noldor Hithriel was, through her father.

The corners of his mouth had quirked up now, and the corners of his eyes crinkled slightly. Amusement. “Why do you wear them, then? Truly the Noldor have not denied you clothes? You seemed friendly with the Lords of this place.”

Here Hithriel hesitated, torn between whether she should tell the truth to Legolas of her treatment or keep the peace. “I am familiar. I sought them out years ago. I was given clothes, though some here are not fond of Mirkwood. They sewed hidden insults into my clothes, and I knew Aragorn was kind and might lend some to me for this meeting. They dare not insult him, for through a long line he is descended from Lord Elrond’s brother.”

Softened had Legolas’ expression become, and he paused where he stood. Hithriel did as well, and turned to face him. “I had wondered so. You are a little smaller than I, but it will do. I have spare travel-clothes for you. You shall not have to continue borrowing the man’s clothes.”

Hithriel nodded, and followed after Legolas from there without hesitation. He showed her into his room and brought out a spare set of clothes from what he wore.

The make was high, though this style of clothes were different to anything Hithriel had ever worn. 

He gave her privacy to change and only entered again after she called that she was clothed. 

The effect of Mirkwood-clothes upon her was great. She was shorter than Legolas, though the trousers only required to be folded and pinned up once to not drag on the ground.

The inner-tunic was long-sleeved and shadowy grey, and would have been more close-fitting on Legolas, though she was not him. He had lent her a short-sleeved tunic of Mirkwood green, embroidered at the collar and sleeves simply. Legolas himself wore a leather jerkin fastened with bones.

The trousers he lent her were grey as well, and his spare cloak was certainly enchanted and dyed in a way that would make it very hard for her to be spotted in a forest. It was fastened with part of an antler. A full-length cloak it was, and not a mantle as the fashion of elves of Imladris.

He lent her shoes as well. Leather, soles thin so they could climb trees with ease.

The embroidery upon Legolas’ clothes was simple. Subtle leaves embroidered at hems and seams, though not much else. She kept the leather belt around her waist to keep the trousers up easier.

The cloth of the garments must have been treated, because they gave off the faint smell of pine oil.

All the fabric was flexible, and the way it was made ensured an archer such as Legolas could move as he needed. Hithriel was a sword fighter, though had learned to shoot a bow many years ago, and had relied upon that skill for sustenance and survival before coming to Imladris.

“I thank you for the clothes. They fit better than Aragorn’s, certainly.” She said when she had showed off the clothes to her cousin, most pleased.

Chapter Text

Legolas and Hithriel went for a walk through the streets of the city nearest to Elrond’s halls. Hithriel had truly been here only a handful of times. 

Imladris was connected with nature, though less than Hithriel was used to. There was too much stone around her for her to feel comfortable.

The news of two unfamiliar and very much not Noldor elves drew elves out of their homes. Imladris had both Sindar and Noldor, though they liked to pretend they were all Noldor, just like Elrond and his kin.

Sindar elves could be fickle, Hithriel had heard. Their politics and relationships were much more complicated than the Noldor. Never had she understood what they meant. They had described Sundar elves as petty, though Hithriel had seen plenty of pettiness from Noldor.

There are many whispers from the other elves as Legolas and Hithriel walk by. Elleth grab their children’s hand and pull them away from the two, and older children stare with wide eyes.

When they make it to the forest again, heading the direction of the Halls of Elrond, Legolas’ face grew an amused look. “The son of Elrond who watches you. They will start to think you are enchanting him with your Mirkwood ways.”

“Let them. I do not understand it, for his affection will dwindle when I depart. He wishes to stifle a part of me to keep me by his side.” admitted Hithriel softly, with near-reluctance, as if some part of her did not wish for him to stop watching her.

Legolas’ amusement grew. “You did not see him watching while you spoke. He seemed to admire you more when you spoke of battle, of fighting. His face while you drew that sword is one that will not fade so easily. I do not believe he wishes to stop you.” He said softly, and kindly.

Hithriel paused. “You truly believe that?” She asked.

Legolas reached out to lightly squeeze her shoulder and nodded. Lies were not in his eyes.

They continued walking.

“Tell me of this Dream,” Legolas suggested when they settled down in a glade. It is bright, peaceful, and calm.

Hithriel took a breath, though acknowledged the request and spoke softly. “When I was still young, when I still lived with Nienor, she would tell me these tales. History of elves and men. When I would sleep that night… I dreamed of those stories as if I was truly there. I was an Elf, and I did not always know who.” 

Legolas did not look away from her as she spoke of her past. A look of true solemn was on her face, the memories bittersweet and long gone.

“When my–when Nienor died, they went away for a while, and only resumed when I was around 150. I had a Dream…” her eyes closed, as if it was too painful to say if she had to look at him as she said it. “Finellach was older than the twin sons of Dior, but they had grown attached to him for he was the noble child closest in age. He tried to defend them when the nursery was broken into. Celegorm wished for the leverage that having Eluréd and Elurín would give him over Dior, and he slayed Finellach without looking at him. I Dreamed I was him, and then I Dreamed I was Celegorm, and each time I held an odd fascination with the blade. I felt a strange tugging North, and headed that way. In the ruins of Lond Daer I discovered it in a cave, and recognized it, and took it as my own.”

Truly Legolas understood why she had not wished to admit that in front of the others. 

“I have had similar dreams, though they are few and far between,” admitted Legolas. They sat together, side-by-side. Enough room was left for comfort, and the fact that they did not know one another well. “I Dream of the War of Wrath. I am my father.”

A deep ache grows in Hithriel’s chest and she lightly touches his forearm lightly in apology. 

They sit silent for a long while, two elves of Mirkwood basking in the nature around them. It is then when Legolas begins to sing. It is not in their mother-tongue or Quenya of the high elves, but in Silvan.

Hithriel recognizes the song. She stills dreams of it being sung to her long ago, a soft voice and a gentle touch. Before she had grown sick all is hazy, though this is one of the memories she has.

The elleth joins in, voice murmuring along at first and then slowly growing more confident as they continued on. The song was long and relatively slow, and when they finished silence sat around them except for the noise of the woods.

“I had not thought you would know that,” said Legolas, looking at her. His eyes were green instead of grey like hers.

Hithriel ran her hands through the grass, distracted for a moment by the quality of it. “I remember it. It is one of the only things I remember from before I grew ill.” She said absentmindedly, then glanced up at Legolas. “Is it a common song?”

“No.” Legolas’ eyes searched her face, and there was hope upon his. It also looked like he was in pain, though Hithriel did not know how she knew that. His face was almost expressionless. “I created it. I used to sing it to you.”

Stunned, Hithriel is, for several moments. “Oh.”

“You used to call me Laer,” Legolas seemed to be remembering those times as he spoke. “You could not say Laegir yet.” 

“Laegir,” murmured Hithriel, the name familiar on her tongue and memory. “Yes.”

“You were Hithen to us, did you know that?” asked Legolas. His words were gentle, and he sounded truly curious. That sad edge had not left his voice yet.

Hithriel gasped as the name felt as if it had been buried deep within her fëa, brought back into reality by being spoken. It was her, truly her, more than Hithriel is.

Legolas’s hand reached for her face to wipe tears she had not known she had shed. He said nothing, for he knew they were not tears of sadness. Her enneth was found again. A part of Hithriel that she had not known was missing was there again.

“When you meet my father, and when he undoubtedly ushers all others away, you shall call him Lindor. Your mother called him that, and you called him Lindaer. Surely he will see her in you as soon as that is spoken.” Legolas suggested after a while. He gazed out upon the trees, and his hair blew softly in the breeze. Unlike hers, his hair was mostly unbraided. There were a few braids that were tradition, though he did not have it braided back as she did.

Hithriel nodded, and they sat in silence for a while longer.

Every so often, one would break up their silence with slight chatter, questions. Slowly, over the course of hours, they got to know one another. Hithriel asked for stories of Thalion, and Legolas asked for the return: her stories of Thalion.

Finally, they got up from where they sat and again began to head for the Halls of Elrond. They needed to be back, now. A dinner would be had with Legolas, Hithriel, and three Mirkwood guards who had accompanied Legolas here.

Neither Legolas or Hithriel bothered to change, mainly because Legolas had likely brought few clothes, and because Hithriel was probably wearing his change of clothes because she had no others.

The guards had arrived before Hithriel and Legolas, and bowed low to both as Imladris guards opened the doors for them to allow them inside the room.

“Hîr nîn, Hîril nîn,” murmured one of the guards. His greeting to Legolas was warm and with respect, though his attention was quickly on Hithriel. This guard’s hair was light brown, his eyes amber, and his skin fair with a leaf-goldenness to it.

As he greeted her as a lady, he placed one hand on his chest over his heart, and the other hand open, palm towards Hithriel. The hand over his heart then reached up to touch his brow, signaling the respect he held for her. “Mae gwenith le. Ngelaidh linnar lín nestad,” he murmured, voice soft. You are well met. The trees sing of your return.

“Mae gwenith le,” said Hithriel in return, dipping her head to acknowledge him.

The other two greeted Hithriel similarly. The second guard’s hair was golden-brown, his eyes hazel, his skin very cool-toned. 

The third seemed older than the other two not in his face, but in the look in his eyes and the quiet wisdom he held. He was taller than the other two and had dark hair with silver streaked within. His eyes were a pale blue-grey, and his skin fair.

Legolas guided Hithriel forward closer to the three. “Hithriel, this is Hatharion. He is a veteran tracker, and a skilled warg-hunter.” Legolas introduced the dark-haired guard first, and Hatharion bowed again to her. “This is Brethilas, spear-fighter.” Now he gestured to the hazel-eyed guard, who also bowed. “And finally Neryndor, skilled archer. He trained with Thalion and I.” This guard, the first who had spoken, bowed too.

Hithriel studied each of them in turn. “I thank you for coming all this way with Legolas. I understand how strange it is to be in a place as this.” She said softly.

“It is our job, Hîril Hithriel,” said Hatharion softly. “Though to see a face such as yours again any of Mirkwood would travel great lengths.” So far, none of his surprise to see her had shown on his face, unlike Neryndor. Brethilias just looked curious. Hatharion’s shone through in his words.

“You knew me from before?” asked Hithriel, gesturing to the seats as an urge to sit. Legolas guided her to the head of the table and pulled out her seat for her, and then himself moved to the other side. Legolas sat after Hithriel did, and then the three guards.

It was not something Hithriel particularly understood, though she would not argue about it.

“Yes, Hîril nîn,” said Hatharion. “I have been a guard of Mirkwood for most of my life.”

The elleth nodded slowly. It was strange to her that he had known her, that they had expectations of her because of that.

She mostly listened as she got to know the three guards. Hatharion was quieter, though Brethilas and Neryndor did not have any qualms about speaking or joking with Legolas.

Hithriel was content with listening and observing. Every once and a while she asked something, mostly it was when they said something she didn’t quite understand.

Her dialect of Sindarin was mostly Mirkwood because she had spent so long with Thalion, though if he had not said something to her, Hithriel did not know it.

“Hîril nîn,” said Brethilas suddenly. He did not look hesitant, though his words were soft as he spoke next. “Forgive me if this oversteps, but… Can I ask what your plans are? Will you stay here, or go to Taurion?” 

She had never heard this term for the realm of Thranduil before, though it made sense that they would have a proper name for it.

Hithriel looked to Legolas, studying him slowly. “Taurion I will go,” said she boldly. “I wish to ask aran nîn to help me clear out Dol Guldur. I was there two-hundred years ago and one resided there, though only now I know that was what it was. It shall return, and will threaten Taurion, Lothlorien, Gondor, and Rohan with yrch.”

The room was silent for several moments, the other’s eyes on her. “He will never go for that,” said Legolas. “It is out of our territory.”

Hithriel dips her head, but doesn’t look like she’s afraid of that at all.

“Hithriel, you do not understand,” Legolas’ voice was gentle, and the three guards pretended as if they did not hear out of respect. “My father has become more isolationist since you went missing. He will wish to keep you in the kingdom, safe at his side.”

Her expression and tone did not change. “He wishes safety for me, but if this evil succeeds none shall be safe. Taurion will not be spared then. I will not find peace in Taurion if I do not do this. My Dreams will continue, and I will not be able to rest.”

Legolas frowned, but he had no further argument for her. “Either way, it will be a while before any leave. I am certain Hîr Elrond will send out scouts to ensure the morath have gone.”

They all agreed on that part.

Dinner continued to pass. A late dinner it was, for those of Taurion as Hithriel now knew it went to sleep long after dusk, after midnight, and awoke before dawn.

While they slept, the wood did not sleep. The least amount of sleep they could deal with was had, for the same reason that they did not shed all weapons even when eating. 

They moved outside after a while, and the stars were out. Starlight was especially sacred to the people of Taurion.

It was very early in the morning before any retired to their rooms. Legolas escorted Hithriel back to her room, and bade her goodnight.

Hithriel entered her room only to find that someone else had been there, and left behind something on her bed. It’s small, wrapped in blue cloth and tied with a ribbon of green silk.

She gently picked it up, and carefully unwrapped it. As the cloth fell away what it was came to her all at once.

It was a silver charm in the shape of a leaf, and at the center, bound in silver wire, was a fragment of star-glass, said to hold the light of the stars themselves. There is a short plait of black horsehair that formed a loop off the charm.

There is a small scrap of paper to accompany it, written in Elrohir’s hand.

For your keeping, not your writing.

It’s a token of remembrance, and the silver is a protective metal, not often used by her kin. The horsehair signified to her that it was meant to be carried close to the body, it was an intimate thing, though the blue signified farewell.

It may have meant different to Elrohir when he gifted it to her. She knew that horsehair signified a warrior and a bond through fighting side-by-side, but not what else.

Hithriel laid the charm on her bedside, and went to sleep.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Hithriel learned that Aragorn had gone with Elrond and Elrohir during a breakfast with Arwen, a breakfast which she had been invited to only a few hours before the actual event, and Erestor himself had shown up with a gown fit for the event that he’d forced Hithriel into. 

So she sat with Arwen and ate, and Arwen filled her in on the fact that Elrohir, Elladan, and Aragorn had left that previous night, while Hithriel and the others from Taurion ate dinner.

There was a glint in Arwen’s eyes as she said: “he was making something all day after the meeting, after he met with father. Might you know what it was?”

Hithriel hesitated, though she held the culprit within a pocket of the gown. 

Finally she reached into the pocket and brought it out. “I meant to ask about it, actually,” she opened her hand and showed the charm to Arwen.

Arwen leaned forward and reached her hand out for the charm, though paused just before she touched it. “May I?” she asked, and Hithriel nodded, and allowed Arwen to take the charm from her hand.

It was several seconds until Arwen spoke again, and it was a chuckle. “Truly I expected something more bold, though this is bold certainly. It is a sign he recognizes you as a fellow warrior still, and that he does not wish to possess you like many elves would. Star-glass for guidance, horsehair for warrior relation, leaf to recognize your heritage.”

Hithriel frowned. “None in Mirkwood would craft such thing unless they… truly were attached to the one who received it. Material is not wasted in Mirkwood.”

“It is not as intimate here as it would be in Mirkwood,” Arwen looked much amused. “Though it is not a meaningless trinket. For my brother it is much self-control. I have not seen him as he is when you are around before.”

Hithriel looked away, uncertain if she wanted to believe Arwen. “Legolas said something similar. He said he did not believe Elrohir wished to stifle my spirit.”

“Hîr Legolas is correct. Elrohir would never. He is loyal, Hîril Hithriel. If you are not ready he will not push you, and if you are not interested he will back off.” Arwen said softly, and carefully handed the charm back to Hithriel, who had nothing more to say on the topic so she returned the charm to her pocket.

After breakfast was over, Hithriel and Arwen bade one another goodbye, and Hithriel went to her room to change out of her gown. Never would she do that for anyone but Erestor.

Legolas awaited her in the main halls of Elrond, ignoring the curious eyes around him.

He spotted Hithriel and inclined his head at her. He did not smile, though his eyes were brighter. “A hunt we will go on, if you are up for it. Mellon lín Glorfindel shall join us, and Hatharion.”

“Glorfindel has hunted enough with me to learn the peculiarities of Taurion to him, though with three he may not know what to do,” said Hithriel, much amused.

She followed Legolas to the stables. Hatharion was already there, and had found them three horses, all dark-colored.

Legolas’ horse was not one to charge into battle as the horses of Men, it was a dark, sleek creature of the forest. Silver-dapple grey hide and eyes as pale as morning mist, It wore neither bit nor saddle, and it was a great creature though it was lithe.

The horse of Hatharion had a hide as brown as bark, and again was not one for direct charges. A swift runner under trees, it likely was. This horse was as bare as Legolas’.

The third horse was one Hithriel was greatly familiar to. He was jet black, and slightly larger than the other two Mirkwood-bred horses. He was still meant to run below the trees, though the Mirkwood horses had been bred smaller.

Hithriel carefully stroked the muzzle of her horse fondly, a familiarity between them.

“I am told this is your favored horse, hîril nîn,” Hatharion informed her in a quiet voice.

“Yes, Aldor,” said Hithriel, telling them his name. “He was rarely ridden before I. He is not fond of a saddle, though he sometimes wears it when I ride with Elladan and Elrohir.” 

Aldor nuzzled against Hithriel’s shoulder and nipped at her fingers.

“Mine is Tinnu,” said Legolas, “and Hatharion’s is Brûn.” 

Hithriel smiled, “they are beautiful things,” she said.

They waited for Glorfindel, who arrived minutes later on Asfaloth already. 

“I had not known riding bareback was a thing for Mirkwood elves. I admit, I thought it was just Hithriel.” said the elf-lord, looking amused

Hithriel mounted her horse and patted Aldor’s neck fondly. “Let us go, before our chatter scares off every animal in the forest,” she decided.

And off they went. They weren’t aiming to hunt anything possible, though they needed to feed those in the halls of Elrond tonight and so Glorfindel had suggested them for the task.

Legolas seemed to be nearly as attuned with the forest as Hithriel was, and thus sensed the animals almost as quickly as she did.

This forest is too still for Hithriel, Legolas, and Hatharion’s liking. Though she had not been far north of the mountains of Mirkwood, she had spent too much time in forests like Fangorn and Southern Mirkwood to be comfortable in a forest this quiet.

The air is chilled, and each of them wear cloaks though it is not cold enough for furs.

“Where are the wolves?” asked Legolas with a frown. Two boars had they currently caught, large enough to comfortably feed many. 

Rare are boars to be found on a hunt as this, though honored. And they had found two, not far from one another. Hithriel had found the first, and Legolas the second.

“There are few here,” said Hithriel calmly. “Sometimes they come from the north during harsh winters, though the borders scare them away unless they are desperate.”

Legolas frowned, as if he couldn’t comprehend such a thing.

“I have not been to Mirkwood, though Hithriel has described it to me before. Darker things reside there than here. Here Hîr Elrond keeps peace upon the land.” said Glorfindel.

Though it was bright out, Legolas glanced around like he expected something to jump out at them.

They continued on, and each of them ended up with at least one animal. Glorfindel got a majestic stag with a full rack of antlers.

“These animals are calmer, gentler.” noted Hatharion softly. “Not danger-hardened.”

Hithriel studied the animal quietly. “It is an omen to see a stag this late in the year. The calm before a big change.” It did not shake her, though there was something about it that rubbed her the wrong way.

“It also means that you must hold your ground a little longer,” noted Legolas. “Though both can be true in these days.”

Hithriel nodded, and they hunted a little more before heading back with what they had. Others would clean the animals and take the meat.

“Anything–” began Legolas.

“Anything they don’t use will come to you,” said Glorfindel, very amused. “You should see all the things Hithriel has made Erestor and I. They are beautiful and useful, though things many here would not appreciate.”

Hithriel’s ears flushed. “I slayed a great wolf years ago, when they were hungry enough to come far south, and made Erestor a blanket from its fur. He is from Doriath, and his body is still used to warmer climates. I made things for the Hobbits to boost their spirits too while I travelled with them. I have learned they like trinkets.”

“Much skilled are your hands, Hithriel. If any had doubt you were truly from Taurion, there is none now. We use all we can of any animals we kill, for resources are scarce. In a place such as this there is abundance of metals, of food.”

They ate a small lunch together, the four of them. 

Hithriel noticed, a time she brushed her hair behind an ear, that Legolas’ gaze caught on the appearance. When he noticed her looking, he quickly looked away.

“Do you wish to know what happened?” she asked. “They are old wounds.”

Legolas nodded, only once.

“In those days the thief had just died, and I was only ninety years old. Everything and anything was a game to me, I did not believe that I could die, I did not know better. I stole from one who was smarter than I believed him to be, and he caught me.” There was no shame in her words, her tone.

Hithriel shook her head and continued. “He said the proper punishment for thieving was to cut off the dominant hand, though he did not wish to permanently maim something so fair when the memory would haunt me enough, long after he was gone. He cut off the tip of my ear instead, and whipped me in the streets until my voice gave out, and left me there.”

“You were a child.” Legolas hissed.

Hithriel shrugged. “Men can not often tell. It was a mercy he did not cut off my hand. It was over four-hundred years ago, anyway. He is truly long dead, and it was then where I decided I was done and went off to travel instead. The other ear was caught with an arrow.”

Silence she is met with. Glorfindel has heard this story before, though Legolas seems as if he wishes to find this Man’s spirit and tell him exactly what he has done.

Hithriel seemed unbothered, and continued eating. The worst part she had not said. That she hadn’t been stealing jewels or fancy swords or artwork that time, but food. She had not mentioned that at all, not to Glorfindel either.

After lunch Hithriel went alone to the library of Elrond. He had joked the library was the only reason she agreed to stay for so long, and it truly was her favorite place in these halls.

She had a list of books to read longer than her mother had been able to read in her lifetime.  

None bothered her when she was here, until it was time for an activity she’d agreed to.

This time it is something akin to a war council with Elrond and several others including Erestor, Glorfindel, Gandalf, the Captain of the Guard, Galdor of the Grey Havens, Legolas, and more still.

“These meetings will forthwith be in late morning,” said Elrond to open. “Not tomorrow, though the day after. Here we shall discuss news of the realm, news of the scouts sent to search for the Nazgul, and any other relevant information.”

Elrond now paused for a moment and glanced around to make sure they all understood.

Then, Erestor stood and stepped up, and detailed the groups of scouts sent out, and in which directions.

Hithriel listened for a long while, taking in this new information.

Elrond detailed what had happened to each of the nine morath. Most had drowned, though he spoke of the one Hithriel had stabbed.

“Yes,” agreed Glorfindel. “Though he fled into the water as well, for his horse had already been taken by the flood.”

“They will regain their strength, and then… where will they go from there? Will they return here?” Asked the captain of the guard.

Elrond shook his head. His face was still so young, despite his years in number. Hithriel thought he looked more tired than she’d seen him before. “No. They could not get to Frodo here, and they know that now. Likely they will retreat, and rally their forces elsewhere. Likely they will retreat back to the lord of their Master. Or possibly further south, past the lands of Gondor. Many Men there may be under their control.”

“One shall return himself to Mirkwood,” said Legolas, to Hithriel’s surprise. “He is the cause for the darkness upon that wood.”

“Not the only cause,” said Hithriel, grimacing. “Unspeakable things dwell in those mountains. Older and more evil than the Shadow.” 

Galdor looked annoyed. “I have heard King Thranduil is unwilling to fight off that darkness, and in my mind that is nearly worse than submitting to the shadow.”

“If you wish to start a fight, Galdor, might we do that later? I will not have my kin insulted, when you have never been to Mirkwood, never fought for your survival there. Mirkwood is not like here, certainly not south of the mountains. Wolves and spiders and yrch, and many other things that would likely eat you within minutes.” Said Hithriel, tone sharp though calm. She would not argue.

Galdor just dipped his head, and closed his mouth.

The rest of the meeting mostly went over things Hithriel knew already, though she listened anyway.

When finally, it was finished, the Imladris elves retired to their rooms, and the Taurion elves stayed awake. Hithriel and Legolas walked silently under the stars together. No words were needed, for starlight was sacred.

Hithriel returned to her room long after midnight, and fell asleep in her bay window, gazing out upon the land.

Chapter Text

The days began to pass quickly. Hithriel, Legolas, and the three guards quickly got into a rhythm, though Hithriel began to get restless just as fast.

In the early mornings, before sunrise, Hithriel would rise, dress herself, and venture out into the woods with Legolas. Some days she woke earlier, the days she could hardly stand still, and ventured off on her own. It was those times after her nightmares grew very bad, and she stayed away from most others those days. But mostly they would walk along the Bruinen and through the woods, listening to birds and softly singing.

When the Elves of Imladris rise, most often two hours after the Taurion elves, the five of them have archery practice and sparring.

Elrond’s warriors are not far from where they spar, though they give the Taurion elves a wide berth. Now that they knew Hithriel was an elleth, and of the Mirkwood, they understood her strangeness slightly more, and are more wary.

The other soldiers make sly comments only when Glorfindel does not watch them, for they can only get away with it then.

In the late morning, they are bade to more and more council meetings, though Hithriel had little to add, as she wasn’t on any of these scouting missions, and did not always attend.

Most often, when she did not attend, she was with Arwen.

Midday they have meals with the dwarves and hobbits, though Legolas and the dwarves say barely a thing to one another, even when Bilbo tries to urge them to be social.

Hithriel, on the other hand, had learned that Glóin’s people had lived in the northern Blue Mountains while their home had been taken by Smaug. Glóin was a little taken aback by the easy and kind way Hithriel spoke to them, how she was interested to hear what he and his son had to say.

“I spent much a time upon those mountains, though I never imagined your people lived below. Did you ever wander the mountain face? There was a beautiful lake that split the range, its source an offshoot of the River Lhûn. It was my favorite place when I resided there. Once many elves came through the range beside that river, though it has long since been traversed in that way.” She said.

It was Gimli who spoke, eyeing Hithriel. “I have seen that lake, and truly it is as beautiful as you say. I have not been there in a long while.”

Hithriel smiled at that. “Neither have I. You must miss your home, Master Dwarf,” said she. “I have heard tales of the beauty of Erebor as well, though never have I even seen the mountain. One day I wish to, after this business is finished.”

“One day you might even see inside the mountain,” said Gimli, “for you are the strangest elf I have met, in a way that is refreshing.”

Legolas tensed from the other end of the table, ready to protect Hithriel against any insult.

Instead of becoming offended, Hithriel laughed at Gimli’s words. “Yes, I have often been told that, though not in the way you make it sound. As if it is a good thing.”

From there, Hithriel regaled Gloin and Gimli of tales of the thirty-five years she worked as a thief, and some of the wonderful jewelry and gems she had gotten her hands on.

The two dwarves listened with intent as she spoke, and 

Most often after their midday meal, Legolas went off to explore Imladris on his own while Hithriel continued to read through the books and scrolls in the Library of Elrond.

When she got restless, there were three things that could quiet her body and brain. Reading in the library, extra sparring practice with Hatharion, or making things with her hands. Those who were close to her and the two dwarves, often found trinkets and items upon their beds on the days they rarely saw her, when her dreams were troublesome enough that she disappeared for hours on end.

As the days in number grew, these days were more often.

Evenings were spent in the Hall of Fire, where the Taurion elves kept to themselves with the dwarves. The Elves of Imladris, except for Arwen, Elrond, Glorfindel, and Erestor, most often ignored them.

The Imladris elves retired a lot earlier in the night than the five Taurion elves. While Legolas, Hithriel, and the three guards were awake long after midnight, the others retired shortly after moonrise.

Their evenings and nights were mostly quiet, with few words shared. When they finally returned to their rooms, they often fell asleep under the stars as opposed to within their cushy beds.

Of all the scouts sent out to search for any signs of the morath, Elladan and Elrohir were last to return with Aragorn, and only spoke of their errand to Elrond.

As the scouts had begun to return, Hithriel had attended the late-morning meetings more and more often, awaiting the news.

No group had found any signs or tidings of morath or other enemy servants in any region, though that news only seemed to make Hithriel more and more uneasy.

She Dreamed of these servants, dreamed of fire and terror and a terrible cold that she could not explain.

Elrond had found Hithriel, one day in the library. He had asked her if she would go with Frodo, asked her before he asked Legolas.

“I have been Dreaming often in the time I’ve been here,” said Hithriel quietly, and gazed down upon her book instead of looking at him.

“I fear I would be the most dangerous companion on this quest, Hîr Elrond,” she said, “If I accidentally got ahold of the Ring… it would kill me, drain me of my life, and it would be more powerful than before. Certainly the quest would fail and the World of Men would fail.”

Elrond studied her, like he had known something of this before coming to see her. “What will you do then?” He asked.

Hithriel was silent for many a moment before speak again she did. “To Mirkwood I will go. I will convince Aran Thranduil to march upon Dol Guldur. For the most to live, this threat needs to be dealt with first.” 

“He may not agree to that, my dear Hithriel, I am sorry to tell you,” said Elrond, voice gentle.

She glanced up at Elrond finally, a fire in her eyes. “He does not have to agree, but the forest suffers, and the people of Taurion suffer. I will find a way to clear Dol Guldur one way or another.” 

He watched her for several silent moments, and then nodded. 

“We leave as soon as we can,” decided she in that moment. “Legolas will go with Frodo, I am certain. But the four of us will go to Mirkwood.”

Elrond did not stop her, though he was insistent for there to be another feast before the four from Mirkwood left them, something more ceremonial.

They would be dressing in more finery than before, and most of the others already had their finery, except those from Mirkwood.

It was made for them to their specifications, by the finest seamstresses Elrond had. 

Legolas and Hithriel were dressed in similar colors, and looked a lot like siblings in these clothes. They wore deep forest greens and bronze-golds, the ceremonial colors of Thranduil and his kin in the woods. The three guards wore dark greys and blues, colors for soldiers.

The two noble-elves wore long, layered robes, and their bronze-colored capes were fastened at the throat. Each wore a simple circlet, and little other jewelry except for the silver in Hithriel’s hair, and the cloak clasp that Legolas wore had set amber upon it.

The Elves of Imladris wore their finery as well. The house of Elrond wore silver, deep blues, and some violet. Elrond himself wore a silver circlet, and Arwen wore a silver caul upon her hair. The twins Elladan and Elrohir wore no circlets, but had been forced into their finery.

Their cloaks were clasped at the right side with a brooch of moonstone and embroidered with mainly gold, while the Taurion elves had embroidered silver on their garments.

Legolas and Hithriel sat at the head table with Elrond, his kin, Glorfindel, and Erestor.

This time it was not Glorfindel who asked her for a dance when they reached the Hall of Fire, but Elrohir.

He bowed to Hithriel and greeted Legolas, and held out a hand. “Híril nín, I wonder if you won’t grace me with the opportunity to dance with you at least once before you depart,” he said.

Hithriel kept her face neutral, though her eyes were bright, “a warrior, a word-smith, and a craftsman you truly are. Nearly as many skills as Hír Elrond you hold,” she said softly, teasing as she took his hand and let him bring her to the dance-floor.

The Hall of Fire was more packed than the last time, though Hithriel and Elrohir did not seem to care, or notice in the first place. 

They danced as if they were the only ones in the room, as if they cared not who watched. They danced if they had been dancing together for ages, it was elegant and effortless.

“You are truly leaving in the morn?” Elrohir asked, gazing down at her. “Father said you will try to convince Aran lín to attack Dol Goldur. I do not think he will go for that, híril nín.” His voice was soft, concerned.

Hithriel was not angered by this. “I have been told that by many, now. I have it planned, I will not fail. You need not worry.” Where before she had been angry that she felt he was trying to cage her, now she understood. “When this is finished come find me, hír Elrohir.” Her eyes glinted as she glanced up at him.

They danced the rest of that song and the full length of another, but this was not a night for dancing, it was a night of goodbyes, and she had to say goodbye to all.

“Nae i bâd lín aníron gwad a dae,” Aragorn told her. May your sword grant you strength and serve you well. A blessing from warrior to warrior.

Hithriel puts a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder in familiarity and warmth. “A sí, hûn. Gwada lín vain.” she responded softly. And to you as well. May it grant you strength rightly.

Aragorn mimicked her movement, and after a moment they released one another.

Her and Elladan did a similar movement to that, and Hithriel began to make her rounds. There were many stories told, many songs sung, much laughter and dancing after that.

Most of the Imladris elves turned in early, though when the men and those Elves faltered, the Taurion elves continued to sing and dance and tell stories.

Elrohir stayed as long as he could manage, though he was falling asleep by the time he left and his brother dragged him away.

In some time, even Aragorn began to falter and left as well.

By the time the Taurion elves left to their rooms it was very early in the morning, and Hithriel fell asleep under the stars instead of in her rooms.