Pain.

It coursed through him from the various minor cuts and bruises the foul raiders had dealt him.
He could feel the wounds burning strangely as well, slowly leeching away his strength, and
guessed that their nasty-looking blades were covered with some sort of potion to make it so.

Piercingly deep blue eyes stung and teared as a breath of wind blew harsh grey smoke into them.
Blinking rapidly to clear his blurred vision, it was all he could do to keep his attention
focused on his opponents and not on the destruction of the place he'd called home for so long.

The thick smoke tickled his throat, adding yet another distraction at a time when he needed none-
the desperate *need* to cough. He managed to beat back the feeling of 'cough madly or choke'
with a bit of the same stubbornness that had served him so well in other battles.

Not soon enough.

A crude blade sliced into the forearm of his sword-arm. Even as he unconsciously cried out in
pain, his hand opened and his fine, Elven-crafted sword fell to the dirt.

He looked quickly to his opponents, saw the leering grins they wore as they closed in on him. He
didn't know *what* they were. None of the Elves did. None of them had ever seen anything like
the unusually large, strong orc-kin that now attacked them.

With his left hand, he drew his long knife and slashed viciously across the face of the Uruk-hai
he saw as the weakest link in the circle around him. The orc-kin in question reeled back with a
pained growl, leaving a gap in the line.

Quick as thought, the Elf darted through the gap and ran for one of the bridges into Rivendell.
He could see fighting on the other side as well, and much burning. He hoped to reach one of the
Elven groups there, where he hoped to at least wrap his forearm, slowing the bleeding and making
it at least partially usable.

He was perhaps a quarter of the way across the bridge when a group of perhaps a dozen Uruk-hai
reached it from the far side and started across, coming towards him.

He turned to go back, but the way was now blocked by the Uruk-hai that had pursued him before.

He was trapped.

He looked again to the further group, saw them getting quickly nearer. And... what was that? He
stared, saw it again, recognized it. Finely crafted Elven battle-armor.

Then he was spun nearly halfway around as something hit his shoulder hard from behind. His long
knife went flying. For a second there was only the shock of impact, but then came the pain.
Gasping with it, he looked over to see a thick, ugly black arrow sticking out of his left
shoulder, rendering his knife-hand as useless as his right.

He looked to the Uruk-hai, saw them nearly upon him, saw that the armor-wearing Elf was slung
over one broad orc-kin shoulder, feet bound tightly. Then they were upon him. He expected
nothing but a cruel death, but most passed him by with only hateful glares. As the Elf-carrying
orc-kin passed him by, he was able to focus pain-blurred vision enough to recognize the fall of
dark, silky hair, the gleam of the intricate silver circlet.

"Elrond," he moaned in despair. The Uruk-hai had taken the Lord of Imladris. "No...."

As if roused by the other Elf's words, Elrond groggily raised his head. His dark eyes were dazed,
his strong face cut and battered. His gaze focused on his closest friend just in time to see one
of his captors pull the black arrow ungently from the other's shoulder, hand it to an orc-kin
archer, then lift the golden-haired Elf-lord as if he weighed nothing and toss him over the side
of the bridge to plummet toward the river Bruinen that ran far below.

Concentrating fiercely, muttering the words under his breath, Elrond managed to command the river
to rise enough to keep Glorfindel from death from the fall.

He heard the Bruinen surge below, heard the barely-audible-above-the-roaring splash as Glorfindel
fell in. He heard the orc-kin curse loudly at the river. He continued muttering, asking the
River to carry his friend to safety. Distantly, he heard his captors yelling, but his conscious
mind was focused on the Bruinen.

Which was why it took him completely by surprise when he was hit hard upside the head with enough
force to knock him unconscious.
 
 

Within the hour, all the Uruk-hai forces had withdrawn from Rivendell.

They had what they'd been sent for.

Part 2

Wind whistled past him as he fell helplessly through the air, the wind whipping his golden hair
into his face with stinging force.

He managed to look down as he fell, the speed of the fall enough to make his eyes tear and his
vision blur. He saw far below, though nearing quickly, the river Bruinen, saw that at that
section of the mighty river it was only a half-dozen feet deep.

Not deep enough for any possibility of him surviving the fall from the bridge. If only he had
the same power over the River as Elrond....

Elrond, who had, against all reason, apparently been kidnapped by the orc-kin. Orcs and all evil
creatures usually simply killed Elves outright, or, if they *did* take prisoners, it was a random
thing. And there had been nothing random in Elrond's kidnapping.The orc-kin had specifically
sought him out, and begun their retreat once they had him. The fires had been distractions, no
more.

None of which was doing *him* a bit of good right now.

Then, with a loud roar, the Bruinen surged mightily below him, the level of the River rising
higher than he'd ever seen it before, even during the spring floods.

It was the work of Elrond, Glorfindel knew with certainty. He hoped his friend wouldn't be
punished for it.

Then he had no more time for thoughts other than those for his own survival.

He hit the water with a powerful slap, went underwater, resurfaced, choking and gasping. The
current pulled him along downriver at an amazing pace, his already-injured body getting bruised
and battered against the rocks and debris that shared the river with him. He choked and coughed
as water filled his mouth and nose.

His injured arms weren't quite strong enough to keep him afloat against the pull of the river.

The current pulled him under. He barely had time enough to hold onto a breath before he was
sucked down and pulled downriver even faster.

His lungs started to ache and burn for lack of air. He couldn't hold his breath for much longer.
His mouth opened and involuntarily he breathed in, unable to fight the *need*.

Then he resurfaced. He came up gasping for air, coughing harshly, feeling the small amount he'd
breathed in slosh around in his lungs, cutting his breath short. He flailed his arms wildly
about, ignoring the pain from his injuries, desperate to both stay above water and somehow reach
the shore.

The roaring of the River was all around him, deafening him. Then, abruptly, the river's fury
abated and the water level began to decrease.

Still, weakened as he was from both the battle-injuries and the pounding from the river,
Glorfindel could do nothing but let it carry him onward and hope that it would eventually deposit
him on land somewhere.

Body numbed by the cold water, he was unaware of exactly how much time had passed before he first
began to feel the passing of the riverbed under his benumbed feet. Teeth chattering, shivering
uncontrollably in the water as it continued to pull him, he cast a glance up at the sky and a
sort of dazed shock ran through him.

It had been midafternoon when the orc-kin had thrown him off the bridge. And now the night sky
was lightening in the East with the first hints of false-dawn.

At last, the river, now called Greyflood, receded back down to its proper level, leaving
Glorfindel kneeling in two feet of water.

He managed to get to his feet and stagger on downriver, falling often. Chilled to the bone,
he was too cold even to shiver anymore as his hair and clothes iced over in the cold January
morning air.

With his failing senses, he remembered passing by what seemed to be swampland in winter. Judging
by the placement of the mountains, he could see that he had been carried very far south of
Rivendell by the River, enough that perhaps it would be possible for him to reach the place where
the Road forded the River near the ruined town of Tharbad. He could only hope that a traveler
would be passing by and find him before he froze to death. He knew that unless someone found and
tended to him, he would die.

His hands were frozen stiff; he couldn't uncurl his fingers. Even if he could, he had no means
to either cut firewood or to start a fire; he had lost his weapons before he was thrown off the
bridge, and the River had stolen the contents of his belt-pouch, where his flints had been.

He staggered on downriver, slipping on ice and snow, tripping over any obstacle that lay in his
path, falling now on hard, frozen ground, now on icy snow, now into icy-cold river water, dousing
himself anew.

After perhaps an hour of stumbling on, he lifted his head and looked around with eyes whose
lashes were spikes of ice. There, perhaps thirty feet ahead of him on either side of the river
were breaks in the treeline.

The Road.

He took another staggering step towards it, slipped. He fell hard to the frozen ground. He
tried to push himself up. He couldn't even move his arms. He was so *cold*. His breath didn't
even fog in the cold air. He stared fixedly at the Road, tried again to lift himself. Again, he
failed.

Cold ruled him. He was made of ice and chill and pain and nothing more.

/So cold,/ he thought numbly. /So cold. Have to reach the Road./ Another attempt at getting up
was followed by another failure. /Can't get up. So cold. Can't give up. Can't. Too close. I'm
so cold./ A thick, comforting drowsiness settled in on him. /Sleepy. Have to sleep. No!
Can't give up! But I'm so cold and so sleepy. Must rest, just for a while.... No! Can't go to
sleep.... Why? So.... So sleepy..../

Deep blue eyes fluttered shut, opened, closed again, stayed shut. Glorfindel sank into helpless
unconsciousness barely thirty feet from the Road.

Part 3

Elrond came awake to find himself still slung over an orc-kin's broad shoulder. He could see the
ground passing swiftly beneath its iron-shod feet as it carried him away from the valley-sanctuary
he'd ruled over for these many years. It was full night.

He didn't squirm, didn't move, gave no indication to his captors that he was no longer
unconscious. Instead, he kept his body limp even as he carefully extended his senses out into
the night, trying to find out exactly what his situation was.

His hands and feet were tightly bound. He still wore his battle-armor, but he remembered how he
had lost his weapons during the fight. Even unweaponed, though, he had continued to fight the
Uruk-hai, striking out with kicks and punches until at last he was pulled down and tied.

Listening carefully, he could hear perhaps two and a half dozen orc-kin all around him, iron-shod
feet landing heavily on the ground as they ran. And they were fast afoot, faster than any
two-legged being had any right to be.

Then he remembered Glorfindel.

Glorfindel, whom the orc-kin had tossed over the bridge and down into the Bruinen.

Elrond knew, from his somewhat hazy memory of the event, that he *had* managed to flood the river
enough that his friend *could* have survived the fall. What he didn't know was whether or not he
actually *had*, and how far that the river would carry him from Rivendell. The flooded Bruinen
would have flowed amazingly quickly, and gained even more speed with the addition of Mitheithel's
waters, where the two rivers joined and became the Greyflood. If Glorfindel had been carried
that far by the surge of water that he had caused before he was knocked unconscious, it was very
possible that the mighty Greyflood would carry him still quite a ways further on its own, even
after the floodwaters had receded.

He sensed the night drawing to a close as the first dim grey light of dawn began to spread over
the land. He began to worry. For orcs and all evil creatures hid themselves away from the Sun
in the daytime, and once they stopped, surely it would be found out that he was no longer
unconscious.

But the Sun rose and the brutal pace set by the orc-kin never slackened, though they cursed the
Sun in their dark, harsh language.

The orc-kin carrying him cursed and he was tossed to another to carry. It took some effort, but
he managed to keep up the illusion of unconsciousness; staying limp and choking back his cry of
surprise as he was tossed from one Uruk-hai to another.

The Sun continued its slow journey across the sky, shining down on them from the clear blue sky
above for hour after hour.

Still, the Uruk-hai ran on.

Elrond was worried, and not only for Glorfindel and himself. These creatures that had captured
him, whatever they were, were strong enough to walk- even run- in the full light of day. That
made them worse than normal orcs and goblins or even trolls. And they were so fast afoot and
strong. This did not bode well for the free peoples of Middle-Earth. Always before they had
been able to rely on the light of the Sun to hold the evil creatures somewhat in check. If that
small security was now taken away....

Around noon, he was thrown to the ground as the Uruk-hai stopped for a short time to eat and rest.
The orc-kin that had been carrying him growled fiercely upon seeing him awake. It called out
something in its harsh language and another of the creatures came. This one, Elrond saw, was the
biggest one in the group.

The huge Uruk-hai looked him over from head to toe, growling menacingly the entire time. "So
you're the Lord of Rivendell," it said at last, its voice harsh and gutteral.

Elrond said nothing, concealed well his shock at the realization that his capture hadn't been the
random thing he had thought it was.

The orc-kin laughed nastily at his silence, amused at the small act of defiance. Then it
approached him, a length of coarse rope in one clawed hand. Roughly, it wrapped the rope around
the ties binding his wrists, tying it there with a length of rope trailing.

"My boys've had enough of carrying you," came the growled words, accompanied now by an evil,
fang-baring grin. "Now, you run with us."

The Half-Elf carefully hid the dismay that flooded through him as he remembered how fast his
captors ran. He knew that he could run at that pace, but he could only do it for short periods
of time. He knew there was no way that he could match the orc-kin's pace for the hours upon hours
they were apparently demanding of him.

Then the bonds on his ankles were cut away and he was yanked to his feet by the lead-rope bound
to his wrists.

He managed to look around, saw by the placement of the mountains that they were already very far
from Rivendell. Indeed, the next march would see them enter Hollin, and cross most of it as well
if they kept to the pace they had been.

And where were they taking him with such haste? Along their present course following along
beside the mountains, there was Hollin, which was largely abandoned. There was Moria, once a
mighty city of dwarves, then taken by evil creatures. He had heard that a dwarven expedition a
dozen years back had gone to Moria to reclaim it. Had they succeeded? Had they been overcome?
He did not know.

After Moria was the Glanduin river, flowing down from the mountains, then the vast Dunland.
After *that* was the Gap of Rohan. Did they mean to take him through there? Would they dare
brave the Rohirrim?

He sighed inwardly in frustration. Questions. All he had were questions without answers. It
was not a situation he was used to, and one he was not fond of in the least.

His arms were nearly jerked out of the sockets when the Uruk-hai holding his lead-rope began to
run at a harsh order, the others running beside them.

For the first half-hour he ran as strongly as they. By the end of the first hour, though, his
breathing was harsh and sweat poured off him in waves. His legs felt like jelly, his step was no
longer as sure as it had been.

When he stumbled and fell near the beginning of the second hour, the orc-kin just laughed and
kept running, jeering at him in evil amusement. He was dragged along the ground, body getting
even more cut and bruised as they went until at last he managed to somehow get his feet under him
once more and run again.

His whole body trembled with exhaustion as he ran, each harsh gasp for air burning and tearing at
his throat.

And so he passed the day and night; running, falling, being dragged until he managed to regain
his feet, then running again, an endlessly repeating cycle. Thirst and hunger grew in him as the
day and night passed.

At last, the order to stop was given. As the orc-kin ceased running, instead stopping for a meal,
Elrond simply dropped to the ground where he stood, instantly lost in deep, exhausted sleep.

Directly before them lay the river Glanduin, sparkling in dawn's first light.

Part 4

The Elves of Rivendell stared at each other in confusion, a bit stunned at the suddden withdrawal
of the orc-kin. Then one of the burning fires snapped loudly, rousing them from their daze, and
they quickly organised themselves to put out the fires.

It was only after the fires were extinguished that they had a chance to look around them and take
stock of all that had happened.

The fires had caused superficial damage to several buildings, nothing that couldn't be fixed in a
day or two. Some Elves had taken injuries during the fight, though none were severe. Grey smoke,
slowly being dispelled by the wind over the river Bruinen, hung over the valley, dimming the
fading light of the late afternoon.

It was during the search for friends and family, checking to see how badly each had been injured,
that a certain lack came to their attention.

"Where is Father?" Elladan asked.

It was a question that threw the assembled Elves into a frantic search of the whole of the valley
of Rivendell. At long last, they found his weapons, thickly stained with drying black blood,
lying on the ground among many dead orc-kin. Of Elrond himself, there was no sign.

Then Elrohir came up, Glorfindel's sword and long knife, also bloodstained, in hand.

Both Elf-lords had vanished.

The assembled Elves came to the only conclusion they could, the only conclusion that made even
the slightest bit of sense, however unusual: The orc-kin had kidnapped the lords Elrond and
Glorfindel.

By the time they came to that realization, the Sun was setting and they had no choice but to wait
for morning to set out in pursuit. However much it stung at their hearts to leave the two
captives of the orc-kin for even that long, even *they* could not follow a trail once full night
fell.

Come the first hint of dawn, though, they would away in pursuit, armored, weaponed, and riding
swiftly upon their sleek Elf-horses.

Part 5

Glorfindel drifted between consciousness and unconsciousness. His awareness was fragmented and
confused.

He had the vague sensation of being carried, his numb body too cold to shiver, too cold to move,
nearly too cold to breathe. Then darkness claimed him once again.
 
 

He awoke at the feeling of being immersed to the neck in what felt like molten metal, the heat
scalding against his icy flesh. He fought as hard as he could to get free of the heat, his best
efforts barely enough to make a small splash. He was dimly aware of some of the water being
drained, moaned in new pain as even warmer water was added in its place.

After three such increases in temperature, his body warmed enough to begin to once again shiver
uncontrollably.

Yet another increase in temperature saw him warmed enough to partially open his eyes.

With blurred vision he got the impression of solid walls around him, lit by flickering orange and
red light. He saw himself to be immersed to the neck in clear water, saw a shadow near to him.
It was only when the shadow moved to add more water to his bath that he realized it was a person.

Noticing his partially opened eyes, the other began to speak. "So you are awake at last, hmmm?"
it said softly, gently, as it poured the water into his bath. "You are lucky that I was passing
by when I was. If I had lingered another day on the Road as had been my intention, you would
have frozen to death before I found you. As it was, it was a very close thing."

Glorfindel tuned out the rest of what the other was saying, closing his eyes, drifting into
darkness once more, the vague nagging thought that he should know that voice following him down
into helpless slumber.
 
 

He was awakened by someone shaking his bare shoulder.

"Come, now," he heard the other say. "Let's get you out of the bath and dried."

He was gently tugged to a sitting position, then pulled up to his feet. He leaned heavily on the
other, too weak and worn to stand on his own. He barely had the energy to lift his feet enough
to get out of the bath.

Eyes still mostly closed, still in great part asleep, Glorfindel was aware of being quickly dried,
then he was led over near the fireplace and lain down on warmed blankets on the warm stone floor.
More blankets were piled on top of him.

Then his head was raised slightly and a mug of something warm was brought to his mouth. He drank,
recognised the taste as that of a warming tea, sweetened almost to the point of being sickening.
He drank it down, however, knowing that he needed the warm sweetness to help fight off shock and
the deep-chill that had nearly claimed his life.

The other made him drink two mugs of the tea, then another of water. Feeling warm inside for the
first time since his fall into the Bruinen, Glorfindel sank back to the blankets, sleep
overtaking him once more.

He was dimly aware of the blankets being tucked in about him, then he slept.
 
 

He awoke several more times, each time being given a bowl of thin soup to eat, then more of the
tea and water before he again surrendered to sleep.
 
 

At last, he awoke and knew himself to be well again. The chill and cold that had been so
constant since the Bruinen was gone. He breathed easily, breath no longer rattling sickly, chest
no longer aching so foully with each breath. He could feel soft bandages wrapped around him here
and there over his carefully tended and now-healing wounds.

He opened his eyes as he sat up in his pile of blankets, the blankets sliding down to pool about
his waist.

He lay close to the fireplace, where a fire burned cheerfully, heating the room. In one corner
of the room stood a copper tub. Vague memories of being bathed and warmed in that tub paraded in
his head, a collection of vague, fragmented images. He remembered only snatches of that,
remembered the scalding heat of the lukewarm water, the feel of the rough towel drying him after,
how the person who tended him had put him to bed. How the other had fed him when he was too weak
to do it for himself.

"Awake, are we?" came the voice as a hanging curtain across the door was pushed aside by the
other's entrance, falling quickly back into place. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," Glorfindel said simply. "Warm. Dry."

The other smiled. "Good," he said. He gestured to a spot just beside the fireplace. "There are
your clothes, dried and mended as much as I could. I couldn't get the bloodstains out, and I had
to put patches in some places, but at least it's something to wear. The oil on your boots is
still drying, they should be ready by tomorrow. You probably shouldn't be traveling before then
anyway."

Glorfindel found his clothes, pulled the fire-warmed items to him and dressed. His clothes were
by no means as fine as they had been, but like the other said, at least they covered him and kept
him warm. Trembling slightly with the exertion, he sat back down on the blankets. "Thank you,"
he said. He looked to the other, who still stood mostly in shadow. He had a vague sense that he
should recognise the other's form and the voice that was so familiar, but he just couldn't recall
the memories. He knew the other, or had at one time- he was sure of it. If only he could
remember! "May I know who it is that saved my life?" he asked.

The other hesitated for a long moment before moving so that the light from the fireplace fully
illuminated his face.

Glorfindel's eyes widened as he saw the other, recognised him at last. "My Lord!" he exclaimed.
"But... but.... You're dead!"

Part 6

It was barely an hour later when Elrond was kicked awake by his captors, their heavy iron-soled
boots knocking him about even while bruising him badly, even through the battle-armor he wore.

Muscles still trembling with exhaustion from the last horrible run, he managed to struggle into a
sitting position on the ground. His battered body protested mightily even that small movement;
the battle, the running and the being dragged left him hurting all over, nearly too much to move
at all.

He was sent sprawling on the ground at an ungentle shove, the orc-kin around him laughing at his
small hiss of surprise and pain. Determined not to give his captors the satisfaction of seeing
the depth of his pain and weakness, he again managed to sit up, his bruised, blood- and dirt-
stained face kept carefully expressionless.

Even his great will, however, could not keep him from falling back to the ground as he was
grabbed ungently by the hair, yanked abruptly to his feet and shoved. He managed to shakily
stagger perhaps three steps before his legs folded beneath him, sending him crashing to the dirt,
acquiring yet more bruises and a coating of still more dust and dirt.

Most of the Uruk-hai laughed as the Lord of Imladris collapsed to the ground once more, jeered at
him in their harsh tongue as he yet again struggled to sit up.

The largest of the Uruk-hai, however, was not amused. While it pleased him greatly to see so
great an Elf-lord reduced to lying weakly in the dirt, it annoyed him even more.

Growling in annoyance, the orc-kin stalked over to the Elf, grabbed him by the dark, silky hair,
claws scratching the Elf's skin enough to start small trickles of blood. He jerked the head back,
then raised a flask to the battered Elf's lips.

Elrond, partially dazed with pain, was still aware enough to know that he didn't want to have
anything to do with the contents of the big orc-kin's flask. He clenched his jaw, refused to
open his mouth.

Growling in faint amused annoyance at the other's defiance, the big Uruk-hai simply dug his claws
roughly into the Elf's scalp. At the other's gasp of pain, he poured some of the flask's liquid
contents into the briefly opened mouth.

Elrond choked and coughed as the burning liquid filled his mouth, then burned its way down inside
him. He fell to the ground as the orc-kin released him, curled up into a ball, clutching at his
stomach, writhing as the burning pain spread through him. A soft moan escaped him as the pain
spread, burning its way down his arms and legs, leaving in its wake a dark strength that at once
strengthened and weakened him, burning through him like poison.

This time when he was pulled ungently to his feet, he was able to stand on his own.

Then his lead-rope was taken up and it was time for the day's journey to begin.
 
 

It took the Uruk-hai and their Elven captive perhaps an hour to cross the Glanduin river. It
*was* frozen over in many places, but never was there an ice-bridge that crossed directly to the
other side. Instead, there was a deadly maze of ice and cold, open water between them and the
other side. Three of the orc-kin were lost to thin ice before the crossing was done.

Then they were running again.

And again Elrond suffered the same as the previous march; running until he fell, being dragged
until he could regain his feet and run once more.

It had been long and long again since he had last been required to march any great distance. The
last time before his capture had been during the great marches of the Last Alliance, and even
then he'd rode his horse most of the time furing the long marches from one camp to the next. It
had been only on the marches from camp to battlefield that he'd left his mount behind in favor of
his own two feet.

And *those* marches had been nothing like what he was having to endure now.

And so it was that Elrond came to the fair green hills and glens of the vast Dunland for the
first time in a very long time. But he had not much attention to spare his surroundings; the
burning of the orc-potion in him and the need to keep putting one foot in front of the other
without falling nearly overwhelming what awareness he had.
 
 

Three more times he was dosed with the firey liquid from the large Uruk-hai's flask when his
steps faltered from near-total exhaustion.

But even with the potion he was unable to keep running as the day passed toward night, and with
another growl of annoyance the big Uruk-hai ordered the Elf-lord be carried.

So great was Elrond's exhaustion that he never even struggled as he was taken once more and
carried over broad Uruk-hai shoulders for the rest of the march. He was so worn, in fact, that
he gave in to unconsciousness not long after they began carrying him, and slept for a long while.

Part 7

The Sun had barely gilt the mountains of the horizon when twenty Elves of Rivendell, led by the
twin sons of Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir, went forth from the vale in pursuit of the orc-kin.
Each Elf was armored and weaponed for battle, and mounted upon a swift Elf-horse.

The tracks of the orc-kin were not in the least difficult to follow and they made good time, the
trampled earth passing swiftly beneath the pounding hooves of their horses.

But no matter how hard they pushed their horses, the trail did not grow any fresher. In fact,
when they were forced to stop for the night due to the deepening darkness, it was discovered that
the trail they were following, that had been perhaps a half-day old when they left that dawning,
was now nearly a full day older- they had, despite their best efforts, lost ground.

"How is this possible?" Elrohir asked in frustration, throwing his hands wide. "They were
perhaps a half-day's ride ahead of us when we left. Now they are nearly a day ahead!"

"I know that," Elladan replied in equal frustration. "I do not know how it happened. This *is*
the right trail. It is as if they were running all day as well as all night!"

"Orcs do not run in the day," Elrohir argued. "We have been on orc-hunts enough to know *that*,
brother."

"Orcs do not *attack* in daylight, either, and yet these did," countered Elladan. "And now they
are far ahead with Father and Glorfindel, and *we* have to stop for the night even as the trail
grows colder."

They were silent for a long moment, thinking of their father and friend in the foul clutches of
orcs as their mother once had been. Worry still coursing through them, they rejoined the others
in their camp a short way off from the orc-kin trail.

Tomorrow would be another early day.

Part 8

The other smiled briefly as he moved closer, went over to the fireplace to check on the contents
of a pot that hung over the glowing embers to one side of the flames. The delicious smell of
some sort of stew filled the room when he lifted the lid. He stirred the stew a few times, then
covered it once more with the pot's lid.

Then he turned to face Glorfindel, who was still staring at him in disbelief. "Dead?" he asked.
"No. I am quite alive, as you can see."

Glorfindel shook his head, trying to rid himself of the near-paralysis brought on by the sight of
the other. "I saw you fall. *We* saw you fall," he said at last.

The other sighed. "Yes, I fell," he said simply. "And I was wounded terribly, and very near to
death. But I did not die, for I was taken from the battlefield and well-tended until I was whole
again." He saw that the Elf-lord was having trouble believing his words, tried to think of a way
to convince him that what he said was truth. "You never found my body amongst the dead there,
did you?"

"No, we didn't," came the reply. "But we saw you fall in single combat with-"

"Do not say that name!" the other interjected, a hand instinctively raised in a gesture of
warding, body shying away slightly from the name the golden-haired Elf had been about to speak as
if the mere near-mention of it pained him.

Glorfindel nodded his understanding, continued his interrupted phrase. "We saw you fall to...
him. We saw it. We never found the body, though we searched the whole slope of Orodruin.(1) All
we found of you was Aiglos, and you know you were never without it."

"Ah, my spear!" The other smiled, remembering it fondly. "What became of it?"

"Elrond took it," Glorfindel replied. "Upon his return to Imladris, he had a shrine built for
it... for you, who had fallen."

The other's smile took on a hint of sadness. "Ah, Elrond," he sighed. He looked to Glorfindel.
"Tell me about him. Is he well? Is he happy?"

Abruptly, the golden-haired Elf remembered his last sight of his friend. "Elrond is captive of
the orc-kin that attacked Imladris!" he exclaimed. He tried to get up, but the other held him
down. "Let me up!" he said, struggling against the other's hold. "I must go to him!"

"Glorfindel," came the stern voice. "You cannot go out after them tonight. You are yet
recovering and it is too dark out now."

"But, my Lord Gil-galad-" Glorfindel started.

"Enough, Glorfindel," the same strong voice said again. "If he was captured, as you say he was,
by orc-kin, you will accomplish nothing but your own death by rushing out after them bootless,
cloakless, unarmed and unprepared. Especially not at night, when all evil things are strongest.
I did not save you from the river for you to go out and do something this foolish. I *will* help
you rescue him. *But* we shall do it my way; planned and well-informed." He smiled grimly. "We
*will* rescue Elrond from his captors, and we shall do it without getting ourselves killed in the
process. Now, is there anything you can tell me of our foes? You call them orc-kin. What are
they?"

"I do not know," came the reply. "They are obviously part orc, but they have the size of Men,
and are far stonger than normal orcs. They attacked Imladris in daylight, my Lord, in full
sunlight. They wore tokens, badges, upon which were a white hand and the Elven 's'-rune."

Gil-galad, once High King of the Elves, thought over this information, frowning. "And which way
were they headed once they left Imladris? How many of them were there?" he asked. "Whose
symbols are those?"

"I do not know the symbols. There were perhaps two or three dozen of them. And as for direction,
all I know is that they attacked from the South. I know not in which direction they went
afterward, for it was during the beginning of their withdrawal that they threw me into the
Bruinen."

"The Bruinen?" Gil-galad asked, confused. "How is it that you come to be here, then? The
Bruinen is a shallow river and would not have carried you so far."

"Elrond commands the river," Glorfindel explained. "The orc-kin threw me down from a great
height, and Elrond caused the river to flood to let me survive the fall. It carried me well into
the waters of the Greyflood, the river Gwathlo, before the floodwaters receded, and even in
winter the river is mighty enough that it carried me far of its own will."

The former High King smiled softly. "It seems my Herald has done well for himself, to command
both Elves and rivers."

"Yes," Glorfindel said simply. "And he has his children-"

"Children?" came the startled voice. "Elrond has wed?"

"Yes, but she went into the West many years ago. She bore him three children: the twin boys
Elladan and Elrohir, who were born merely a hundred and thirty years after the end of the Last
Alliance, and his daughter Arwen, born a hundred and eleven years after the boys."

They were silent for a long space, sitting on the floor before the fireplace, watching the flames
dance merrily.

A snap of the fire recalled Glorfindel to himself. He turned his face to the other. "My Lord?"
he asked quietly.

"Yes?"

"Why did you never come to us? Why did we recieve no word of your survival? Where were you and
what were you doing and why did you stay away for the last three *thousand* years?"

Gil-galad rumbled a harsh sigh, was silent for a long moment. Then he spoke, staring into the
crackling, dancing flames as if only they could offer him the solace and comfort he needed. "I
did not go to you because at first I *could* not. I was not killed in that battle with the Dark
Lord. I was not killed, but I was very severely wounded, nearly unto death. I can remember that
day; the shouted battle-cries af the Alliance armies led by Elendil and I, the clash of blade
against blade, the hiss of flights of loosed arrows, the death-cries of friend and foe alike, the
stench of blood that was everywhere.

"Then the Dark Lord came forth from his stronghold for the first time in the seven-year siege.

"I went to meet him and we fought for a very long time. I landed several blows on him with my
spear Aiglos, but then something happened elsewhere- the sounds changed- and I was distracted.
It was only briefly, perhaps bare seconds, but even that was too long against such a foe.

"His weapon slammed into me, knocked me back. Then again, and I flew through the air to crash to
the slope of Orodruin. Aiglos fell from my hand and rolled away down the slope. My body was
broken by the blows and the hard stone. My armor was rent by the blows and what remained was
dented and twisted and more pain than protection. My arms and legs were broken, as were my ribs.
Gashes covered me, leaking bright blood. I could barely breathe, let alone move. Simply lifting
my head brought on agony and nausea, and darkened my vision.

"I was fortunate to be found so quickly. The Men who found me bound the worst of the cuts, then
bore me away from the battlefield-"

"Why did they not bring you to the Healers' tents to be tended?"

Another sigh, softer this time. "It would have done no good. The wounds were too severe. I
knew that our Healers could do nothing. The Men told me as I lay bleeding and shattered upon the
ground that their Elders might be able to do something."

"And so they did. But why did you not return to us once you had healed enough?"

"Glorfindel, it was nearly two *hundred* years before the dread wounds made by the Dark Lord had
healed enough to allow me to simply stand on my own. Twenty generations of Men passed before I
was ready to face anything in battle once more without cringing away in fear of pain.

"By then, Middle-Earth was changed. Cirdan had taken my place as High King of Lindon. There had
been many kings of Men, and many of the kingdoms I had known I found abandoned. It was while
wandering through the lands of Men that I first heard the songs and tales of the Last Alliance,
and those of the fall of Gil-galad.(2)

"It is very strange to hear yourself spoken of as a legend that ended centuries ago. It brought
home to me the one simple fact that I could no longer ignore: All of Middle-Earth had moved on,
and I was merely a tale from the past. My time as High King of the Elves had ended with the
Second Age.

"I came here to Dunland, to the descendants of those Men who had tended to me, and here I have
stayed, save for a few occasional forays out for news, tales and companionship, for all of the
Third Age. The name of Gil-galad, *my* name, I spoke to none."

Glorfindel reached out and clasped the other's shoulder reassuringly. "High King or not, you are
always welcome in Imladris," he said. "But now, about Elrond-"

"Yes," the other said. He patted the hand on his shoulder, then leaned forward to tend the fire
and check the stew. Finding it done, he ladled some onto bowls for Glorfindel and himself. "We
shall go scouting in the morning. We shall walk toward the Hith Aiglin(3), then turn North
toward Imladris should we find nothing. But tell me, Glorfindel: do you truly not know who would
use either the white hand or white 's'-rune as their symbol?"

"There is only the Dark Lord, but he does not use Elvish letters, or the color white," Glorfindel
said absentmindedly. Then his eyes widened. "Curunir!" he exclaimed.(4)

"Curunir?" echoed Gil-galad. "Who is... ah! Is he not one of the Istari that came from out of
the West a thousand years into the Third Age?"

"Yes," Glorfindel said. "It was spoken of at the Council of Elrond that Curunir has become
seduced by the forces of Darkness and has turned to evil. But he uses Elf-runes and was known
commonly as 'Saruman the White'. He lives in the South, in his tower of Orthanc in the foothills
of the Hith Aiglin near the Gap of Rohan."

They ate in silence, both thinking over that information, thinking also of the path they would
walk the next day. They each had several bowls of stew, then lay down in their blankets by the
fire to rest.

Glorfindel looked across the width of the fireplace to where Gil-galad lay on his side, watching
the flames once more. "Gil-galad?"

"Yes, Glorfindel?"

"I am glad that you are not dead."

A tired chuckle. "So am I."

A few minutes passed.

"Glorfindel?"

"Yes?"

"Did you mean what you said, about me being welcome even though I decided not to try to retake
the High-Kingship?"

"Of course. You are our friend, first and foremost. You are always welcome, crowned or not."

"Thank you." Gil-galad settled himself more comfortably in his blankets. "We should rest now.
We have a long way to go on the morrow."

"Good night, Gil-galad," Glorfindel answered as he settled in to rest.

"Good night, Glorfindel."

Part 9

When he came awake again, it was to find himself still being carried by the seemingly tireless
Uruk-hai.

Dawn's first light lay over the land, coloring all with a faint golden light.

The long rest had done him good. He felt well-rested for the first time since he'd been captured.
And if his cuts and bruises still made him sore, it wasn't as debilitating a feeling as it had
been when he was exhausted.

As he had that first night, he gave no indication of his conscious state. He extended his senses,
smiled internally as he discovered his first hope of escape. The Uruk-hai had been running away
from Rivendell as fast as they could for three days and nights now, and the light of the Sun wore
on them as it hadn't before, slowing them slightly even as the grumbles grew worse. One other
major difference that fed his hope was the fact that though his wrists were bound in front of him
as tightly as ever, his legs and ankles weren't bound at all.

If he was put on the ground, he would be able to run. In fact, considering his long rest and the
Uruk-hai's tiredness, for a short while he would even be able to run faster than they could. In
the long run, of course, they would catch him again, having a greater endurance than he, but if
he managed to hide during that time when he had the advantage over them....

The Elf-lord wracked his brain, trying to remember all he could of the maps of the area, trying
to think of the best direction for him to run when the time came. Chances are the opportunity
would not come again. He could *not* fail at what could be his only try for freedom!

Running East into the mountains to hide was out of the question. Alone and unarmed, he would be
easy prey for the orcs, goblins and wargs that infested the misty peaks.

Should he run West, then, and hope to hide amongst the hills of the Dunland? Even in full
battle-armor, he knew his tracks would be nearly invisible on the frosty ground. And if he ran
West, once he lost the orc-kin, he could continue on West and come at last to the old Road and
follow it northward to the Greyflood. Then where? Unarmed, how was he to defend himself or
provide himself with food?

He shoved those worries aside. None of that would matter if he could not get away from the
orc-kin. Escape was his primary concern. He was confident that once *that* was accomplished,
he would find a way to do the rest, to do what was needed to get himself back to Rivendell.
 
 

It was around noon when the Uruk-hai, cursing loudly, threw down their prisoner and stopped to
rest. The Sun was wearing on them more than it was before, tiring them, and there were no clouds
in the sky to offer them relief from the bright light.

Elrond kept himself limp as he was first carried, then thrown down to the hard ground. He smiled
internally when the orc-kin fell for his illusion of unconsciousness. Still he lay limp and
unmoving on the ground, waiting for the right moment.

Then it arrived.

The orc-kin, thinking him unconscious, had wandered away perhaps twenty feet to the East, leaving
none between him and the vast area to the West.

With barely a split second's thought, he was on his feet and running as fast as he could, heading
first southwest to throw off pursuit.

He heard the orc-kin shout at his flight, but he didn't look back as he heard those iron-shod
feet running after him.

He was almost caught nearly at once as a large Uruk-hai he hadn't seen came out from behind a
hill he was running toward. He managed, with a quick twist and slight bend, to avoid the other's
grab for him, though he felt its claws snag the trailing hem of his cloak and rip free a strip of
material with a harsh jerk. The tug pulled abruptly at his throat and nearly succeeded in
yanking him off his feet, but desperation allowed him to run on and make good his escape.

He ran through the hills, seeking the right place to lose his pursuers. Soon, he was far enough
ahead of them that they caught only the occasional glimpse of him; it wouldn't take much to throw
them off his trail completely.

He could feel himself tiring as first ten minutes passed, then thirty, then forty. An hour
passed, swift as the ground beneath his running feet.

Then he saw it- an old burrow in the side of a hill. A quick look behind showed him to be out of
sight of his pursuers for the moment, and so he grabbed the opportunity.

It was a tight fit, but he managed to cram himself into the den's entryway, pulling himself into
the dark, frozen earth until he reached the larger den-area itself. There he sat on the cool
sandy floor, taking the opportunity to work the ropes at his wrists free. The old scent of
fur-musk was strong about him in the dark cave. He listened quietly as the group of Uruk-hai ran
on by, apparently mistaking the fresh scratches in the entryway for the work of animals instead
of a desperate Elf.

Elrond smiled grimly in the darkness, wrapped his slightly worse-for-wear cloak about him and
waited for perhaps ten more minutes before pulling himself back out the narrow tunnel, listening
intently all the while for the orc-kin he knew were out there in the hills somewhere.

Once out of the earth, Elrond looked around, getting his bearings. Then he started to move away
north and west, first at a quick walk, then at an easy, ground-eating lope he knew he could
easily keep up all day. As he went, he kept an ear out for the familiar sounds of the orc-kin.
He did *not* want to be recaptured due to inattention, especially as the punishment they would
deal out would probably be brutal.

Mile after green, hilly mile passed smoothly beneath his running feet as the Sun slowly sank
toward the horizon.
 
 

By evening, he hadn't yet reached the Road, though he knew it couldn't be far off. He slowed to
a quick walk, kept going even through the deepening darkness. Without any means of starting a
fire, or anything to burn even if he had, he knew that keeping moving was the only way to keep
warm during the cold January night. He stubbornly ignored the cold, refused to acknowledge it or
feel it. He had *not* managed to free himself from the orc-kin only to give in to the cold now.
Even his firm resolve, though, couldn't keep the occasional shivers from wracking his body.

It was approaching midnight when he finally happened upon the Road. It gleamed faintly in the
starlight, an alley running away vaguely north and west. Sure now of the path, he stepped onto
the road and followed it northward, once again falling into the same mindless lope, his feet
following the Road even as the meditative pace allowed him to rest his mind in the way of Elves,
warming once more at the quickened pace. The shivers stopped.

And so he slept restfully, even as he ran away the long hours of the night.

It was perhaps an hour before dawn when he felt the cold feelings creep over him once more,
waking him. He tried shrugging them off, kept running. The cold, shivery feeling only got worse
the further he went. It was only when he noticed something ahead on the road that he realized
that the cold feelings were coming from within, the Elven sense of danger, not a normal chill
from outside him.

By then, of course, it was too late to avoid being seen.

One of the Nazgul, mounted once again, this time on a monstrous flying beast instead of the black
horses from before, waited clamly in the middle of the Road, staring at him with its undead eyes.

He froze where he stood. If he had been armed, he might have stood a chance of fighting off the
Ringwraith; being a powerful Elf-lord, he had fought off such things before, as had Glorfindel.
But he was not armed, and he was far from home. He knew that this foe was too much for him at
that time.

And so he had a choice: the certainty of defeat from the Nazgul ahead of him, or the possibility
of running into his former captors as he ran away from the Nazgul into the forest that had begun
to appear at the sides of the Road during the last hour's run.

It was no choice at all. Elrond turned and dashed into the unfamiliar forest, the chilling wail
of the Ringwraith rising behind him, piercing the chill morning air. He grit his teeth. If his
captors had been uncertain of where to find him before, the Nazgul had just given them a pretty
good idea of where to look.

And so Elrond ran as hard and as fast as he dared, pacing himself carefully so as not to exhaust
himself and yet cover as much ground as possible. His Elven senses were alert for any sign of
his enemies, constantly scanning the forest and sky about him for any sign of their presence. It
wouldn't do for him to run into them, not after having gotten this far!

But by the Valar, he was getting tired of running all the time!

Part 10

The group from Rivendell had been riding for days now, and were yet no closer to catching up with
the orc-kin than when they started. For though their elf-horses ran swiftly, the Uruk-hai
created by Saruman ran just as quickly and were apparently near-tireless.

They knew that they were on the right trail; since the second day of their ride, they had been
able to see the faint imprint of a running Elf's footprints among the orc-kin tracks. The light
footprints changed every so often to long drag-marks that made the riders wince in sympathetic
pain even as the anger in them grew.

Something else that both worried and puzzled them was the fact that there was only a single set
of Elf-tracks. But Elrond and Glorfindel both had been taken. Was one injured so badly that
even the vicious orc-kin wouldn't force him to run? And if so, which?

Late that day, they found an answer to one of those questions.

It was Elrohir that found them as he rode close beside the captive Elf's latest drag-marks. A
dark stone stuck up from the ground, and from it fluttered three dark strands, ends caught in a
small amount of dried blood on the stone. Dismounting, Elrohir grabbed hold of the strands,
pulled them loose from the blood. Small though they were, he was able to recognise them; so
similar were they to those of he and his brother.

"Father's hair," he said aloud. He shoved the dark strands into a pouch at his waist. "Father
is the one running."

Filled with angry outrage that their beloved lord should be treated so ill, the party from
Rivendell set forth once again, urging their horses on even faster than before, determined to
catch up with those they pursued. When full night fell, it was unanimously decided to continue
on by torchlight, stopping only to rest the horses before keeping on. They would *not* stop to
camp for another full night.

Part 11

The two Elves had to delay their departure from the ruins of Tharbad by a day, for that morning,
Glorfindel found himself unable to get up. Weak and shivering, he nonetheless tried stubbornly
to rise and go to Elrond's rescue. Gil-galad had just picked up his swordbelt in preparation
when a quick glance over his shoulder let him see Glorfindel fall helplessly back to his blankets,
shivering convulsively. Laying his swordbelt back down in its place, he went over to the other
Elf, who was once again trying to get up.

"Rest, Glorfindel," he said, gently pushing the other back down to the blankets. "You are not
yet well enough. We shall wait, for you to heal, and go out tomorrow."

"But Elrond-" Glorfindel protested, shivering convulsively.

"As much as I hate to say it, Elrond shall have to endure for one day more than expected."

Neither Elf was happy about the delay, but there was no way around it with Glorfindel unable to
rise.
 
 

As if to make up for the lost time, they set out the next morning at the first vague hint of
false dawn.

Glorfindel's golden hair was bound in a tail at his nape by a soft leather thong. He wore a
thick winter cloak from Gil-galad's stores and was armed with weapons given to him by the other
Elf: a pair of long knives at his belt, a bow and quiver full of arrows on his back.

Gil-galad was similarly attired, hair bound back, armed with knives, sword and bow.

Both Elves wore packs with food and blankets, carried with them flasks of water. They were
prepared for a long journey, even as they hoped it would be a short, yet successful, one. Both
seethed with anger at the thought of their friend being held captive by the brutal orc-kin.

Cloaks wrapped tightly about them against the cold January morning air, they quickly crossed the
Greyflood river at the ford close by Tharbad's ruins, then they were off, hurrying straight East
toward the Hith Aiglin.

Their pace was quick, though not as quick as it could have been, for Glorfindel was more easily
tired than he would have been had he not nearly frozen to death in the river a mere two nights
before. It was due to the powers of Elven healing that he was even up at all; a human, similarly
frozen and thawed, would have been confined to bed for at least a week or two.

Still, even with the slower pace, they made good time. So it was that by the time they stopped
for a rest and a meal at noontime, they had traveled nearly a quarter of the way to the mountains.

Glorfindel looked around at the frozen green hills ahead of them when they stopped. Not yet
fully in the Dunland, there were yet patches of forest about them, as well as marshland. The
road was, if he remembered correctly, not far to their south, though it quickly dropped away,
running more north-south than west-east. It had been some time since he had last passed through
the Dunland and most of those times of late he had kept to the road, not open country.

With a sigh, he went over to where Gil-galad crouched down on the sheltered side of one of the
small, brush-covered hills, nibbling at some of his dried food, sipping from his water-flask.

"You should eat, Glorfindel," he said quietly. "You need your strength. I know you don't wish
to take the time away from our search, but it will only take longer should you weaken and suffer
another relapse."

"I know," came the reply. He crouched beside the former High King, took a stick of dried meat
from his food-pouch and began to eat.

They ate in silence for a time, though their thoughts were never empty; focused on their search
and their friend.

They had not been resting five minutes when a chill crept over both. Quickly, not bothering to
waste time in useless queries, they gathered up their things and hurried into the concealment
offered by the trees.

Securing their packs and belongings, they stood still, listening intently to the forest-sounds
about them, searching with sharp-eyed glances for the source of the chilling, dread feelings.
Bows were strung, arrows set to the string.

A wail split the air, and immediately a dead, fearful silence fell over the forest.

The two Elves shared a grim glance, recognition showing in their eyes. No one could possibly
forget the sound of an angry Nazgul once they had heard it even only a single time. Their eyes
scanned the forest in the direction of the wail, searching. Nothing.

Then they heard it. It sounded like a herd of stampeding animals. Then they heard a hoarse,
gutteral cry of triumph, quickly echoed by many throats, and knew. The orc-kin they had been
searching for were coming in their direction.

Quickly, they took up defensive positions, arrows aimed at the quickly approaching noise. Sharp
Elven eyes scanned relentlessly, looking for the first sign of the orc-kin.

Perhaps five tension-filled minutes passed before a quickly moving form pushed its way through a
clump of trees, stumbled toward where they waited, apparently failing to notice them.

Glorfindel sighted along his arrow, ready to loose the shaft at any time. He was ready to shoot
the approaching form when he saw- beneath a coat of dirt- the glint of Elven battle-armor.

"Elrond!" he cried aloud. He was a bit startled at the other's dirt-smudged, bloody and
dishevelled appearance, but quickly put the thought out of his mind as the Lord of Imladris
stumbled toward him at the cry, clearly worn and nearly at the end of his endurance.

"Here they come!" Gil-galad said as the trees parted again, this time spewing forth the orc-kin
that pursued their escaped captive.

Two bows sang in quick chorus as the archers turned their arrows loose on the Uruk-hai. Elven
shafts flew with precision, burrying themselves in eyes, throat and heart. Orc-kin fell dead
upon the ground two by two, and yet those behind kept coming, now hurling weapons at the archers.

Gil-galad's last arrow went astray as he cried out in pain at a hurled knife burrying itself into
his shield arm. He pulled the weapon free even as he dropped his bow. Tossing aside the knife,
he drew his sword and defended himself from the oncoming Uruk-hai, even as blood from the wound
soaked into his sleeve, the fabric sticking to the wound, temporarily slowing the bleeding.

Glorfindel continued to shoot. He felt a slight tug at his waist and spared a quick look over to
see Elrond standing there, dirt- and blood-smeared face set as he faced the oncoming Uruk-hai,
armed with one of Glorfindel's long knives.

Luckily, most of the orc-kin had been killed by arrows and so there were only a few left to come
within reach of the keen blades of Elrond and Gil-galad. Those few were quickly killed by those
same blades.

Then silence fell over the forest again, the echoes of the battle fading quickly.

A shadow cast from above passed swiftly over where the three Elves stood among the carnage. An
angry wail accompanied the shadow, and the sound of heavy wingbeats retreated, not to return. It
took several minutesm though, for the dread feeling of the Nazgul's presence to fade from them.

Once all threat was gone, the normal forest sounds returned; birds and squirrels chirping
tentatively, then with more vigor.

Elrond, pale-faced beneath the dirt, turned to Glorfindel. His hands trembled as he brushed a
wayward lock of dirty hair back behind one ear. "Glorfindel?"

"Yes?"

"Please tell me that you thought to bring food," came the weak voice. "I have not eaten since
Rivendell, save for the foul orc-draught, and if I do not eat soon, I may do something foolish.
Like faint."

Glorfindel wordlessly handed over his food-pouch and water-flask, watched as Elrond sat upon the
torn ground and began to eat hungrily. He shook his head in bemusement; it had been long and
long again since he had last seen Imladris' lord in such a state.

Turning, he saw Gil-galad sitting on the ground, leaning back against a tree as he tried,
one-handed, to bandage his arm wound.

He walked from Elrond to Gil-galad, took the bandage from him. "That has to be cleaned first,"
he rebuked gently. "*Then* bound. You know that. You don't want infection to set in, do you?
You are, at the moment, the healthiest of the three of us."

The former High King sighed. "Yes, I know it should be cleaned, but surely any poisons would
have bled out by now-" He stopped at the other's glare. "All right. Clean and bind it for me
then, for I cannot do it one-handed."

Soon, the wound had been tended to and the two walked over to where Elrond sat, still eating,
though at a slower pace now.

He looked up as they came to a stop beside him. His eyes widened, the half-eaten chunk of dried
apple falling to the ground from his suddenly slack hand. "My King!" he exclaimed.

Then the two watched as the shock and events of the last few days at last overwhelmed the fading
remnants of adrenaline running through him.

Elrond Half-Elven, Lord and founder of the Elven sactuary of Imladris, wielder of Vilya of the
Three, fainted. He collapsed gracelessly back and lay still upon the cold, battle-torn ground of
the forest floor.

Part 12

Glorfindel and Gil-galad stared down at the unconscious Half-Elf in bemusement for a short while,
then Glorfindel reached down and picked him up, carried him over to the unspoilt ground at the
clearing's edge. Gil-galad wordlessly lay out a bedroll for him and together they bundled the
dark-haired Half-Elf in securely.

"Stay with him," Glorfindel suggested, mindful of the fact that the former High King had been
injured. "I shall go and see to retrieving our arrows."

Gil-galad nodded. "I am not so hurt that I could not retrieve arrows, my friend," he said,
smiling slightly at the other's faint blush. "But I shall do as you ask and keep watch over him."
Then he settled down at Elrond's side, looking down at the unconscious one in concern. Taking up
a clean cloth, he dampened it with water from his flask, then began to clean away the blood and
dirt from the battered Half-Elf's face.

Glorfindel, still somewhat embarrassed that his concerns had been so obvious, went about the
clearing pulling arrows from the flesh of the large orc-kin. Some of the arrows had shattered,
most had broken somewhat, but some were in good repair and others could be mended. He had just
found Gil-galad's last arrow, sunk into a tree at an impossible angle that brought a chuckle to
his lips, when he heard the sound of hooves.

Quickly, he gathered up the arrows he had collected, then hurried back to the other two.

"Horses!" he hissed.

Needing to hear no more than that, Gil-galad stood hurriedly and together the two Elves lifted
Elrond and scurried back from the clearing and into concealment, taking all their gear with them.

Silently, they watched, eyes scanning the forest around them, as the sounds of the horses drew
nearer and nearer. Glorfindel had his bow bent, an arrow set to the string. Gil-galad gripped
his sword tightly, unable to pull a bow because of his arm wound.

Then the riders entered the clearing, crashing through the same clump of trees that Elrond and
the orc-kin had passed through.

Recognition came quickly and Glorfindel lowered his bow. "Riders from Imladris," he told his
companion. "Elrond's sons are with them."

Gil-galad sheathed his sword with a slight nod, went back to Elrond's side. "Go to them, then,
Glorfindel. Tell them Elrond is here, and safe."

Glorfindel stood, walked back to the clearing. "Elladan! Elrohir!"

"Glorfindel!" Elladan responded. He smiled widely in greeting. "You have been hunting orc-kin,
we can see! You are well, then? Is Father with you?"

"I am mostly well. Elrond is here. He will be well once he is taken back to Imladris, cleaned,
rested and fed."

"So you have come to no lasting harm at the hands of these... things?" Elrohir asked.

Glorfindel's face showed his confusion. "I? Elrond was their captive, not I."

Now it was the twins' turn to be confused. "What? But both you and Father were missing after
the attack. If you were not taken, where were you? You know better than to chase after such a
group of foes alone and unprepared. What happened then, if you were not captured?"

"During the attack, the orc-kin threw me off of the bridge and into the Bruinen. For a long time
I went downriver," he said simply. "Then I was fished out and was recovering. Then, today, I
went orc-kin hunting."

The twins were silent for a moment as they thought that over. It had never occurred to them that
he might have met some other fate than to be captured. They looked to him once more. "And
Father? Where is he now?" Elrohir asked. "Why is he not here to greet us?"

"The ill treatment and lack of food finally caught up with him. He rests now."

"We should bring him back home to Imladris, then, so he can rest and recover in more peaceful and
comfortable surroundings," Elladan said. His twin nodded, added, "We have extra horses for the
two of you. I suppose we could tie Father to the saddle-"

"That will not be necessary," Glorfindel said. "He shall ride ahead of me. And there are three
in our group."

"Three? Who is-"

"An old friend."

Eager to both reassure themselves of their father's health and begin the four-day hard ride back
to Imladris, the twins followed Glorfindel back into the woods and over to where the other two
waited. Children of the Third Age, the twins did not recognise Gil-galad.

"Father!" Elladan said, kneeling beside his father's unconscious form. He quickly looked to the
strange Elf. "How is he? Can he ride?" At the other's nod, he untangled his father from the
blankets, picked him up. "Get the blankets, brother." He looked once more to the strange Elf.
"Do you wish to come with us to Imladris?"

Gil-galad hesitated briefly, then nodded. "Yes," he said firmly. "At least for a little while,
while Elrond recovers."

Soon, the group was mounted and ready to ride. They left the clearing behind as they headed
northeast along the Greyflood river toward Rivendell.

TBC...