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The isle of Balar was not far off the coast, but there was a brief spell in the middle (about half an hour if the wind wasn’t with them) where you had to squint to make out land to the east and west. The wind was rarely with them when Saedhruin was aboard.

Sometimes in the middle he imagined storms coming up out of the west, building walls of waves before them and lashing their sides in righteous fury. He’d always been up on the deck with the other rune-keepers when the storms got worse, that first and last voyage. Calling what small breaths of wind would obey them to stir the sails.

Then the spell would pass and he would see the cloudless sunshine and the laughing crew singing praises to Ossë for the fine day. He’d always love the Sea; some days he wondered if it would ever forgive them.

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When Areher first ventured into his teens Amathan was only seven: still young enough for Aderthor to toss onto his shoulders and declare a field trip.

About a third of the “field trips” were excuses to drag Areher away from heated arguments in the house or street and into the shady trees above the city. (“Brother Management,” Aderthor would whisper in an aside to Amathan, winking.) There Aderthor handed him a thick branch and challenged him to slam it as hard as he could against every tree they passed, competing for all sorts of small prizes. In this manner Amathan watched branch after branch explode into splinters with each WACK, giggling and ducking the splinters, and taking careful note to judge the winner justly.

They all were dusted with moss and broken bark by the end, breathlessly laughing and racing home before the gates closed for the night.

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His first journey with Talagan away from Ost-in-Edhil was to Lindon, the capital of Gil-galad. I thought you were going to bounce out of your boots, Talagan later said of it, you were so excited.

There was always a place for him on Talagan’s ranging; the silver-haired hunter bent his quiet tales and easy skill to teaching his young friend, and delighted in it. Ryndel saw Minas Elendur and the port-cities of Númenor before even reaching his majority. He learned to track and to handle a bow, to move with the forest and hide beneath its silence and its sound.

He did not learn to fight. His second trip to Lindon was to stay, until the dust and the graves settled and Talagan brought him to his home in Edhelion. As survivors of the war and remnants of Eregion filled it, it began to be called a refuge. His parents, a smith and a weaver, were not among them.

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Thudding footsteps crashed into the eaves of Bindbole, dashing heedlessly past the tree line and crunching in the snow. Aharan, drifting vaguely through a mire of pain, barely noticed.

Branches swatted against each other. Undergrowth rustled and shifted. Hasty hands dug into every inch of a large area about the wood’s edge and deeper in, leaking urgency into the freezing air.

A few staccato beats of silence then four sharp cracks shot through the air. The sound murdered her aching head, and she groaned. Everything hurt.

The footsteps immediately flashed to her side, reluctantly gentle fingers turning her over. Warmth leaked in, which was nice. Then someone slapped her cheek, which was not.

“Sto’ that.” Nonetheless she cracked an eyelid open a bit, just to make certain nothing terrible was happening. An elven face hung over her, familiar irate expression fixed into place.

Ah, Lehtion. Couldn’t be too bad then. She slipped back into sleep.

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Círamath would doubtless freak if he knew his sons routinely hung out on their two-story house’s roof.

Or that Amathan couldn’t quite reach the lip from the brothers’ bedroom, and therefore had to be awkwardly boosted by Aderthor or Areher or both.

He’d probably ban all further adventures more than six feet off the ground and take Aderthor’s child-watching skills under serious examination. He’d likely hang around the house more, squinting long and narrow-eyed at the slope of their roof. He’d compulsively glance up everytime he approached the house, braced for one or more sons to slip and break their necks as he watched.

He’d had five and a half heart-attacks and proceeded to calm down. He sat now, head in his hands, trying to convince himself that banning anything would be an unhelpful tactic right now.

“Aderthor’s quite protective, you know. He takes the younger ones’ safety more seriously than it looks.” Calden said, sipping his tea. “...They take after you.”

“This was not me.” That was all he’d settled on, and he had settled quite firmly.

Calden laughed. Three boys laughed with him faintly overhead, oblivious.

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The wood was quieter here, far away from the orc intrusion to the east and the spiders to the south and north. Stars glimmered at him from patches in the tree cover ahead, almost-but-not-quite returned to the pattern he knew from home.

Lastadron hurried onward. Despite the long night behind him and the invisible hint of dawn, his feet were stirred by that miniature glimpse of sky. A dark veil was drawing back as he neared the edge of the wood. 

At length he came to a high arch, carved from wood and glinting with metalwork. A wide swell of grass lay before him, scattered with boulders and framed by the mountains looming large on the other side. Smoke rose from small patches of buildings. 

Breathing deep, he could smell cool grass and an expanse of unhindered air. Greenleaves the forest might be called once more, but he was more than glad to be out from under its heavy grasp.

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A sunny summer day had graced the Havens of Sirion, and there had been no storm or chill for over a week. The gleaming water shifted lazily up and down the pale sand for sheer lack of anything better to do. A young Elf sat on the sand just above it, digging a trench, for much the same reason.

“If you dig that deep it'll just collapse again.”

Saedhruin had been offering unwanted structural advice for a while now.

Lehtion’s trench curved around a large stone embedded in the sand; no collapse was imminent from that direction. He smoothed his hand along the opposite side, softening the cracking corner. Water began to pool at the bottom. Crumbs of sand skittered down the wall and plopped into it.

“Is this a moat?” Saedhruin asked.

Lehtion scowled at him in lieu of asking what a moat was.

“Perhaps this structure could extend up the sand a little. The tide is coming in.”

Should the tide reach them it would be dinner time at the Haven. Lehtion would not care if his towers and trench decided to level themselves outside his presence. It was only that—

“Awfully rude of them to collapse in front of company?”

Precisely.

Saedhruin did not laugh. This was well for him, for Lehtion had a great deal of wet sand at his disposal.

He let the broad smile slide.

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It’d been years since he had ventured this deep into the Even-rills, but he still remembers the first time. Damp air, dark moss, and sloping hills breaking into bare rock at staggered intervals. Nature’s wild beauty left to flourish in peace.

There hadn’t been putrid shrines set up years ago, filled with weeks-old kills and wolf-waste. Or Gauredain at all.

“Aim for the casters at the back!” The Captain-General barked, casting a glance back at the line of archers. Branniar was in the brutal melee at the front and paid no heed. The hulking Gauredain fought with teeth and hand-made claws as often as they did their spiked clubs, and a festering wound on his shoulder spoke to the sharpness of those teeth. He’d dodged the wolves’ jaws before they were killed, expecting that, but he hadn’t been looking for it from at least semi-intelligent creatures.

Chanting of barks and howls broke the feral growls, and his next opponent whirled to face him with glowing gook hoisted in each fist. His crazed eyes slanted in cruelty, he flung both globs at Branniar’s face. This is a caster? he thought, in the split second before the pain hit. Hard .

Thick goo splattered across his face and into his eyes, driving hornet’s nails into them. Like cutting a hundred onions at once, except bright green.

“Watch out!” He shouted, blind and gasping, sword still held up at guard. Movement swirled around him, in the give and take of battle.

“Branniar?” — “ Got it! ” Tannvor’s voice on his right swooped in, engaging the caster with a flurry of clangs .

“Casters coming up!” He shouted, and seized Branniar’s shoulder. “Branniar down!”

He wasn’t down , he thought dazedly.

The pain was turning into bone-deep itching clawing at his eyeballs, which somehow managed to be worse. Perhaps he was down.

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The last bloody rays of the sun faded beneath the weight of night. Already she felt unseen cloud cover veiling the stars once more, their victorious day of light dimming into memory. The songs of triumph from the city below had grown faint. Someone several blocks away was singing a dirge for the fallen.

A healer bustled into their corridor to light the lanterns, turning to Aharan’s closest roommate by the new light. The soldier had been dead for nearly fifteen minutes. She’d heard his fevered mutterings getting softer, seen his breathing fade from ragged to a shuddering standstill. Trying to call a healer had wrecked what was left of her voice. He likely couldn’t have been helped.

The healer, dressed in a bloody smock that might’ve been blue before, turned the soldier’s blanket up over his head and tucked it in against the draft, gently. She didn’t say a word, only smiling a little when she passed Aharan, the only patient awake. Her leg was mostly all that was wrong with her, bad as it was.

In the renewed darkness the singer’s far-off voice faltered into silence to let the city sleep. Aharan did not join it for some time.

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A young boy of the city, permitted to stay as a messenger, lay dead and empty on the cold stone street, caught in the unluckiest moment possible as an enemy catapult fired. The barren ruin of the market square around him still smoked fitfully. Brenior’s stomach turned when he saw what the impact and fire had made of the boy’s remains, but there was no time to be sick or even to mourn.

He must rush past him, onward and upward into the city. The first and second circles, where he’d spent most of his life so far, are both behind him. He climbs ever higher into the empty streets, listening to the battle below beginning to rage in earnest.

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(note at top of paper, crammed in):

Dear Amathan,

Today I write from Bree-town, the largest settlement in all of Eriador these days (as I am told) and the center of just about everything. I first heard its name six weeks ago, while passing a town among the red hills of Cardolan. It seemed as well a place to aim for as any, I thought. Winters here are fiercer than in Gondor and I dare not venture far from civilization before I know their measure. I want to see the ice-bears of the North, not join them!

I am sorry for the time this has taken me to post; I have written to you daily at every opportunity, and enclosed are my accounts of a few small adventures I have valiantly conquered in those days. I send you them now for I have (at last!) found the means.

(top line of the rest of the paper):

Amathan, I have not been robbed, despite my guest’s best efforts. Let me explain.

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The twisting passages of Minas Elendur, once so brightly-lit and fascinating in their intricacy, had turned into a death trap. No one had thought the orcs would find them at all, let alone so quickly. The towers were hidden in the mountains’ own spires, and the basement levels in the cliff-faces themselves. But found they had been, and all the exits were enemy-occupied.

“Next right.” The Elf at the back of the pack hissed, and the whole party turned as one. Quiet as mice. Quiet as only the Eldar can be. The guiding Elf knew the halls best from living in them for decades and called the turns as they fled. Saedhruin, who had only just returned from years afield, was blind and hopelessly lost. He wasn’t used to depending so heavily on others in tense situations, and was fighting knotted discomfort in his chest along with the pulsing fear and rising adrenaline.

“Down those stairs, and quickly.”

Moronic, to go down into the earth when enemies pursued, knowing that an end would come in a trap of your own making. But there were no other paths, and they’d have to hope to hiding instead of flight. They all filed down, and though Saedhruin bit his tongue hard enough to bleed, he said naught of it.

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Andanéya’s hair had glowed forge-hot in the light of Laurelin and looked almost brown under the cold light of mist. It is a precious memory to regain, cascading into a few others, but Asyarnér wishes he had found it in some other context than a nightmare of the Grinding Ice. His sister died there. He knew that before but now he remembers it.

Edlothon the gardener of Ost-in-Edhil was wonderfully helpful with that; he recommended teas to ward off dreams and calm the mind, and even an herb that seemed to aid memory. Most Elves have no need of this latter, gifted with memory as clear as starlight, but after Thangorodrim’s fall there was need for Morgoth’s thralls, released into the Sun with muddied minds for all that was not darkness. Most of them sailed to find healing in Estë’s garden. Edlothon did not ask why Asyarnér had not, and for that he is grateful.

The stars shine clear tonight; he dreams of forge-red hair and not of drowning.

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Talagan’s soft humming ambled through the trees in Ryndel’s general direction, the only signal of his motion. He did not sound hurried, or even concerned in the least that his student was missing.

Through a crack in the bark, Ryndel could see the swing of his silver braid flitting between the brown oak-leaves still thick on the branches above the golden birch leaves carpeting the ground. His silent steady breathing did not allow for a giggle, but the briefest of hitches escaped him. 

The last four games had all concluded with Talagan catching sight of Ryndel in the tree-tops, his dark hair shining through the foliage no matter how still he held. He had learned and now he stayed low, in the sheltered patches where rich dark loam and shadows blended better. Talagan had probably gotten a clue when his student forwent green for brown and grey, of course, but there was little Ryndel could do about that.

The hollow interior of a great-oak hid him, having beckoned him in with its deceiving health and hidden entrance. I’m going to win this time .

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Saedhruin hadn’t truly meant to stay so long afield, even after sending his message and receiving the leave he had asked for in return. The wilds south of Eriador were rich in woodlands and grassy plains alike, and peeking creatures unafraid of two-legged sightseers. He could have kept on going ever southward for ages and still not tire of it.

He was not gone ages at all, in the end: only about ten months. Saedhruin had begun to consider that even at his snail’s pace there would still be a return journey, and if he did not at least send a nod Celebrimbor’s way in the next few weeks he’d get declared dead and probably sulked at upon his return.

Autumn’s nipping breeze followed him in through the city gates. The bustle of Ost-in-Edhil enveloped him in its busy ringing and laughing. Accepting a surprised acknowledgement from the bored guard, dirt still flaking off his cloak, Saedhruin swept off toward the city center.

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Ost-in-Edhil had stood for nearly a thousand years under Eregion’s banners, only growing in brilliance over time. Ryndel hadn’t even seen a century of it, of course, but in his mind it stretched on forever into the past, as if it had stood for Ages before its fall. He hadn’t seen its ruin and burning; he had been tucked away in Ered Luin and only heard the laments.

Edhelion had stood over two thousand, four hundred years after the sack of Eregion. It had been founded by the refugees of Celebrimbor’s people and Gil-galad’s host; those too in love with Lindon to leave for Imladris, those too loyal to sail away. What had been a Sindarin hunter’s house in the mountains became an urban Refuge ringed by vineyards and woodsmen supplying lumber for the Ship-yards. The latter had been a booming industry in the years after the Great Alliance. In the years after Edhelion’s own fall they had to find new lumber-camps.

Ryndel sat and watched the vine-flowers bloom on the first home he’d helped to build in Edhelion. Thilas’s house, and he would always think of it that way even though she had probably built a new one in Aman across the Sea. All gone. Did Eregion look this way now? The gardens he had played in while his mother tended, grown over and wild.

Naithriel called him away back to the path. This refuge was the vines’ fair conquest after all; he left them to it.

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This group was mixed, mostly Corsairs with a few Easterlings tagging along. There hadn’t seemed to be any purpose to it: normal raiding crew, normal camp set-up, and five blue-robed men ringing a fire on the outskirts. The Corsairs had given them a wide berth but otherwise ignored them. So the Hithaeglir crew decided to proceed business as usual, and had attacked.

Areher was regretting that now. Deeply.

Another fireball crashed to earth with a hissing bang, sprung to life in seconds and already strong and devouring.

“I’ve heard of goblins using fire-pots,” Carasdir, voice conversational, aimed his crossbow and fired. A battle-cat shrieked and fell. “Never seen it in action, though. Think we can grab a couple to run tests?”

“Survival now, scientific investigation later!” If his voice came out on the high side of loud, Areher forgave himself. The situation certainly demanded it.

“They’re gearing up for a big one,” Haeben called. “All four in a circle. Chanting some sort of nonsense.” They’d managed to bring one of the magicians down, and crippled another, but the Corsairs had obstructed their aim before they all caught a case of dead. The battle was nearly over now. Just the heavy-hitters left.

“Shoot ‘em,” Was Areher’s recommendation. Unneeded of course. When did any of this crew of idiots wait for orders before shooting when it wasn’t Círanlin in charge?

It’d been a long day of two and a half skirmishes, and he was tired. Everything was getting real fuzzy too.

“And— they’re done? Did anything happen?” Haeben, their young lookout, spoke again, voice swimming through the murky Anduin. “Carasdir, you’re just a meter off the mark; try again.”

Carasdir muttered something about aiming and pipsqueaks but Areher didn’t catch it all. He swayed on his feet, sword slipping from his grip. It hit the earth without a sound. They’d basically won, right? It was probably fine if he.... took a small... a small nap....

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A hobbit-lad rounded the corner ahead at speed, nearly crashing into the hedge wall at the turn and actually crashing into the oncoming Elf. Knocked backward, he turned a grinning face up at the Elf, who had not even budged. Saedhruin smiled.

“Sorry, sir!” He scrambled up, bobbed a halfway decent bow, and charged off again, just as quick, around the next corner.

Idiot .

Saedhruin sighed; just as well the lad had hit him. Had Lehtion been the victim, the boy might have not survived with youthful mischief intact.

“Child,” he corrected. Old enough to know better, he conceded that. Still. Just a child, playing tag with his friends in the close confines of a hedge maze; an unwise pursuit, but hardly an evil one.

“That’s their minder shouting at the entrance, I suspect. Our young friend and his friends will end their game if they’re caught, and I doubt anyone will be grievously injured.”

Lehtion at his side looked unconvinced, dropping the argument without concession. His scowl had faded over the day into a iron mask, but Saedhruin hoped for a smile today and knew just the thing to try.

“The hobbits of the west have a delightful tradition for spring, you know. Something to do with fences; I saw them setting it up just north of here. Shall we investigate, if we must vacate the maze to avoid disaster?”

I am at your disposal .

If Saedhruin commented on Lehtion’s acquisition of sarcasm (perhaps from the Men of his travels?) Saedhruin would almost certainly get a scowl and perhaps even a disappearance. Regretfully, he put the observation at the back of his mind on a shelf and set off for the exit.

What he hoped was the exit, anyway.

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“Help me with this stone,” Amathan called, and Aderthor turned aside from the view. He stared.

“That is a terrible idea.”

“Well, we’re searching the area, aren’t we? Look here: no dust or slime, and fresh earth where it was dragged aside. What necromancer reseals the tomb after he’s opened it?”

Unwillingly, Aderthor approached. The grave his brother had singled out was the most prominent in this section, heading the side-tombs as if the point of a spear. Forgotten runes ringed the outset of the stone’s setting, and the stone gleamed dully where some recent worker had scraped green slime off.

Amathan looked at him expectantly, exactly as he had at seven and demanding a lift to the crown of the roof in Calembel, or sixteen scaling a great-oak. Aderthor sighed.

“Should a necromancer happen upon our dead bodies, I’m saying I told you so.”

The stone blocking the grave’s entrance moved with little resistance once they both put their shoulders to it. It slid out on the path of turned earth Amathan had found, with no seal cracking or age-old dirt falling. Together they peered into the dusty dark.

“See anything?”

“No, not yet.”

“...We’re not going in, Amathan.”

“Of course we are, though not without light. Can you feel that?”

He did: a thin draft breaking on his face, like the slightest of breezes. This was no grave; it was a tunnel, and it led somewhere.

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From the harsh barking of the Gauredain and their wolves to the crackle of communal fires, Avhiran could almost believe himself back in the Even-rills over the lake, on a foray into Wolf territory. Except for one thing. The Even-rills were chilly in winter, but that was nothing to the face-freezing, cloak-stealing, soul-despairing cold of the Misty Mountains.

What was he even doing here? 

Good question.

A flash of a softer white than snow caught his peripheral vision, and he swung slowly to see it. Downwind of the camps, there was little chance of the Gauredain spotting him, but he had no wish to become wolf-bait any time soon so he moved as little as possible. Sure enough, a large lynx was crouching behind an outcrop. He wrinkled his nose at the incongruous Ranger. Get out of my way, too-tall .

“Bingo’s not here,” Avhiran snapped back. Only Gauredain chanced seeing this incredulity and he’d be gratifyingly dead should they do so. “We’ve got a lead, Spalvi and I— oh come on, he’s on our side now.”

Wilhelm Whisker’s threatening paw-flex disagreed. Avhiran wasn’t totally certain of their adopted Dourhand either, but Spalvi knew this land and was their best shot at finding Bingo. The Ranger had trekked up here in the first place to keep this hobbit from death, and was hardly giving up now .

At last the lynx rose, flashing to Avhiran’s side and then past, toward their camp.

“ Thank you,” Avhiran left much slower, hiding his larger form from the Gauredain and the cold alike. He’d braved Evendim for the sake of his cousin, the Misty Mountains for a hobbit— and now a Gauredain camp for a lynx . Hopefully he’d get out of this one, too.

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A day and a half into their assignment the weak light of dawn found Amathan hurrying down the stairs of Magh Ashtu, skipping the crumbled steps and a few more beside. He waved off the sentry’s questions in his haste to cross the road, but once there he stopped dead and spun around.

Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven ...

Right on time, a silver-headed soldier appeared on the fortress overlook. He surveyed the land about with a keen eye. One hand he laid upon his sword-hilt and the weak light caught on his new captain’s star on his chest. The noble visage cracked when he caught sight of Amathan.

“This is me warning you,” Amathan said to the captain’s spread arms demanding answer, though the captain couldn’t hope to hear him. “No, of course I wasn’t going to do it up close. You could talk me out of it.”

The captain jabbed a sharp point over his shoulder into the outpost.

“Telling on me is only going to bring them out to join me, Adar!”

The captain’s shoulders finally dropped in a sigh, then drew a threatening line over his throat. Amathan laughed. “Of course I’ll be careful. Don’t you know me?”

With a jaunty salute to his commanding officer, Amathan shouldered his pack and set off east beside the road. The captain watched him go with folded arms.