There was a smile on his face. His hands were folded together over his chest. The blankets were left unwrinkled, as if someone had tidied up and smoothed out the creases after he had lain down, pillow thoughtfully fluffed beneath his head. A large slice of cheesecake, smothered in strawberries with delicate chocolate flakes, had been set aside on the nightstand, the fork tines still glistening with syrup and saliva. Half of the dessert had been eaten, and half remained. A dollop of cream hung off the edge of the crust, and lingered there as the plate was lifted from the table. It hesitated, then slipped off and hit the surface with a plop.

The occupant on the bed, though staring up with open eyes, neither saw nor heard what happened, for he was already dead.

“Please do not eat any.” Thrangorn stood in the doorway, his eyes on the plate. “He made me poison it for him. He was too upset and refused to tell me why. But Master Duilin never returned.” The butler shifted his gaze onto Salgant’s body. “Master Duilin promised he would return after the initial siege. I can only assume he will not return.”

“No.” The soldier tossed the plate back onto the table. The strawberries slid off the now-tilted cake. “I doubt anyone else will be returning. I only hope that the few who escaped are not being followed.”

“Was the King with them?”

“No.”

Thrangorn’s expression looked grim. He gripped the towel that was in his hands tightly. “What of young Master Faelion?”

“Injured, and badly, but he was with those who escaped. As were Princess Idril, with Lord Tuor and young Lord Earendil.” The warrior opened his mouth, but closed it again. He was yet unable to discuss how exactly the refugees were able to escape. There was blood on his armor, and he had limped into the house due to a horrible injury – a burn – around his ankle. His hands were still thickly covered with dust, and the dirt was beneath his nails from the rocks he had gathered and dug out of the side of the mountain that he had used to bury...

“What of Lord Glorfindel?”

He set his jaw and shifted his eyes downward, unable to answer. Instead, the soldier leaned over and gently closed the lids of Salgant’s eyes. “We may yet be able to escape. The tunnel is narrow, but it held for those who left, and it held when I returned.” He walked away from the bed and passed by Thrangorn, who sighed.

“That was why he did it. Killed himself, that is.” Thrangorn turned away from his master and addressed the warrior, who had stopped a few feet down the hallway. “He knew that there was no way for him to get through the secret passage. I have no idea what he and Duilin planned to do—“

“They were probably going to hold out in the... the passages between this house and Duilin’s.” The soldier snapped his fingers. “Brilliant. We can hide there until the orcs have finished sacking the city.” As he hobbled down the hallway, he called out, “What supplies do we have?”

Thrangorn blinked and after a moment followed after the warrior. “Sir, what if the intention is for Morgoth to set up a base here? What if they never leave?”

“Then perhaps we can tunnel from the underground passages here to the passage that leads out of the city.” The soldier shook his head before Thrangorn could veto the idea. “No, that would take far too long.”

“Should we not try to make our way out of the city before Morgoth himself arrives?” suggested Thrangorn.

“Morgoth will not come soon; he will first be sure all have been destroyed or captured.” The warrior turned his head upon hearing the sound of someone or something knocking over the grand harp in the foyer of the House of the Harp. “Have you any weapons?” he hissed as gruff footfalls could be heard on the steps. Thrangorn reached down and pulled a dagger from his left boot. “Quickly; where is the passage to the other house?”

Thrangorn motioned for the soldier to return to the master bedroom. There was a tall, slender painting on the wall – a tiger, much like the one that was tattooed across Duilin’s back. Thrangorn ran his hand along the inside of the frame, until something clicked, and the canvas swung inside of the frame to reveal a stairway leading downward. The pair hurried inside as the footsteps closed in on them. Thrangorn shoved the canvas back into place as the warrior stumbled down three of the stairs, and caught himself on a railing. As Thrangorn descended down the staircase, he aided the soldier in reaching the bottom of the landing.

They paused once there, hardly daring to breathe as they listened through the walls to beds being overturned and cabinets being opened. It was brief; an initial search conducted to look for survivors and kill them. The actual sacking would occur much later, once the threat of hidden soldiers was taken care of. The orcs, once satisfied, left the way they came, swinging maces and clubs into the harp as they went, swords hacking into the ornate walnut.

“Do you have any idea where this lets out?” asked the soldier once the cacophony of clomping and distorted notes subsided.

The butler nodded. “Directly into Master Duilin’s office. Do you mean for us to go that way?”

“No. I want you to stay here and gather whatever supplies you can find and move them into the passageway. I am going to see if I can find any other survivors in the area.”

“I mean no disrespect,” said Thrangorn with the deepest concern, “but your foot looks rather injured. Are you sure you will be able to be of much use on it?”

“I managed to get back here, did I not?” The soldier softened his tone, realizing how harsh and defensive he had answered. “I will be careful. The pain is dull, and I could not live with myself if I did not do this. My training is greater than yours when it comes to fighting, I would wager.”

“It is, sir,” confirmed Thrangorn. “I am afraid that the knife I hold is more for show than anything else.”

“Then let me be the one to scout the area. I will check the lesser market, and the surrounding areas, then return. I know my own limitations,” promised the warrior, though whether Thrangorn knew it or not, the warrior was certainly not going to stop at the lesser market.

Thrangorn nodded. “Good luck to you, sir.”

“Thrangorn, you may freely call me by my name,” offered the warrior. “There are no lords here now, no captain nor any kings.”

“I beg your pardon, then, sir, but I never did learn your name,” said the butler, quite apologetically.

The warrior smiled and held out his hand. “I am Erestor. I spent some time in your former master’s play company.”

“Ah, yes, I recall the name now, sir. Erestor, that is. I do remember seeing your plays, but I never thought to read the programs. Master Salgant had so many of his actors over, and the cast changed over often. I regretfully know the names of very few of his friends and acquaintances – sir and ma’am worked well enough for me for many years. Well, you certainly know me,” stated Thrangorn matter-of-factly as he grasped Erestor’s hand. “I regret that while I am of no use in a battle, I am more than eager to oblige in the gathering of supplies.”

“Good man. I will return as soon as I am able.” Erestor curled his toes up in his left boot, which seemed to help chase away the pain somewhat, before dashing down the stairs and through the passage.

Erestor’s mission to find survivors was half-hearted. Although he would have been overjoyed to find someone alive in the rubble of the once glorious city, he was unsure of how he would get them back to the secret tunnels. Already he had dodged numerous orc hoards and had even slipped by Sauron on his way across the lesser marketplace. He knew that the oncoming dusk would aid him by allowing him to slide through shadows of a place he was familiar with, but night meant better cover for the orcs.

His secondary goal was to reach the House of the Golden Flower. If orcs had not yet pillaged the estate, there was a chance that Erestor would be able to open the doors of the stables and let the animals out. He had considered bringing Thrangorn along in case there were horses, but horses would get them only so far and cause far too much commotion for them not to be seen. Horses running wild, however, stood a chance of survival. Only some had been saddled for the battle that took place over the last few days, and those had perished in the fighting.

The ground was muddy, but showed no signs of orc tracks. Still, he entered cautiously. As expected, Erestor found several stalls of wide-eyed, agitated creatures. There were horses, as well as sheep, and a few goats. The cats had already run off, and the hounds had likely stayed by their masters, either dying by their sides or fleeing from the city. Erestor set to opening the pens quickly and driving the animals out. Freely they trotted and leaped away, and whether they survived in the surrounding woods or not Erestor would never know.

Once he had completed this task, Erestor made his way as swiftly as he could to the grand house. The estate and grounds had been shared by Glorfindel and Tuor after the building was completed. Erestor paused wistfully at the entrance before pulling the ajar doors fully open and letting himself in. White marble columns with hints of gold and ivory rose up from polished floors. The banners of the Golden Flower and the White Wing hung down from the vaulted ceiling, fringe just shy of brushing the floor. A box of arrows had been spilt down the steps of the otherwise pristine foyer, many of their white feathers crushed under the trampling of servants and lords alike as they raced out of the house. It was amazing to see that the structure had not been touched – no burns, no cracks in the bricks, not even blood on the walkway leading up to the door. Still, the silence was eerie.

Knowing exactly where he wanted to go, Erestor walked swiftly around the center stairwell and pushed open the doors that led to Glorfindel’s suite. Everything in the upper levels was utilized by the House of the Wing, while Glorfindel, despite having spent the money and used his land to build the estate, lived in meager accommodations on the first floor. In fact, the rooms he used were the ones that had originally been planned as servant quarters.

Erestor paused when he reached the doorway of the bedroom. The bed seemed so small, and in fact, it was built shorter than an average bed for an elf was. From counting the number of blocks on the quilt, the mattress spanned less than two meters. It was, however, wider than it was long.

Erestor knelt down beside the bed, and leaned down so that he could see beneath it. A box was positioned on the floor almost at the center. Stretching his arm out, his fingers touched the corner of the box. He strained, his shoulder rubbing against the bed frame as he managed to get his thumbnail under the lid and yanked it a little closer. His fingers rubbed against the top of the box, unable to grasp it.

Now down on his stomach, Erestor strained get to the box. “How did you...” he muttered as he tried again. The box slid further away when he grabbed for it. Erestor stood up, and looked down at the bed. The riddle read, he smiled sadly and then lifted the mattress up. The box was exposed through the slats of the frame, and Erestor picked up while holding up the mattress with his shoulder.

He knocked the top of the box off haphazardly, revealing the contents. Rifling through them, he thought he knew what he was looking for – a green stone, hanging from a chain, a family heirloom that was not there. Disappointment was temporary, for something else caught his eye. A jewel, looking as if it contained fire within, rolled out from under a stack of letters and papers that were aged with time. Erestor picked it up, recognizing it immediately from another place and time. “How did you get here?” he wondered, his voice thick with emotion. He stepped back with the box and let the mattress fall back into place so that he could sit down on it.

There were numerous other small items in the box, among them a raggedy doll. It smelled of pine and earth, and was coming apart at the seams. Erestor picked her up from the miscellany and held her in his hand. “I wonder where you came from.” He set the doll aside and began to examine the rest of the contents more closely. Some of the items were as confounding as the doll; others were items that Erestor knew well. In the bottom of the box was a peculiar note, scribbled on a scrap of paper. It was a very odd thing, a crudely sketched out family tree, which Erestor recognized as being in his own hand. When he turned it over, he saw that it was written on the back of a piece of colorful paper used to wrap gifts for Tarnin Austa, when such an event still occurred on that holiday. He brushed the tears from his eyes as he recalled the moment...


“Good evening, Lord Erestor.”

“Good evening!” Erestor had just sat down at one of the long tables. They were crude, and had benches alongside them instead of chairs, but they were cozy and welcome after an evening of dancing. The city was not yet built completely, with only two finished gates surrounding the realm. Nonetheless, it was not a night to worry about the lack of plumbing or the lack of housing or the lack of security, but instead a time for relaxation. A server came to the table, and Erestor lifted an empty wooden goblet to be filled. The blond who had sat down opposite him shook his head and lifted up his open palm when the server offered wine to him as well. As they were left alone, Erestor lifted his goblet up. “Cheers!”

“Cheers.” The blond waited for Erestor to set his drink back down before he said, “You do not remember me, do you.”

Erestor tried to tame his smirk, but failed miserably. “I fear you are correct, friend. I am certain I have seen you about, and—“

“Lord Ecthelion introduced us when you arrived.”

“And... you work in his house,” guessed Erestor.

The blond shook his head.

“You... you happen to be related?”

There was a wide grin, and the blond twirled a lock of his hair.

“Alright, that must not be it. I must apologize; I have a terrible memory for names.”

“Glorfindel.”

“Oh! Yes... oh, and you were trying to give me a hint as to your name.”

Glorfindel smiled brightly. “Now that you know, it will be hard for you to forget. So few have so accurate a namesake as I.” For emphasis, he fluffed out the waves of gold that flowed over his shoulder.

“How true. And might I be so bold as to ask, for it is on my mind now as it was when we first met, are you of Vanyarin heritage?”

“It was what my mother claimed.” The smile faded, and he fell momentarily silent as a minstrel with all the flair and folly of a jester skipped up to their table and held out a brightly wrapped cracker to the pair.

“With compliments from the King,” he announced, placing the bright red object onto the table. The paper was shiny, made glossy from a special paint that coated each one. The minstrel still held a plethora of them in his basket – indigo, bronze, lime, and red.

Glorfindel frowned as he picked up the cracker by one end. “What, no gold?”

“No gold; you have enough of that, my friend.” The minstrel tugged on an errant curl that hung off the side of Glorfindel’s forehead. “Red is divine.”

“Red is not my favorite.” Glorfindel held the cracker up so that the other frilled end was pointed towards Erestor. “Let us hope luck favors you.”

Erestor took hold of the other end and gave it a pull as Glorfindel did the same on his side. A fluff of paper remained stuck between Erestor’s fingers, while Glorfindel tried to collect up the little treasures that spilled into his lap. “I should have warned you that I never win these things.”

“Here.” Glorfindel set a handful of candy in front of Erestor, keeping only a few pieces for himself.

“Those are yours.” Erestor pushed the pile back across the table.

“I gave them to you.” There was a paper crown amid the confetti, which Glorfindel shook out and unfolded. “Besides, now I do not feel so overly bold in asking a favor of you.” He situated the red tissue crown on his head, and it slipped down over one ear.

“A favor from me? I doubt a scribe such as myself could offer much to a lord such as you.”

Glorfindel tilted his head to the side as he unwrapped one of the pieces of taffy. “I heard that you are familiar with the genealogy of the line of Finwe.”

“Somewhat.” Erestor had rolled the piece of paper he had been left with into a little ball. He had been worrying it between his fingers, and now smushed it flat and tossed it aside. “What do you want to know?”

“I was hoping that you might be able to sketch out a basic family tree or something.”

“I would assume that there are some books that are quite detailed and would have the information you seek in the library,” suggested Erestor.

“Unfortunately, I have not been able to find exactly what I have been looking for.” Glorfindel drew out a bottle of ink and a quill that had been carefully tucked away in the breast pocket of his vest before the night had begun. “If you have a few minutes to spare.”

“I do believe it is a crime to deny the request of a lord, especially one so simple as this.” Erestor pried the lid from the ink and dipped the quill. “You did not need to bring a new one on my account,” he said in reference to the writing instrument. He slid it expertly against the side of the jar. “Where to begin... Finwe himself, I suppose... have you brought any paper with you?”

“Paper... no, uhm... just a moment...” Glorfindel started to stand, but Erestor motioned him down with the feathered end of the quill.

Erestor pulled the remnants of the cracker across the table and unwrapped the colorful paper from the outside of the paper tube. “This will do nicely.” He smoothed it out and began to sketch out a rather crude yet accurate family tree. After a few minutes and adding a few swirling illuminations to various parts, he slid it across the table. “There you are.”

Glorfindel slid it back. “Would you mind reading it to me?”

The ink was being wiped from the quill as Erestor asked, “Had a bit much to drink tonight, m’lord?”

“No,” answered Glorfindel, slightly defensive. “I just need to be sure I am pronouncing the names correctly.”

“Alright.” Erestor got up and moved around the table so that he was on the same side that Glorfindel was on. They were so close that Erestor could hear Glorfindel’s breath against his ear and his right thigh was pressed against Glorfindel’s left. “At the top here, obviously, we have Finwe and his wives. Miriel is on this side, and Indis on the other. That makes everyone on this side a half-sibling of Feanor, while all of these names are half-cousins of everyone over here. And so, we have in order, Findis, Fingolfin, Faniel, Irime, Finarfin, and Finrun.”

“Wait...” Glorfindel stared at the sheet. “I thought... I thought Feanor had the most children.”

“Feanor had the most sons; he and his father had the same number of children,” explained Erestor.

“Some of those names I have never heard before.”

The quill and ink were again brought forth. Three of the names were underlined: Feanor, Fingolfin, and Finarfin. “These are the three everyone talks about. Do you know Lord Voronwe?”

“Of course,” said Glorfindel. “I actually I quite well with names,” he lightly joked.

Erestor smirked. “Excellent. Well, he is descended from Lady Irime. There is not much to be said of Findis or Faniel, and Finrun... I am not even sure if he knows what has gone on with his brothers,” mused Erestor. He shook his head. “Well, no, he must know.”

“Why would he not?” questioned Glorfindel.

“Finrun gave up the wealth and prosperity of his family when he was nearly upon his majority, and took the vows of a highly respected religious group. He lives a chaste, silent life, in poverty, in the heart of Valimar.” Erestor set the quill aside for a moment. “He only allowed a single visit once a year from his family – and a year in Valinor is twelve times the span of a year here.”

“How interesting. How do you know such intimate details?” wondered Glorfindel.

Erestor smiled. “I was a close family friend.”

“To which branch of the tree?”

The feathered tip of the quill touched Feanor’s name, and Erestor said, “His sons would call me uncle. Well, most of them did. Celegorm was always a little standoffish. If we move to the next generation, the sons of Feanor – you must know their names,” said Erestor nonchalantly.

“Well, I know some of them, but I never did pay much attention to which ones were which,” admitted Glorfindel.

“Spoken like a true Vanya,” commented Erestor. “Very well. We have Maedhros, then Maglor, followed by Celegorm, then Caranthir, and next Curufin. Then there are Amrod and Amras, though their mother called them both by the name Ambarussa.”

“A lovely name.” Glorfindel pointed to the other side. “And these?”

Erestor proceeded to name off all of the children of the children of Indis, sometimes stopping to tell another little tale or explain a name. Glorfindel listened attentively to Erestor’s every word.


“Because at the time you could not read them yourself at the time,” mumbled Erestor to himself. He folded up the paper and tucked it inside of the rag doll through one of the seams that was ripped open. The doll was shoved into his pocket, and he covered the box and slid it back under the bed before drying his eyes with the bed sheet. As he inhaled, the scent of Glorfindel was vibrant, and he had to stand up quickly and leave the room to keep from getting too emotional.

A smattering of arrows were gathered from the foyer as Erestor left the house. He had already taken a bow from a corpse down the road on his way in, and now searched as he left for other usable weapons. He tried not to look at the faces of the fallen as he passed through the market on his way back toward Duilin’s house, but now and then something would catch his eye and he would look and regret it. The girl who helped her mother sell eggs in the lesser market. Her blue kerchief, the one she always wore, was torn where the sword had cut through. The cobbler whose best work was done with leather. There was a gash from an axe across his leg, but that was not the blow that killed him. The fishmonger who also ran the little pub that he frequented more than he should have. Erestor swallowed back the bile that rose when he saw there were no eyes left in the peddler’s sockets. An arm – that was the worst image – an arm, in the middle of the roadway. It was torn right from someone’s body, the sleeve still wrapped around it. On one finger, a silver ring of betrothal. It was hard to tell if it belonged to someone young or old, to male or female, or to Noldo or Sinda, but the futility of the fighting those few days before finally got to him, and Erestor had to detour to the side of the road where a tent still stood, three of the four legs holding the flapping curtain off the ground. There he emptied the contents of his stomach onto the ground, though he could not recall eating since the evening before the celebration was to begin. The images of what he had seen swarmed in his mind, and he heaved again when the vision of the blond warrior whose body he had buried less than a day earlier came to mind, but his throat was dry and burned. He spat on the ground, and stood there for a few minutes to clear his head.

Once he regained his bearings, Erestor continued on. He jogged when he could, and hid when he had to. It took much longer than he would have liked, but he finally cleared the distance from the outskirts of Gondolin to the esteemed House of the Swallow.

This house, unlike Salgant’s, had been emptied of everyone. A fair number of the house had been seen fleeing with the refugees. It was unlikely that a large percentage had made it out, for the house was set near the center, and those from Glorfindel’s and Tuor’s houses stood a better chance being closer to the secret tunnel. Erestor found the hidden latch, and slid into the passageway, sealing his route behind him.

“Thrangorn?” Erestor walked down the passage, staying against the wall. It was silent, and the hallways that made up the hidden halls were dark. He set a sack of supplies that he had gathered near to the entrance and then continued to walk through, every few moments calling out for the butler.

Halfway through, he felt the distinct feeling that he was being watched. He took a few steps more, and then stopped and looked over his shoulder. The shadows were playing tricks on him, or else he was being followed. Erestor drew his sword but left it down at his side as he edged further along the passageway. Perhaps he was only being trailed from behind, and perhaps Thrangorn had heard and left back through the painting and was waiting safely within his ex-master’s house.

Or, maybe the orcs that were around the corner had captured him already.

Erestor raised his blade and swung it hard against the scimitar that flew at him. He managed to disarm the first orc, but another took the place of the first. Dual knives came toward his face, and he blocked them. By then the orcs that had been following were behind him, so he turned and took a blind swing at them. One he caught off-guard, and blood sprayed from a gash in his side. Erestor thrust the blade forward in hopes of taking out the injured orc, but the orc stumbled back, and the two who were now behind him easily attacked with fists.

The elven blade clattered to the ground, and Erestor fell down onto one knee. From his new position, he lunged at the injured orc, and knocked him off his feet. Behind him, another three orcs came around the corner. Moments later, he was restrained by them, their foul breath so close it was nauseating. “One against twenty? You might be brave, but then, you might be stupid.” The leader of the orc party looked Erestor over. For his part, Erestor struggled against his captors, not about to go down without a fight.

“You might as well save your strength.” The orcs around him chuckled. “Silly elf thinks he will free himself and kill us all.”

“I might!” spat out Erestor, and again, he was met with laughter. He landed a good kick to the shin of one of the orcs and smiled to himself. The smirk was quickly slapped off of his face.

“Feisty little elf. Might do well to learn some manners from the nice little elf we caught earlier.”

Erestor growled. It was obvious that Thrangorn had been captured before he arrived. He cursed his decision to go back to Glorfindel’s house. “I suppose you have already killed him just as you plan to kill me.”

“Kill you? Oh, no. Master Verdev likes to have souvenirs of the places he has been.” The orc smiled. “He likes variety. A troublemaker and a passive servant are just about his favorite types.”

Erestor sneered at them as he was forced to walk down the hall. More or less, he was dragged through the passageway, and back up the steps and into Salgant’s room. Once there, he found that there were orcs swarming all about. Thrangorn was sitting quietly on a chair with his hands folded in his lap as Erestor was thrown into the room and shoved to the floor. “Good to see you again,” he said as he lifted his head up.

Thrangorn gave a short nod. “Likewise, sir.”

“Stay down, prisoner!” barked a particularly nasty looking orc. He used his club to knock Erestor across the back, just in case he might have had any idea to stand up.

Erestor kept down on the ground, huddled off to the side as more orcs began to filter into the room. The sacking had already begun, for some of them were removing items of great worth from the dressers and cabinets.

“So, what happened?” asked Erestor, speaking in Quenya. He hoped that Thrangorn knew enough to respond. It was much more likely that the orcs knew Sindarin.

The chief servant of a Gondolin Lord would always be well-trained, and he twiddled his thumbs nervously as the orcs overturned tables and shoved his master’s corpse aside to check beneath the mattress for hidden treasures. “I was waiting for you, and I heard something in the master’s chambers. I came up to the top of the stairs – very quietly – and then... I am sorry, sir, but I sneezed.”

“You sneezed?”

“I am terribly sorry, sir! It came upon me unexpectedly! They heard and they rammed into the master’s artwork. By then, I was on my way through the passageway, but when I reached the other end I came out right into the room where there was a group of them lurking. I feel dreadful about it, sir!” Thrangorn hung his head shamefully. “I should have been more careful. If only I had stayed further down in the passageway. I am so sorry, sir.”

“Thrangorn, stop persecuting yourself over it. It might as well have been I who managed to get us caught. This place is crawling with orcs and dragons right now. I barely made it back myself.” He neglected to mention his own lack of discretion in going to look through Glorfindel’s room. “We might yet find a way to escape from this situation.”

A few of the orcs, who had until now ignored the pair of elves they had captured, began to laugh and chatter to one another using the black tongue of their master. One of them approached the pair and hauled Erestor off the floor, shoving him onto the bed to sit beside Salgant’s corpse. “You think you are going to escape? What will you do, fly out the window and over the seven gates you idiots built? They kept no one out, but they did a good job at keeping all of you in!”

As the orc moved away to examine something shiny that another one had found, Erestor gave Thrangorn a defeated look. “Alright, so some of them speak Quenya. I do not suppose you know any of the tribal Avarin languages or Lindalambë, do you?”

While Thrangorn shook his head, some of the orcs answered with ‘I speak Lindalambë’, or ‘Just talk in Sindarin so that we can all understand you’. Erestor, not about to allow the orcs their fun, began to speak to Thrangorn in utter nonsensical babble. A quick burst of farspeaking – ‘Just play along’ – was followed by a flood of complete jibberish.

“Hithnalatha thrassal lararthna nalithin; erlathonil ilinith el pherinetha glorinath.”

The orcs, one after another, turned to regard the elves rather oddly. It only stopped when the one who had hoisted Erestor off of the floor came up to him and slapped him back onto the floor with a swing of his arm. “On second thought, stay there and shut up unless you want me to cut your tongue out.”

Erestor crawled to the window and rested with his back against the wall while the ransacking continued. He darted his tongue out the side of his mouth and tasted blood. As he wiped it away, he looked around and shook his head. Hundreds of years of meticulous work were being destroyed in seconds, and Salgant was doing nothing but smiling about it.

After the House of the Harp was picked clean, Erestor and Thrangorn were marched out of the house, their hands bound behind them to prevent any sudden retaliation. They were led through the gardens and across the courtyard. In the few days since the takeover of Gondolin by the enemy, much had been done. Fires were burning in large pits where the naked bodies of the dead had been thrown once stripped of everything of value, including wedding rings that were cut from hands if they could not be taken off. Even the precious and priceless hair of the elves who had fallen had been harvested and lay in bundles in carts that they passed.

It was a long, silent walk all the way to the barracks that once housed the soldiers of the House of the Fountain. It was a building that long ago served both Ecthelion’s house and the soldiers of the Golden Flower, but population explosions led to an addition being built and eventually to Ecthelion needing to overtake the entire facility.

The building had been reworked into a base of operation for the orcs. As Erestor walked in, he found that many of the orc commanders were gathered around a map of the city, plotting out their course of action. Stairs led down to a barracks area, which is where he and Thrangorn were pushed.

They stumbled down the steps in the darkness, and found that the furniture had been cleared out. The many cots, tables, and desks which formerly were available to the soldiers had been taken up to the first level to be used for firewood. The remaining area was barren, with the exception of a pile of bedding that had been discarded from the beds, and four thin elves, huddled together in the corner where the blankets were piled. A wall of bars had been constructed between the stairway and the main area, effectively creating a large jail cell. “Get in,” demanded the orc that had brought them there. He shoved Erestor forward after opening the door to the cell; Thrangorn needed no prodding.

A clatter of metal marked the door being closed behind them, followed by the sound of two locks snapping into place. The orc went back up the stairs, and shut the door at the top. Only a little light was visible through the windows near the ceiling of the room.

“Good evening,” said Thrangorn after several minutes of silence. He and Erestor stayed near the door, while the others whispered to one another and looked cautiously at the newcomers. “None of you are from Gondolin, are you?” he asked.

The sole female of the group shook her head. “Hithlum. Myself, and Anglin.”

“Anglin? Anglin, son of Angrod?” Erestor stepped forward and smiled, but it faltered. The warrior he had fought with at Fingon’s Folly was no more than skin and bones, sallow-faced and nearly hopeless looking. The only thing radiant about him was the shining hair of gold, and reality hit him suddenly. “Anglin... your brother...”

“I know.”

“How?” It seemed rude upon second thought, but Erestor’s curiosity could not be assuaged.

“A palantir. Verdev has one, and he made us watch the battle with him. You probably did not notice, but there was a dragon circling the city with another about its neck. It aided Sauron in determining how to attack the city,” explained Anglin.

“I am sorry.” Erestor tried to think of more to say, but only added, “He saved many people with his bravery.”

Anglin bowed his head and looked at the floor thoughtfully. “He always had a way of sacrificing himself for others. I just hoped it would never come to this.”

Eager to speak to Glorfindel’s brother, but not wishing to alienate the rest of the group, Erestor stepped forward and introduced himself. “My name is Erestor; this is my friend, Thrangorn, of the House of the Harp. We seem to have been captured momentarily.”

Anglin did laugh half-heartedly at Erestor’s attempted joke, but the others still sat warily in their nest of blankets. “Erestor is a friend of mine as well. We fought together during the Nirnieath.” Anglin motioned for the Gondolithrim to approach the others. “Let us help to release you from those bonds. They only do that to keep you from running away while they get you here.”

“And where is here, exactly?” asked Erestor. “I mean, I know where in the city we are, but what is the purpose of all of this?”

“This is the prison to keep Verdev’s collection safe until he arrives,” explained Anglin.

One of the other elves stood up and moved around behind Erestor in order to untie the rope. “Verdev likes pretty things. He likes trophies. He keeps a few of us from each city he pillages.”

“Verdev is an orc?” asked Thrangorn, whose hands were being untied by Anglin.

“Not just any orc, but a very powerful orc. Verdev is one of the chief captains of Morgoth.” Anglin tossed aside the rope and motioned to the blankets, that Thrangorn should join them. “He is The Collector. He keeps all of the treasures that are not given to the dragons. Morgoth allows him to keep... pets.” Anglin said this last word as if it was a curse, and Thrangorn unexpectedly shivered when it was said.

“Oh, really?” Erestor picked up the rope after it fell from his hands and coiled it up. He retrieved the rope that had been around Thrangorn’s wrists as well. These he tucked under a corner of the bedding before sitting down on the edge of it. He noticed that none of the elves that had been there to begin with wore shoes, but all had clothing of high quality, if not a little travel-worn. “Are there others, or are the four of you all he has amassed?”

“He... had others. He gets rid of the ones he grows tired of.”

Erestor looked to the elf who had said this, who looked to be the youngest. “I do not believe I caught your name.”

“My name is Ardinir.” He nodded toward the last of the group and said, “He is my uncle, Saeldan.”

Saeldan only nodded his head. He was sitting the furthest back and closest to the wall. “It is late,” he remarked. “Surely, you are both tired,” he said to Erestor and Thrangorn. Thrangorn nodded, though Erestor only sat and listened. “Perhaps we might continue the conversation at a later time, and rest now.”

The female, who had yet to name herself, agreeably burrowed under some of the blankets. The rest soon followed, though Erestor did wait until the others had drifted into reverie before getting up again. He examined the walls of the room, the windows, the bars, the doorway, and even the floor and ceiling, before finally returning to the little nest, where he cocooned himself within one of the sheets until morning.

---

“What do you do?” The first night in the cell with the others had been spent in quiet contemplation, and the next day watching the orcs through the small windows, but tonight Erestor was curious to know just who else he was sharing a dungeon with. The three male elves were all fairly young, and the sole female was around their age as well. Knowing their strengths, he decided, might help in finding a way to escape, and so he took to asking them whatever questions he could think of.

“I was a candle maker,” explained Ardinir. “I came from Doriath.”

“I used to live in Doriath; I do not remember you,” said Erestor.

Ardinir smirked. “I know. You were thrown out before I was born. My mother told me about you. The official stance on it was that you were exiled and died, but that was more of a political fairytale. My mother seemed certain that you were the sort that managed to stay around.”

“I suppose I am.” Erestor nodded toward the next elf. “What about you?”

“Doriath, but I do remember you. I was apprenticing to be an upholsterer when you left.” Saeldan flicked an approaching beetle away from them. It hit the side of the wall and rolled up into a ball. “It was right around the time that Galadriel arrived.”

“I still think she was in on it,” Ardinir interrupted.

“Not this again,” sighed Saeldan.

Erestor raised a brow in interest. “What do you think she was ‘in’ on?” he asked.

“She just had that sense about her. Always knew a little much compared to what everyone else did – and then, those bloody Noldor showed up. Damned spawn of Feanor. Their appearance brought our ruin.”

“And you think she had something to do with the destruction of Doriath?”

“Just that she likely led Maedhros and his brothers to us. Probably helped them navigate their way past the girdle. I would not put it past her. Did you know her?” asked Ardinir.

“Yes,” answered Erestor, with a sour note to his voice.

“Well?” prodded Saeldan. “How did you know her?”

If he expected to have all of his questions answered, Erestor decided he would need to answer of a few as well. “We were betrothed, at one time. A long time ago,” admitted the farmer-turned-actor.

Ardinir frowned. “I suppose you figured out how she is. Or, she just became creepy – reading thoughts and stuff.”

“She never did that to me,” said Erestor. “Actually, she was the one who broke it off.”

“Really?” Ardinir looked Erestor over, as if trying to figure out by sight what the reason might have been. “What did you do?”

“It was what I would not do. She was only interested in a consort. Not a husband, just a lover. I was not about to live my life as someone’s pet.”

Saeldan smirked. “Ironic that you ended up here, then.”

“This is temporary,” said Erestor firmly. “I plan to escape at the first chance I get.”

“Good luck with that,” said Ardinir. “Perhaps you should talk to Anglin about your idea first.”

“Yes. He can tell you what works and what does not.” Saeldan looked around to where Anglin was resting. The blond was on his back, his knees bent, staring up at the ceiling with his arms behind his head. “He has tried no less than eight times to escape.”

“At least I have tried,” he said, his smooth sarcasm making Erestor smile.

Saeldan shook his head. “Tried, and failed. I would not care so much if it were not for the fact that it makes Verdev that much angrier at the rest of us for not stopping you.”

“I had to try. I am not the sort of elf who likes to be caged.”

“Neither am I,” admitted Erestor as he looked around at the four solid walls that surrounded them.

“Are any of us really?” It had been rare for Thrangorn to speak since their capture, but when he did the rest would listen to the quiet butler. “But, some of us can handle the situation a little better than others.”

“I would handle the situation quite well if I knew that it was a certainly that I would be getting out of it!” Anglin turned his head, blond curls flipping over to obscure his vision. “And, not knowing, I must do my best to get out of it myself.”

“My word,” replied Thrangorn, but he seemed less interested in Anglin’s words and more so in his appearance.

“Pardon?” Anglin puffed at his hair, which bounced off to the side, and then back again. He brushed it out of the way.

“At times, I look upon you, and I think I am seeing Lord Glorfindel again. Only, in his younger days,” said Thrangorn. “Long before the wars took their toll upon him.”

“Glorfindel – I know that name,” said Ardinir.

“He was one of the escorts of Princess Ungrateful,” remarked Saeldan. “He was the negotiator.”

Ardinir nodded. “Now I remember. He was the one that actually got into Doriath.”

Erestor and Anglin suddenly became more interested in the conversation. They both began to speak at once, but Erestor deferred to Anglin with a simple hand motion. Anglin sat up and wrapped his arms around his bent legs. “Glorfindel was my brother. Anything you might tell me about him would be appreciated.”

“Anything? Surely, he must have told you of some of his adventures,” said Saeldan. “We only know of him when he briefly came to Doriath.”

“I lived in Dorthonion, and he in Gondolin. We never really knew each other; he left when I was but a few months old. Twice we met, and neither was under the best of circumstances.”

“Then I shall tell you what I know of the quest which he was part of,” offered Saeldan. Ardinir may know some of the details better than I.”



“Hold. You have no rights to cross past the girdle in these woods. Speak; who are you and why do you come this way?”

Before Ecthelion had a chance to dismount and address the guard, Aredhel had thrown back her white hood and peered down upon him, chin slightly pointed upwards. “I am Princess Aredhel, the daughter of King Fingolfin, Lord of Hithlum, sister to King Turgon of Gondolin. I have come seeking passage through your woods.”

“Have you? You have come in vain, white lady,” spoke the chief of the guards. “You are not permitted to pass through these woods, and neither may your escort accompany you even if you were. None of Noldorin blood may cross this border.”

“Surely you jest. We wish not to enter your woods, only to traverse them. I have no desire to stay in your realm any more than you have a desire for me to come within it,” stated Aredhel. Her stallion shuffled his feet nervously.

The guard gave her a stern look, and then laughed heartily. “You must be the one in jest. How asinine you sound; how uncomplimentary your words. I would suggest to you that you turn around now before you further embarrass yourself and your companions.”

“We are very sorry to have disturbed you,” apologized Ecthelion. “We shall be on our way. No doubt there is another route – perhaps one which will be friendlier to our lady’s desires.”

Aredhel reached out and grabbed for the reins of Ecthelion’s horse. When she managed to gain hold of them, she gave the leather a tug. “We are not about to leave,” she scolded him.

“We are not going to be given leave to pass through the forest here,” explained Ecthelion tersely. “You have ruined what chance we might have had, your highness.” He yanked the reins of his horse from her gloved hands. “It would be wise for you to speak very little as we leave.”

Aredhel looked as if she was about to dispute this with the chief of her escort, but before she could another voice spoke.

“Is it only the Noldor with whom you have issue?” asked a soft voice at the rear of the party.

“Their customs of killing kin and their insistence in the use of a vile language would be the main reason for their inability to enter this realm,” said the guard. “Are you about to tell me that there is a Sinda in your midst, or a rather ignorant Teleri?”

“Nay. Only I.” A butter-colored mare stepped forward, and her rider was wrapped in a velveteen cloak of pine green, with gold embroidery upon the edges and a golden braid draped across his throat. “My ancestors hailed from the mountains of Valinor, and though I live in a Noldorin realm, even they count me among my Vanyarin brethren.” With those words, Glorfindel revealed himself, pushing his hood back with both hands. His blond locks tumbled down his back, freed from their bondage of the journey. “I wish to speak with your King, if permitted to do so.”

“We have no quarrel with you, Vanya. The pure light of your people is in your eyes, friend.” The guard extended his arm out, and motioned down the path that would lead to Menegroth. Glorfindel bowed his head in thanks, and rode forward. “The rest of your party must stay here,” reiterated the guard as Aredhel attempted to nudge her horse forward to follow Glorfindel.

Glorfindel tugged his horse around sideways. “What if they were my prisoners?” he asked.

“Well, I never!” huffed Aredhel.

“Yes, we know,” muttered Egalmoth, whose patience was waning.

“The King’s decree is very firm. If you seek to speak with him, you may, but until he gives his permission the rest must stay here,” said the guard.

Ecthelion gave the remainder of the party a stern look. “We will await Glorfindel’s return on the outskirts of the border. Glorfindel?”

The blond warrior lifted his head and gaze to Ecthelion. “Sir?”

“I hope you know what you are doing,” said Ecthelion.

Glorfindel only nodded, and led his horse down the path. He was soon flanked by two guards: the one who had greeted them, and another whom he had not noticed. Both were on foot, so he slowed the pace of his horse.

“We can keep up,” assured the newcomer.

Glorfindel shook his head. “There is no need for that,” he told them. “In fact...” He tugged on the reins and dismounted. “Go back to Ecthelion, Parchment,” he said as he rubbed the horse’s neck. He patted her on the hindquarters and gave her a little shove. “Go on. There are caves here, girl. You want to be out there, out in the sunshine in the fields. Go.” Glorfindel waited until the horse was trotting on her way back to the clearing before he resumed along the path with the others.

“So, you hail from Gondolin as well?” asked the mysterious elf walking to Glorfindel’s left.

“I come from the pine forests, from the land of Dorthonion,” explained Glorfindel.

“Noldor territory,” snorted the chief guard.

“Never mind Mablung. He is bitter about them.” The mysterious one held out his hand. “I am Beleg Cuthalion, master of the woods.”

“You are a hunter, then?” asked Glorfindel.

“In a manner of speaking. I hunt, when I need to. Most of the time, I find myself hunting orc these days,” he said angrily. “Foul beasts have ruined our woods.”

“It is good that King Thingol has such dedicated men in his employ,” reasoned Glorfindel.

“I hardly do this for the King, though it pleases me that it pleases him,” explained Beleg. “It is more for the safety of my sister that I have concerns.”

Glorfindel looked around the area, taking in the sights and sounds of the forest forbidden to his fellows and their fair lady, the very forest that Erestor was banished from. “Is your sister a hunter like yourself?” he asked.

“Nay. She is a songbird, a gentle creature at home in the woods. She lives here,” he said, spreading his arms about him. “She cannot be coaxed to come into the caves, and so I stay here as much as I am able, and protect the woods as well as I am able.”

“It must be very difficult for you,” Glorfindel sympathetically guessed. “It must be hard, to leave your family in the caves when you are here, and to leave your sister in the woods when you are there.”

“I have no family, save for Nellas,” Beleg said. “She is the only one I have, and I, the only one she has.” Beleg then smiled, and looked past Glorfindel. “Perhaps that is not entirely true. My sister does have another protector in our solemn guardian.”

“I would gladly give my life to protect her,” admitted Mablung, and his voice was stern and serious, and his face was sullen and somber. Glorfindel only nodded in reply, unsure of how to proceed in the conversation.

As it turned out, Beleg was a fairly decent conversationalist himself, and thus asked of Glorfindel, “What family have you left in Dorthonion, or have they come with you to Gondolin? I had always thought Gondolin was filled only with the vilest of Noldor and the most ignorant of Sindar.”

“That is not true, my friend. Though there are what we might call slayers of kin within Gondolin’s fair gates, not all are so inclined. The majority, in fact, are at odds with the thoughts and wishes of Feanor’s sons. They followed King Turgon in hopes of finding a land where they could be free from those worries.” Glorfindel sighed, his thoughts on his own plight. “We have a diverse population – a mixture of Noldor and Sindar, and many intermarriages between them.”

“But alas, only one Vanya,” said Beleg.

“Yes, well, I have adapted to that.” Glorfindel nodded, as if needing to convince himself. “Everyone has been very welcoming of my heritage.”

“Of course they have. Everyone wants to have the Vanya in their realm.”

“How so?” asked Glorfindel. “Why should I be so different from the others?”

Beleg stopped and Glorfindel followed suit. Mablung walked a little further before doubling back. “Have you looked at yourself? Ever?” Beleg circled around Glorfindel. “Why does a horse master gather the finest stallions? Why does a cook bake with the best ingredients? Why does a Noldorin King keep a Vanya in his court?”

Glorfindel looked down at the trampled path they were taking. “I suppose. I like to think there is something more about it. How I attained my position, that is. Intelligence or chivalry or—“

“Do not delude yourself, friend.” Beleg started down the path again. “I would not be surprised if our King makes a vain attempt to stall you here for what time he can.”

---

In the court of King Elu Thingol, Beleg’s expectations held true. As soon as Glorfindel was introduced, Thingol’s eyes lit up that those of a child on Tarnin Austa who comes to the feast for the first time. In fact, a feast was immediately planned, and unbeknownst to Glorfindel, he was seated that evening beside Master Saeros, in the same seat where Erestor once sat as Chief Counselor to the King.

Late that night, he spoke with Thingol, with Melian standing beside the throne. Though well-spoken, his words fell upon deaf ears.

“My companions and I wish only permission to travel through your lands to reach our destination. We have no plans to linger longer than needed. I will claim full responsibility for any actions which may be deemed undesirable,” explained Glorfindel. “It is true, that they are Noldorin, at least in part, though they are not allied with the sons of Feanor.”

“All Noldor, whether they wish it or not, who have traveled from the west, are indeed both friends and allies of that foul murderer.” Thingol leaned forward, his hands joined with fingers steepled together. “What of you, Lord Glorfindel? Why the desire to be loyal to the rogues who travel with you?”

“I serve King Turgon, and follow his orders as given. I would suspect that your own Lords and soldiers do much the same as I,” said Glorfindel carefully.

“Aye, except that there are no other lords here. As a lord, you undoubtedly make decisions of your own – a decision to be loyal, for instance.”

“I know what you are attempting,” said Glorfindel. “While I am honestly flattered that you would wish me to join the ranks here, I fear my presence would both displace others far more loyal to you, and upset the balance we have in Gondolin. I thank you for the unspoken offer, but must decline. Still, my question remains unanswered. Will you give your consent to allow us travel through your realm?”

Thingol turned his head and looked to Melian. “What answer shall I give? Long have my rules stood. To change them now... we must have balance.” He lowered his voice and said to his wife only, “Bring forth your apprentice. Ask her opinion on the matter.”

Melian gave Glorfindel a hard, long look. “She is coming,” said the Ainu, and she turned and spoke to her husband in a language unknown to Glorfindel. He shook his head and looked to the doors of the throne room as they opened.

Into the chamber came a tall, lithe figure, wearing all silver and white. Her hair was long and held back by an intricate silver crown that was braided into her silver-blond tresses. She walked soundlessly across the marble floor, reaching midway before she stopped, and in a low voice said, “I see grave danger in the future.” She approached Glorfindel slowly, and circled him in a fashion similar to that of Beleg. “You are familiar to me,” she said. She stopped and looked directly into his eyes.

They both stood for some time, he looking up and she looking down, until something caught her attention. She narrowed her gaze, and then stepped back as if burned. Her head turned and she focused upon Melian. “He carries the mark of Morgoth upon him.”

“My wife saw the same,” confirmed Thingol. He stood and lifted his scepter, pointing the ruby hilt toward Glorfindel. “You must leave.”

“Excuse me, but perhaps you might enlighten me,” said Glorfindel as a door behind Thingol opened and Mablung entered with a pair of guards in matching garb. “What is this ‘mark of Morgoth’ you speak of?”

“Your blood is the blood of his enemy. You might call yourself Vanya, but he calls you Noldo.” Thingol spat down onto the floor after saying this. “You must leave, and leave now. May Eru have mercy on your soul.”

Glorfindel was now surrounded by a trio of guards with hands upon the pommels of their swords. “I suppose this negates any future visits,” he said in the direction of the forboding female who still stood some meters away.

“Mablung, see that he finds his way back to the borders,” insisted Thingol.

Hours later, Glorfindel was remounting his horse. “No luck?” asked Egalmoth, who had been tending a fire and keeping watch.

“Get them up. We must make haste and go now, before morning.” Glorfindel adjusted his gear as Egalmoth took up the task of waking the others and putting out the fire.

“Not as easy as you thought it would be, was it?” asked Ecthelion as he drew his cloak around him and fastened it. Glorfindel did not answer. “Kings rarely listen to Lords of other lands. Well, you tried. I appreciate that.”

Aredhel joined them, her shoulders slumped. “My cousin just farspoke to me. I will not allow such embarrassment to be conveyed to Gondolin. If anyone should ask, we were denied passage and made no attempt to negotiate.” She glared at Glorfindel. “We missed prime travel time because of this fault. Do not let it happen again.” She stomped away to retrieve her horse, and Ecthelion raised his hand as soon as Glorfindel opened his mouth.

Once Aredhel was out of range to hear them, he said, “Leave it be. She is not worth it.”

“She should not act like such a spoiled little girl,” snarled Glorfindel.

“Ah, but what else does she know?” Ecthelion shrugged. “Leave it. Just ignore it. Worry not; it will be mere hours before Egalmoth or I fail to appease her, and she will all but forget your transgression.”


“See? Galadriel is an evil witch,” said Ardinir. “How else do you explain that? The ‘mark of Morgoth’? Utter nonsense! I have heard of no such thing.”

“I have heard it before, that he marked the children of his greatest enemies,” said the sole female occupant of the cell. Her name was Eliel, and Erestor had earlier discovered that she had once been one of King Fingon’s maids. “In fact, I heard it often, that Morgoth was specifically targeting the children of Feanor and Fingolfin.”

“Morgoth cares very little who he manages to kill, so long as he manages it. If he was truly targeting the progeny, why did he let Verdev have me?” Anglin had slowly moved closer and closer so that now he was huddled in the circle with the others. “I have such great hatred for Morgoth, and yet I know that such hatred is not natural and does me no good. It only clouds my abilities.”

“He did a good job of it. Morgoth, that is.” Erestor was staring at the wall. “He killed them all. Mablung... Aredhel... Ecthelion... Beleg... Glor--” He swallowed back the last name. “Damn his greed.”

“His greed? What of the Noldorin greed?” asked Ardinir. “They might have left well enough alone, and none of this would have happened.”

“So, Feanor should have allowed his greatest work to be stolen, but it was just for Thingol to ask for and accept a stone which he had no true claim over.” Erestor nodded. “Sounds like Sindarin logic to me.”

Before a full-blown argument could begin, Thrangorn settled his hand upon Erestor’s shoulder. “You must excuse Lord Erestor. Too much has happened in such a short time, and he is not one to often quarrel thusly. Perhaps we should take rest and meditate upon the situation,” said the butler, the last sentence directed towards Erestor, who only nodded.

“Of course. A predicament such as this tends to cloud one’s mind.” Saeldan sounded as if he meant what he said, but the dark look he gave Erestor told another story. “Rest well, last of the Gondolithrim.”

If the words were meant to annoy Erestor, they succeeded, but he decided to keep his strength in reserve. Under normal circumstances, he might have liked to have debated Saeldan, but petty arguments seemed rather petty at the moment.

In the darkened cellar, it was cool in the evenings. The sun did not set for some time, which left a reddish hue in their makeshift cell until just before the moon took over watch in the sky. Erestor decided to make his first escape attempt on the second night of their captivity. There was no sense in waiting around if he could possibly escape successfully now.

Once everyone else was asleep, Erestor retrieved the rope that he had hidden and tied the two pieces together into a longer length. He walked to a spot beneath one of the windows. The windows were more like openings, for there was no glass and they were boarded up in the winter. They were high up, and started right at the level of the ceiling. No more than one half-meter tall and less than a meter wide, the opening would be one that he would need to carefully squeeze through. It would be difficult to do at that height, dangling above the floor. His plan was to utilize the rope that he had.

He looked around for something heavy that he could use to tie to the end of the rope to be used as an anchor. A splintered piece of a table leg, likely broken off when the area was emptied, looked ideal. Erestor grabbed it and tied it around one frayed end of the rope. He then went back to the window and quickly stepped back from it so that he could get a good view of what was outside.

There was a tree not very far away from the window. He judged the distance and how far he would need to throw the rope to reach it. After testing the weight of the wood on the end of the rope, he took aim and swung the rope out of the window. It hooked around the side of the tree, but fell into the grass. When he tried to pull it back, it easily slid across the grass and came back in through the window. He sighed, and tried again. Again, he found that there was no way to gain the leverage he needed at the height and angle he was at.

Erestor sat down on the floor and played with the rope, coiling it in his hands. There were other windows, but he could hear voices near them, and crawling out of a cell where your captors could see you was not a good idea. The only plausible exit was the one he was staring up at.

He stood up so that he could try again. Once again, he failed. This time, he set the rope down onto the floor and rubbed his hands together, then jumped up and grabbed hold of the window ledge. He used all of his strength in order to pull himself up so that he could take a look around.

To his right, there was nothing, only the path that led to the sparring fields. To the left, however, were the stairs that led up into the main floor of the barracks. It was hollow – that is, the steps were only a wooden frame, without being solid or made of stone. There were breaks between the pieces, and a well-placed shot might just hook onto the framework and anchor the rope for him.

It was worth a try, so Erestor hopped down so that he could pick up his rope again. This time, he got close to the wall and pressed himself against it. When he shot the heavy end of the rope out the window, he threw it sideways. It made a clunking noise and he cringed. After a moment, he pulled it quickly back, and then waited to see if anyone heard him. When it sounded as if all was clear, Erestor took hold of the rope again and gave it another go. This time, it swooped through the air, low to the ground, and slid right through two of the beams. When Erestor pulled the rope back, it hooked onto one of the pieces and caught firmly. He smirked and gripped the rope. It was a fast climb, and he excitedly pulled himself out of the window. The rough stone scraped one of his elbows, but he managed to get through. He stood up and brushed the dirt from his clothes.

The rope could still be helpful to him, so he went to the stairs and unwound it from the wood. He coiled up the rope as he turned around and prepared to make his way across to the courtyard to where he might find cover while he decided upon his next course of action. When he looked up, he stepped back in shock to see that there had been a small group of orcs watching him the entire time.

Without thinking, he turned to run the other way. He looked over his shoulder, and noted that the orcs were apparently too shocked to follow. That was his final thought before his foot hit something. He stumbled and fell to the ground hard.

“Brilliant. You escape, and your... whatever this is... decides to turn on you.” A large orc who might have rivaled Rog in size and power, seized the piece of wood that Erestor had tripped on and yanked it up harshly just before kicking Erestor over onto his back. “Pretty stupid to try to escape. Too bad Verdev already knows how many of you were captured, or I would take pleasure in killing you myself.” He threw the wooden leg down at Erestor’s legs, but the Elf’s reflexes kept him from getting hit.

“Furog, leave him be. He provides excellent entertainment.” The comment came from one who was not an orc who stood among them. Erestor craned his neck to see to whom the fair voice belonged, thinking it an Elf. He was surprised to see a Maia, arrayed brilliantly in white, from his fur-lined leather boots to his opal-studded crown.

Erestor’s long years in Valinor meant he had met most of the Ainur who lived in the blessed realm. This particular fellow, however, he could not recall seeing, but it was obvious by his appearance that he was of importance, and when Erestor sat up enough to look into his eyes, saw in their depths knowledge and power, and many years of experience. He looked away swiftly, not wishing this stranger to be read by him.

“You will not find it funny if he escapes.” Furog put his foot down squarely upon Erestor’s chest when he attempted to crawl backwards towards some piles of stacked boxes and crates. “See? Look at him? He is a little weasel!”

“Stifle, Furog.” The Maia removed his white leather gloves with great care and adjusted the many golden and diamond banded rings he wore. “Let the little weasel dance around; the city is too vast, and we are many. He will never escape alive.”

“You obviously underestimate the ability of weasels,” said Erestor. In answer, Furog growled, lifted back his foot, and kicked Erestor in the shoulder, causing the elf to howl in pain.

A number of orcs laughed as Furog continued his assault. As for the Maia, he replaced his gloves and walked away with disinterest. As he left, the sound of someone with heavy footfalls could be heard on the cobbled road that led to the barracks. They scruffled the grass, and stopped. “What is going on here?” The orc stepped closer and looked down. “Is that one of mine? Get him up!”

Furog reached down and pulled Erestor up by the collar of his shirt, nearly choking him. Dirt and stains of grass were on his face and arms and clothing, and there was blood shining upon the corner of his lips and running from his nose. “He tried to escape.”

“Did he? This is the trouble with your brigade, Furog,” snarled the newcomer, who was not so large as Furog, but appeared to be of higher rank. “They stand around like packs of idiots. How many are guarding inside the building?”

“The trouble is not with my soldiers. The trouble is with this one. He needs to be taught a lesson!” Furog had his hand wrapped around the back of Erestor’s neck. “Say the word, Verdev, and I will gladly take care of him.” He flexed his other hand, and the sound of his knuckles cracking caused Erestor to reflexively swallow hard.

Verdev narrowed his eyes at the subordinate orc and motioned for him to let go. Furog squeezed tighter just before loosening his fingers. Erestor quickly stumbled away, coughing as he rubbed his throat. He never thought he would be choosing between two orcs, but now put a little more distance between himself and Furog.

“He does not need to be beaten, as you might think.” Verdev beckoned Erestor forward with a gnarled, crooked finger, much as one might coax a cat out from hiding. “How can you expect any of them to be happy? You have them locked in that basement, away from the sunlight, away from the starlight. If one is going to keep them as pets, one must provide the proper environment.” Now that Erestor was a few feet closer, Verdev regarded him in a voice one might use with a scared child. “Are you alright, pet?”

Erestor, having never before been asked about the condition of his wellbeing by an orc, shrugged. “I think some of your other, ah, pets might be hungry. They looked a little thin, and no one has been in to feed them.”

“On average, elves are very light and eat very little. I am sure they are fine.” Verdev looked Erestor over. “You look a little overweight yourself.”

With an incredulous look, Erestor was about to dispute this, for he had certainly never been referred to as overweight before. However, there were some things that it was worth fighting over, and some things better left unsaid. He decided that this was one of those things best left alone.

“And you, pet? Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“I will eat and drink only after the others are cared for properly. If they are truly your pets, you would do well to learn how to care for them.”

Some of the orcs edged away, and others began to gather who had not previously been nearby. It seemed it was not often that anyone challenged Verdev.

“I have yet to find a text or scroll on the care and keeping of elves,” countered Verdev, seemingly amused. “If you know of one—“

“Obviously, we can speak and answer any questions. It would seem your other pets are too afraid to speak to you of these things,” interrupted Erestor.

“Is that so?” Verdev looked Erestor up and down, as if sizing him up for the first time. “Very well. How do you feel about your accommodations?”

“The prison cell you have us locked in?” The fire was fueled, and Erestor could hardly help himself. “It is filthy, cold, and hardly a place to lock a lady.”

Verdev squinted. “You sound like an ellon.”

“I am,” argued Erestor unhappily as some of the orcs around him laughed. “I was referring to the Lady Eliel you have locked away.”

“Ah, yes, my maid. She needed to be locked away. Best for her, to be kept with her own kind. I trust her, of course,” said Verdev. “But without being here, she was best protected by them. Up here, with the rest of my soldiers... I trust them, to a point. I am sure you understand what I mean by that.” The conversation was becoming less condescending as they spoke, as if Verdev was realizing he had not captured a simple elf. “What is it that you were doing here before we arrived?”

The questions were nauseating for Erestor, with the orcs acting as if they had only just showed up and not for any sort of reason which would be upsetting to Erestor. He wondered how detailed he should describe his various occupations, and finally decided upon saying, “Many of us were part of the military, and I was no exception. When I was not training or guarding, I was an actor in the company of the House of the Harp. I was usually in musicals, for I can also sing, dance, and play a variety of instruments – principally, the violin.”

Verdev’s expression brightened as much as an orc’s can as Erestor spoke. “You are an artist, then,” he said, and he nodded enthusiastically. “Excellent. This is a rare treat. I had hoped to add a musician to my collection, and perhaps an actor, but now I have both with the addition of a single elf. What about your friend?”

“He was a butler,” said Erestor.

“Very nice.” Verdev smirked. “Very nice. Tell me, elf, which of the houses in Gondolin is the finest of them all?”

“The Tower of Turgon – oh, but, your dragon destroyed it,” he said bitterly.

Verdev raised a brow. “Perhaps you think it was my dragon, but the dragon belonged to no one. It was assisting my lord, Morgoth. If the tower was indeed destroyed by it, he very handily completed his task as requested.”

Erestor balled his fists at his side, but said nothing.

“Oh, this upsets you. I am sorry, my pet, but I refuse to lie to anyone. The dragon was always the plan for dealing with Fingolfin’s second son and final heir. A balrog for the first, Gothmog no less, and a dragon for the second. We wanted to be sure it was something extraordinary, so that every thread would be woven into tapestries for his father to see. The fires were a sight to behold – visible for miles,” said Verdev proudly as if he himself had lit the first flame. “A pity your king managed to destroy the dragon. He was a fighter to the end, and a fine flyer as well. None of us really thought Turgon had it in him, being such a coward.”

“He was not a coward, and I am not your pet,” growled Erestor. He attempted to step forward, but Furog and two other guards were upon him in a moment and held him back. “Turgon was a brave king, and he cared very deeply for those within his realm. And at the end, he was a hero to so very many.”

After a moment, Verdev began to slowly and loudly clap his hands together. “A delightful eulogy. I expect many such performances from you in the future. Now, before my patience wears too thin, let us see if you can answer my question: Which of the houses of Gondolin is the finest?”

Erestor felt the grip of one of the guards tighten, so he shrugged the orc off. “The House of the Fountain," he said. “I doubt you or any of your minions are worthy enough to lick the floors.”

“Your insults recall a quaint country charm. You were not always a courtier, were you?”

To this, Erestor simply sneered.

“I did not think so. Figuring you out will be a pleasant puzzle for me. I suppose it shall please you to know that I do not plan to step foot into the House of the Fountain; I need only determine the base of operation for Lord Sauron. Now that we have established that, let us see how things shall proceed. Which are the houses closest to the House of the Fountain?” Verdev asked.

Erestor gave Verdev a sour look, but answered him with, “The House of the Tree shares a courtyard with the House of the Fountain. Nearby, you shall find the House of the Heavenly Arch.”

“Which of the three is the smallest?”

“The arch,” said Erestor. “It was a family estate and not meant for many others. The other two houses were home to their lords, as well as various other nobles, servants, and the like.”

“Good. Omurau!” Verdev waited as a tall, gangly orc slunk over. “See that the House of the Arch is prepared as a suitable place for my pets.” Omurau bowed his head and slipped away. “Although we have an obvious contempt for one another on many levels, I do hope we shall come to appreciate our relationship some day. You are dismissed – Furog, escort him back to his cell. And Erestor? I would suggest you not wander off again. As cute as it is the first time a pet does so, I would suggest you not make it a habit. It will not be so well forgiven next time.”

Erestor dug his heels into the ground to keep from being pushed along. “How do you know my name?”

“We all know who you are.” Verdev smiled and tilted his head towards the barracks. It was obvious that Furog intended to drag Erestor back to the cell if he did not go willingly, so Erestor suffered the indignity of being locked up again and pondered for long hours the source of Verdev’s knowledge.

- Chapter Four -

For nearly two weeks, Erestor patiently waited. Most of the time while he was inside, he sat alone and contemplated the situation. Very often, he ignored the others. On the occasions that they were allowed outside, it was under Verdev’s supervision, and Erestor only sat beneath a tree and continued his contemplations of the situation. During the night, when the others rested, was when Erestor was most active. He spent the time exercising – pushups, sit-ups, and various other aerobics that he could manage in the darkness without weights or other equipment.

At the end of the two weeks, he waited until the guards had crossed around the building to the side opposite the window. The bricks, which had been piled up in front of it in the expectation that future escapes would be thwarted, had been secretly kicked over that afternoon when he had been allowed outside, at a moment when Verdev was not watching. Taking that short window of opportunity, Erestor walked under the window and leapt up. He grabbed hold of the edge on his second attempt, and held his grip until he was steady.

Slowly, he pulled himself up. It took all his strength and patience to manage it, but he eventually managed to move his hands up along the smooth, wooden surface until he had walked them up the slope of the window and felt the edges of the bricks and the wet grass touching his fingertips.

It took a bit more, but he used his legs and placed his feet upon the steep wall, pulling himself up as he climbed the wall to aid his escape. He had to be careful not to knock the bricks around so that no one heard him, but he did make it out before the guards were back on that side again.

He listened carefully, and once he heard them coming around, slipped to the next side of the building. This pattern he followed for a few minutes while he surveyed the area. He was not entirely aware of how many guards were being posted in the evenings due to being in the prison, but now had a pretty good idea of where the patrols were set up. His hope was to go by way of the courtyard, but that way was cut off. There were far too many orcs blocking the path, as well as a large tiger that was dozing with its head resting upon its enormous, furry paws. Even Gondolin tigers were not as massive as this one was, and Erestor decided not to try his luck that way.

To the south was the wreckage of the tower, and the clean-up of the debris was still ongoing. That meant that hundreds of orcs were moving in and around the boulder-like chunks of brick and mortar. Erestor moved to face the east, and this route he found the most probable. Going north would put him out in the open. So would east, but not for as long. The market stood to the east, as did the houses of Salgant and of Duilin, and further along the land that Glorfindel and Tuor and Maeglin had held. Some of Rog’s estate was also in this area, and there was the always the slums.

If Erestor could make it into the lowlands, the valley where the poorest folks of Gondolin had resided, he stood the best chance of escape. The houses were built close together, and the alleys and streets were numerous. The shadows would hide him well.

Erestor moved north around the structure. He wanted the most time possible for his sprint across the wedding gardens. Crouching, he stretched the muscles in his legs, and then his arms and back. When the orc guards made the turn to come around to the north, Erestor jogged back around to the east. He rolled his neck, set his sight on his destination – a large tree just past the Field of Marriage – and ran.

His feet flew and his arms swung quickly at his sides as he raced against time and charged toward the tree he would use to hide himself. He tried not to breathe, not wanting to catch the attention of any of the guards. Once he reached the tree, he slid down onto the ground, and lay there, panting against the blades of sweet summer grass, the dew clinging to his hands and clothes and cooling his face. He looked across the wide expanse that he had traversed, and watched the guards step around to the east side that he had come from. They were carrying on a conversation, and might not have noticed him if he had still been running.

Erestor surveyed the rest of the area, and looked for anyone whose attention he might have gained with his stunt. None of the orcs were watching him, not even those closest to where he was now. Then he caught sight of eyes upon him from far away, and saw a tiger standing and alert. It was often at Verdev’s side, and Erestor had yet to figure out if it was his mount or just another pet. Erestor pressed down against the ground, hoping the creature was looking at something else.

The beast raised its head and sniffed in the open air with jaws open slightly, then licked its malicious mouth and began to pad in the direction of Erestor. Still hugged to the ground, Erestor crawled slowly backwards, down a slight slope. “You little bastard,” muttered Erestor as he rose up and began to run again, for the tiger was moving closer and faster, and now some of the orcs were glancing toward the giant cat with curiosity.

The market was not far away, and Erestor did not stop and did not look behind him until he reached it. Once there, he wove around the empty stalls and broken tents. As he passed one ragged tent that was knocked over, he grabbed the fabric and ripped it from the poles. It tore off in a long sheet, and Erestor turned to see the tiger bounding down the stone walkway. Without giving the idea a second thought, Erestor threw the material over the beast, then quickly stepped around another nearby tent and pushed it over onto the temporarily blinded creature.

He could hear the snarling and growling behind him as he kept running. Leaving the market behind, Erestor ran across the gardens of the House of the Harp, and navigated his way past the fields where the annual games would have taken place a few weeks ago, had the attack not occurred. In the moonlight, he could see that he was approaching the theatre. The tiger was still giving chase.

Instead of staying outside, Erestor ran up to the doors and tried the handle. They were locked, so he stepped back and rammed into them with his shoulder. It took two more tries before he was able to break in.

The stage was untouched; the theatre was perfectly set. Every chair was in place, crushed red velvet brushed smooth. Every golden handle and piece of crystal in the chandelier had been recently polished. Erestor vaguely recalled the excitement and enthusiasm from Faelion the day that he learned that he had been cast as the lead actor. They celebrated that night at one of the finer pubs, and drank and talked until daylight. It had, in fact, been the last time that they spoke before the fall – the last time they had really spoken at all.

Erestor backed his way down one of the aisles, waiting for the tiger to enter. As soon as the first tuft of orange and black fur was visible, he jogged to the stage and hopped up onto it. The tiger stopped at the door and glared at Erestor, who was now standing center stage. Unfortunately for Erestor, there were no props present that would help him tame or kill the beast, so he waited until the tiger leaped across the back four rows of seats before dodging behind a curtain and escaping through a back door.

Then he ran. He kept on going, not daring to look back for any reason no matter what sound he heard or anything he might have thought he saw. Once he had crossed down into the valley, he slowed down and hoped he was safe.

What he did not expect to find once he was there were the numerous tents that were set up throughout the area. Row after row, and most of the houses (which had not been destroyed in the ruin of the city) were being occupied by orcs and men of Morgoth’s army. It was now that Erestor dared to look behind him, and in the distance a set of yellow eyes were trained upon him.

Again he ran, and this time he deviated from his path and went around the slums. The distance was further than he had hoped to go, and his legs were beginning to give out on him. He mustered all of his energy and continued on, leaping over a fallen tree that was in his path. No longer was he concentrating on his breathing or the noise he made, only hoping that he was going fast enough to escape the seemingly inevitable.

It was not long before he reached one of the main roads and saw before him the Golden Flower estate. The fields where horses once roamed were now occupied by hungry looking wargs and wolves that snapped their jaws and clawed the ground when they saw Erestor approaching. He scouted the area, looking for other unexpected traps. If he could make it into the woods, he might still stand a chance. So far, there were no orcs on his trail that he could see.

Erestor darted past the fence and tripped on a piece of broken brick. He pulled himself back up and ignored the skinned knee and bloodied palms. His chin was warm as well, and probably sported a cut from the way it smarted. He kept running. He made it to the spot where the fence stopped, where the creek ran through the land. Without much hesitation, he followed the creek back into the sparse collection of trees on the outskirts in order to find the river. If he jumped into the river, he could start swimming.

As soon as he reached it, he stopped.

The woods...

...were gone.

Only a few trees here and there remained. They were the largest and oldest, and probably the most dangerous to take down with the smaller ones in the way. All around, stump after stump stuck up from the ground, and piles of lumber were gathered here and there.

And...

...there were orcs.

Dozens of orcs.

All of them had their attention focused.

On Erestor.

With an audible gulp, Erestor did a panoramic scan. Fires burned across the area, making it very easy to see just how many foes were watching him. There was, in his mind, still a chance. He went for it, regardless of the odds, and dived into the water.

His victory was shortlived. It was not the arrows that were fired into the water that proved to be his downfall, nor the exhaustion that burned in every muscle of his body. Instead, it was the tiger, for it cared very little about getting wet as it leaped into the water and landed on Erestor’s back, pushing him to the bottom of the riverbed.

The shock caused Erestor to gasp, and he reflexively attempted to expel the water. Instead, his reaction flooded his lungs and caused him to flail in the water. The claws of the tiger tore into his clothes and ripped through skin and muscle. He screamed, but underwater, no one could hear him. He felt teeth grip his arm as his limbs became weak and the pressure upon him immense, and when he blacked out it was with relief and hope that perhaps his torment was over.

When Erestor regained consciousness, he was suffering a sore neck. What was more, when he tried to rub it, he could not seem to move his arms. Either death was more painful than he had anticipated, or he had not been so lucky. He looked around to see a floor, and a wall, and his feet. He wiggled his toes, coughed, and figured he was somewhat alive. With a groan, he managed to turn his head and struggle up onto his knees. His arms were heavy, stretched out to either side, and tied to a yoke, ropes around his shoulders, elbows, and wrists. The wood was pressing painfully into the back of his neck, and bowing his head was the only way to relieve the pain. He saw now that of all of his clothing, the only item that remained was his slightly torn up loin cloth.

A grubby hand grabbed hold of his hair and forced him to look up. The pain bit into him, and temporarily he felt blinded. When his vision cleared, he found he was in Verdev’s chambers – or at least, what had become Verdev’s chambers. There were four guards lined up behind the orc lord, each of them holding a spear at the ready, and while many of the fine paintings and sculptures which had always been in this room still remained, added were spoils of war from other regions, as well as a large painting of Verdev himself.

“Why do you feel the need to test me?” Verdev picked up an ornate crystal pitcher and poured a glass of water for himself into a matching goblet. “Are you stubborn, or stupid, or a little of both?”

Erestor said nothing, glaring with as much malice as he could muster.

“Stupid little elf thinks he can sneer me to death.” The orcs behind Verdev chuckled, their evil laughter echoing off the walls. “I wonder how fast you will run now.” Verdev sipped his water, then splashed the rest into Erestor’s face. The elf coughed, blinking water from his eyes and blowing it from his nose. It ran down his chin and dribbled onto the floor as he listened to the continuous laughter around him.

Verdev took up one of the spears held by a guard. “Get up,” growled the orc lord.

When Erestor did not respond, Verdev nodded to the guard who no longer held a weapon. The nameless orc stepped forward and roughly yanked Erestor to his feet.

“When I- give- you- a command- you- will- listen!” Each word from Verdev was punctuated by the sound of the spear whistling through the air and cracking Erestor across his exposed back and shoulders. The wood continued to strike him, and while it did not create any fresh wounds, the scrapes and scratches from the tiger which had dulled now burned, and he stumbled back down onto one knee.

Verdev kicked Erestor in the small of his back, causing the elf to lose balance completely. His cheek hit the floor so hard that one tooth chipped and another cut open the inside of his cheek. “Take him back to the dungeon – let his friends know they will all be whipped if his bonds are removed.”

A moment later, Erestor was pulled up by his hair. He felt the blindness again, and stumbled forward as he was poked in the back by a spear. With his eyes still closed, he attempted to make it through the doorway, but the yoke stalled him. He tripped backwards upon impact, his arms stinging from where they had smacked into the doorway. He managed to open one eye as a hand gruffly pulled him up by the hair again. A headache was quickly being added to the list of items ailing him.

“Get through there!” barked the orc behind him, who was none other than Furog. The spearpoint poked into his skin and was cruelly twisted, purposely shoved into a wound made by the tiger.

Too tired and sore to argue or offer any snarky remarks, Erestor moved sideways so that he could make it through the doorway. He had to walk sideways, and almost fell down the steps had it not been for another orc in the hallway yanking him back.

The trek across the courtyards was an ordeal as well. While random orcs shoved and pushed him, others taunted him with insults and curses. Sometimes they would trip him, and when he fell, the orc charged with returning him to the dungeon was merciless. Eventually, the torment lessened when the door to the dungeon was kicked open.

It was an extraordinary feat as Erestor made it down the stairs, stumbling once or twice as he twisted and turned in strange ways in order to reach the bottom. Every time he thought he was about to fall, the orcs behind him would grab hold of the yoke to steady him. Once he was in the dungeon, the orcs worried less about him falling or tripping, and in fact kicked him down numerous times when he came into view of the other prisoners. “You all see this piece of shit here?” asked Furog. He shoved his foot into Erestor’s back, making him cough and sputter all over again, his mouth filling with blood from the cut in his mouth and a freshly split lip. “This is the reason none of you are being fed until your master changes his mind. Keep him in his bonds, or we whip you all in the morning.”

Furog slid his boot under Erestor’s stomach and flipped him over into the cell, which was securely locked. For emphasis, Furog spit onto Erestor’s face before shutting the door and cutting off the meager candlelight that usually lit the cell.

Four hours later, once everyone stopped asking questions of Erestor and had curled up to sleep, Erestor was looking for something sharp. A ragged metal edge, a piece of glass, anything. Eventually he felt his way along the stone wall enough to find a spot that was stuck out just a little more. Backing up against it, he began to rub the rope that was wound around his wrist back and forth against it. The angle was odd, further causing him to strain his whole body in order to manage it.

The rope, despite being cut through, also tightened around his wrist, making it sore, then tingle, then hang limp. Warm droplets slid down his arm, from the rope cutting into his skin and from splinters in the wood. The stone was rubbing his back and elbows raw, but a sudden loosening of his bonds brought out a relieved sigh.

His victory was short-lived. As Erestor slid down to the floor and shakily began to untie his other wrist, he heard a rustling from the other side of the room. There was barely any light coming in through the windows on account of an overcast night, but very little light was needed for them to see.

As it turned out, Erestor was not the only one awake. The commotion, though quiet as it might have been, was still enough to alert Ardinir that something was going on. He had watched from the shadows, and approached now as Erestor struggled with the bindings around his other arm. “What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Escaping. Attempting to, at least.” Erestor fought with the knotted rope. “Help me, will you?”

Slowly, Ardinir shook his head. “You heard Furog. If I help you- if any of us helps you- we might as well be as good as dead. They hit hard, you know. They do not care if they kill us, either. There are elves enough for them to find and enslave. I might not be living the best life, but at least I am alive.” Ardinir took hold of the yoke to steady it and rewound the rope around the empty side. “Sorry about this, Erestor, but you need to understand that I would expect you to do this to me if our roles were reversed.”

“What do you mean?” Erestor tried to move away, but his free elbow hit the wall behind him. He attempted to stand, but weakness caused his legs to give out. By then, Saeldan had joined Ardinir, and there was no conversation that needed to take place. Saeldan took hold of Erestor’s free arm. There was a bit of kicking and struggling, but eventually they managed to retie the ropes tighter than they had been the first time around before leaving Erestor in a heap on the floor.

Morning came, and no one talked to Erestor. A few times, Anglin or Thrangorn looked over and sometimes looked about to speak or come to him, but each time a whispered warning would come from one of the others and they would turn away. Erestor spent the day trying to find a comfortable position as he coughed so hard that his lungs burned and head ached by early afternoon. Hours passed, and the others spent their time listening to Thrangorn describe the layout of Gondolin to them. Though the butler spoke quietly and questions were asked in hushed tones, it was enough to cause the throbbing in Erestor’s head to increase to a painful pounding.

When evening came, the sound of a key turning in a lock brought silence to the makeshift dungeon. Erestor opened his eyes to see torchlight filling the stairway that led down. Finally, he heard something from the other side of the room. “Please do not say anything stupid,” hissed Thrangorn. “Mind him, sir, do not anger him.”

Too tired to answer, Erestor choked on his cough and turned away. Verdev led the procession, hobbling down the stairs and swinging a hoop of keys around and around his finger. They clinked and jingled until he stopped to open the gate that had been built between the stairs and the prisoners. He strolled in, followed by a dozen other orcs, their stench hanging heavy in the air. The captain did not give the five elves huddled together a second look as he passed by and set his sights directly upon Erestor.

“How did my naughty pet fair last night? A little sore, I would think.” Verdev crouched down near to where Erestor was slumped against the wall. The guards kept the rest of the prisoners away from Verdev and Erestor, who were soon joined by Furog. “Has he learned his lesson?” Verdev used his walking stick to lift Erestor’s chin. “Would you like that heavy harness removed so you can move freely once again, my pet?”

Erestor tried to heed Thrangorn’s advice, and at least did not glare at his captor. Instead, he tiredly lolled his head away so that it slid from Verdev. Erestor was made to look up again, this time as Verdev stabbed sharp fingernails into Erestor’s throat and reflexively the elf jerked his head. “One very simple answer is all you need give. Simply answer yes. Yes... only yes... and address me as master... so simple... so simple, and you shall be freed of this thing.” Verdev knocked on the wood with his cane. “How uncomfortable is your pride, elf?”

A horrid, hacking cough was the reply, and Verdev leaned away. “Very uncomfortable, I wager. Very uncomfortable.” He leaned back in again. “How foolish you are to hold onto it. Look at your friends – look at them! They are no weaklings, no. If they were, why would I need guards to watch my back? No, but they are not stupid. The word master slides off their tongues with ease. Is it because you were some noble? Some master yourself? Some birthright holds up your nose? You are no better than them down here, elf. You hurt only yourself by playing this game.”

Furog stepped around Erestor and took hold of his hand, then twisted his entire arm backwards. The ropes cut into his flesh and lack of strength kept him from fighting back. A painful wince escaped, a sound much like an abused animal. Verdev smiled. “It sounds as if you must be in pain, my pet. Would it not be easier to simply ask to be released?”

The muscles in Erestor’s back tightened and he struggled to adjust. It was to no avail, and another coughing spasm led to bursts of pain throughout his body. His head was aching worse, and it was through watery eyes that he next saw Verdev as the stick lifted his chin again. “If you say it, you save yourself so much trouble. If you do not, I leave you here, and I take your quiet friend up to the tower where we will hang him from the post, and leave him to the mercy of the albatross. It is your decision, elf. Would you like for me to release you?”

Erestor gritted his teeth. As much as his muscles screamed to beg for mercy, he denied himself this. His gaze flitted toward the others, and he locked eyes with Thrangorn.

The butler, despite being out of range to hear the conversation, seemed to know that something involving him was being discussed. He caught himself mid-shiver, and looked hard upon Erestor. So much might have been avoided if only Erestor had not been so arrogant. Though no master of mindspeak, Thrangorn projected his thoughts now as he stared at Erestor from across the cell.

This is not just about you, Erestor. Do as he says for once.

“Are you listening, elf?”

Erestor looked back to Verdev, but said nothing.

“Would you like me to release you from this? If I do, will you be a good elf?”

In all honesty, Erestor had the urge to spit into Verdev’s face. Were it not for the stern voice in his head, he might have. However, it was obvious, at least for now, that if he did revolt he would be in the minority and by himself. There was safety in numbers, and nothing would be accomplished by being tortured. He needed Thrangorn and the others to be well, and while he had likely ruined friendship with some of them, there was still a chance that an opportunity might arise for all of them to escape. “Yes,” answered Erestor softly through clenched teeth.

“Louder.”

Erestor swallowed hard. “Yes,” he replied in a clear voice.

“You forget your manners.” Furog slapped Erestor alongside his head with the palm of his hand. “Give him a proper answer or I twist your arm right off.”

Verdev came a little closer, and lifted Erestor’s chin into his hand. “Such a pretty thing you are. I kept you because of that. Now, you look like a ragged beggar I should have had killed. Is it worth my time to keep you? Are you ready to submit without fighting me? Answer me, elf. Do not disappoint me this time. Say it, elf. Say it loud, so your friends might hear. This is your final chance.”

The throbbing in his head was worse, and his arm was no better. Erestor squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think, tried to reason, but everything hurt and blurred and the cold of the floor and the pain in his chest and the blood in his mouth all overpowered him and as he hung his head and felt the sickness deep in his stomach. He licked his dry lips and uttered in a defeated voice, “Yes, master.”

It took only a nod for Furog to cut the ropes. Erestor gasped as his arms were freed, and he fell limp to the ground. Tired and sore, and unable to move, he huddled against the wall and coughed until he was too exhausted to do more than lean against the stone wall and pant. “Thank him, slave,” said Furog gruffly as he smacked the side of Erestor’s head with the back of his meaty hand.

“Thank you,” mumbled the elf, but he was again hit from behind.

“Do it properly!” demanded Furog.

Erestor coughed, a brief stall to the inevitable. He lifted his head only slightly, eyes still cast downward. “Thank you, master.”

“Oh, was that so difficult for you? So you are not stupid, only stubborn, but still teachable. We shall see what more you might learn tomorrow.” Verdev stood up and left, cane clicking upon the floor, with his guards shuffling out behind him. This time, the cell was locked but the door was left open at the top of the steps to allow the prisoners some light.

Thrangorn took a step forward, but the figure that was collapsed on the floor beside the bloodstained yoke growled a warning to him. “Leave me alone.” Despite this, Thrangorn still approached. He dipped the cleanest corner of his shirt into one of the small pools of water on the floor and sat down beside Erestor.

“Do not touch me!” Erestor hissed as the cool water was used to wipe the blood from his arm. He slapped away Thrangorn’s hand the second time it made an attempt to aid him.

“I would rather you were alive and mad at me than gleefully defiant up to the moment of your death,” decided Thrangorn, and he again reached out, this time holding Erestor’s arm still as he cleaned it. “They are only words, Erestor. You only need to say them; you do not need to mean them.”

“He thinks I mean them.”

“Let him think that.” Thrangorn finished wiping away the blood and tried to coax Erestor back to the nesting area that the others had created. “Come with me. Join us. You need to rest.”

“I can sleep here.”

“Damn stubborn... fine. I am done arguing with you.” Thrangorn left Erestor by himself next to the cold wall.

It took Erestor nearly five minutes before his coughing and his shivers brought him crawling to the edge of the nest. It took a meager nudge from Anglin to get him to join the others for the remainder of the night.

“Bring them.”

Those were the words which awakened Erestor. He had fallen asleep on the floor, curled up against the wall. Whether he had rolled off of the blankets or had them pulled away without his notice mattered little now. He was sore on one side, and his neck felt as if it had been bent in the wrong direction.

The sound of the key fitting into the lock was heard as Erestor sat up and began to knead his shoulders. Furog barked orders from the top of the stairs while a group of burly orcs stomped down the steps. “Aphasus! Take the tall one!”

Erestor watched as the tallest, widest, meanest looking orc with one snaggled bottom tooth overlapping up over his lip snarl and crack his knuckles before entering the cell. He did not give Erestor a chance to stand up, as the other orcs allowed the rest of the elves, but yanked him up by the scruff of his neck like one would pluck a kitten from a burrow. A shove was given to his back and made him stumble towards the doorway with Aphasus on his heels.

They were marched away from the barracks, and as Erestor stepped out into the sunlight, Furog grabbed hold of his arm and pushed him up against the side of the building. “I have no idea what Verdev sees in you, but I am not as forgiving as he is. You so much as blink too fast, and I have eighteen archers trained on you between here and where we are going with the orders to shoot to kill. You got that?”

“I got that,” sneered Erestor back. Furog growled, but let him go, practically throwing him back in front of Aphasus.

“Hurry it up! More important things to get done here!” bellowed Furog. Aphasus poked a meaty finger between Erestor’s shoulder blades, a sharp, chipped fingernail giving him a jolt. Despite the aching pains and the tightness he still felt in his lungs, Erestor kept up with the others, not about to fall behind to face Furog. The archers appeared to be a bluff; at no point did Erestor see anyone watching them. On the other hand, he was not looking very hard for them, and if there was a chance that Furog had given such orders, Erestor was certainly not about to make his nemesis’s day.

Through singed gardens and ruined courtyards they traversed, until they found themselves nearing an area that split off three ways. At the end of one path stood Verdev, leaning on his cane and standing beside another orc. He was looking a little impatient, but had something that resembled a smile on his face nonetheless. Behind them was one of the major houses of Gondolin – the House of Egalmoth, in fact. Scorch marks aside, it had faired the war well.

“This is your new home.” Verdev opened the door and stepped aside as soon as the elves reached the patio at the front of the residence. Four of the elves stepped up over the threshold, but those of Gondolin only peeked inside. “Please, enter,” Verdev said when Erestor and Thrangorn hesitated slightly. The other four were already inside and looking around, picking things up to examine them. “I have no interest in keeping you locked in a dungeon. How much fun is it for me to come to visit you under those circumstances? I prefer a much more comfortable environment. I hope you are of like mind.” Verdev waited until they had all filed in before he stepped in himself. “I do hope you find it enjoyable. It took Omurau a good deal of time to make it suitable.”

Aphasus came in behind Verdev, and he closed and locked the door immediately upon entry. Verdev placed his hand on the banister. “I would suggest that you take a look upstairs. Omurau’s work can be seen with the obvious improvements he has made for you in the dens.”

“The dens?” asked Erestor quietly to Anglin as they joined the rest of their companions, following up the stairway.

Anglin shrugged. “I think he really likes to come up with animalistic terms for things. He means, there are bedrooms upstairs for us.”

The group walked up the stairs with Saeldan in the lead. There was a wide hallway leading off to four rooms, and a doorway through which one could gain entry to the third story of the house. Three of the rooms contained beds and dressers, all of them tidy and sparse. The fourth room had a tub and a curtained area that undoubtedly contained the chamberpot, or perhaps even a more modernized plumbing system if Egalmoth had spent the money to have one installed. Erestor recalled the various systems that Glorfindel had worked out, and how it was not uncommon for people to knock on the door to the apartment and ask for his expertise, even though Glorfindel had never managed to fit the old tower with the pipes beyond the first floor.

"Three bedrooms, two beds in each," assessed Ardinir as he came out of the final bedroom. "No offense, but I am willing to share a room with anyone but you," he said as he looked directly down the hallway at Erestor.

"You will share a chamber with me," said Saeldan to his nephew. "As for the rest of you, you shall have to decide among yourselves, but I think that the lady should be given the largest of the rooms so that she might have a way to construct a privacy curtain for herself."

Eliel put up her hand. "There is no need for that. I have become quite used to the way things are. Besides, you must remember, I have been a servant all my life, and very few servants have their own rooms."

"Indeed, that is true," said Thrangorn. "I believe I would be most comfortable if we were to reside together," he said to Eliel. "Strictly on the basis of our mutual occupational experiences."

"That makes the most sense to me," she agreed.

Erestor glanced over at Anglin. "I suppose that means you and I are going to be roommates."

"You could always take that room," said Anglin, waving his hand off in the direction of the bathing chamber.

"Or not."

Anglin grinned. "It would mean you would have your own room."

Erestor narrowed his eyes.

"Oh, come now, you know it was a joke." Anglin peeked into the various rooms, and then motioned toward the second door. "By far, that is the largest. If no one has any objections, I believe that is your room," he said to Thrangorn and Eliel.

"We will take this one," said Saeldan as he stepped into another room, and Erestor almost laughed to see it was the one closer to Thrangorn, Eliel, and the stairway, and furthest from the last door.

Anglin nodded in agreement and stepped inside the last room. "This is a nice one, Erestor. We have two windows."

Erestor stepped warily into the room in order to give his opinion. There was ample light coming in through the windows despite the lighter privacy curtains being drawn. There were two beds, as there were in the other rooms. Between them, there was a low chest of drawers which would also serve as a night table. There was a closet without doors, containing a series of hooks inside and a low table with cabinet doors on it below. The only contention Erestor had was the fact that the room was painted pink. It was a light tint, but it was still pink. Obviously pink. Undoubtedly pink. To make matters worse, the curtains were white, which made the pink stand out even more. "Do you think we should flip a coin instead?" asked Erestor. "I do not know if we should take this room without first seeing the other one."

"Erestor... I hate to sound like an ass, but it is a room. Not a dungeon. Not a cell.” Anglin sat down on the bed. “There are sheets, and a blanket.” He lifted these away, and held up another object. “A pillow. Two of them,” he added as he pulled the other away from the headboard.”

“Alright, I get it,” said Erestor as Anglin stood up and went to the closet, but the blond was not about to stop.

“Look here – clothing!” He opened the cabinets. “None of it is very flattering, I admit that, but fresh clothes. Clean. And warm.” He held up a plain white shirt, and a pair of brown leggings. “When was the last time you were given something this nice in a jail cell? And I do get the feeling you are acquainted with jail cells.”

Erestor grumbled to himself as Anglin moved to the windows.

“Curtains, and windows, and light, and I am sure there is food downstairs. Verdev will only be by now and then – you can hardly ask for a better situation, all things considered,” explained Anglin.

With a huff, Erestor plopped down on what he assumed would be his bed. “So, you are telling me to shut up, be a good little pet, and stop trying to run away from my wonderful, benevolent master,” said Erestor as Anglin sat down on the bed across from him that had had the covers torn off.

“Shut up, yes. Be good, for now. As for running away,” said Anglin as he leaned forward and lowered his voice, “if you try to leave without me again, I promise not to speak to you ever.”

Erestor smirked and nodded.

At the bottom of the steps, Verdev clapped his hands loudly, and with the authority of a school teacher shouted, "I want everyone to come back downstairs now. We have much to discuss."

“I suppose we should go down there,” said Erestor.

Anglin shoved his pillows back into place and tossed the covers over again, but went to the closet before going to the door. “Here,” he said, bringing out a pair of leggings and a shirt. “You might as well use them since we have them.”

Nearly nothing remained of the clothing Erestor had originally been captured in, due to his many escape attempts. He quickly donned the clothes upon hearing the second summons from Verdev.

The elves joined Verdev again in the ample sitting room which once served as Egalmoth's base of operations. Once they were there, they stood as far from Verdev as they dared to, hoping not to incur his wrath for shuffling past him. He seemed not to notice, or said nothing about it if he did. In his hands, he held a small booklet. Aphasus was still standing beside the front door, but he looked a little bored about being there, and was drooling a little from one side of his mouth, but seemed not to notice.

"I want to go over the rules of the house with everyone," said Verdev once the elves seated themselves, or in the case of Erestor, chose a place to stand. "Firstly, and I believe this rule is the one which is most obvious, there is no leaving the house unless escorted by myself or by Aphasus. Under no circumstances shall you leave without one of us being with you. If there is an emergency, you are permitted to speak to the guard at the front door, and he will alert someone that we should be called for. Does anyone have any questions about the first rule?"

Erestor raised his hand.

"Rule two," continued Verdev, and Erestor dropped his arm with a sigh. "Everything must remain clean and tidy except when in use. I expect that counters will be cleaned, floors swept, and garbage to be picked up. Beds will be made and all surfaces kept free of dust." Verdev watched as Erestor's hand went up again, and this time, he regarded the elf with a nod. "You have a question?

"I would like to know just how we are to keep the rugs clean if we are not allowed to go outside. Is a dusty carpet a cause for calling for you? I do not see it being possible for us to hold to both of those rules, master," he said rather smugly.

"If you will allow me to finish and speak to you of the third rule, you shall note that I have already thought of such things," said Verdev just as smugly. “Number three. There is a balcony on the third floor. Your use of it is unlimited during the daytime. In the evening hours, you are not permitted upon it unless there is an emergency. Beat your rugs all day long, my pet,” he added as he turned to the next page in the booklet. “Rule four. Anything that is broken must be reported immediately, be it a teacup or a bookshelf, no matter the size or item. Also, any lack of supplies must be reported as well. Not having enough soap is not an excuse to allow the house to slide into the realm of disgust.”

Again, Erestor raised his hand, but when it looked as if he was to be ignored again, he interrupted with, “Why do you care what the house looks like?”

“You would rather live in squalor?” countered Verdev.

“No,” answered Erestor carefully.

Verdev licked his finger while keeping his dark, piercing eyes focused on Erestor, flipped to the next page, and read, “Rule number five: Once you are awake and presentable, you will remain downstairs in the daytime. You may stay on the lower level as long as you like in the evenings, but waking hours should be spent on the first floor, unless you are sleeping, just awakened, using the provided facilities, or cleaning.” This last word he emphasized as Erestor’s hand began to rise again.

“Why ask if we have questions if he does not really want us to ask them,” muttered Erestor to himself and anyone who would listen. Saeldan rolled his eyes, but none of the others moved or spoke.

“It was meant for them. As you are only questioning me to question my authority of the situation, I am choosing to ignore you. Rule seven,” continued Verdev in the same breath so as not to allow Erestor time to speak, “you are not allowed to cover the windows on the first floor.”

The list went on, and Erestor continued to question whenever he could find something to question about, and sometimes just because. Finally, when Verdev warned that so many questions likely meant an abundance of energy, and perhaps lunch was unnecessary – Erestor shut up and allowed the rest of the rules to be read in peace.

Once Verdev finished, he directed Aphasus to bring food. Instead of an expected meager tray of hard bread and water, Aphasus returned with two other orcs, who helped him to bring in sacks of ground corn, flour, and even sugar. The larder was stocked in a matter of minutes, and Verdev announced to them that since there was some concern as to the well-being of everyone, that they would be allowed to make their own meals as they saw fit. He made sure to look at Erestor while saying this, and perhaps surprisingly, simple words of thanks came from Erestor in a voice that sounded genuine.

After Verdev and the other orcs left, the elves ventured about the house. As they explored the first floor, Erestor and Thrangorn found that many modifications had been made to the house that Egalmoth and his family had once lived in. Most obvious were the windows, for every room now had a spacious window in it, and some had two. These openings were nearly floor to ceiling, with crystal panes of glass blocking them from stepping outside. The windows did not open, save for one small one in the kitchen above the small hearth. Many things in the kitchen appeared to have been modified, and there was only a moderate amount of utensils and items for them to cook with. A modest amount of firewood was provided for them on a cart next to the wooden counter. "No knives," remarked Anglin after opening all of the drawers.

"You remember what happened last time," said Eliel as the party continued to move through the house on their self-guided tour.

"What happened last time?" asked Erestor.

Saeldan stopped walking, which caused the rest of them to pause as well. "Someone got the idea into his head that he should remove knives from the kitchen one by one and attempt to create a spinning weapon type thing. Then, when he tried to use it on Verdev, he ended up injuring himself instead."

"At least I tried," replied Anglin as he moved out of the kitchen and went back into the sitting room. There was a large, overstuffed chair at the center. "Here it is," said the blond. He waved his hand above it, but did not touch it, and the rest avoided coming too close. As Erestor approached, he, too, stepped back, for it had an underlying stentch to it. "The master's chair.

Erestor stood in front of the chair and looked down on it. "Knowing that makes me want to piss on the seat."

"How do you think it gained that lovely scent?" asked Ardinir.

"It is different when his other pet pees on things," said Saeldan. "The tiger he sometimes rides," he explained in answer to the quizzical look on Erestor's face. "She can do no wrong. He allows her all liberties, as much as he can give. She keeps marking that chair; I do hope he leaves her home whenever he comes to visit."

"I do hope he stays home as much as possible and visits infrequently." Anglin sat down on the sofa that was in the room. "This is cozy. I wonder which poor bastard's loss is our gain."

"That belonged to King Turgon," said Erestor as he came closer to inspect the item. "Yes, this was certainly his. One of a kind, and I recognize his daughter's work in the weaving of the fabric. It was his house's emblem, before he changed it," said Erestor of the unicorns that danced and darted over a field of dark green.

"Why did he change his emblem? I thought it was bad luck to do that or something," said Eliel.

Erestor sat down on the edge of the arm and said, "He was ever changed from the war he went to fight with his brother. It was expected that we would win, but we were so unprepared for what was going to happen. Turgon saw his brother die, and saw the foul beasts trample Fingon's body into the ground. They ripped his heart from his chest, and this Turgon would not allow. He and his nephew, Maeglin, charged forward. They surrounded the body, and once it was secured, Turgon continued on and tracked down the orc that cut out his brother's heart. He retrieved it, and slaughtered the orc who did it. Before he beheaded the creature, however, it is said that he declared that no one should have the right to steal his brother's heart, for it belonged to another. I was not close enough myself to know whether or not those words were true, but it seemed a romantic enough declaration that I like to think he did."

"Fingon... he was an odd one," said Saeldan.

"I beg your pardon," announced Eliel, who was choked up from the story that Erestor had just told, "but my master was a far fairer elf than you might ever aspire to be."

Saeldan did not look at all ashamed. “I meant because of—“

“I know what you meant,” Eliel spat back. “How dare you judge him for that – why should you even care? At least someone loved him; that is more than you can probably say!”

Before things could get worse, Thrangorn stepped him, showing his usually hidden diplomatic quality. “I think we could all do with a good meal, and perhaps a comfortable nap to follow. The events of the past days have been trying on us all. If everyone would be so kind to wait here, I shall fix us something in the kitchen... Eliel, would you care to assist me?”

The maid nodded and gracefully followed Thrangorn away from the others. “What Verdev sees in her, I will never know,” grumbled Saeldan.

After his first night of good sleep in a long time, Erestor awoke with a restless feeling. He sat up and blearily noted that Anglin was still in bed with covers drawn up and pillow cradled in his arms. Until now, Erestor had not seen a blessing in the death of everyone he dearly loved, but as he walked to the private bath chamber and wondered how Anglin’s wife was coping with the capture of her husband, Erestor began to think that despite the pain he felt it was perhaps all for the best that those he knew no longer suffered in any way.

A bath refreshed him, even though the water was chilly, he minded little. Combing his mangled hair was time-consuming, but he was glad to have heeded Rog’s advice when the first demons were seen in the red dawning skies. It came just about to the middle of his back, and shone now in the light coming through the window, brown highlights accenting black – and every now and then, the most subtle hint of silver. “Thanks, Nana,” he mumbled as he separated one of these rare errant strands away from the rest. Even with wounds yet healing, he knew his appearance was striking as he looked over himself in the ovular mirror that hung on the wall. He had not always thought so, not always cared, but Glorfindel had somehow helped him find what vanity he had. “This has got to go,” he said to himself again as he ran his fingers back towards the root of the unwanted silver hair.

“Leave that be,” spoked up a voice that startled Erestor. The elf turned to see his captor standing there, in the second doorway that led out into the hall. Verdev was leaned upon his cane, the tiger who was all-too-familiar to Erestor sitting calmly beside her master. “Good morning.”

Erestor looked about as he let go of the temporarily pardoned strand, expecting to see other orcs. There were none. “I suppose.”

“I have a present for you.”

It was then that Erestor noticed that Verdev’s hands were behind his back. For a moment, he considered lunging for the sword at Verdev’s side, or even for the orc’s throat. It was possible he might be able to tear it out with his bare hands, or possibly break his neck. There were stories of what Finrod had once done with shear will and no weapons. On the other hand, he was ill-prepared to deal with any other orcs that might be in the house in the lower level or that might show up when their leader did not return. And, there was the tiger, who set her fiery eyes upon him and dared him to do what he wanted. So instead, Erestor asked, “Whatever for?”

“For being a good pet and staying where I left you last night. I thought for certain one of you would foolishly try to run away.” He paused. “By one of you, I mean you.”

“I got that feeling.”

Verdev nodded down the hallway. “Wake the others, and come downstairs.”

Although he did not like the idea of turning his back on the orc, Erestor did so in order to return to the bedrooms. He stopped in the closest one, which was being used by Thrangorn and Eliel. Both of them were already awake, so he simply told them what Verdev had said, even though it appeared from the nodding that they had heard much of the conversation already. Then he went to the next room, where Saeldan was already up and about, exploring the room. Saeldan set to waking Ardinir so that Erestor could return to the room he was sharing with Anglin.

Erestor strolled past his bed, which was closer to the door, and stopped beside the other. For a few moments, he paused to watch Anglin sleeping. If he stood just far enough away, and squinted just a little, it was almost as if...

“Is something the matter?” questioned Anglin sleepily.

“No, Glorf...erm, uh.. .no. Nothing. Uh...” Erestor closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead while Anglin sat up. “Verdev. He, uh, wants us to go downstairs. He brought something for us. Said he has a present or something.”

“Oh, I can hardly wait,” said Anglin in a voice that rather said he could. He shoved the blankets off, revealing the fact that he was wearing only leggings just as Erestor was. “Is he requesting formal attire, or do you think we can go like this?”

“He did not say,” replied Erestor.

Anglin frowned. “I think I shall chance it,” he decided, though he did find a robe hanging from a doorknob and slipped it over his shoulders as they made their way down the staircase.

Verdev was sitting on the largest of the chairs in the parlor. Across the room, the other four elves were already assembled. Erestor and Anglin joined them, and then waited for Verdev’s explanation.

There was a small package in his lap, which his fingers stroked as if it were a cat or a tamed rabbit. Lounged on the floor, flicking her tail, the tiger kept a keen watch on all of the elves, making their skin crawl. Orcs were one thing, but tigers, especially those who had tasted blood as this one surely had, were no trifle matter. “I appreciate finding all of you here this morning,” he began, his eyes falling first on Erestor, and upon Anglin after that. “I thought I might surprise you with a small gift fit for pets of such distinction.”

The brown paper was unfolded, and as the sheet fell open, the items within it jingled against each other. “It just so happened that we found the shop of a cordwainer, and in his stock he possessed a number of finely crafted collars and leashes for hounds and hunting cats. I hope that my guesses of sizes were accurate; it would be a shame if you could not all have one.” The collars were brightly dyed, and Verdev selected the indigo one from the pile. “Erestor?”

Stomach knotted, Erestor shifted uneasily where he stood against the wall. “What?” He began to regret the decision to not lunge at Verdev when he had had the chance.

“Come over here.” The hypnotically issued command was hesitantly followed. “Turn around,” said Verdev once Erestor was standing in front of him. “Now kneel.”

Erestor did so, his gaze flittering about. He found that his companions were all carefully finding other places to focus on. The leather strap was brought down in front of him, and drawn back. It curled around his neck, and was drawn up tightly against his throat as the end was threaded through the buckle. Verdev set the pin into one of the holes and let the leather relax. After examination, the orc decided to adjust his work. The leather was pulled back, only to be tightened once more. This time, the edges dug into Erestor’s skin, but once the buckle was adjusted and Verdev let go, the collar fit snuggly but not uncomfortably around his neck. Verdev spent a little time arranging Erestor’s hair to make sure it was not caught, and then straightened out the heavy metal disk attached the front of the collar. “Anglin is next,” said Verdev while he stroked Erestor’s hair in a way that made the elf feel degraded and whorish.

Each of the elves in succession was given the same treatment. Anglin was given one which was amber, ‘to compliment his hair’, while Eliel’s was red, and ‘appropriate for a lady’. Saeldan’s was orange, and Ardinir’s green. When Thrangorn was gifted with his, it was very somber, for his was black. “Black suits you, my pet,” decided Verdev as he spent longer with Thrangorn than the rest. The butler looked positively miserable as he knelt on the floor and stared at his folded hands while the mangled hand of the orc ran through his long, straight hair and sometimes stroked his cheek and neck.

“From now on, you have two additional rules to follow. First, you are not allowed to remove these fine gifts without permission from me.” Verdev gave Thrangorn’s head a final pat before he stood up. “The second rule is, before you sleep in your beds, you will bathe. Beds should not be filthy, but they will be if you crawl into them after working and playing all day long. After you are clean, there will be no reason to put clothes on to simply go to bed. Therefore, you will not need them – but – you will be expected to leave your collars on. There will be no exceptions.”

“You wish for us to bathe with our collars on?” questioned Anglin. “How are we to wash our necks?”

“Your neck will not be dirty because your collar will protect it,” answered Verdev without the slightest pause. “And now, if there are no more silly questions, I must leave my dear pets for now. There is much for me to do today.” He petted Eliel’s head on his way to the door, tiger on his heels, and then left, leaving the brown paper on the floor by the chair.

“Show of hands – who else feels like they need a bath now?” asked Ardinir. Most of them laughed uneasily, while Thrangorn and Eliel just gave shrugs of discomfort. “Is it me, or is he more than a little perverse?”

Erestor might have had something to say about that, but his mind was racing through ideas on how to be rid of the collar without facing Verdev’s wrath. He could feel the damned thing every time he swallowed, every time he breathed. Nothing, not being banished from Doriath, not being whipped by Turgon, nothing had been so degrading before as to cause him to feel tears pricking his eyes. He left the others in the main room and escaped with his shame into the kitchen.

“It has nothing to do with any sort of sexual perversion,” said Anglin, watching Erestor leave, but not following. “It is a psychological thing.”

“How so?” wondered Saeldan.

“He is trying to break us,” said Eliel.

Ardinir, who had also watched Erestor leave, whispered, “He may have already succeeded.”

Anglin slid his fingertip just underneath the leather band in an attempt to loosen it. “Verdev sees this as an assertion of power. When you bathe, you become more aware of things. The awareness heightens your senses. So, you are naked – and then, if you put clothing on, you are bombarded by the feel of it, and the smell of it, and all of that, so your senses dull. If you put nothing on, nothing but the collar... you feel it. You smell it. You hear it, hear the clink of this stupid metal thing,” he said as he batted the one that hung from his collar. “You know he owns you. You feel owned. He wants that.”

“I hate him.” It was Thrangorn who spoke, still on the floor. Eliel leaned over and touched his shoulder to try to offer comfort. Thrangorn’s face was pale, and his expression forlorn. “I have always had a master, but never one so cruel.”

“Tell me about Gondolin.”

Thrangorn gave Erestor a sideways glance. “You were there. What can I tell you that you do not already know?”

“I only know what I saw; I am sure that you saw things I never knew about. And, you lived there long before I did. Were you in Nevrast?”

Thrangorn nodded and picked up a plate that Erestor had just washed. “I was born in Nevrast. I was very young when we traveled to Gondolin.”

“Tell me what that was like.” There was very little to do beyond cleaning, eating, and sleeping. There was a chess game and a few books, brought by Aphasus on the third day that the elves were in the house. The following day, an embroidered, quilted bag full of half-finished needlepoint and patches meant for a quilt arrived for Eliel. There was also a desk with paper, ink, and brushes – quills were not something they were trusted with.

The game was taken immediately by Saeldan, and the books were distributed somewhat unevenly, with Ardinir taking the majority of them. The desk was in a common area, but Erestor found there was nothing he wanted to write about or draw. That left nothing but quiet thought and conversation, and quiet thought left him depressed and despondent. Thrangorn, Anglin, and Eliel had observed this, and purposely took turns making sure that one of them was with him throughout the day to keep him talking or listening.

Thrangorn, though not a particularly experienced speaker, did his best. “It was rather boring, really. I mean, when you are a child and everyone is telling you to go out and play so that they can pack and move things and not to go too far so they do not lose you, it is rather boring. I suppose that it was exciting for everyone else.” Thrangorn placed the dish atop a pile and picked up a spoon, expertly drying and polishing it. “I do recall how excited Lady Aredhel was compared to everyone else. She was practically dancing through the streets. To her, it was not a march as we moved, it was a parade. If only she would have known that Gondolin was to be a prison to keep her safe.”

“It is too bad what happened to her.” Erestor picked up another stack of dirty dishes and lowered them into the soapy water. “It was too bad about all of them. I remember so many of them when they were children.” Tears created ripples in the water. “I held Turgon the day he was born.”

The rag used to dry the dishes was held out to Erestor. “Why not let me finish up while you—“

Erestor closed his eyes, shook his head, and kept scrubbing the remnants of their morning meal from saucers and plates. “I remember so many of the growing up in Valinor, trampling parts of my gardens, or sneaking apples from the orchards. I may not have always agreed with Turgon, but he was... he was always such a determined little boy. Once he became king, it just seemed as if nothing was ever going to stop him. I remember how different he was from Ecthelion and Thranduil,” recalled Erestor. After the final bowl was rinsed of residue and placed upon the counter for Thrangorn, he retrieved another towel. It was first used to dry the tears that had not slipped down his throat to disappear behind the leather collar, and then to assist Thrangorn with his task. “Manwe help me if anything ever happens to Thranduil.”

“Is he the only one who remains from those days in Valinor?” asked Thrangorn.

With a sad shake of his head, Erestor replied, “There are others, scattered far across these lands. Thranduil, though, was the closest I ever had to a brother, and the closest I ever will have. His sons I would protect as if they were my own. His entire family is very dear to me.” Again, his chin trembled, but he held his composure. “He and Ecthelion were the best of friends when they were growing up. When Laiqalasse joined us here, Ecthelion welcomed him like a member of the family. Ecthelion was always so strong, and he has always had that playful side to him, but once he was grown, no one could argue his kindness or his benevolence. He could have been a king if he had wanted.”

“Everyone thought the best of Ecthelion – even servants in his house did, and that is not always the case. Did you know that I once worked in the House of the Fountain?” Thrangorn smiled at the curious look he received from Erestor. “Yes. That was where I learned my trade – I apprenticed there. I was just a lesser servant in those days; a companion.”

“A companion? To whom? Not to Ecthelion,” guessed Erestor.

“Oh, no. Not to Ecthelion,” Thrangorn confirmed. “To his young ward, though, I was not to treat the boy as such. It was to be assumed he was as old as he said. Those closest to him knew different, of course.”

“And this boy... I assume he had a name?” Erestor found his hands slowing, his work plodding along now.

Thrangorn nodded, picking up a bowl to dry as he reminisced. “That he did.”

- - -

“Glorfindel? Glorfindel?” Thrangorn methodically looked through the house, hunting for his young charge. He practically stumbled over him in the sitting room. “Glorfindel, what is the matter? What are you doing here?” Thrangorn knelt down and gently shook Glorfindel’s shoulder. “Is something wrong?” he asked when Glorfindel stirred.

“Mmm? No... it is?” Glorfindel rubbed his eyes and blinked as he looked around, blond curls bouncing about. “What is going on?”

“I might ask you the same question. Thrangorn helped Glorfindel to his feet. “What were you doing in here?”

“Sleeping,” answered Glorfindel innocently. “Does Lord Ecthelion need me for something?”

“Need you for... goodness, no, he is still away for the day. What were you doing down there?”

Glorfindel looked at the floor, where a pillow taken from the couch still was. “Down there?” he parroted.

“Yes, down there. Where else? What were you doing sleeping on the floor?” asked Thrangorn. He was trying to stay patient, but his patience was obviously wearing thin.

“I was tired.” Glorfindel bent down and picked up the pillow. “I did not want to wrinkle the cushions on the couch in case Lord Ecthelion brought guests home.”

“So you thought it would be more appropriate to have them enter and find a pristine couch with someone sleeping on the floor in the middle of the room? Why did you not go up to your bed?”

“I did, actually, but the maid had already made the bed. I would have felt dreadful to have ruined her work.”

“Did you not get enough sleep last night that you felt you needed to take a nap so early in the day?” asked Thrangorn

“Nay,” replied Glorfindel. “It was just that I woke up from such a wonderful dream, and I wanted to see if I might be able to continue it to the end.”

Thrangorn sighed. “What am I to do with you?”

Glorfindel shrugged.

"What would you like to do today?" asked Thrangorn.

"Uhmm..." Glorfindel's face took on an expression of extreme thought. "Uhmm..."

"Shall we go and visit Lord Galdor? He has expressed interest in having you come and see what you might like to borrow from his library."

"Oh... uh, I just read some books yesterday. Three or four of them, all in a row, right before bed."

Thrangorn highly doubted what he was being told, but said nothing regarding it. "Perhaps you might be more interested in doing something outside? Something that would consist of some physical activity of some sort?"

"Maybe we could take the chariot out. If you think that Ecthelion would let us."

"Have you been practicing much lately?" asked Thrangorn.

Glorfindel shook his head. "I have spent much more time learning combat fighting as of late. I would really love to have a chance to ride one of the horses or race the chariots."

Thrangorn bowed his head. "As you wish. I will see to it that the chariot is ready for us by noon. We should be able to take it along the western roads."

"Excellent!" Glorfindel gathered up his stockings and boots and, after Thrangorn was not looking, snatched up the tiny rag doll he often carried in his pocket from where he had been sleeping on the floor.

As promised, they ate lunch quickly and headed right out to the stables. Two of the chariots were hitched with horses, and the stablehands waited patiently for Thrangorn and Glorfindel to slowly stroll across the field to reach them. "Which do you prefer?" asked Thrangorn when they finally did reach the horses.

"I do not care. You choose," offered Glorfindel, though his eye was on the chariot that had one white and one cream horse hitched to it. Thrangorn chose the other, and climbed onto the back platform, his chosen creatures a pair of brown and tan speckled steeds. Glorfindel happily took up his position on the other chariot, and the two eased their loyal assistants away from the stables and towards the roads.

"I think we should practice your turns," said Thrangorn once they were on the main road that crossed from north to south on the western side of Gondolin. "You appeared to be a bit shaky last time, and practice makes perfect, young master."

"That seems like a good idea to me," agreed Glorfindel. He pulled back on the reigns, and coaxed his horses behind Thrangorn so that they would follow him back and forth and around the roads. The exercise was very beneficial for Glorfindel, who had not had very much luck previously making the turns, especially when Ecthelion was riding with him. He listened carefully to all advice that Thrangorn gave to him, and found that midday was not a time when there was much traffic, thereby making it easier to travel about on the roads. "Do you think we might move to an area that is a little more populated?" he asked after an hour or so of perfecting the technique.

"I see no harm in that." Thrangorn led him back into the city, where the streets were more heavily trafficked, and some crossways had guards monitoring them. "Let us try here," Thrangorn suggested.

In these places, there was a little more care to be taken. Judgment had to be made when to turn and when to wait, with so many people going every which way. Sometimes, it meant that Glorfindel was left behind, and it seemed he was further and further behind each time.

His turns going right were perfect; his left turns were in need of some improvement. Glorfindel groaned to himself when he saw Thrangorn execute a precise turn to the left, just before two mule-drawn carts and a rider on horseback came through in the opposite direction. He dreaded having to repeat the move, now that the markets were closing and people were on their way home or on their way to a market quickly before it closed. He sighed and pulled up on the reigns, letting the horses know to wait until the road was clear.

Uncountable carts, chariots, carriages, and riders went past. Some were hasty; others took their time moving along. Glorfindel carefully watched, keeping an eye not on who was going past, but on who was yet to come along. A gap appeared to be in sight, with someone herding goats quite a distance back. Glorfindel clicked his tongue to get the attention of the horses, who were beginning to doubt that they would be making any turns at all. “Ready, boys,” he said, and the horses slowly moved forward. As the final rider rushed past, Glorfindel shook the reigns, and the horses clip-clopped forward.

Only a few moments later, Glorfindel happened to look to his right, and practically fell off his platform in shock. The herd he had seen was now quite a bit closer than he had thought them to be. He slapped the reigns down hard as the lead goats began to charge, heads bent down. Without any ability to control the situation, Glorfindel let go of the reigns and in one move cut the ropes that tethered the horses. Without the ropes, the horses kept going, bewildered at their lightened load.

The impact was hard, and it happened all at once as six or seven of the goats hit the side of the chariot at the same time. Glorfindel had moved to the far end of it, so when they crushed the wooden barrier, it did not cause him harm. The chariot was forced sideways more than it was built to be, and the wheels tore off and snapped. The loss of the horses left it teetering a bit, and Glorfindel, shaken up and now unexplainably on the ground next to the chariot, blinked in confusion and did not move or stand until a passerby ran up to him and tugged on his arm. “Sir! Sir! You need to get up, and get out of the way!”

Glorfindel stumbled off to the side, and looked back in a daze. “I need to find Thrangorn,” he said. “He needs to find the horses. I let the horses go.”

“We need to find you a healer,” said a soldier who was on patrol in the area. “Unless Thrangorn is a healer, you probably will not have much need for him at the moment!”

“I need to find the horses...” Glorfindel saw a woman off to the side, surrounded by the goats that had charged him. She was crying, and he managed to make his way over to her. “Are you alright?” he asked as he felt the side of his cheek. It was warm, and he saw now that there was blood on his hand when he pulled it away.

“This is your fault! Oh, how am I to get them to market on time!” She continued to carry on and Glorfindel was soon whisked away by a second soldier who appeared on the scene.

The soldier made some notations in a book that he had, and then asked, “What were you doing with Lord Ecthelion’s horses and equipment?”

“I borrowed them. He allowed me to,” explained Glorfindel.

“I see.” The soldier continued to write. “How often have you used this chariot?”

“Probably only a few times. I was waiting to go, and I saw that the path was cleared, but when I turned the goats came upon me much too quickly,” he explained. He found that his ear, jaw, and chest were beginning to hurt, not to mention his knee. “I thought – I know I had time to clear the way, but they began to run and they had been walking.”

“Are you aware of the fact that she still had the right to cross before you did?” questioned the soldier.

“Well, yes,” said Glorfindel, “But I still thought I could make it in time.”

The soldier looked up over his book, his narrowed eyes otherwise expressionless. “If there is any damage to her livestock or to her, you will be responsible for it.”

“I know. I am sorry, but I thought—“

“Sorry does not pay the fine.” The soldier tore a sheet of paper from his booklet and handed it to Glorfindel. “You have one month to pay the fee. The details are found on there.”

“Do... do you know how much it is?” asked Glorfindel nervously without looking at the sheet.

The soldier nodded toward the piece of paper that Glorfindel held. “All of the details are on there.”

Glorfindel turned and watched as a group of elves moved the chariot out of the way and onto a grassy area. He cringed when he saw Thrangorn dismounting from the chariot. As the older elf approached, Glorfindel hung his head. “We should have gone to that library you told me about,” he said. “Now, I have a fine, I have ruined Ecthelion’s chariot, I do not know where the horses are, some lady is going to want me to buy her whole herd as retribution—“

“Calm down a moment, young master,” begged Thrangorn. “Rest assured; Ecthelion is able to buy another chariot. That one was fifteen years old, and never managed to win a race for him. The horses are safe. They came trotting right up to me, which alerted me that something was wrong. Be thankful you are as well as you are,” said Thrangorn.

With a small smile, Glorfindel nodded. “I suppose you are right.”

“Oh my...” Thrangorn paled a bit. “Has anyone called for a healer?”

“Someone... mentioned... Thrangorn, what is it?”

“You have a cut on your face, and probably some on your head as well. There are spots of red in your hair.” Thrangorn motioned that Glorfindel should bow his head, and he did so. “We need to have someone take a look at you.”

“Is it bad?”

“You have blood in your hair. I am no healer, but I cannot imagine that to be a good thing.”

Glorfindel winced as Thrangorn pressed in a few places on his scalp. “Maybe you are right.”

“This way, young master,” insisted Thrangorn. “I know of someone nearby who can help.”

- - -

“Was he alright?” questioned Erestor. He had long since finished drying the dishes, and was now leaned back against the basin while Thrangorn finished putting the silverware away.

Thrangorn gave Erestor an incredulous look as he set a teaspoon into its place. “Of course he was.”

“I meant, was it anything serious?” Erestor closed the door of the cabinet where the plates and bowls were kept once Thrangorn set the sixth and final saucer onto the pile.

“Nothing that the healer was not able to fix,” Thrangorn assured him. The dishes now put away, he set to drying the counters while Erestor began to sweep the room, corners and edges to the center. “The blood on his face was dried by the time we did finally make it to see a healer, so they decided not to sew it up. The cuts on his head were mostly superficial, but it still scared me to see his blond mane stained crimson.”

“Did it take him long to get back into the saddle – figuratively speaking, I mean. I know I was not the most enthusiastic to mount a horse again after my first misadventure,” admitted Erestor.

“Actually, he probably would have foregone any further use of horses if I had not pressured him gently to do so. He was very put off by the idea, in part because he did not wish to see the horses harmed,” explained Thrangorn. “He was extremely worried about that, though, I am sure that his own wellbeing was on his mind as well. He spent the remainder of the day worrying about what Lord Ecthelion would say. Lord Ecthelion, well, he was so concerned about Glorfindel and cared very little about the chariot.”

“Yes, I can imagine that,” said Erestor.

Thrangorn sat down at the table and watched Erestor scoop up the dust from the floor. “The next day, Glorfindel rested, and spent much of the time on the couch he did not want to wrinkle. On the day after that, I started the day with a suggestion that we go to see the horses, so that he could see that they were fine. Once we were in the stables, I suggested he stand upon one of the chariots, just to keep his bearings with it and such. This continued, until finally I had him back out on the streets after dark, when I knew that the roads would be mostly clear.”

“How did he do?”

“He was fine. A little uncertain, but as well as could be expected.” Thrangorn rubbed the back of his neck and fiddled with his collar. “Lord Ecthelion was concerned that if he did not get back to it, he would avoid it whenever possible. It was imperative that he continue his training.”

With their chores finished, Erestor joined Thrangorn at the table. “I hope things went smoothly from then on.”

“Hardly. Less than a month later, he had another scare.”

“Not another accident,” said Erestor.

Thrangorn nodded sadly. “He was out on his own, just on his horse, on his way to see Lord Galdor. A doe darted out in front of him.”

“My word! Did the horse rear up and throw him?”

“The horse never saw the deer – I never asked if the stallion was wearing blinders or what the reason might have been. In any case, Glorfindel did see the animal. It was early in the morning, and she was standing still at the side of the road. He did not expect her to move as he approached, but she ran right out in front of him the moment he was passing,” recounted Thrangorn.

Erestor moved the placemats on the table around to different spots in order to have them arranged to his liking. “Was the horse injured?”

“Yes, and badly, though it was not put down. His legs were fine, and that is always of greatest concern. Glorfindel nursed him back to health, and eventually the stallion was able to be ridden again. The deer was trampled over, but hobbled off into the woods on three good legs. No one ever saw her again, as far as we knew, though Lord Ecthelion himself went off to hunt for her.”

“And Glorfindel?”

“He stopped using that road. The two accidents happened within sight of each other.”

“Oh, my. I can not blame him for that.”

Thrangorn nodded. He looked out one of the large windows, and observed the activity of the orcs. “Losing Gondolin has been difficult for me, too. Losing everyone I knew and everyone I cared about. Aiding Master Salgant when he took his own life is a moment I will never shake from my memory. But I am trying not to dwell on those moments. I know it is harder for you, having known everyone for so much longer, but there must be many happy memories of them,” said Thrangorn.

Erestor nodded. “I can recall many.”

“Then recall those times, Erestor. Do not dwell on the haunting memories of this year, but on the times you once had. I think it might help.”

Still melancholy from his earlier thoughts, Erestor attempted a small smile. “I will do my best to try that,” he promised.

-Chapter Ten-

Fire.

The flames would not die down, nor would the screams stop. Erestor felt the pressure of people all around, some shouting, some crying, some cursing, some angered and others fearful. He lost himself in the crowd. Too many people, too much emotion, too little time.

That was when it appeared. It was said that Gothmog was Lord Balrog, and that might have been true, but he was lord only for his connection to Morgoth, whatever that might have been. The accepted answer was that Morgoth had sired the feared balrog who now lie dead at the bottom of the fountain in the courtyard, slain by brave Ecthelion in his own final moments.

Gothmog might have been dwarfed beside the beast that rose up from the pit of hell and cracked its whip across the side of the mountain. Few balrogs had wings, but this one had wingspan to spare. She was fierce and frightening, and had within her the wrath of Morgoth himself, and the desire for revenge, for all of the other balrogs who had joined her on this mission had since perished in the fighting. Her shadows cast over the crowd standing against the mountain and everything froze.

She scanned the crowd as fire spit and flames jumped from her body. Then, she found it – found the one she was looking for, and Erestor took a step back towards the mountain.

He fought, not by choice, but for survival. He fought, in fear, and not for long nor well. He fought, and he fought not to look at those who were watching him, for he hoped they did not see the look of fear on his own face.

And then, he fell, but not far. The dust was in his eyes and the shadow was cast over him. Then, suddenly, as suddenly as it had appeared, it was washed away. A bright light, pure and comforting, enveloped him, and Erestor looked up and saw before him Glorfindel in all his splendor. Armor gleaming, sword raised high, and foot upon the band of the whip, Glorfindel held the whip from being retracted. His boot burned, and the stench was almost unbearable as the fumes of burning flesh reached Erestor’s nostrils. He feared for what would come next, for what was fated.

And in that moment, as he looked up and saw Glorfindel for that final time, Erestor finally saw him for what he was. Beautiful and dangerous, kind and wonderful, strong and giving and forgiving, and glorious, in looks and in mind and spirit. He felt the loss before it came, the grief before the grieving, and he knew he was looking upon him in his final moments. As Glorfindel leaped forward and gripped the horn of the beast to steady himself, Erestor began to weep for a loss he had never anticipated.

He awoke to the sounds of his own sobbing, and found his pillow was damp, his hair stuck to his face. There was someone touching his shoulder and rubbing his back, and Erestor turned his head to see a figure in the darkness, with blond hair that fell over his shoulder in waves. “Glorfindel... do not leave me, Glorfindel...”

“I...” Anglin sat down on the edge of the bed. “I am sorry, Erestor, you are having a bad dream.” Anglin helped Erestor to sit up. “You were shouting and crying – I did not want to wake you up too harshly, but I was worried that you were going to scare the others, or even make the guards come up here to check on things. Are you alright?”

Erestor sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I think so. Just... just a nightmare.” He swallowed hard and rubbed his eyes. “I am sorry. I did not mean to frighten or upset anyone. I hope... oh... what am I talking about? I probably said some pretty upsetting things before I woke up.”

“No, nothing to worry about,” lied Anglin.

Erestor gave him a sideways look.

“Nothing I am going to share with anyone. I really think you need not be so harsh. It was a nightmare; you have no control over your dreams.”

“No, but you might think that Irmo would be a little kinder to me, all things considered.” Erestor sighed. “How much did I say?”

“Enough for me to know that I am thankful I was not present during the fall of Gondolin.” Anglin continued to rub Erestor’s back. “Did you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” Erestor stared at the wall. “Your brother saved me, you know. I mean, he saved all of us, but I was next to him when the balrog came.”

This piqued Anglin’s interest. “You fought beside him?”

Erestor bowed his head. “I was a coward,” he whispered.

“You ran away?”

Erestor shook his head. “I was injured. The balrog engaged me first. I fell, and then he appeared.”

“That is hardly cowardice,” Anglin assured Erestor.

“I could have done more.”

“We all say that.” Anglin made himself comfortable and adjusted the pillows against the headboard so that they could sit back against it. “There were things I might have done to help my father that I never did. There were places I might have gone for help. In the end, we must live forward, not back, or we will never reach the future.”

“I need some fresh air.” Erestor tossed the blankets down to the end of the bed and swung his legs off to one side.

Anglin looked worried. “It is late, and I doubt Verdev is up for being an escort at this hour.”

“The balcony is available,” stated Erestor as he padded across the room to the door. “If anyone asks, I will just claim it was an emergency.”

Anglin waited a few minutes before donning a robe. He quietly climbed the steps to the third floor, where he found the door to the balcony had been left ajar. With little effort, he slipped outside and saw Erestor sitting on the balcony with his back up against the side of the house. With the railing up as high as it was and the lack of light on that side of the building, it was unlikely anyone would notice them. Anglin did not shut the door all the way as he emerged from the house and crept over. “Mind if I join you?” he asked softly. He kept a hand over the metal tag that hung from his collar, not wishing moonlight or starlight to glint off of it and alert anyone below.

Erestor looked to the empty spot beside him and gave it a pat.

“Thanks.” Anglin moved closer.

“Sorry about earlier.” Erestor was looking out over the city, not watching any one particular person or thing. “I did not mean to startle you like that.”

“No worries. I understand.” Anglin eased down quietly next to Erestor. “You must have been close to him.”

Erestor gave a slight nod.

“You knew him for a long time.”

“I did.”

“May I ask something personal?”

Erestor sucked in his breath, already preparing for the question. “About me, or about him?”

“A little of both, actually.” Anglin chewed his lip, and then asked, “Were you ever his lover?”

A long pause followed, which was eventually ended when Erestor said, “I think he wished that I would have been.”

“Ah. And... you were... you felt more like a brother or something?”

“I...” Erestor shook his head, still looking straight ahead. “No, I... I could not do it again. There was no way that I could.” His voice was extremely soft, and he closed his eyes, thinking back to days long past. “When he told me, I tried to distance myself somewhat. I kept finding myself drawn back to him. He was... so kind and innocent and... and so beautiful, not just physically, but spiritually as well. But I... in Gondolin, it was bad, but in Valinor...” Erestor opened his eyes, and looked at Anglin. “Valinor was worse.”

“You had a male lover there.”

“For a short time.”

“You were ostracized there.”

“I was almost killed for what I was doing there.” The words and memories were bitter. “So I forced myself to be ‘normal’. Found an elleth. Almost got married. People forgot. I forgot. I felt like I did not care, not in Doriath nor for a while when I was here. Then, he began to seek me out. It... we...” Erestor ran his hand through his hair and sighed as he turned back to monitor the barren city.

“You never told him.”

Erestor’s chin trembled. “No. I never did.”

Anglin leaned closer and wrapped his arms around Erestor. “My father made a similar mistake.” The blond sat straight again when Erestor gave him an incredulous look, despite his tearful eyes. “He loved Glorfindel, even if it seemed like he did not. He was very tough on him, but I know why now, if Valinor was as you say. He wanted to make sure that Glorfindel was strong enough to stand up to the abuse he was certain to face later, and he hoped that Glorfindel would find a way to keep his preferences discrete. He went about it all in the wrong way,” admitted Anglin. “But he loved all of his children, and that includes his first-born. Whenever my cousin Gildor would come to deliver messages, father would always ask before anything else ‘What news of my son?’. He would say it with such pride, and such regret. I had hoped that they would reconcile before... well, I suppose now they will be able to discuss it while they wait.”

They sat on the porch until the sun began to peek over the horizon. “I should have told him,” whispered Erestor regretfully.

Anglin stood up and stretched before helping Erestor to stand. “Knowing my brother, he probably knew.”