Agarwaen

Perspiration beaded and dripped down his jawline. A stitch knifing beneath his ribcage, he breathed in deeply through his nostrils and out again, the air frigid and searing against his lungs as he rested against solid bark, its wide girth encompassing him completely as he waited for the throbbing pulse in his neck to recede.

His saber hilt prodded him. With a sudden bright urgency, he ripped it from his hip and flung it away, belt and sword, not caring that it clattered loudly against a tree trunk. Tearing his gaze from the earth, he swiped sweat out of his eyes and searched for the stars. Only a pale, ghostly flicker peeked through the withered leaves rustling in an icy breeze he had not yet begun to feel, one Ral would never feel again.

A shudder not of cold gripped the elf as a dark image of cold, rotting hands floated before his treacherous mind, pale fingers, white as bone, flexed as though waiting to grip him and crush him. It was only when they twitched, startling him that he realized they were his own, sitting upturned on his lap. He ran them briskly over his face, casting a glare at the offending, scythe-shaped shadow barely visible in the darkness.

Tonight had been a clean kill. His saber knew that kind of work well. The man had been deathly wounded- what else could he have done?

Let the woman do it. Let Estel do it. Anyone but himself. What on earth had possessed him to think he could get away with something like that and not be forced to remember? He had tried so hard not to.

Tried to block out the countless nights when three warriors of Lothlórien slipped from their burned and grieving forest like moon shadows, moon shadows of grief and rage, driving them to do the unthinkable. Swords flashed against the darkness of his closed eyelids, gouts of blood reflected with the vividness of afterimages. Shapes writhed on the tips of swords just as that man he had killed this night. But Haldir and death both proved the stronger every time. And his self-revulsion afterwards. Every time.

As he had not allowed himself in years, he unbuttoned his collar and slid chilled fingers over the slightly raised mark stretching across his collarbone, thinning at his shoulder. He was already remembering everything he had sought not to; one more would make no difference tonight. Aragorn had asked him about it once. Scars usually did not fail to heal without a mark on elven bodies. Normal scars. Haldir had never told him how he got it- or more importantly who he had gotten it from.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered though there was no one to hear him even if he knew who he spoke to.

He glanced up at the moon drifting through the interlacing pattern of branches which traced a dark lattice over his face like black veins. It was late and he had run far. It would take him all night to get back to camp.

Unbending stiff knees, he stooped and lifted the saber from the dead litter.

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Late-clinging frost crackled under his boots as he walked sleepily alongside the streambed. All the branches sparkled with sleeves of diamond. But Aragorn took no notice of the austere beauty; it was too cold. Hunched deep in his greatcoat, he barely bristled at hearing Carlóme up ahead speculating loudly to the others if “the elf” had finally deserted. Like Aragorn, Yyrin didn’t pay her any attention and walked at the rear, empty eyes directed downward. Beside him Narturi scooped up his hand in hers though he didn’t seem to notice.

Aragorn doubted he would notice anything at all unless his friend’s killer somehow magically appeared right in front of him. Looking at him, he couldn’t help remembering Ral’s vivid injuries and the one who had put them there. Pushing aside recollections compounded by worry for Haldir, he tried instead to get into the killer’s mind. Maybe if they could understand what he was after, they could think of a way to outmaneuver him. But all they had so far was a trail of cold bodies.

“Strider, get up here. We need you to show us the spot.”

Carefully refraining from voicing his annoyance at the order, Aragorn sped up his pace until he passed the dark woman and her male comrade, casting about for the deer trail he had followed yesterday. His own fresher tracks were easy enough to find and they soon made it through the grove of thick pine trees, pausing on the edge of the meadow.

Like the first time, it was empty but uneasiness squeezed Aragorn’s spine as he stepped from the shelter of the trees into full sunlight. Wintry rays shimmered as the sun streaked the lifting mist with gold and every grass blade with alive and vibrating shadows around the company. It would have been very beautiful had the circumstances not felt so grim.

“There!” quick-eyed, Brenn had spotted something. Without waiting for his leader’s command, he plunged forward.

“Brenn, get back here!” Zaren snarled, starting forward to snatch his cloak. But Brenn dodged out of his reach and vanished into the tall grass. The older man cursed.

Aragorn and Carlóme instantly sprang after him. But Brenn was fast and had almost made it to the other side of the meadow before he slowed, almost but not quite stopping as though filled with sudden uncertainty.

The bottom dropped out of Aragorn’s stomach as he saw the glint of golden hair under the umbrage of an ash tree.

“Brenn!” he called in a hoarse croak, hoping to distract the elf.

They both turned at the sound of his voice and Aragorn’s breath came out in a fierce, smoky rush as the elf stepped into the sunlight to meet the boy.

“Haldir.” His mind reeled first with relief then with questions: Where had he been? Why had he left? What had haunted him last night that seemed so deeply buried now? Carlóme’s tirade had troubled the ranger, even more so when his friend had not bothered to deny her claims. Aragorn knew at the very bottom of his heart that Haldir was guiltless of the murderous accusations she heaped on him.

But he was also not so naïve as to believe that after a few weeks of travel, the elf would trust him with his uttermost confidences. He knew there were things in Haldir’s past he would not discuss willingly- even if pressed.

A dark blur elbowed him aside and cuffed Brenn soundly.

“You brainless idiot!” Carlóme hissed, furious, her fingers digging into the scruff of Brenn’s neck. “How many times have I told you not to rush into things until you know what you’re facing?”

The sandy-haired youth wrenched his collar free, scowling at her. “I knew it was him the whole time. Don’t tell me what to do.”

“That’s exactly my point. And as long as you’re with me, you’ll do as I say.” Carlóme’s thunderous glare silenced the argument on the boy’s lips though the corners turned down sullenly. The tawny woman’s eyes flashed over his shoulder to the elf. “Can you just not handle someone telling you the truth, elf? Things get uncomfortable, so you take off?”

Haldir was paying little attention to her and still watching Brenn, a concerned frown slanting his eyebrows until Aragorn came up beside him.

Acutely aware of his torn clothes and haggard appearance, the elf quickly cast about for another subject. “This is where you found him?”

Zaren and the rest of the group caught up with them as Aragorn pointed out the course he had seen the rogue take the day before.

Brenn winked at the older man who chucked him under the chin and grinned at the sight of his leader’s ruffled feathers.

“You trying to get killed?”

The boy shrugged, rolling his eyes. “Didn’t get cut did I?”

“Next time you may not be so lucky,” Kari growled darkly, hands akimbo as she surveyed the youth with fondness and aggravation.

“It’s too open here.” Aragorn said, his eyes raking the trees. “I saw him closer to the trees.”

Leading, he picked his way back across the clearing, his spine tingling the whole way. Even when they were safe under bare cover, he still didn’t feel at ease and kept looking up as though expecting to see the elven killer leering down at them from the branches.

Haldir seemed to be thinking along the same lines for he suddenly said, “You follow from the ground. I’ll scout what I can from above.”

Without another word, the elf touched lightly off the bole of the nearest trunk and launched himself into the air. Catching a branch above his head, he pulled his body up with all the ease and long practice of the Galadhrim and was soon out of sight.

“Like a squirrel in spring!” Zaren remarked, squinting upwards and shading his eyes with a hand. “What does he think he’s going to find up there?”

Aragorn said nothing and cast about on the ground. He knew from experience with his brothers that elves were very good at hiding when they didn’t want to be found but there were still signs that his keen eyes picked out. Something had pressed frozen dew from the grass tips. No mark of boot or hand did he find, no broken branches or bent ferns but the drops shaken from the plants led him onward as though on a clear path.

He crouched and pressed his fingertips against the frozen ground lightly, the cool, dry scent of iced earth in his nostrils. Carlóme and the group waited impatiently behind him but he tuned them out, remembering his mother’s careful words before he rode with the rangers. All the earth speaks, my son, you just have to learn how to listen.

He took a deep breath and listened.

The birches around them hissed but not in a breeze. They whispered and though his human ears could not discern words, he knew they were warning him: Stay away, be gone, go back…We can’t, Aragorn thought desperately. His fingertips danced over a patch of grass near a curling witch hazel. Though his eyes saw nothing, he felt the earth curve in the shape of a heel. Someone had passed this way. Elated, he moved forward, almost on hands and knees, feeling his way forward until he found another like print though he still saw nothing to indicate it should be there.

The prints were at least as old as last night for the ground hadn’t quite refrozen around them yet. Eagerly, his eyes darted over the invisible trail as he followed alongside, careful not to disturb the signs. Beneath an overhanging arch of an oak, they vanished.

Disappointed, Aragorn cast about, trying to pick it up again and found himself staring at a pair of boots. Above them, a strip of bloodstained linen dangled in front of his nose and forced him to raise his head. He plucked it out of Haldir’s hand and stared first at it then the bearer questioningly.

The elf captain’s mouth was set in a hard line, briefly meeting Carlóme’s challenging eyes. “He was here. But he’s taken to the trees to drive off pursuers. He knows he’s being followed.”

Aragorn fingered the rag thoughtfully, avoiding the dark stains. It looked like a fragment of Ral’s clothing. Something the killer had used to wipe his hands. “At least we know he came this way though we haven’t seen him yet,” he dropped the grisly thing, letting it twist away in a current.

“And we will have to be doubly careful to keep it that way,” Haldir said almost to himself as he stared up at the swaying boughs.

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“You might be able to last a frigid night out here, elf, but my women won’t. It’s too cold. We’ll find shelter for the night, pick up the trail tomorrow.”

Haldir’s breath frosted the air as he sighed. As much as he hated to admit it, the woman was right. They wouldn’t be able to blunder around in the dark for much longer especially with the temperature dropping as much as it was. He didn’t feel it but if the peculiar shade of plum Aragorn’s lips were currently turning was anything to go by, it must be fairly cold. Thick clouds had swallowed up the bright afternoon sunshine some hours ago.

“You know this country, lady. What is near?” he asked with a slight incline of his head, making at least an attempt to be civil.

Carlóme shouldered her way past him, her hood drawn tight up over her black head and her hands shoved unceremoniously into thick furred gloves. She pointed slightly east where the trees glided down into a shallow dell before climbing back up towards the mountains. Large walls and shelves of rock jutted out of the ground like cracked stair steps in the spaces between the trunks. “There are a set of caves that way. They’ll at least give us a bit of shelter from this wind.”

Pine trees marched right up almost to the first rock edges; one or two aspiring saplings even poked up between them. Aragorn looked up at the tumbled boulders and clefts of mossy limestone which glimmered like bone among the dark roots and branches. A series of black holes only seven or eight feet across stared out at them like empty eye sockets. They took the lowest one.

After picketing the horses below where grazing was better, the group clambered up the lichen-spotted rocks and sat or stood around the mouths while Zaren, Carlóme and Saeryn explored the depths in case of unexpected surprises. The cave didn’t go very far back but it would fit all of them comfortably enough without the horses.

Haldir sniffed the moist air inside the entrance once and recoiled with a sleeve pressed across his face, his eyes narrowing at the dark woman. “Orc. You’ve brought us to an orc hole.”

“Not anymore,” Carlóme grinned, shoving back her hood and leaning against a spiny ledge. “They must be out tormenting some other poor souls. This is a good place. It’ll be warm enough once we get a fire going.”

“What if they come back?” Zaren ventured, loath to raise his leader’s temper by agreeing with the elf.

But Carlóme seemed in an unusually tolerant humor- maybe because they had found a trail at last. “We’ll be ready for them,” she tilted her head slightly towards the disgruntled solider and made a sweeping gesture towards the mouth of the cave. “Elf, first watch?”

For once, Haldir didn’t argue. The stench alone made his stomach roil though the others didn’t seem the least perturbed, laughing and joking as they unloaded the horses. Aragorn paused before him, his bedroll and Maethor’s tack slung over one shoulder. The elf captain met the man’s gaze and knew questions lurked behind those concerned eyes but he didn’t want to answer them right at the moment.

He jerked his head towards the black pit where Zaren was scraping together a pile of tinder. “Go settle in. I’ll still be here.”

The ranger opened his mouth then abruptly shut it and slipped inside out of the cold.

As the night sky deepened from pale to inky blue, a warm glow sprang up within the cave, splintering redly on the uneven walls. The aroma of roasted meat reminded Haldir he hadn’t eaten all day but he ignored the hunger pangs, still alert for danger. That same uneasiness that hadn’t left him since the inn prodded more insistently now that it was dark. Below he could Lintedal shifting restlessly in the grass, neighing softly to Maethor.

“Cold enough, elf?” Carlóme called from inside.

Haldir almost caught himself smiling. Indeed, it was a fine night if you didn’t feel the cold. The pines rocked in a seductive dance below, the furthest tips vanishing one by one as the night grew steadily deeper; and the clouds shifted to reveal a night filled with stars.

Muttering about frostbite, with a thick, wool cloak wrapped closely about his shoulders, Zaren came out an hour later to relieve him though the man stationed himself as near the fire as he could get while still being able to look out over the ledge.

Aragorn had saved some meat for him and they talked quietly while he ate, puzzling over the day’s findings but too tired to delve into anything more serious. The women talked softly among themselves and readied for sleep.

“Hey, Car,” Zaren called suddenly. “I hope you’re ready, ‘cause they’re coming back.”

The dark woman leapt lithely to her feet and crouched at the scarred man’s side. “Show me.”

He pointed along the side of their ledge where smoother rocks formed a rough pathway that branched away from the sylvan road they had taken.

“Just one?” Carlóme frowned, almost disappointed. “That’s it?”

“Probably part of a larger raiding party. They must’ve met some bad luck,” Zaren eyed the stumbling creature whose muttered curses could be heard even at this distance. “Good news for us at any rate if he’s the only one left alive.”

“Just wait for it to come to us then.”

A shrill wail of terror tore up the rocks towards them. Haldir felt his blood run chill as he recognized it at the same time Carlóme and Zaren went white-faced.

“Brenn!”

The lad had been out searching for more dead wood to add to the dwindling fire. Hindered by an armful of logs, the creature was on top of him before he’d even seen it.

Carlóme was in motion in seconds, ripping the knife from its hilt as she plunged into the darkness.

But Haldir was faster.

His boot knife glittered as it spun through the air and thocked solidly into the orc’s side, throwing it off the trembling lad who pulled himself up as fast as he could, blood trickling from a thin cut on his chin where a knotted elbow had clipped his mouth.

The dark woman crouched beside him and lifted him to his feet, away from the orc. “You all right? Brenn, talk to me! You all right?” She fingered the blood on his face but he didn’t answer, his gaze darting to the filthy creature with only a hilt protruding from its abdomen. Carlóme followed his gaze.

“Nice toss, elf. Who taught you to sling a knife like that?”

“A commanding officer of mine. He collected such weapons.” Haldir bent to retrieve his blade and the orc’s veiny eyelids flickered.

Surprising new admiration glinted in the huntswoman’s eyes as she nodded approvingly. Almost absently she raked a hand through Brenn’s sandy shoulder-length tangle as though to reassure herself he was still there.

The orc sprawled against the rocks was not yet dead though going fast. Frothy, ichor-choked sounds bubbled out of a collapsed lung and its yellow eyes burned with the anticipation of death. The slit-like pupils constricted as they narrowed on the tall elf silhouetted against the night sky.

“So… come to finish off the last of us, eh?” it slurred, blood dribbling from between its lips.

Carlóme knelt by it in a split second. “What? You saw him before? Where?”

“Left the leavings for us on occasion,” the orc chuckled. “Soft and tender they were, a little stale. But he wouldn’t give us the live ones…killed us who tried…”

“Where?”

“It lies,” Haldir snatched his weapon free, twisting as he did so to disentangle it from the ribs.

“Wait.” She grabbed his wrist to no avail. The orc’s eyes rolled up into its gaunt skull and it gave a long, rippling shudder before falling still.

Carlóme stared at the body then frowned and fingered something hidden by the dark creature’s stained and bloodied tunic which the elf’s knife had ripped aside. “There’s a shaft here. It was hit with an arrow- in the back too. Would explain why it died so fast.”

“Do you have the other half?” Haldir asked unexpectedly.

The Harad searched and plucked the feathered shaft out of the creature’s curled, stiffening hand. “He must just have broken it off when you got him. Right in the ribs too- punctured a lung I don’t doubt.” The dark woman smiled grimly over her shoulder as she handed it to him. “So, do all elves know tricks like that or just you?”

Stooping, he snatched the arrow half from her hand and whirled on his heel without a backward glance, dodging around Zaren and Aragorn who had drawn their blades and rushed out after them.

They left the orc body where it lay and returned to the cave, careful to stoke up the fire to discourage any other comers. The floor though cold was smooth and shelves lined the walls which the women had lined with extra blankets and groundsheets. Carlóme lay down near the back with Zaren while the others arranged themselves in the most comfortable niches they could find. A narrow hole in the ceiling kept smoke from asphyxiating the occupants and let in a little outside light.

Haldir’s jaw tightened as the thread slipped out of the eye again. A particularly vengeful branch had slashed a long tear in his tunic the night before and dexterous though he was with the finer points of a sword, needlepoint had always eluded him. He wished Rameil were here- his second was fairly clever with stitches- and not just ones in skin.

After listening to him curse with increasing fluency in several languages she didn’t even recognize, Saeryn abruptly rolled over and snatched the garment out of his hands. “For goodness’ sake, Master Elf, let me do it. You’d bleed yourself dry trying to master a woman’s work.” She sat up and after retying the knot, set to making neat, small stitches that even Rameil would have been hard-pressed to match.

He watched her light fingers in stunned admiration for a full two minutes before remembering his manners. “Thank you.”

She nodded curtly without looking up. “All the girls are grateful for what you did for Brenn. Don’t know what we’d do if we lost him.”

The elf shook his head and draped his elbows over his bent knees; he didn’t expect any praise for doing his job. Saeryn’s fingers as cracked and dry as they were, moved fast and with great skill. In minutes, she bit off the string after the end knot and handed the tunic back to him.

Haldir admired her handiwork, running his fingers over the threads. The stitching was good and strong, the string almost invisible against the grey cloth.

“That’s a nasty scar,” she remarked as he slipped it back over his head.

The marchwarden didn’t look but he knew which scar she meant.

“How did you get it?” she asked then glanced into his face. A sympathetic smile crinkled the youthful corners of her eyes. “Still painful?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

She pulled her blanket back over her legs. “I guess we all have scars don’t we? Some we’d rather not share with others.”

“What is yours?” he asked before he could stop himself. She only smiled and curled up on her side with her back to him.

The camp, exhausted after the hard, eager day of travel, had dwindled into steady quiet. Brenn and Zaren had gathered enough dead wood to keep it burning all through the night and the cave was now cozy with warmth. It wasn’t long before they dropped off, one by one, forgetting in their fatigue to set a watch. Haldir stayed awake for a while, running his fingers up and down the arrow’s feathery veins, the rustling soft in the silence.

“Captain.”

Haldir looked up. Brenn’s brilliant green eyes watched him, his head barely peeking out of a veritable pile of skins and cloaks. The cut on his chin had been cleaned though it still looked a bit inflamed.

“Brenn?” The elf prompted when he continued to stare.

“Look,” Brenn scooted a little out of his makeshift cave, glancing towards the back to make sure Carlóme was not listening. “Thanks…for saving me today. I know Car appreciated it though she didn’t say anything.”

Haldir dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Go to sleep.”

With a shy smile, the boy burrowed back into his little den like a badger at midwinter.

In the warm, sleep-filled darkness, Haldir finally let himself relax. Letting the arrow slip to the side, he unbuttoned his tunic collar and leaned back against the wall, pushing his pack into the small of his back. A few feet away Aragorn had stretched out with his face to the wall. His back rose and fell rhythmically though Haldir was never sure if he was actually sleeping or not.

The floor was uninviting and his still-healing rib made lying flat intolerable anyway. But around midnight, when the fire began to burn low and fill the cave with the tang of woodsmoke, he drifted into a troubled doze, his head resting against the wall.

Deciduous trees flickered overhead, their leaves the color of midsummer dappling fresh, vibrant light onto the emerald floor. Spotted shades swirled among the grasses bent by generations of dueling soundless feet. In their midst, Haldir spun in a short circle, sweeping outward with the sickle-scythe of his blade until it whistled in his ears, a fatal music.

His limbs alternated in patches of sun and shade as he moved seamlessly through the skills, their names ringing through his mind: Spine Sever… Air Stealer…Butcher’s Block…Despite the ages since he’d last felt the need to perform them, his blade danced through them with a mind and memory of its own. At last, he slowed, letting his guard drop a little.

“Again.”

The voice didn’t surprise him but he did turn to it, automatically, yearningly. It was a voice he hadn’t heard for nearly two thousand years- except in his dreams.

The tall elf who had spoken regarded him with stern eyes as green as the leaves, arms folded in the small of his back. Gold broidery glinted at his shoulders as he paced a few steps closer, his face oddly blurred around the edges as though Haldir viewed him through a veil.

“Again.”

Obediently Haldir lifted his saber but paused, staring.

The living leaves above their heads began to curl at the edges, twist but no longer with the wind. Orange flickers like leaks sprang between the branches, devouring the green shoots as though they were old wood. Haldir looked to his captain, asking him what to do though he heard no sound from his lips. But his commander didn’t move, eyes still intent on Haldir, ignoring the ash as it rained down, dusting the immaculate blue tunic with white-grey powder.

Behind him, a boy stepped between the chunks of charring branches that streamed down from above. The ashes drifted about his feet as he walked, his dark hair blowing in a nonexistent breeze. Haldir broke into a sweat, long delayed despite his exertions. The boy bore an uncanny resemblance to Aragorn but there were differences. This one was older than the youthful ranger only by a few years, his smile guarded and edged with war knowledge. In his hand, lay a green enameled brooch—one of the cloak clasps of Lórien which he extended to the elf soldier in friendship. Dark bruises ringed his throat beneath the gaping collar.

“Do it again, Lieutenant.” His commander’s voice rang in his ears.

The young man was within range of his blade, still smiling, despite the burning trees. His dark hair swept his cheeks and Haldir felt the sting of ash on his cheeks.

He brought the saber slashing up.

Haldir woke, chilled with sweat for a reason he could not remember.

White flakes whirled softly past the cave entrance, eddying in brief gusts of wind that whistled on the hollow rocks outside. Melting flurries puddled over the smooth floor. The fire had gone out and it was bone-freezingly cold in the cavern but Haldir didn’t notice. In fact, all thought swept completely away as he stared at the mouth of the cave.

A tall form stood there, dressed in shadows. As hard as he stared at it, even his elven eyes could not penetrate the blackness that shrouded the unknown visitor’s face. Careful to keep his eyes on it, he stretched one hand towards his sword but let it drop when the hood turned in his direction. The figure raised a pale, pale hand and beckoned to him.

If it was an apparition, it was a terribly solid one if weatherworn. Shoulders and hood dusted with frozen water, its raiment fell in folds of fine grey cloth, belted with black leather tooled with silver vines. Leather boots framed by a growing puddle protruded from under the cloak. A tendril of gold escaped the shadows of the hood and seemed to glimmer in the glow reflecting from the ground. Haldir sensed something fair beneath that hood, a familiarity in the stance and bearing that made his heart contract painfully.

Unease was screaming itself into full blown fear at the back of his mind now but he rose, his hand tightening and drawing the saber up with him as he did so. His companions still slept around him, safe, unharmed, alive. For now. The figure beckoned him again, still inexorably silent though a little more urgent. It stepped back from the mouth and vanished downslope.

Haldir hesitated, knowing how foolish it was to go off alone. But he couldn’t chance waking Carlóme; she would kill the shadow before they got any answers. And Aragorn, the others…he had a duty to keep them safe didn’t he? Leading the shadow away from them would do that. For a moment, his eyes rested on Brenn curled in his nest of blankets, sandy locks twitching with every exhale.

He plunged into the snow. The figure waited for him at the bottom. A crisp inch of snow carpeted the ground, concealing all behind a colorless veil except for the tips of grass. He trailed after the gliding shade which was always careful to keep in sight for it left no footprints in the snow. Weightless as Haldir’s own were.

They crept around the base of the limestone caves, past the body of the dead orc, scarcely visible under its white shroud. He glanced at his companion, suspecting the death of the creature was somehow at its hands. The shaft’s fletching had revealed the work of an elf- its unique spiraling in particular had startled him for it was the same style employed in his own arrows.

His ghostly companion said not a word, preceding him by enough to make attempted conversation or questions impossible. Haldir followed him cautiously, his eyes and steps alert for traps or ambushes. His hands soon froze on the hilt of his saber and he wondered how much further they had to go when his ghost suddenly darted between two ash trees and stopped.

Diffident, feeling exposed, Haldir slipped gingerly between the narrow gap and found himself poised at the edge of a glade. The shadow turned its faceless hood towards him.

“Who are you?” Haldir demanded, his voice clanging in his own ears after such silence.

But it did not answer or indeed even look at him. Instead, its invisible gaze slid over his shoulder.

Movement caught Haldir’s eye and his head swiveled in time to see another figure glide out of the brush, russet-garbed and also cowled. The elf captain felt his heartbeat quicken.

There were two of them.