Two Days Later, south of Sarn Ford

Glorfindel had been chained and roughly thrown into the back of a musty, stink-filled cart after his capture. The Nazgul, it seems, would not accompany them on the road East, instead entrusting his care to an unusually humanlike Orc named Lurkai. He rarely spoke, and when he did it was in surprisingly refined Common Speech. He appeared also to have no love for torture, for when the others would harass Glorfindel he would quickly drive them away. Despite this, however, there was something unnerving about the creature that Glorfindel couldn't quite place. Perhaps it was his eyes; They were large and intelligent by orc standards, roving to and fro and seeming to watch everything and everyone. Perhaps it was the strange way that he walked; As if he had studied Men and was attempting to mimic how they moved. Or perhaps it was the way he interacted with others of his kind; He treated them with indifference, never rising to their provocations and never exchanging banter with them.

Whatever it was, it somehow made him worse than all of the others.

His lieutenant was a manifestation of evil, with eyes as black as a starless night and a ragged cloak that matched them. One bowed leg was bent slightly unnaturally, forcing the orc to walk with a distinct, hobbling limp. His scarred skin was the color of a bloated corpse, covered with a sweaty sheen and a multitude of dark tattoos. Under his cloak he carried a gnarled staff that he leaned upon heavily, dragging it on the rocky ground with each uneven step.

This orc accompanied the cart ceaselessly, and was the only being that Lurkai permitted near it. He spoke every now and again, his voice low and seething like a kettle of water about to boil over.

"So you're the one the wraiths are so afraid of," he hissed, following his words with a strange clicking sound. "I can see why... Your fea is blindingly bright."

Glorfindel elected to stay silent. Whatever the orc wanted couldn't be good. At best, he was merely trying to make conversation. At the worst... He was trying to get information.

"There are ways to darken one's fea," the orc continued, once more clicking his teeth together. "To twist it into something utterly dark and hopeless."

Glorfindel couldn't help but wonder how the orc knew anything about elves. Most of them held a blind hate against the Eldar that superseded all else.

"That is my art, Glorfindel," the orc hissed. Glorfindel flinched slightly at the orc's use of his name. "To take that which is pure and make it into a shadow, unwholesome and full of revulsion."

"How do you know of sorcery?" Glorfindel heard himself ask before he could stop himself.

The orc turned, giving him a wicked smile that sent shivers down his spine. "I was borne of it."

Before the orc could say anything more Lurkai appeared from the darkness ahead, his sharp teeth bared. "We are at the border of Rohan. We must have taken a wrong turn somewhere."

The twisted orc licked his lips and sniffed. "We're too far north. I'll be cursed if those horsemen ride us down in their own land. We should take the south road through Pinnath Gelin."

"That'll take us through Blackroot Vale," Lurkai growled. "I'd rather not get in a tangle with those rangers down that way."

"Better them than the horselords," the other orc argued. "There are enough of us to deter an outright attack from the rangers."

Lurkai let out a snort. "The riders of the Mark are all but under the Dark Lord's boot as it is. They're too afraid of war to risk harming us. We will travel through the Gap of Rohan. You better keep both eyes on the elf, or I'll have them around my neck Maugash."

Maugash sneered. "You wish you could have something as pretty as my eyes around that big fat neck of yours."

The larger orc shook his head and turned away, barking orders at the other orcs as he went. Maugash watched until he was gone before speaking again. "By the time we reach Mordor all of this land shall be ours, mark my words elf. The orcs will rise."

======================================

Buckland, The Shire

"Ach, I think I have an acorn in my ruddy boot," Kalan grunted, shaking his foot as they came to a halt at the crossing of two narrow dirt roads. He, along with Gerithor and Caledorn, had been selected to rescue Glorfindel, as all three were swift of foot (even Kalan by dwarven standards) and each had skills necessary to facilitate a rescue. Gerithor was the ablest tracker of the three, and his survival instincts would allow them to travel light. Caledorn knew the ways of the orcs better than most, and would be able to predict their movements and stay one step ahead of them. Kalan was the stoutest of the three in open battle; few could resist the force of his axe.

His constant complaining failed to reflect this, however.

"We're not stopping again," Gerithor said, letting out a weary sigh. "At this rate we won't even make it through the Shire by tonight."

Kalan's eyes widened. "We're... We're not stoppin' here?"

Gerithor let out a short laugh. Surely Kalan had been anticipating the hearty food of the Shirefolk. There were many times that Gerithor himself had shortened a leg of one journey or another to enjoy the comforts of a warm Hobbit hearth and their sweet ale. But none of those journeys had been as urgent as this one, nor had a friend's life hung in the balance.

"We are not, my good dwarf," Gerithor said, patting his companion on the back. "For if we did you likely wouldn't want to leave!"

Caledorn, meanwhile, cast a dark glance at the road ahead, remaining silent as he had for most of the journey. His arm was still in a sling and his ribs were bandaged from his encounter with the troll at Mithlond, but he hardly seemed to notice as he continued to stride onward.

They soon came to a small stone footbridge. Knee-high walls stood on either side of it, but they had fallen into disrepair over the years and were slowly being reclaimed by the vines that wrapped around them. A small dirt path veered away from the main road, leading to a sandy embankment that seemed to Gerithor to be a good spot to fish. In more peaceful days he might of stopped here, but the urgency of their quest quickly forced the thought from his mind. 

As soon as they set foot on the bridge they noticed the two halflings that stood on either side of the path in front of them, each holding an oaken staff. They both seemed slightly unnerved at the appearance of the three travelers but nonetheless stepped in front of them, barring their passage.

"'Halt! What business have you in the Shire?" The taller of the two tipped his scarlet-feathered hat politely despite his unfriendly tone.

"We don't have time for this," Caledorn said annoyedly, turning to Gerithor. The ranger gave Caledorn an exasperated look.

"We can't just fight our way through everything." He took a step forward, giving the hobbits a slight bow. "Good afternoon, my fine Bounders. I go by Eriac in these fine lands, perhaps you've heard of me?"

The two Bounders gave each other a knowing look before the taller of the two addressed Gerithor. "The name indeed sounds familiar. Aren't you the vagabond that stole half a dozen barrels of southern star pipeweed last year?"

Gerithor's expression changed from one of confidence to one of embarrassment as he caught Caledorn's signature eyebrow-raised stare.

"I'm not sure what you're referring to, but there's no way it was me! Perhaps you're mistaking me with another vagabond?" He gave an innocent shrug, even though he knew full well that he was caught. He had, in fact, stolen eight barrels of pipeweed the previous winter in an effort to raise the morale of his fellow rangers. The plan resulted in being chased through the fields of Buckland, where the Bounders quickly became discouraged in the deep snow and eventually discontinued the pursuit. It clearly hadn't sat well with them.

"Off to Michel Delving it is with you! The mayor can decide what to do with ya," The hobbit replied, stepping forward with staff in hand. 

Caledorn rolled his eyes. "We really don't have time for this," he growled, drawing an ebony dagger menacingly. The hobbit leapt back, fear in his eyes. 

"Put it away! I'll sound the bells!" The hobbit said the words as if they heralded some impending doom, but Caledorn, to the surprise of all present, laughed. 

"Bells? Please do. I care not if they summon all of the halflings in the Shire! I've killed dragons, do you really think you frighten me?" 

This was too much for the Bounders, and at the alarming tone of the elf's words they both took off, practically tripping over each other in the process. 

"Hah!" Kalan snorted, slapping his thigh with mirth. "Look at 'em bound away like frightened dwarflings!" 

Even Gerithor had to admit that the sight was rather comical. "Well, perhaps your... less refined methods of dealing with issues have their place after all, Caledorn."

The elf, to his credit, brushed off the compliment, though whether it was humility or malaise was unclear to his companions. "Let us continue on," he said in a subdued tone. 

============================

The Road outside Deadman's Dike, Fornost

The road to Rivendell was long, and the survivors of Mithlond felt as if the servants of the Dark Lord were dogging their every step. It wasn't as apparent as a cloud of dust from the hobbed boots of orcs, nor did the dark wings of the Nazgul's steeds cast a shadow over them. Instead, it was a stifled cry here, or a pair of glowing eyes in the night there. When scouts were sent to investigate, nothing could be found, which only served to further the feeling of dread that overcame them. 

Halbarad, for his part, tried his best to boost the morale of his men, but there was little he could do to lift their spirits. They did not give voice to their worries when he was present, but when he walked past their tents he could hear furtive murmurs of fear and despair. 

"If we cannot even defend the last haven of the Eldar, what hope do we have?"

and

"I cannot drive the image of that city burning from my mind"

were but a few of the whispers that he heard. The elves were faring little better. They had taken to camping separately from the Rangers and dwarves, though whether this was because of their animosity for the dwarves, or because they felt that the rangers had failed them, or a combination of the two, Halbarad could not tell. 

The only member among their company who seemed to be in good spirits was Edhael, the elven bard who never seemed to falter from his mood. 

"What do you think of all this, mellon-nin?" Halbarad asked the blond-haired elf, coming to his side as the bard adjusted the strings on his lute. Edhael let out a quiet laugh. 

"Do you really want to know?" He asked. 

Halbarad shifted slightly, unsure of what the elf would say next. "I want to know the truth."

Edhael laughed again. "You are quite perceptive, captain of Esteldin. You remind me of Gerithor... Only wiser and greyer of hair." 

"I'll take that as a compliment," Halbarad returned with a faint smile. 

"It is one," Edhael said. "But as for the truth... I am afraid. For the first time since we first set out from Rivendell, I fear for what is to come. I can see it now... Not as clearly as the Lastborn's visions, perhaps, but still it is an image in my mind that cannot be veiled. I see a Dark Lord, upon a dark throne, ruling over all. His shadow shall spread over even the fair land of the Elves, and they shall know to fear His name. Driven to the caves, far from the light which they love, they shall live in terror of all who bow to His will. And many will bend the knee: Men, dwarves, even elves. They shall be twisted and corrupted even as the orcs have been. When this new Age befalls us, there shall be no hope."

"Dark words," Halbarad frowned. "But nonetheless, I know in the darkest part of my heart that all this and more shall come to pass if we fail."

Edhael turned to Halbarad then, all mirth and happiness gone from his face. "That is what I am most afraid of... That we already have."