Caledorn stepped nearer, his cloak trailing dust across the floor of the tent. He studied Rukil in silence a moment longer: the flicker of the ring's light upon his hollowed cheeks, the lines etched by pain and sleeplessness, and knew there was no room left for half-truths or softened words.

"Then it is well that you endure still," he said, his voice quiet but resolute. "For you are not the only one bound by shadow."

Rukil stirred, eyes narrowing faintly.

"Speak plainly. Why is it you are truly here?"

Caledorn nodded once, slowly.

"Glorfindel is taken."

At that name, something shifted in the tent. The candle flames bent slightly, though no wind passed through. Even the shadows seemed to draw inward.

"Yes... I know that name," Rukil said, leaning forward. "Another of your kinsmen, a mighty warrior by all counts. By whom was he taken?"

"By Sauron," Caledorn said. "Dragged into Mordor, bound in chains. We do not know what they do to him there, but visions have come to some, and they are grim. Torture of the spirit. The breaking of his will."

Rukil's eyes dimmed, and he looked away. He said nothing for a long time.

The ring pulsed again, once. He looked down at it, and for a moment Caledorn thought he saw something like shame pass over his face.

"You ask me to fight again," Rukil murmured. "To face the storm once more. But I am no longer the man you remember. The blade may still swing with my will, but the hand that wields it... shakes."

Caledorn stepped forward then and placed a hand upon Rukil's shoulder, firm, but not forceful.

"Even a shaking hand may strike true. And even a cursed man may yet stand against the darkness. You said you march still. Then march with me."

The silence that followed was long and heavy, filled only with the fluttering breath of the flames.

Then Rukil exhaled.

"You are a fool, Caledorn."

"That has been said of me often," he replied.

A faint smile, bitter but real, touched Rukil's lips.

"Then I will march," he said at last, rising slowly from his seat.

Though wearied by torment and shadow, there was strength still in his limbs; a quiet, grim endurance forged in darker fires than steel. The ring pulsed once more upon his hand, but he did not falter.

"But not with you."

Caledorn looked up, brows drawing tight.

"The Enemy's eyes are many," Rukil continued, his voice low and steady, "and swift are his servants to report even the hint of movement. Few now can pass unseen through the broken lands."

He turned to the edge of the tent and pulled back the flap. Outside, the dusk had deepened to black, and the wind hissed through the ruins as a whispering blade.

"We will draw their gaze," he said. "Though it cost us all, we will strike: loud and sudden, where their watch is thickest. We will give them something to fear, something they cannot ignore. While they turn their wrath upon us, their eyes will turn away from paths they deem long lost... and places they believe impassable."

He turned back, the flame's flicker catching the worn lines of his face and the gleam of resolve now kindled behind his gaze.

"You must go where they do not look. That is your task. But ours... ours is to vanish in fire."

Caledorn's jaw tightened.

"You would throw your lives away?"

Rukil shook his head.

"No. If it buys even a sliver of hope for Glorfindel... and by extension for our people... then it is no waste. Now come," He said, guiding the elf to a nearby table. Hadar followed, shaking his head. 

"I did not think our doom was so near," he said, casting a wan smile toward Caledorn. "And yet, whenever you arrive it seems our lives are changed." 

"Here," Rukil said, pointing to a spot on the map. It was Mordor, ringed in black mountains and menacing. "In the western mountains, where Gondor lies beyond. There is a pass. Narrow, perilous, and little known. Few have trod it. Fewer still return. It is said that some ancient evil haunts its depths; older than the towers of Barad-dûr, older, perhaps, than Sauron himself. I do not know its nature. Only that the Enemy deems the place a wall no spy can cross, and their gaze passes lightly over it."

He looked up, meeting Caledorn's eyes.

"If you are to reach him... to reach Glorfindel, you must walk paths no living scout dares. You must become less than shadow, and quieter than fear."

A hush settled over them. The candles flickered. The map quivered under a stray draft from the tent's entrance.

Then Hadar let out a long breath.

"So we die loudly," he said, "and you pass quietly. Seems a fair trade."

Caledorn looked to them both: old comrades, frayed but not broken.

"I will find him," he said. "Even if I must walk through fire and night. He has not fallen yet. This I know in my heart. And while his light burns, I will not let it go dark."

"Then go with the blessing of the East. And may we meet again, under bluer skies, in this life or the next," Rukil said, his voice low but steady as he clasped Caledorn's arm in farewell. Caledorn could feel in his grip the finality of the motion. It was less a goodbye, and more a quiet acceptance of fate.

Hadar offered a solemn nod, a faint smile ghosting his face. "We'll hold as long as we can. Make it count."

Rukil turned, beckoning to a young soldier who led forth a tall, grey horse with silvering mane and intelligent eyes. The beast snorted and stamped the ground.

"Take my steed," Rukil said. "It seems that soon I shall have no more need of it. It is good that Sirdal returns to elven hands."

Caledorn laid a hand on the horse's strong neck, then looked back at the Easterling warlord, so changed from the man he once was, yet not wholly lost to the dark. "Your sacrifice will not be in vain," he said.

Rukil gave no answer, only a final, silent nod, as Caledorn swung into the saddle and turned toward the west. The wind tugged at his cloak, and behind him, the broken remnants of Rukil's army faded into the gathering dusk.

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

It took several days for Caledorn to reach the place marked upon Rukil's map: a narrow, twisting path carved into the jagged bones of the mountains. The air grew colder as he climbed, and the land itself seemed to darken beneath a shadow that had long since taken root.

He passed near the dread vale of Minas Morgul, its tower looming like a broken fang against the storm-heavy sky. Yet the city was silent. Unnervingly so. The great gates, once veiled in green fire and watchful malice, now stood open and still, as if yawning wide to swallow intruders... Or to let something out.

No patrols. No watchfires. No shadow of wing or wail of wraith.

Perhaps Rukil's diversion was even more effective than I thought possible, Caledorn mused grimly as he dismounted Sirdal at the foot of the path. The horse whinnied softly, ears twitching toward the unnatural silence that clung to the vale below.

The way ahead was too steep for her now; nothing but a thin ledge winding upward through the cliffs like a scar, half-hidden beneath brambles and loose stone. He laid a hand on the mare's neck and whispered in Elvish, words of thanks and farewell, before turning toward the ascent alone.

The shadow was thick here, and even the air tasted stale. Twice, Caledorn nearly lost his footing, so slick were the rocks that were his only footholds. 

At last, the path narrowed to a final ledge, the wind knifing up from the depths and tugging at his cloak like unseen fingers. And there, set in the black shoulder of the mountain, was a cleft; a narrow maw in the rock, dark as pitch and unnaturally still.

It loomed before him like a waiting mouth, its edges raw and weathered, the stone around it marked with strange grooves that time had half-erased. No sound came from within. No light.

Caledorn stood at the threshold, breathing hard. He glanced once at the path behind him, now swallowed by distance and fog, then stepped forward into the waiting dark.

Great webs drooped from the ceiling, bloated curtains of rot swaying slightly in a draft that whispered from some unseen hollow. They glistened faintly in what little light crept in from behind, thick and matted with age. Beneath them, the ground was a litter of bones, some cracked and hollow, others with scraps of armor or cloth still clinging to them. A sword hilt jutted out from a tangle of ribcage. A skull lay grinning at the darkness.

Caledorn stepped carefully, each footfall silent and deliberate. He could feel it now: something deeper than fear. Not the dread of what was behind him, but of what waited ahead. A presence, vast and sleeping, watching from the dark crevices and dusted nooks. The kind of stillness that did not belong to any natural place.

And then, skittering. Sharp and quick, like clawed feet tapping across stone. It echoed from all directions, impossible to pin down. Caledorn froze. His hands moved on instinct, drawing his twin blades with a low metallic whisper. The recognition struck him like a blow to the chest.

A spider's lair.

The webs. The bones. The silence.

No sooner had the thought solidified than something massive struck him from behind. The wind was driven from his lungs as he was hurled forward, skidding across the damp stone. Pain blossomed in his ribs, but he rolled through it, years of training guiding his limbs.

He came up in a crouch, blades at the ready, his breath ragged behind the scarf.

Behind him, a hulking form emerged from the shadows. It had eight legs, glossy black, each as thick as a man's arm. Its chitin shimmered with malice, and its fangs dripped with venom that hissed and steamed as it touched the stone.

Caledorn's eyes narrowed.

"So," he whispered, steadying his grip, "some spawn of Ungoliant still dwells in the shadows of this world."

The spider circled him with slow, deliberate movements, its many eyes glinting in the low light, black and pitiless. Each step it took was near-silent, yet Caledorn could feel the subtle tremor through the stone beneath his boots. The creature was ancient, older than the wars of men, older perhaps than Gondor itself.

Caledorn kept his blades low and ready, the twin edges catching faint glimmers from what little light trickled through the cracks above. The air in the cavern was thick, the scent of rot and venom clinging to everything. He had no illusions about what he faced. This was no lesser spawn of Mirkwood.

With a sudden lurch, the beast struck.

It was only Caledorn's instincts that saved him. He dropped low, narrowly avoiding the snapping mandibles and striking upward with both blades. One found purchase, slicing along the spider's armored side with a shriek of steel on chitin. A hiss erupted from the creature, more fury than pain, and it reeled back.

No time to think. No time to hesitate.

He moved with elven grace, sliding to the side just as the beast lunged again. He rolled beneath a descending leg, slicing through the joint as he passed. Black ichor sprayed across the ground. The spider screeched, the sound scraping as if from within his skull.

And then it changed tactics. Leaping backward, it raised its abdomen and spat. A thick glob of web shot through the air. Caledorn twisted, but not fast enough. The edge of it struck his left shoulder and clung fast, dragging him backward with terrifying strength.

His back slammed against a pillar of stone, jarring his vision.

The spider began to close in again, sensing a moment of weakness.

But Caledorn, teeth gritted, raised one shaking hand toward his boot and pulled free a small throwing knife. In a single fluid motion, he hurled it, not at the spider, but at the web strand binding him.

The blade struck true. The sticky cord snapped with a wet pop, and he was free again.

Panting, heart racing, he rose to his feet.

"Come on, then," he whispered, raising his blades once more. "Come and see what drove your kind from the light!" 

The creature hurtled toward him, all fangs and fury, a mass of bristling legs and shadow. Caledorn waited, heart thundering in his chest. He did not move, not yet. Timing would be everything.

At the last instant, he shifted.

He dropped low, sliding beneath the beast's lunge, his twin blades flashing out in a swift, crossing arc. One carved a deep gash along the spider's belly, skittering harmlessly off of its plated shell, while the other sliced through a front leg at the joint. Black blood splattered across the stone, thick and foul.

As he passed beneath the vast beast, he noticed a wound: Not inflicted by him, small and deep, right in the center of its thorax. Someone else has passed through here recently, and lived to tell the tale, Caledorn thought. 

With a flourish he jabbed upward with all his might, his sharp blade piercing deep into the existing wound.

The spider shrieked in agony, convulsing violently, and Caledorn rolled free before it could collapse on him.

But it wasn't dead. Not yet.

With a staggering twist of its limbs, it dragged itself upright, heaving with pain but still monstrous. Venom dripped from its mandibles as it hissed, its remaining legs beating the ground in fury.

Caledorn rushed it.

He darted to the side as one leg slammed down where he'd stood, then leapt, springing up along a jutting stone, using it as a platform to launch himself onto the spider's back.

The creature thrashed, trying to shake him loose, but Caledorn plunged one blade deep into the base of its skull. The spider shrieked, convulsed... and then began to collapse.

He tore the blade free and leapt clear just before the bulk of it crashed to the ground with a sickening, final thud. The cavern shook with the impact.

For a long moment, all was still.

Caledorn stood panting in the silence, his blades dripping with black ichor, the foul stench of the beast thick in the air. Slowly, he sheathed them.

He stepped forward, inspecting the carcass to be certain it was dead. Its many eyes had gone dull and lifeless.

"Trouble no more the realm of the living, child of darkness," he said with finality, looking upon the beast one last time with disgust.

Drawing a breath through his scarf to block the stench of death, Caledorn turned his gaze to the far end of the chamber, where the tunnel narrowed into a dark throat of stone. It yawned like a wound in the earth, beckoning him deeper into the heart of shadow.

Without hesitation, he pressed on. The passage twisted tightly, slick with damp and webs, until at last it opened to the outside, a jagged lip of stone high in the mountains. There, beneath a sky black and heaving with stormclouds, he beheld Mordor spread out before him: vast, broken, and endless.

Nearby, a watchtower loomed against the storm-churned sky, a lonely point amid the ash. A single, flickering light burned in the uppermost chamber. Caledorn narrowed his eyes. Perhaps Glorfindel was held there.

He approached with caution, his footfalls hushed against the cracked stone. But it soon became clear that, like the cave before, the place was deathly still. Not the silence of discipline or watchful vigilance... But of something gone horribly wrong.

The reason revealed itself soon enough. Dozens of orc corpses lay strewn across the entrance, piled atop one another in grotesque heaps. Some had fallen with weapons still buried in their kin, locked in death-grips of snarling rage. The scent of blood was thick, mingled with the stench of rot and fouler things of Orc-craft.

They had turned on each other. Whatever command once held them had broken, shattered by fear, by the will of some darker force... or perhaps by the presence of something they could not bear to guard.

He ascended the spiraling stair within the tower, each creak of the steps swallowed by the heavy hush that clung to the stones. The air grew colder as he climbed, as though the tower itself had been drained of life. When he reached the upper chamber, the source of the light revealed itself: a single lantern swinging gently from a hook, casting dim orange halos across the room.

And there, slumped together in the far corner of the chamber, were two small figures.

Caledorn froze.

He crossed the room slowly, a creeping dread rising in his heart. The first figure lay on his back, arms outstretched, fingers curled as though reaching for something long lost. A pale shimmer clung to him still, the last remnant of what had once been light in his spirit. Frodo.

Beside him, the other lay collapsed over his companion's chest, his hand still clutching Frodo's tunic in death. Samwise.

No words came to Caledorn. His blades dropped from his hands and clattered to the stone floor, forgotten. He sank to his knees before them, and in the stillness, the weight of their sacrifice pressed down upon him, overwhelming.

Frodo's chest did not rise. Sam's face, always so full of hope and fire, was now still, his jaw slack, brow furrowed as if in one final, futile attempt to shield his friend from fate.

But the Ring was gone.

There was no chain. No glint of gold. Nothing.

A hollow wind whispered through the shattered slats of the tower's window, and Caledorn bowed his head, overcome. They had come so far. Fought so hard. And in the end... they had fallen. 

Caledorn laid a hand gently on Sam's shoulder, his voice hoarse with sorrow. "Forgive us. We were too late."

And in that tower high above the darkened land, the wind carried no answer; only silence, and the quiet grief of one without hope.