Mere feet from where the Dark Lord had fallen, Elrond knelt, cradling his fallen lord and weeping.

Few dared come so close; as if the fell spirit had somehow poisoned the very ground where he had been slain. Men had come and taken Elendil's body away, to be honored, the shards of Narsil gone with him and his son, the new King. But Gil-Galad, none had touched, save him.

His tears fell upon the fallen king's cheek, cleansing some of the dirt and blood away. Why did it always come to this? Why was he always left alone? He asked this of the body but it did not answer. Eyes that would never open again, lips that would never smile again, they mocked him with their familiarity and the strange unnatural stiffness which had stolen over the body.

This was more than Elrond's tragedy. Gil-Galad, last of the High Kings of the Noldor, had fallen upon Dagorlad, never to rise again. He must be honored, must be remembered – Elrond sat up to call to those near him, who had stood nearby, nervous to approach. What were they doing, just waiting there? Gil-Galad should not be left to rot here, they must – must take him away…

But where was Aeglos, the spear with which Gil-Galad had fought his final foe, and fallen in honorable defeat? They could not leave behind so treasured a weapon, which should be kept in memory of its great wielder… almost panicking, Elrond half-made to stand, to find Aeglos, when the man approached.

He thought it to be a man. Wearing the armor of Arnor, bearing its standard upon his shield, the stranger came. In his left hand, he bore Aeglos, which had been thrown some distance away during the battle. The man came closer than any other had dared to stand beside Gil-Galad's fallen form. Under his helm, Elrond saw the man look to his king, before bowing his head, resting upon one knee to place the spear in the crook of the King's arm.

When he lifted his head, he met Elrond's eyes, and the elf stared in shock to see them. They were eyes of no man. A strange bright yellow, with slits for pupils, like some sort of beast. But… there was kindness in them. There was pity, understanding, a heart which knew what it meant to mourn the fallen. The man with bright eyes spoke then, in Sindarin.

"I mourn with thee," The man told him, before standing, and turning to go. Elrond watched, transfixed, only able to find his voice once he had gone.

By then, it was too late. The approach of the man had broken the spell which kept his fellow elves at bay. They came forward to collect the king, and someone put their arms around Elrond, pulled him up, held him close. He was crying again, though he did not know it, looking out with bleak eyes upon the way the man had gone.

Oh, what did it matter who that stranger was? Gil-Galad and so many others were dead. What did anything matter at all?

But he remembered those eyes…

There were thirteen left of the force which had been sent after him. One he'd badly wounded in their last fray; that one would die soon. It was little satisfaction, but Azog would take what he could.

They'd been hunting him since he escaped Dol Guldur, and would not stop until he was dead. If he killed them all, more would come. There was a price on his head now, and every orc and goblin in Middle-Earth would know of it. He did not fear such things, in fact, he would welcome death. But he shall not simply give his life to these cretins.

Then, he might not have to, Azog thought dryly. He was wounded enough, and tired, after weeks of hiding and running on little rest and food. An orc could take quite a beating, but even they had their limits. This would not continue forever.

An arrow struck a tree trunk near Azog, and he ducked just in time to keep his head. Run, move! Azog forced himself forward, compelled to struggle to live despite the pain, despite everything. Whether he wanted to live or not he would not surrender, not to them, not to anyone!

Another arrow flew through the air, and Azog had to drop fully to the ground to keep from being struck. The fall hurt, more than it should; some of his cracked ribs must've broken, then. Perhaps worse… moving to stand again, Azog found he couldn't. His body simply would not move, his limbs heavy as iron…

A string of curses escaped his cracked lips as he forced his arms under himself, but only managed to flip onto his back… and look up into the eyes of an elven archer, bow drawn.

Fuck.

"The palette shall consist of greens, and that is that."

Elrond did not have to turn around to know what Lindir must've looked like; he heard the elf's scoff, and could hear the scorn in his voice. It was a subtle tone shift, but to an elf, it was practically vicious.

"The delegation shall be arriving in mid-winter, and the valley shall be laden in snow. The house of Imladris always uses whites, blues, and light purples then!"

"Most winters," Erestor retorted with his own haughty tone. "We do not have the entire royal family of Erebor calling upon our hospitality. Green and gold are the colors of the house of Durin."

"Why should we go to such lengths to make our home suitable to their tastes?"

Glorfindel glanced at Elrond. "Are you going to let them keep on forever?"

Elrond pointedly did not meet his eyes. "They may do as they wish."

If he'd looked up, he'd have seen the disappointment in his friend's face. As it was, Elrond's gaze was faraway, looking out over the balcony into the valley, towards the mountains. But it was not the mountains he looked to, no. Glorfindel wondered which of them he was dwelling upon now.

Was he imagining Caras Galadon, where Arwen remained with the Lady of the Woods? Or did he look to the north, to Esteldin, to the Rangers who had taken in his human ward? Or did he let his eyes move across the mountains, hoping for some sign of his twin boys, who traveled far and long into the wilds, into danger and darkness far from his sight?

Most likely, his thoughts were with all of them.

"Come," Stepping away from the banister, Glorfindel approached Lindir and Erestor, distracting them from one another. "We may continue this discussion another time; I do not believe our Lord is in the mood for it."

Elrond let them go without a word.

In his hands, he held a letter, one of a few which had reached him over the last year. It came from the North Downs, a short note written in a boyish scrawl. Elrond glanced down at it, read it over for the hundredth time since he'd received it yester eve.

Training goes well. The Rangers are kind to me. Too late in the year to come down now; maybe spring. A

He cherished those twenty words as if they were gold. But they hurt; the confirmation that Estel's heart was still turned against him, that he would not see his boy this winter… that none of his children would be home for the solstice.

He tried to pretend it did not hurt as much as it did.

"My lord!"

Elrond turned, tucking the letter into the inside of his cloak, as one of his guards came up the stairs.

"A company of orcs came near the borders of the valley." The guard began quickly. "But it was – strange. They were hunting one of their own."

Elrond cocked an eyebrow. "Orcs and goblins tend to have dissent within their ranks." Especially given the events of the last year, the retaking of Erebor, and the Battle of Five Armies, the fall of Dol Guldur. The servants of Sauron had not had a good time of it of late.

"This one, we believe it is the Defiler, - Azog." That drew Elrond's attention. The Defiler's body had not been found at Erebor, and it was well known that Oakenshield and his company were out for his blood.

"Is he dead?"

The elf shook his head. "He may be, soon. We have taken him captive – he awaits you." Gesturing for his Lord to take the lead, the elf stepped to the side.

Azog, in Rivendell? If it was true, Oakenshield would be furious. To have his mortal enemy caught and detained by elves? To be in their debt? The thought of Thorin's indignant ire brought a small smile to Elrond's face.

So he came to the pavilion where his guards held Azog, the orc on his knees, kneeling in his own blood. The wounds were not elven; he'd come to them this way, then. His own people turned against him, perhaps for his failure to take Erebor. Elrond considered the beast with narrowed eyes as he came closer, and Azog lifted his head, and –

Those eyes.

He halted mid-step, his own eyes widening in a mix of shock and horror. It couldn't be. But the longer he stared, the more true it seemed. The battle had been an Age ago, but the memory of elves was long and this was a sight Elrond would not soon forget.

"My Lord?"

Stunned beyond belief, Elrond ignored the call, approaching Azog carefully. He had to be sure. But no – this couldn't – it was a ridiculous thought. Orcs were not long-lived, and why would an orc have fought with men against Sauron? It just didn't make sense…

The orc held his gaze, eyes darkened with pain, but he was smiling. When Elrond was close enough, Azog spit at him, but it was more blood than anything else. The guards immediately set upon the orc but Elrond called out to them in dismay.

"Hold!" He hardly knew he'd spoken until he'd done so. Still he stared at those familiar eyes. "Take him to my chambers."

"My lord?"

"Do as I say." He had only to repeat himself once, before his guards were lifting the half-dead orc and moving with him. Azog went under on the way there, which was just as well. This healing would not be pleasant.

For three days and nights Elrond fought to save the life of Azog the Defiler. His people questioned it, were shocked to see the greatest of elven healers choosing to use his gifts to help a beast. But none would stand in his way, and those who would pull him aside and ask for answers, received little in return.

On the third evening, Elrond stormed from the room, and was beset upon immediately by Erestor and Lindir.

"My lord, are you well? Have you eaten?"

"When was it last you rested?"

"Enough," Breaking through them, he strode forward, ignoring his shadows as both followed. "I will rest in time."

"Why are you devoting yourself so to this beast?" Erestor caught up quickly. "Surely the favor of the line of Durin does not matter so greatly?"

"It is not for them, nor anyone but myself, that I do this," Elrond insisted. "I realize it is… strange –"

"An understatement!" Lindir scoffed, and a harsh look from his lord cowed the usually respectful and demure elf.

"But I have my reasons. I must ask you to trust me."

They continued to follow and question him about it until he came to the library, where he insisted upon privacy, and shut them out. Then he went to his task, scanning shelves he knew well to withdraw the tomes he desired.

"A little late for light reading?"

Elrond almost scowled. "I suppose I should have expected you to join in sooner or later."

Glorfindel stepped out from the shadows with a slight frown on his face. "You are very wise, Lord of Imladris."

Still facing the books, Elrond quipped. "It sounds almost as if you mean to convince yourself of that."

"Merely reminding the both of us," He continued as he came to stand by his friend. "For this course of action does not seem like you at all."

"It is unwise, you mean?"

"What else could it be?" Glorfindel turned to him, but still Elrond kept his gaze in his books. A hand came over the page, and finally Elrond lifted his head with a sigh.

"I have questions that this orc can answer, and perhaps only he can." Elrond told him. "I realize it is beyond unorthodox, even dangerous…"

Glorfindel awaited him to continue with patience, but Elrond found he did not know what else to say. Their eyes met, and it was the elder's turn to sigh. "Very well. I trust you. But I shall be keeping a careful vigil over your quarters so long as he is there."

Elrond smiled, gathering the tomes he had collected together. "I expected nothing less."

There are few places left to run.

The eagles have overtaken the skies, and their enemies have the ground. The battle is lost; Azog calls for retreat, even as he breaks rank to find the only one whose life he truly cares for.

"Bolg!" He will not leave the battlefield without him. If his son has already fallen here, then Azog will fall here as well, taking every last accursed elf, dwarf, and man that he can with him.

But Bolg has not fallen. Azog sees him coming across the field, still astride his warg, and when he comes to a halt beside his father, he extends his hand for him.

"Quickly!" As soon as his father is behind him, Bolg sets the beast to running, and they fly across the field. By some stroke of luck, they escape with their lives. But that luck does not last for long…

Lord Elrond knew little of orcish healing.

It was not something he'd ever tried, nor something he'd had any chance to learn of. Orcs had always been enemies of elves, since first they appeared as thralls of Morgoth. Even after his downfall, and Sauron's defeat, orcs and goblins had beset the free peoples of Middle-Earth with pain and sorrow, murdering and pillaging and –

He found himself clutching at his heart, as if struck, and Elrond turned away.

Why was he doing this? To answer some age-old question, to set his curiosity at peace? This was greater than foolishness, it was a travesty! If his boys could see him now… if Celebrian…

The thought of his wife sent new pains threw Elrond. Collapsing in a chair near the bed where the orc rested, Elrond let out a tired sigh and put his head in his hands.

Madness or no, it seemed his attempt would fail. He had tried everything he knew to try, put all his power into the healing of this orc; but while his wounds repaired themselves and his body recovered, still he would not wake. As if death had come over him while still he lived, the orc remained in a dark slumber none could wake him from.

Days had passed, and Lord Elrond's power as a healer was not miniscule. The creature should have awoken by now! Frustrated and tired and filled with sorrow and a feeling of loss he could not explain, Elrond was forced to admit this was a battle he might lose.

There simply were no other wounds to treat. Unless…

No, it couldn't be. Struck by the thought, Elrond stood again, approaching the books he'd gathered nearby. He did not have to read them to know what they said, but still, for want of something to do he scanned through one, thoughts racing. It simply couldn't be… it was not possible…

If elves were wounded, they might heal and still never wake – for if their soul, the light which gave them life, was held down by wounds of its own, that alone might kill them. Sadness, grief, loneliness might kill an elf who otherwise seemed fine.

But an orc?

Elrond scoffed aloud at his own follow. Dwarves, men, hobbits, none of these had the blessing of the Eldar's light, and they could be quite noble and decent people. Orcs were neither of those things – an orc could not possible have any light within them. Surely even if they did they would not be capable of dying from grief? Did orcs even feel grief?

Still, it was his final resort, and Elrond found himself approaching his patient again. It made no sense. Yet… he remembered golden eyes shimmering with the same sadness that churned in his own breast that day upon Dagorlad. And so he placed his hands against Azog's temples, and closed his eyes.

The orc's mind is darkness, and flame. It is what he knows, how he was born. His first sight of the world was that lidless eye, ever burning, staring straight through his soul and demanding his allegiance with pain and promises of power.

Power is what he was made for. To wield his strength as a hammer against foes and allies alike, to strike fear in all hearts, to command the Dark Lord's armies and lead him to victory. He is not like the others. They are made weak, frail, fodder for the front lines. He is a General.

For every loss, he is punished. For victories, he is punished less. But pain is a constant, reminding him of what awaits treachery, and defeat. Scars and disfigurements are trophies of survival, signs of fealty to the Dark Lord. He cuts his own skin, and somehow it hurts less when he controls the blade.

Darkness, and flame… but yes, there is Light. There is a flickering candle here, down in the deep… how did it come to be? How could this exist? These are questions for another time. The healer reaches out to the flame, so frail, so weak, and in it he sees…

Azog is cradling a body. There are dead orcs all around him, torn to utter shreds. He has done it, of course. They deserved worse, but in his maddening bloodlust he thought only to kill them, not of making them suffer.

The arrow was not meant for him. It was Azog's death the Dark Lord called for. He had failed too many times, failed to end the line of Durin, failed to keep them from the mountain. The reclaiming of Erebor has cost the Dark Lord much, and someone must pay.

They escaped the battle only to find their own people turned upon them. Every orc wants his head, to please the Dark Lord, to perhaps fill the vacant spot his death will leave. They came to them, to their allies, looking for aid, and found betrayal.

The arrow was meant for Azog, but Bolg leapt in its way, killed instantly by the steel which struck through his skull. Azog saw red. Now, he is covered in blood, cradling his son and he is weeping.

The healer watches. Azog is muttering under his breath, something in orcish, and here, the healer can sense its meaning. These are mournful words, farewells, they are filled with love, the sorrow of a father who has lost his son… and he can hardly believe it.

Yet he feels it in the very air around him. Azog is mourning. And now he cares not to live because the last of his family is gone, his people have turned on him, and he has nothing now. The realization is shocking, but it is true. He knows it has to be true, and that fact alone has thrown the healer's entire world into question.

He steps forward, slowly, carefully. He is not sure if Azog sense him here. Perhaps he does not care. He comes to kneel beside the fallen Bolg, and inclines his head respectfully. When he lifts his gaze, Azog is finally looking at him with those golden eyes.

Elrond makes sure to hold his gaze steady when he speaks. "I mourn with thee,"

Azog stares numbly, still lost in grief – but only for a moment before he strikes.

He went for the elf's throat first, eager to tear it out and spray his blood across the walls. But the elf countered, lifting his forearms to block Azog's reach, then caught Azog in the chest with his feet. They went tumbling to the ground, and the elf kicked out to throw Azog over him.

He landed on his feet, spun, and charged his opponent, who had just enough time to stand and turn and be hit with a barreling orc. They flew through the room, out the open balcony doors, breaking the banister as they tumbled below.

It was not a fight so much as a brawl, something orcs were very good at. But to Azog's surprise, the elf was pretty good at it too. They traded blow after blow, using solely their fists, careening through the peaceful paths of Rivendell, leaving chaos in their wake.

Azog threw a punch, and the elf ducked, his blow landing upon an ornate pillar. It cracked, and with another hit crumbled completely. That brought the roof above them down, but both managed to dodge out of the way in time. Standing in an open plaza, Azog glanced around, taking in his strange surroundings with wide, wild eyes. Where was he? Why the hell was he alive? Where was his so –

It came to him, all of it, quite suddenly – and he let out a howl of rage and agony, falling to his knees at the realization.

Quickly, Azog found himself surrounded by elven bows and arrows, and he expected to be shot down then and there. Fine. It would hardly be honorable, to die on his knees in front of elves, but he had allowed his son to die for him. He had failed Bolg; his honor was already tarnished beyond repair.

The elf he was fighting came forward suddenly, yelling in their strange, soft language. When he was done, the elves surrounding Azog hauled him up, and he was dragged through the place to a larger room.

Here, gathered a few new elves, and the one he'd attacked, who was from his dream… some nasty elvish magic. Scowling, Azog watched the elf walk into the room, his clothes a little worse for wear, and he grinned viciously. The elf met his eyes, and he did not seem mad. The fact that he was so unbothered burned under Azog's skin. He was not some trifle to be ignored!

They bound his arms and legs, forcing him to remain kneeling with his hands behind him. Then, the elves all came together and bickered in their pithy little language for a time, leaving Azog to kneel on the floor with swords drawn all about him. He scowled at their backs, appalled at the dishonor of elves, who would not finish a battle and kill their enemy honorably, but debase him by dragging him about like a toy and ignoring him? Fuming, Azog half-made to stand and begin to fight again, when the elf finally turned his way.

He walked forward, dark eyes set upon Azog, hands clasped in front of him. "Leave us," Many of his servants audibly reacted with complaint – a level of disrespect and disloyalty that Azog could hardly believe was tolerated – before the elf repeated his words more harshly, and his people disbanded.

"You are Azog, chief of the orcs of Moria, are you not?" The elf began.

"I am chief of nothing," He spat. "And who are you, that dishonors his enemy and falls behind his men rather than finishing a fight?"

Again, the elf was unbothered, not even a flare of anger in his placid eyes. "I am Lord Elrond of Rivendell, where you now reside."

"Will you not just kill me already?"

"I am not going to kill you," Pacing round Azog, Elrond held his hands behind him, his head aloft, and Azog wished very much to kill him. "In fact, I have saved your life, and in return you have attacked me, and damaged my home."

"I would do more than that, given the chance."

"I am certain you would." Finally that empty expression breaks into a sardonic smile. The elf came to stand in front of Azog again. "What if I offered you a truce?"

"A truce?" Laughing, Azog shook his head. "I do not believe you."

"I give you my word."

He spat at the elf. "That is what I think of an elf's word." A frown appeared on the elf's face, and Azog laughed again.

Sighing, Elrond turned and approached a table nearby. Azog watched him pick up a knife, and felt a cold, solid weight settle in his gut. This was the end then. It was not the end he would have wanted, once, but now he is simply satisfied to be done. As the elf approached, Azog lifted his chin, daring the bastard to slit his throat.

But the elf stepped to his side, knelt, and took the knife to the bonds around his wrists and ankles. In a moment he was free. Surprised, Azog stood quickly, having had more than enough of being forced to his knees before elves.

"I offer you a haven away from battle." Elrond had his back to him – a foolish mistake. Yet, Azog did not attack. "Rivendell is outside the reach of your fellows, and here the Dark Lord will not find you. In return, I ask that you repay your debt to me."

Huffing, Azog clenched his fists. "I would rather kill myself than be a slave to an elf!"

Elrond spun round, eyes flaring. "No!" Real anger revealed itself upon his face, for a moment, before the elf schooled his expression. "No, not a slave. You would be my guest, and treated as such. I ask only the chance to speak with you, to learn what I can of you."

This was… more than strange. Grunting, Azog crossed his arms. "I will not betray my people."

"I will not ask you to." Elrond insisted. "I ask only that you will try, that we might – attempt to speak as… allies."

"If I do not agree?"

Sighing, the elf placed the knife away, and turned back to Azog. "Then I will let you go."

"You cannot expect me to believe this." He laughed, shook his head.

Elrond gestured to the door. "Go. I have ordered my people not to stop you. There is a bridge not far from here; a bag has been prepared with basic supplies. Take it and go."

Cocking an eyebrow, Azog turned to the elf. Surely this was a ploy, some trick. He would take the bag, cross the bridge, enter the woods and be shot down by elven archers. What a backhanded, dishonorable way to kill. But it mattered little. Azog did not care about elven honor. If this was how he was meant to die, then he would die, on his feet, rather than on his knees before this petty lord.

So, he took the bag, and he crossed the bridge, walked the long winding roads out of the valley. Not a single elf stood in his way. He knew they were watching them, could feel their eyes on his skin, but no one attacked him. He left the valley unharmed, came to the wilds outside Rivendell free, and alive, and very confused.

It could very well be another elven trick, meant to make him believe this Elrond could be trusted. Just another false layer in this elven riddle. Or, could the elf really be telling the truth? It was unlikely. This all was part of some game, some scheme, and Azog wanted to unravel it, to know what this meant. To know how far this elf's trickery went.

The day after the end of the strange incidence with the orc, Lindir found Elrond in his study.

That was where he spent most of his time, when his children were gone. That was more often the case now than ever. Arwen had been with her grandmother for many decades now, and the twins left constantly to chase after orc packs and hunt down beasts. Since Estel had been sent north to be trained with the Dunedain, Lord Elrond had been more alone than ever.

It was sad to see. Many in Imladris had lost friends, and family, but here they found a new refuge to rebuild, thanks to Lord Elrond. But it seemed he was the one denied the bliss he allowed others, unable to enjoy the peace he had created himself. Those he loved were always leaving him.

Elrond was reading when Lindir came upon him. He stood nearby, not wanting to interrupt, but when it seemed his lord would never look up and address him, Lindir cleared his throat.

"My Lord Elrond?"

"Ah, Lindir," Not even looking up, Elrond merely crossed the space between them, eyes still on his book. "You've come at an opportune time. Perhaps you can lend fresh eyes to my research."

"Of course, my Lord." He stepped closer, looking at the text. "This is a history written by men?"

"Yes, of the Third Age." Elrond confirmed. "What I am puzzled on is the wording… here." He pointed to a section, then began to read it aloud.

"All living things were divided in that day, and some of every kind, even of beasts and birds, were found in either host, save the Elves only. They alone were undivided and followed Gil-galad. Of the Dwarves few fought upon either side; but the kindred of Durin of Moria fought against Sauron."*

"This is of the Last Alliance?"

"Yes, specifically of who allied with whom." Elrond continued, turning to his desk and setting the book down, still open upon it. "Now, it seems to me, that paragraph implies that all the people of Middle-Earth, were "divided" between Sauron's armies, and the Alliance. Would you agree?"

"Well, yes." That was exactly what it said, wasn't it? "Except for elves, of course."

Lord Elrond didn't exactly seem pleased by that. "Yes," He muttered, resting upon his hands on the desk, looking out towards his window. "I thought as much. Thank you, Lindir."

"My Lord?"

"Yes?"

A little nervously, Lindir glanced back towards the door. "The orc, it's, well – it's back."

"You've returned."

Azog was facing the window, looking out over the valley, and didn't turn to face him when he entered. A power play; showing he did not see Elrond as a threat. Elrond smirked at that.

"You did not kill me."

"No," The smirk became a smile. "I did not."

"But you will," The orc turned, and at his harsh words Elrond's smile dropped. "You've some scheme in the works, and I will work it out."

"Perhaps it is different for orcs, but elves do not so easily resort to violence."

Azog let out a rumbling laugh. "Don't they?"

He wanted to refute him, but that would've been an argument of some length, one that he might not have won. "Have you come to accept my offer?"

The orc smirked. "I have – on one condition." Elrond quirked an eyebrow, half tempted to point out that this all began with him saving Azog's life, and forgiving him for a rather violent assault. But he kept quiet.

"And what is that?"

"You said you have questions of me, fine." Azog began to saunter slowly towards him, his metal claw dragging along the wooden railing, marring it. Clearly he did it hoping to get a rise out of Elrond, which is exactly why Elrond pretended he didn't even notice it happening. "I have some for you, also. For every question of yours I answer, I want one answer from you."

That was not exactly what he had expected. For a moment, he considered it, wondering how the orc was hoping to turn this to his advantage, before he nodded. "Fair enough." Azog seemed surprised. "If that is all, I will bid you good night. Quarters have been prepared for you," Elrond finally said. "We may continue bickering in the morning."

Elrond did not await his response; he simply went to bed. It was late, he was tired, and feeling more keenly now those he missed.

To say that Azog was an unwelcome addition to Rivendell was a severe understatement.

No one, save Lord Elrond, understood why he was there, or wanted him; it was only out of respect for their leader that Azog was not killed where he stood. As it was, few made him feel any semblance of welcome, and Azog spent most of his time in the woods around the Last Homely House.

He hunted during the day – something he later found the elves were particularly unhappy about. After the first mishap where the haughty bastards treated his preparing dinner as akin to murder, he spread his hunting grounds further into the Trollshaws, if only to make them shut up.

In the evenings, he spent time with Lord Elrond, who would check over and fuss unnecessarily about his wounds (Azog almost wondered if elves were frail, for them to be so overbearing, but he had seen them in battle and they were not so). Then, they would eat, usually in a tense, brooding silence, which would eventually break as Elrond went on about whatever inane topic he wished to discuss that night.

And he did not start small.

"Do you know where the orcs first came from?" Elrond asked the first night. Azog huffed. That was an easy one to answer. Tearing a bite out of his meat before deigning to answer, he said, "No." The look of clear disappointment on Elrond's face was satisfying. "Why do you care?"

"I am… trying to understand." He began slowly. "I have found of late that my knowledge of orcs and their – culture… is limited, and I wish to correct that."

Barking laughter was Azog's answer. "We do not have a culture, Lord of Elves. Culture requires art, music, learning, and what little orcs have is easily swept away every few decades or so. We have no history, no sense of self." The more he spoke, the darker his mood became, until Azog was practically glaring down at his meal, grumbling. "If this is an attempt to learn of our 'culture' you will not have much luck."

"Yet, you know what culture is." Elrond seemed surprised, perhaps even impressed, and the expression lit a fire in Azog's belly.

"What is flight, Lord Elrond?"

Clearly puzzled by the out-of-the-blue question, the elf hesitated to answer. "It is the ability to fly through the air."

"Can you fly?"

"Of course not."

"But you understand what flight is?"

A hard look accompanied his answer. "I see your point." His look turned thoughtful. "You are very intelligent –"

"If you finish that sentence with 'for an orc', I will kill you." They did not give him any utensils to eat with, but he could make do with the blunt bones of the animal he's eating.

"No, that is not – "He held up his hands in surrender, sighing. "I only mean that the Dark Lord is not fond of servants who might be wise enough to challenge him. He tends to favor the easily led."

"True enough," He would give the elf that. "I was bred for a different purpose than most of my kin. Most orcs are short lived, and capable merely of enough speech and combat to be pointed in the right direction and told, 'kill'."

"No more than that?"

"Any more would be dangerous." Surely the elf knew that? But by his eyes, he seemed shocked… even somber. "Sauron has bred millions of orcs over the ages. At any time, he may have tens of thousands serving him. No matter his power, if that kind of force turned on him, he would be finished." His meal was almost finished; he began tearing into the bone marrow as he continued. "He keeps his orcs ignorant, isolated, tormented, and he turns them upon one another so they will not unite against him."

"That sounds like an unpleasant way to live."

Azog just looked at him. He had the pleasure of watching the elf begin to fidget.

"Perhaps that goes unsaid."

The routine continued every night. Lord Elrond busied himself with whatever it was he did during the day, and during the evening they would eat and converse, whatever good that did.

"Do orcs have a long life span?"

Azog shrugged. "I cannot say. I have never seen an orc die a natural death." Elrond visibly jumped at that, eyes widened, and Azog took a little pleasure from it. Orcs never died in peace; they were murdered, eaten, betrayed, killed in battle, or killed by the 'free peoples'. "How many orcs have you killed?"

Elrond did not meet his eyes. "Too many to count," He muttered. "What of your age? Do you know how long you have lived?"

"By the count of years, no," He admitted. So much time spent in the darkness, hiding in shadow, made time melt away. There were no days and night, no months and years in the ruins and chasms of the world. "But I am one of the few orcs who can claim to have been made not by Sauron, but by his master."

"Morgoth?" If he was shocked before, Elrond was speechless now. "Then – you are older than I."

"And how old are you, little elf?" The words irritated the elf, which meant Azog would be calling him that from now on.

"I was born in the year 532 of the First Age." Clearly that meant something to Elrond. It meant nothing to Azog, but he did not let it show. "Do orcs not mark the passage of time?"

"The only time that matters is Sauron's – when he wants us, and how fast." Azog told him. "Months, years, what do they matter to those who spend all their time waiting on orders?"

Elrond seemed to ponder that for a moment. Azog considered coming up with a question of his own, simply because that was his way of keeping the score even, of unsettling Elrond as much as possible. But that night he found he did not care. He was – irritated, anger buzzing like an itch under his skin.

"Do orcs ever marry?"

Azog threw down the goblet in his hand, meeting Elrond's eyes with a fierce gaze. "What is the point of this? You should know the Dark Lord wouldn't allow such things of his minions."

"Sauron has been greatly weakened for some time, surely in those years orcs have gained some independence?"

"What independence?" Scoffing, Azog found he could not remain still so he stood, pacing the length of the table. "All these things you ask of, they are what societies are founded on. But you cannot have a society without supplies, support, alliances. What we need, we must scrounge for. What we want, we must steal. None of the free peoples would ever trade with us, nor make alliances with us, but by Sauron's word." A fire was building in his throat, spreading through his arms, his legs. "Even if we went crawling on bent knees to the 'free peoples' of Middle-Earth, asking for protection from Sauron, we would be killed on sight." Unable to hold it back any longer, Azog turned and let out a roar of rage, slamming his fist down upon the table. It cracked beneath the force, bending inward.

In the aftermath, Azog stood, rage stood pounding in his ears. He turned to Elrond, looking for some reaction, anything – nothing at all. He left without a word.

The next night, dinner was a rather quiet affair. Azog almost thought they'd go the whole evening without saying a word when Elrond finally spoke.

"After yesterday's questions, I believe we are left somewhat unequal." He began. "You answered many of mine, yet have not asked any of me."

Azog looked up, met his grey eyes, so even and peaceful and ever untouched. "Fine," Scowling, he took a long swig out of his goblet of wine. "Are you married, little elf?"

"I am." His gaze was downcast, voice cold. "But my wife has left Middle-Earth, never to return."

"She went west, then." If Elrond was surprised that Azog knew of such things, he didn't show it. "Why did she go without you? Did you bore her? Were you disappointing as a husband?" Grinning viciously, Azog could not hide his mirth.

"She was taken by orcs, and tortured," Elrond told him, quick and dry, without ever looking up. "and she could find no peace here, anymore."

Azog's grin died. "I… am sorry."

That lifted the elf's gaze. "Thank you." He seemed genuine. Not that Azog cared.

"Do you have children?"

"Yes," Elrond told him. "Two boys, and a girl." His tone there was tense, clipped. Azog did not say anything of it.

"Have they gone west as well?"

"No, they remain on Middle-Earth, if not in Rivendell. My twin sons spend their winters hunting orcs on a quest of vengeance," The elf told him with some disdain. It was not something he approved of, then. Azog did. Vengeance for wronged kin was honorable. "My daughter is with her grandparents."

He wanted to ask why they were all so far away, wanted to question why the elf spoke of such things with a sorrow that seemed heavier than a temporary parting. But he found he did not know how to ask, so Azog fell silent.

The elf was… puzzling.

Azog knew that Elrond had reasons for what he was doing. There must be a purpose. But he could not divine it, and asking the elf was as helpful as speaking to rock and expecting a reply. He seemed to almost enjoy being infuriating and misleading.

A fortnight passed, and Azog still lived. None of the elves had attacked him, though he was kept under close guard. Their eyes followed him wherever he went. Guards were posted outside his room at all hours, and they followed him through Rivendell. Sometimes, out in the wilderness, he would run them ragged trying to keep up with him.

They would not let him sleep out amid the trees, or in a cave. They kept him close, in one of their guest suites, which was all too soft for Azog's liking. Elves were gentle creatures indeed, to need so much bedding to rest on. He slept on the floor on the balcony, watching the stars.

One such night, after an evening of heated debate with his host, Azog decided enough was enough. He was tired of being kept locked in this room, like a pet, awaiting Elrond's call. He stood, climbed up onto the balcony, glancing round. He was on the third floor, and there were guards posted on the ground below. But there were none above.

Two stories above him was another balcony. A lantern stood between them, somewhat to the left, an ornate thing made of long lines. It would be enough. He leapt, aiming for the lamp, grabbing it with one hand, and swinging round. With the momentum he built, he pushed off the wall, upwards, and grabbed the bottom of the balcony. Then it was simply a matter of hoisting himself up.

The door was not locked; elves, apparently, did not believe in privacy, for they locked none of their doors. Even Azog's was kept barred by guards, not by machinations. Azog entered through the doorway, into a dimly lit alcove.

He stepped forward quietly, glancing around. Bookshelves lined the room, an expansive hall that overlooked another room below. Azog heard voices coming from the lower floor, and could see light in one corner. He ducked down, inching forward.

"Surely you realize this is madness!" He recognized that voice; it was one of the cronies constantly following the little elf around. "What can you possibly hope to accomplish?"

"I have asked you to trust me, and I would ask it again." That was Elrond's voice, clearly irritated by the rough tone.

"Of course we trust you." Another voice spoke. "But we do not trust the orc. Nor are any in the valley happy about this, you must know that. Everyone here has lost someone to a raid, or to the wars. To have that – that thing, parading around, living here as if it were one of our own –"

"Leave."

"But, my Lord –"

"Now, Erestor, before I truly lose my patience."

There was silence, then footsteps, and a door slamming. Then he heard a heavy sigh.

"He's right, you know," A new voice spoke. "Whatever your reasons are, the beast's presence has caused unrest in the valley. It is only a matter of time before someone acts."

"He is under my protection."

"You are asking your people to protect the very beast which haunts their nightmares! The creatures that took so much from them."

"And Azog himself did this?"

"What?"

"Did he, specifically, attack any of us?"

"What does that matter? He's an orc!"

"It should matter!" Elrond's voice rose to an angry pitch, more violent than Azog had ever heard it. Almost as if he were enraged. "In the past, men and dwarves have wronged our people – yet still we trade with them, we make peace with them, and we do not kill any who simply happen to come our way. Yet we treat orcs as mindless beasts, lesser than animals!"

"Because that is what they are!"

"And what if you're wrong?" Elrond's anger became a quiet simmer, threatening to burst, as his words grew cold and tense. Azog felt much the same – a bitter chill overcame him, tingling all down his spine, and he could not move if he wanted to. "If orcs are not thralls of Sauron or willing servants but wrongly enslaved, with no way to escape their confinement?"

"If they were so against Sauron, or their wicked ways, they would repent. They would seek out his enemies if they wished to align with them."

"You should know better than I how such things have gone." Elrond retorted. "In the days of old, elves and men taken by Morgoth who later escaped or were released were rejected by their own people – forced to wander the wilds of Beleriand, sick and hungry, because none would accept them. I imagine orcs would fare no better."

Quiet fell for a time, in which Azog heard one of the elves pacing. Then Elrond spoke again. "Sauron knows nothing but malice and hate. He aims to kill all living things on Middle-Earth, because he despises them. And if we mindlessly hate and kill the orcs, without question, are we – are we not –"

"Lord Elrond!"

Azog almost leapt to his feet to look over the balcony. He did jump at the thud of someone hitting the ground, listened intently as the elves moved.

"How long?"

"How long… what?"

"Do not think you can trick me as you have the others."

"… since Estel."

The other elf cursed; soon, Azog heard them both leave. He remained in the darkness and the silence, deep in thought, long into the night.

Time passed; the seasons turned to late fall, the trees changing as winter drew near. The twins did not come home. It was expected, as they rarely came home earlier than the New Year, but it was also for the first time considered a blessing. While the whole of Rivendell missed Elladan and Elrohir, they did not enjoy the thought of the boys finding their father hosting an orc in their home.

The skies darkened, and for a time heavy rains fell upon the Trollshaws, and the Bruinen rose higher than it had been in many years. Bridges set over little rivers in the valley were overcome by the waters, as the storms grew worse.

Lord Elrond passed restrictions upon travel to protect his people, and save them from the weather; but not all who traveled through the Trollshaws were elves.

Four weeks after the orc's first arrival, Lord Elrond was patrolling the borders of his lands with Erestor. The worst storm of them all was expected that evening; the lower portions of the valley would be entirely flooded. Riders had been sent to warn those in danger, and Elrond rode with them, unable to sit idly by while his people were in danger.

"We should return, my lord," Erestor insisted again, for the third time that hour. "We have scoured the area, everyone in the valley is taking refuge in the Homely House." Elrond was not paying him any mind, which is perhaps why he moved ahead, into his lord's line of sight. "We shall be in danger if we do not do the same soon!"

"Return, Erestor," Looking up, Elrond spoke with finality. "I will make one final sweep of the valley, and then I will follow you." Erestor did not look pleased about it, but he agreed. Elrond watched him go before turning in the opposite direction, making for the south. The valley was safe, that was true; but there were places outside Rivendell that might be in danger, and Elrond would not leave them.

He rode out of the valley, up towards the moors, to those places where travelers most frequented. If he could save any lives, he would.

"Where is Lord Elrond?"

Azog glanced up at the name. They stood in the Hall of Fire, where the orc was under heavy guard, and the place was packed with elves.

"Has he not returned with you?" The taller elf, blond and muscular, asked the shorter, dark haired one.

"No, he said he wanted to do another sweep of the valley, and he would follow me. But it has been hours now, has he not returned?" The elf glanced round.

"I will find him," The blond elf made for the door, but the dark haired one leapt in his way.

"Are you a fool? You could not make it far without drowning!"

"I have faced a Balrog, I think I can handle a little rain."

"Oh, if you don't stop bringing that up every time –"

Rolling his eyes, Azog shook his head. Then he glanced at his guards. They were all distracted, looking at the argument, clearly concerned for their lord. None were watching him. Slowly, he slipped back, into the shadows, and then out the nearest side door.

There were many roads and bridges through the Trollshaws which travelers used to cross the Bruinen. Elrond rode past them all, directing any he found to take refuge in his home, and they all agreed to do so gladly. The rivers surrounding the valley would allow them passage, so long as Elrond willed it; he could conquer those waters, at least. But nature would take its course, and he could not force the rain to un-flood the valley, nor would he try. And he could not bend the waters outside the valley to his will.

Just as he was about to return, he came upon a group of travelers who had not fared so well.

He could see their wagon upon the bridge; it was smashed into the side of the stone columns, crushed against them. Water had risen well above the wheels of the ruined wreck, and the supports of the bridge itself were straining under the violence of the river. In the water, he could see from afar two figures, young children – where their parents were, he did not want to think.

They were crying, calling for help, clinging to a rock amidst the turbulent waters, but they would not be able to hold on for long. The younger, a girl, was able to hold on only because of her brother's arm around her, holding her above the water.

Elrond rode to the riverside quickly, leaping off his horse. The two children eyed him with terror and hope, and he spoke as calmly and reassuringly as he could. "It will be all right," He told them, reaching into his pack for rope.

In truth, he felt his heart pounding in his chest, to see the two young ones as they were. The bridge was near to collapsing, and the water was only going to rise. If they did not get out of the river soon, they would not get out at all.

Tying the rope around his steed's saddle, and then around his own waist, Elrond took to the waters. The flow of the river was powerful; fighting him every step of the way, and it wasn't long before he felt his feet leave the bottom. It was only through holding onto debris and pulling his way that he made it to the children.

"Take her!" The boy insisted to him, shoving the little girl to Elrond. He nodded, taking the girl to his chest, lifting her head over the water. He would have to make two trips; he could not carry both. Resigned to it, he fought against the river once more, whispering comfort to the trembling boy in his arms.

The child leapt onto the riverbank and barreled for land, and no sooner than her feet had touched ground, Elrond turned and went back into the river. He heard the little boy scream; then, a crack like thunder, and the river roared and rose.

Too late, he turned toward the coming tide, knowing there was nothing he could do. Part of the bridge had broken, the cart falling into the water, stones cascading into the river. One of the columns tumbled down, and as it fell into the river it caught the rope in its path. Elven rope does not break easily, and it did not break now – instead, as the stone sunk into the riverbed, it dragged Elrond down with it, deep below the surface, even as he fought. But he did not fight for long – there was so much debris, and he had been taken by surprise, and had no warning as a block of stone crashed into his head, and he went unconscious.

Azog found Elrond's horse, but he did not see its lord.

The horse was mad, rearing and crying out like it was wounded. Azog did not try to comfort it; horses were not friendly beasts to him, so unlike wargs. Then, looking upon it, he saw a rope tied round the beast's saddle, reaching into the water. Had Elrond gone under? He approached, when a human child started screaming.

He had no idea how to calm it. He thought of trying to be calm, as the child was clearly traumatized, but the more it screamed the more aggravated he got, until Azog screamed, "Silence!" The child shut its yap. "Where is the elf?" It pointed to the river. Azog had thought as much, and for a moment considered that the elf might be dead. An unwelcome feeling of loss hit him then, and he scowled.

The debris from the bridge had created a wall of sorts in the river, a blockage that was slowing the water down some. But with time, it would fall, and make Azog's job much harder. He approached the water, taking firm hold of the rocks and debris nearby, and went under.

It was dismally dark, but he was an orc, and he could see. Far below, Elrond's body floated, his hair a curtain rising over his face, limbs lax by his side. Unconscious, then. The rope around his chest was pulled taut by a stone pillar lying horizontally along the riverbed.

Azog swam down to untie the rope, but no matter how he tugged the bonds, they wound not budge. He tried cutting them with his claw, to no avail. Damnable elvish rope! Scowling, Azog turned his gaze to Elrond. He needed air. Lifting his hand, the orc gripped the elf's jaw, pressed their mouths together, and breathed into his mouth.

He rose, taking another breath, then went down, and repeated the gesture, hoping it might buy him time. He wasn't sure how long elves could go without air. Then he turned his eye upon the pillar.

It was half buried under debris and rock, stuck under the base of the blockage stopping the river. If he moved it, the whole thing would come crashing down. Elrond would be fine; the rope would keep him from being dragged downstream.

Azog swam down to the bottom, on one side of the pillar, digging his hand beneath it. Pressing his feet to the ground, he pulled it upward, higher, and higher. The higher it rose, the more it disturbed the debris, until the wall began to help lift the pillar as it collapsed. Azog finally lifted it high enough to throw it forward, into the wall, and the whole thing came crashing down into the river, setting the water free. And Azog was swept away with it.

There are worse ways to die, he thought, before he was pulled under.

As soon as it felt the rope come free, the horse began to pull – and within time, Elrond breached the surface, and was dragged up onto land.

Vaguely he felt he had been dreaming… or having a horrid nightmare, of darkness, and cold… but in the midst of it, came warmth, the touch of hands and lips… where was he? What had –

The children! Sitting up, Elrond began to cough viciously, head reeling, even as he glanced round. The girl was safe, but the boy… he turned to the river. Gone.

Without a word, Elrond stumbled to his feet, gathering the girl to his side in a woozy daze. Untying the rope, he haphazardly tucked it away before climbing onto his horse.

He should be heading back to Rivendell, now… but he had a nagging feel, some sense of danger looming over him. Not for him; for another. Frowning, Elrond closed his eyes, let his Sight overtake him, felt the light inside him reaching for someone…

Opening his eyes, he let the pull guide him towards the north.

*The Silmarillion, page 294