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Chapter Text

The crisp crunch of leaves was punctuated by the thud-thud-thud of apples dropping from laden boughs. Sunlight filtering lazily through the trees cast all that it touched in burnished gold, making patinas of leaf and bark and branch. A fox on the path pricked his ears and dropped his tail low to the ground as the wind blew voices towards him. They were happy voices, merry and light and melodious in a way that only one manner of voice could be, for they were elven. They belonged to kindly elves that a fox need not fear, but still he melted into the bushes. Perfectly camouflaged amongst autumnal reds and golds, he watched as the owners of the voices came around the corner.

“Look! There’s the tree that I was hiding in the first time we met. Do you remember?”

A fond laugh. “I could not forget.”

“Some of the trees are good about letting you hide when you’re in trouble. Others not so much. They think that it is funny to tumble you onto the ground right at the feet of the person hunting you.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“It only happened once. Twice. Or three times.”

“You ought to choose better trees.”

“Or get in trouble less. But why would I do that?”

“Why indeed.”

The fox twitched his nose and peered at the leather boots that stopped not far from his bush. On the other side of the path, Luthavar Faelindion-Baralinhil rested his hand against the rough bark of the oak tree where his life had changed five years ago. Only five years, he thought, since the father who had given him up at birth to save him from a life of torture and slavery in the darkest pits of Mordor had stopped beneath the very oak tree in whose branches he had sought refuge to delay returning home to his beloved adoptive father and the trouble that he was in. Sometimes, Luthavar wondered what would have happened if he had not climbed into the tree that day. If he had never been in trouble, if he had chosen a different path to walk along, a different tree to hide in. Would Baralin still have found him? Or was it that circumstance and fate had conspired to place both father and long-lost son in the right place at the right time? Had that been their only chance to reunite? A slim moment in time, never to be offered again. Luthavar couldn’t think so. He and Baralin were meant to have found each other.

“Sometimes the trees play tricks,” he said, keeping his voice low so as not to offend any of the neighbouring trees. “They say that you can hide but all along they intend to drop you on the ground at the most inopportune moment. Not this tree, though. She is the best.”

“I am grateful to her for looking after you so well,” Baralin replied, and the great oak rustled bashfully.

They walked on.

The path meandered like a river. It was on so gentle a slope that one might not realise that they were going downhill until they glanced up and noticed how the trees towered tall above them and the leaf littered banks ran up and away out of sight. Twists and turns led down to a little dell lying cold and dim in the shade, the fingers of the sun unable to stretch so far. High off the ground, an ancient bridge to nowhere arced across the dell and disappeared into the bank. Moss coated the crumbling stones. Here and there a spider scuttled between the cracks. Baralin made to pass under the bridge to continue their walk on the other side, but he glanced over his shoulder as his son hesitated.

“What is it, Lutha?”

“You have to…” Lutha gestured vaguely at the bridge. “Hold your breath.”

A quizzical smile appeared on Baralin’s handsome face as he turned back. “What do you mean?”

“The bridge,” Lutha clarified. “Legend says that you have to hold your breath when you walk under it or the Dark Lord will appear and drag you to Mordor.”

The words had been spoken. There was no way to call them back though Lutha would have wiped them clean away if he could. He froze, struck by horror, and Baralin came to his side as he drew a panicked breath. “Don’t, love,” his father said, placing one strong and soothing hand flat on his chest, the other on his back, steadying him. “Don’t tell me that you are sorry. You don’t need to.”

“No, I do,” Lutha said in disbelief. “That was the stupidest thing I could ever say. I’m an idiot!”

“Don’t,” Baralin repeated, more firmly this time. “I will not hear of you taking such names to yourself.”

“But I-”

“You spoke without thought. That does not make you thoughtless.” Deepest indigo eyes met clearest grey as Baralin lifted Lutha’s chin with a gloved hand. “I am glad that you speak to me without thought because it means that you are comfortable enough in my presence to do so. I never want you to feel that you must guard your words around me. I have taken no hurt, yonya. I promise you.”

“If you’re sure,” Lutha said in quiet misery. “But I’m still sorry.”

Baralin pressed a kiss to his brow and drew him close. For a moment they stood still in the chilly dell, each of them silently savouring what they had lost and craved for so many years – a father’s protection, a youngest child’s love. Not for either of them would it ever become something to tire of. When finally they drew apart, Baralin sat on a flat rock by the bridge and gestured for Lutha to join him. “I spare little thought for the Dark Lord and his dark realm,” he said, putting an arm around Lutha’s slim shoulders. “I think often of your mother and your older brothers and sisters, and your sweet twin Morfindir, but when I do they are free, running and playing and dancing upon the green plains where once I travelled.” Baralin glanced down at Lutha and lovingly tucked a lock of dark hair behind his ear. “And you are with them and we are all together.”

“That sounds nice,” Lutha ventured.

“Yes. A beautiful dream. Aside from those whom I loved and lost, I feel…” There was a pause as Baralin searched for the right words. “I feel detached from my captivity. The person I used to be died in the pits of Mordor. Much of that time and what went before it is shut away behind a locked door in my mind for which I have lost the key. It was another life, Lutha. You are all that matters to me now. You, and Thureneth, and Faelind. Now…” He smiled fondly and tapped Lutha on the nose. “Why don’t you tell me more about this cursed bridge.”

“Feredir tells the creepiest tales about it,” Lutha replied, eagerly seizing on the invitation. “He says that he has seen spirits and heard monsters, burning red eyes staring out of the gloom and whispers in the night and horses passing over the bridge though it leads to nowhere. I don’t come here that often and never at night so I’ve not seen or heard anything, but…well, I do hold my breath when I pass under the bridge. Just to be safe.”

“Of course,” Baralin agreed.

“So does Alphros,” Lutha added hastily. “Galad says that he doesn’t but I don’t believe him. Do you think that the bridge could really be cursed?”

Baralin glanced at the bridge and removed one of his gloves to run his hand over the old and cold stones. It came away green. Grimacing, he rubbed the slimy lichen onto the side of the rock. “No,” he said finally. “I do not think that the Dark Lord will appear if you fail to hold your breath under the bridge. I do not think that anything will happen. But legends are rooted in truth, so while I believe that something may have happened here long ago when the world was quiet and young, I also believe that you are safe here. Though perhaps not from spiders.” He walked featherlight fingers along Lutha’s neck.

“Don’t,” Lutha laughed, squirming away.

“Come,” Baralin said with a faint smile. “Let us walk under the bridge and return home.”

“Holding our breath?”

“No. Not holding our breath.”

“What if you carried me?” Lutha suggested. “That way, if there is a curse, it might not land on me because technically I wouldn’t be walking under the bridge.”

A wistful smile hovered about Baralin’s lips as he pulled his glove back on. “I will not turn down the chance to do something that I missed for so many years,” he said, and as he rose he swept his son into his arms so smoothly that Lutha gasped in startled delight. It was only a few short steps from the rock to the tunnel entrance that would lead them under the bridge, but Baralin carried Lutha those few steps, cradling him like the baby he had once been. When they got there, Baralin held on, savouring the moment, the feel of his last child safe in his arms, but then he pressed a kiss to Lutha’s hair and set him gently on his feet. “There,” he murmured. “But you must find your courage and walk through yourself.”

“Will you go first, Atto?”

“We shall go together.”

Lutha took a deep breath that tasted of ripe fruit and chilled air and the promise of rain on fallen leaves. He held it but let it out slowly at a meaningful look from his father. “Together, then.” He waited for Baralin to take the first step before following slowly. It was dark inside the tunnel and so cold that Lutha put his arms around himself to suppress a shiver. A smell of damp moss hung in the air. A drip of water made a soft plip as it fell into a puddle. The plop of a second drop followed immediately after. Autumnal wind chased them through the tunnel, toying with Lutha’s hair and making him gasp as it tickled his neck and his cheeks. He hastily batted it away until he realised that it was, in fact, only his hair and not a cluster of spiders falling from the ceiling. Still, he quickened his pace and emerged into grey daylight at his father’s side.

“Nothing happened,” Lutha said, turning to look back at the bridge which he supposed really was only old, smelly, and creepy.

“And nothing will happen,” Baralin promised. “You did so well to face your fear.” He kissed Lutha’s brow and looked down at him with a loving smile, and though Lutha knew that he had only walked under an old bridge, still he delighted in his father’s pride. “Now come, yonya,” Baralin said. “We shall go home and you can tell Faelind all about your triumph.”

Lutha nodded without hesitation, the prospect of seeing his other father bringing him as much joy as Baralin’s pride had. Together, they made their way out of the dell and back onto paths carpeted by golden sunshine and leaves that crackled and crunched underfoot. The bridge stood lonely and cold behind them, keeping its secrets close.

The very second they got home, Baralin was cornered by the cook with a query about the dinner menu for that night. The household staff had been suspicious of him in the beginning; most had felt sure that he had come with some nefarious plan to spirit Lutha away in the middle of the night, but with hard work and a lot of effort, Baralin had earned their trust and respect, and they acknowledged him now as one of Lutha’s fathers as well as a voice of authority in the house. At least when it came to dinner menus. Leaving Baralin to fend off the cook, Lutha slipped away and went in search of Faelind.

He found him in the same place he had last seen him – the study – and stopped for a moment to watch him. The usual feelings that stole over Lutha whenever he saw Faelind after being apart from him made an appearance now, warming him from the inside out and ushering a fond smile onto his face. In the same way that Lutha believed that he and Baralin were meant to have found one another, nobody would ever convince him that the same was not true of his adoptive father. Perhaps there were some who would say that it didn’t make sense, that it had never made sense, the half-feral little thief angry at the world and everything in it, and the cool and aloof Elder of Law and Justice. But Lutha thought that it was because of who they had been, not despite it, that it had always made sense, that they were always meant to rescue one another. As though pulled by the force of Lutha’s thoughts, Faelind looked up and smiled as their eyes met across the room.

“My little boy,” he said softly.

The familiar epithet made Lutha beam. Accepting it for the invitation that it was, he stepped further into the study. He thought that Faelind looked glad of the distraction, which was just as well because he excelled at being a distraction. “Guess where Atto and I ended up on our walk,” he said, perching on the edge of the desk and swinging his legs back and forth. “The Cursed Bridge. But we both survived.”

“I am overjoyed to hear it,” Faelind replied.

“Then sound less sarcastic,” Lutha chided his father with a laugh. “And guess what else? I didn’t even hold my breath when we walked under it.”

“Then you may report to Feredir that his stories are nonsense,” Faelind said.

“I suppose so. It is a little disappointing to think that the bridge is just a bridge,” Lutha admitted. “I wish that I knew where the stories came from. Things don’t get a reputation for being cursed for no reason, do they?” He waited expectantly for Faelind to agree, but his father only hummed noncommittally and glanced out of the window. Lutha felt his eyes widen in suspicion and he leaned forward to try and peer into Faelind’s eyes. “You know what happened at the bridge! Were you there?”

“Luthavar, how old do you think I am?” Faelind asked, and as he looked back Lutha was disappointed to see no hint of deceit or guilt in his eyes.

“I know how old you are,” Lutha retorted. “I don’t know how old the bridge is.”  

“It has been standing for longer than I have, and whatever happened there was well before my time,” Faelind said. The answer did not satisfy Lutha, who folded his arms over his chest with a quiet humph. “You are correct that the bridge must have its reputation for a reason,” Faelind added in an attempt to mollify him. “I believe that something did happen there, long ago, and the nature of that something has become lost and twisted over time.”

“Atto thinks the same thing,” Lutha conceded. “He said that legends are rooted in truth.”

“And so they are. This legend has been around in one form or another for many years,” Faelind said. “For many years more the bridge will be a place for warrior initiations and dares between siblings and friends.”

“Warrior initiations,” Lutha repeated, both curious and hopeful. “Did you ever…”  

A rueful smile made a fleeting appearance on Faelind’s face. “Naturally.”

“Did you get caught?” Lutha asked, and if he still sounded curious and hopeful…well, he made no apology for that. He loved hearing stories of his father, who he thought of as entirely perfect, getting into trouble.

“Naturally,” Faelind said again, dryly. “Dirnaith and I spent a night under the bridge after being dared by some older warriors. Most of a night, at any rate. We were caught by a passing patrol.”

“Were you in big trouble?” Lutha didn’t bother to hide his eagerness, but a dreadful thought came to him and he bit his lower lip as his smile faded. “With…with your father?”

“I was in big trouble, you will be delighted to hear, but not with my father,” Faelind replied, reaching out to give Lutha’s arm a comforting squeeze. “We were reported to our training master, who-”

“Galad’s daerada,” Lutha interrupted.

Faelind nodded patiently. “Captain Bregolas, yes, who gave us both a strapping and set us to fletching arrows for the rest of the day. Though he was dutybound to report the incident and our punishment to our parents, he only wrote one letter and that was to Dirnaith’s father. When I asked why, Bregolas told me that as Captain Nandirion already had an inordinate number of sons, dealing with one more reprobate elfling would be no trouble for him. I was grateful to Bregolas for shielding me from my father. As he often did,” Faelind added, his voice a little softer.

Lutha was immediately grateful to his best friend’s grandfather, too; Faelind spoke rarely about his father Elrain, but what little he had said over the years was enough that Lutha had no doubt in his mind that Elrain had been wicked and cruel. “What happened with Captain Nandirion?” Lutha asked, partly because he wanted to know, and partly so that Faelind need not dwell on thoughts of Elrain.

“Before facing Nandirion we had to face his older sons,” Faelind said, his jewel green eyes looking beyond Lutha into the past. “They had us running drills and exercises. Not Tirroval, though. He had spent a night at the bridge himself some years before and he thought that having a hand in our punishment would make him a hypocrite. He stood by and shouted encouragement, brought us drinks and ran us a bath at the end of the day, and he was there to sympathise after Captain Nandirion paddled us and sent us to bed straight after dinner that night.”

“That doesn’t sound like the worst punishment in the world,” Lutha said tentatively. “Compared to what might have happened if…”

Faelind finished the sentence as Lutha faltered. “If my father had found out. Well, perhaps. He was unpredictable and followed no rules but his own as to what misdeeds he thought required punishment. But you are quite correct, Luthavar; it was far from the worst punishment in the world. Though,” Faelind added thoughtfully, “I suppose every punishment feels like the worst in the world when it is happening. I defer to the expert on that point.”

Lutha waited expectantly for Faelind to clarify what he meant, but his eyes widened when his father only looked steadily at him. “Me? Ada!” He couldn’t decide if he was offended or delighted by the jest. Grudgingly, he supposed that he ought to be delighted; Faelind’s sense of humour was subtler than most, and it was almost always a joy to see it. “But tell me this,” he said, gently nudging Faelind with his foot, “which was scarier? The bridge, or Captain Bregolas and his strap?”

“We were young, and Bregolas was not so very hard on us. Still, where a strap is involved, that will always be the answer,” Faelind said with his usual restrained laughter. “As for the bridge, my little boy, believe what you will.”

“I might give it some thought before I settle on anything, but right now I’m going to see Alphros and Galad,” Lutha announced. “I have to tell them everything.”

“Well, perhaps not ev-”

“Everything,” Lutha reiterated firmly. “Especially that you and Dirnaith got into big trouble, because that’s funny.”

“If you must,” Faelind said with a sigh. “Just be home in time for dinner.”

Lutha nodded dutifully and hopped down from the desk. He gave his father a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek which Faelind returned with a small but fond smile. After helping himself to one of the sweets from the crystal bowl which had first appeared on the desk some years ago for his benefit, Lutha started for the door, but he didn’t make it far before another thought occurred to him. “Guess what else, Ada?”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Faelind said with the infinite patience that Lutha had come to expect from him.

“Atto picked me up and carried me to the bridge, though I did walk under it on my own,” Lutha was quick to add. “But he did it so effortlessly! He swept me up as though I was the smallest of babies! Do you think that you could do that?”

“Yes.”

Lutha took a breath. Then he stopped and frowned slightly. “You didn’t even think about it.”

“I do not need to,” Faelind replied.

“Prove it, then,” Lutha challenged.

Leaning back in his chair, Faelind considered him with his usual impassiveness. The only change to his expression was the slightest arch of his eyebrows. In the almost half century that had passed since Faelind and Lutha had become father and son, Lutha had come to know Faelind exceptionally well, well enough that he felt entirely comfortable to dare him so. Others might quail under such a hard stare from Elder Faelind, but Lutha still felt comfortable even though that stare was trained on him now. He stood his ground, going so far as to fold his arms over his chest and raise his own eyebrows in silent challenge. Finally, Faelind relented, rising fluidly with an exasperated shake of his head. But though he might be exasperated, still he lifted Lutha into his arms and cradled him with no more or less effort than Baralin had required.

“Are you satisfied now?” he asked, looking down into Lutha’s eyes.

“Yes, Ada,” Lutha said with a laugh. “I am satisfied. I would almost think that you had done it before.”

“But I have,” Faelind said, sounding mildly perplexed. “All the times that you have fallen asleep by the fire…how else do you think you got to your bed?”

“You carried me,” Lutha realised, and he was startled to feel a sudden sting in his eyes.

Faelind noticed the silver sheen of tears and hastily set Lutha on his feet. An unreadable expression crossed his face, though as Faelind took a step back, Lutha saw a hint of uncertainty there. “You wish that I had not carried you without your knowledge,” Faelind said. “Forgive me, Luthavar. If I had thought that it would upset you I would never have-”

“No!” Lutha protested. “I was only thinking, how lucky am I to be held so gently in your arms and to feel so safe there that I never even woke?”

“Oh,” Faelind said. “Oh, I…I see.”

Lutha closed the distance that Faelind had put between them and hugged him tight. “I have the best fathers in the world,” he whispered against Faelind’s chest. He didn’t add that he would fight anyone who tried to argue with him, because he thought Faelind might not like that and he didn’t want to ruin the moment. Out loud, he said, “I love you, Ada. I hope that you will always carry me.”

“Always,” Faelind said softly. Then, he hastily glanced away as though afraid to let Lutha see how touched he was. “Run along now, Lutha-nín, or you will have no time to see your friends.”

Still marvelling over how lucky he was to have two fathers who loved him – him, a former street rat who’d had to thieve and sell himself to survive and please his masters! – Lutha disappeared from the study, though not before taking more sweets. He took his time eating them as he went to the house where one of his best friends, Alphros, lived with Elder Feredir who was leader of the Hunter and Foresters Guild and easily in Lutha’s list of top twelve favourite people. Though Lutha was disappointed not to find Feredir at home, he cheered himself up by charming the cook into giving him biscuits while Alphros finished what he was doing; Feredir had taken on a pair of new apprentices, and Alphros had been delighted to accept additional responsibilities when Feredir had asked him to help oversee their training.

Duties completed, Alphros joined Lutha and they left to hunt down the final member of their trio at the home where he lived with his foster father and teacher Master Healer Nestorion. They found him lying on his bed with his legs crossed at the ankles and his chin propped in one hand as he leafed through the pages of a book. “Galadaelin!” Lutha said, shocked and gleeful all at once. “Have you been in trouble?”

Galad didn’t look up from his book. “This is a comfortable reading position whether one has been in trouble or not, Luthavar.”

“You didn’t say no,” Alphros observed.

Galad did look up then, regarding his friends through critical twilit eyes. “No.”

Lutha entertained the idea of giving Galad an experimental poke to the seat of his leggings. He decided against it for his own safety; Galad was not tolerant of such things. Instead, he clambered over his friend to sit on the bed with his back against the wall. “Atto and I went for a walk today. Guess where we ended up? The Cursed Bridge. We walked under it…without holding our breath.”

“Why?” Alphros asked doubtfully, autumn sunlight picking out strands of gold in his red hair as he sat cross-legged in the window seat.

“Because the bridge isn’t cursed and the legend about holding your breath is nonsense,” Galad said.

“Really,” Lutha scoffed. “Then answer this, o wise one: why, if you happen to be talking when we approach the bridge, do you pause in the middle of your sentence until we get out the other side? I’ll tell you why. Because you do think that the bridge is cursed and you do believe that bad things will happen if you don’t hold your breath. You just don’t want to admit it.”

Galad sniffed and turned to the next page of his book.

“I told Ada about it when I got home,” Lutha went on. “Guess what I found out? When he and-”

“You always say guess what then tell us before we have a chance to guess,” Alphros complained.

“Because you always guess wrong and I don’t have time for that,” Lutha said.

“No, it’s not as if we’re immortal,” Galad said under his breath.

Lutha flicked Galad’s thigh. Galad let his legs drop down over Lutha’s with slightly more force than was necessary. “Anyway,” Lutha said pointedly, draping an arm across Galad’s legs. “When Ada and Elder Dirnaith were our age, they got dared by some older warriors to spend an entire night under the bridge as a dare. Don’t you think that sounds delightfully horrifying?”

“It sounds horrifying,” Alphros replied.

“I was thinking,” Lutha began.

“No.”

“You’ve not even heard what I have to say.”

“I don’t need to hear it because I know what you’re thinking,” Alphros scolded him. “The answer is no.”

“Fine, but I’m going to say it anyway. I was thinking,” Lutha repeated, “I might spend a night under the bridge. I think that it would be a good shared experience for me to have with my father.”

Alphros stared incredulously. “Galad, are you hearing this?”

“Not by choice,” Galad said.

“I couldn’t do it by myself,” Lutha added. “I would need company. Don’t you think that it would be a fun thing to do?”

“There was a moment, not that long ago, when you asked whether we thought it sounded delightfully horrifying and I told you that it just sounded horrifying,” Alphros reminded him.

“Feredir would do it,” Lutha said.

“Invite Feredir then,” Alphros retorted, though he sounded less confident now.

“And Galad,” Lutha continued, “I bet Noendir has never spent a night under the bridge.”

“No, I think you’re right about that,” Galad said. “But there is no competition between my brother and me so that won’t work.”

“Celegnir and Breigon would never be brave enough to do it,” Lutha said under his breath.

Galad went so still that for a horrible moment Lutha thought that he had misjudged how his friend would react to the mention of his estranged eldest brothers, who had both, in their own ways, contributed to the unhappy childhood that he had endured in the north. Then, Galad closed his book and sat up – without a wince, Lutha observed with some disappointment, so he must have told the truth about not having been in trouble – and turned to face them. “So, what is the plan?” Galad asked. 

“No!” Alphros protested. “If you do it I’ll have to as well!”

“Not if you don’t want to,” Galad replied.

“No, I will,” Alphros said miserably. “I won’t be left out. It should be three of us or none of us.”

“Three of us then,” Lutha declared with a triumphant smile.

Chapter Text

The day of the challenge arrived.

As far as Baralin and Faelind knew, the boys were going to spend the night with Feredir. Feredir was under the impression that they would be with Nestorion who in turn thought that Baralin and Faelind had responsibility for them. Lutha was both delighted by this plan and proud of it, and he didn’t feel even a little bit bad that they had lied to four people who meant a great deal to them all. Well, he felt a bit bad, but he wasn’t going to admit that to anyone but himself.

He met his friends at the fountain in the middle of town and they bought supplies for the night ahead: roasted chestnuts, meat pies, a block of cheese, honey and pear pastries, and a selection of sweets. Now that their adventure was in full swing, Alphros bounced on his feet in nervous excitement and even Galad smiled when they huddled together down a side street to examine their provisions.

“Is this enough?” Lutha wondered aloud, peering into the sack of food.

“We only need enough for one night,” Galad reminded him. “This is fine.”

“But what if something happens and we need more food?”

“What do you think might happen that would require more food?”

“Something.”

Galad sighed. “Then we will get more food.”

“How though?” Lutha asked.

“I will hunt if it becomes necessary and you two can gather fruit,” Alphros replied, sounding reassuringly confident. “But Galad is right; we are only spending the one night. This time tomorrow we will all be safely back at home with nobody any the wiser about our daring exploits.”

“Well, don’t jinx it,” Lutha said idly, but he was relieved by the food contingency plan; he had not forgotten what hunger pangs felt like.

The boys headed out of town and took the path to the Cursed Bridge where it stood waiting as though it knew that they were coming. The only person that Lutha worried they might run into was Feredir; their other guardians had little reason to be near the bridge, but Feredir roamed to unusual places when he was on the hunt or inspecting the forest. Though the presence of birds and beasts meant that one was never truly alone in the forest, they saw nobody, and when excitable voices bounced off the trees, it was their own echoes that they heard coming back at them. But the echoes faded as the bridge drew nearer, because the voices faded, faded until apprehension silenced them altogether.

As one, the boys stopped and stared at the bridge. “I always think that it will look worse than it does,” Alphros said.

“What do you mean?” Galad asked, not taking his eyes off the bridge.

“I don’t know. Blood, or…or bodies,” Alphros said uneasily.

“Bodies,” Galad scoffed under his breath. “A load of bodies just…what, piled up against the bridge? Hanging from it?”

Alphros shuddered and elbowed him in the side. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“You started it!” Galad snapped. “You said bodies first!”

“But not hanging ones! You made it worse!”

“Oh, shut up,” Lutha begged his bickering friends. “There are no bodies here, hanging or otherwise. Come on.” He stepped under the arch of the bridge, but when he glanced back he saw that Alphros and Galad were lingering by the same flat rock that he and Baralin had sat on a few days ago. They had shifted closer together, their quarrel forgotten. “You have to come all the way in or it won’t count,” Lutha told them.

A long glance passed between them. “You’re the eldest,” Galad said finally. “You should go first.” 

“You think that the bridge legend is nonsense,” Alphros retorted. “You go first.”

Galad grimaced, seeming to realise that he had lost that round. He took a deep breath and a cautious step towards the bridge. There he stopped and looked up at it again, bracing himself as if he expected the stones to come tumbling down atop him. Finally, he took the final step. He stood perfectly still for a long moment before exhaling slowly and turning to face Alphros. “Your turn.”

“Oh, all right,” Alphros grumbled, and he walked forward with his eyes squeezed shut.

“See?” Lutha said cheerfully. “This isn’t so terrible.”

“We’ll see if you still think so at midnight when mist rolls in and wolves howl in the distance,” Alphros said.

Lutha ignored that and set about looking for somewhere to sit where they would be least likely to get dripped on. The driest section seemed to be right in the middle, so he sat there and emptied the sack of food into his lap. “The pies are still warm.” He eyed his friends hovering in the entrance to the passage. “But they won’t be if you two stand there all night.”

That prompted Alphros and Galad to come further in. They sat either side of Lutha with their backs against the wall, and he handed them both a pie. Galad slowly unwrapped his and nibbled around the edges of the crust, but Alphros stared bleakly at his as the rich scents of gravy and meat filled the space. “This is nice,” he said after his first bite. “But I wish that I had got a cheese pie.”

“You always say that,” Galad pointed out. 

“I know, but I always think that I want meat,” Alphros said with a sigh. 

“Get both,” Lutha suggested.

Alphros nodded thoughtfully and took another bite of his pie. “I had a letter from my mother this week,” he said after a moment. “She wants to know my Yule plans.”

“You haven’t been home in a couple of years,” Lutha said.

“No. I think that I might this year,” Alphros replied. “I could leave early and surprise my family.”

“They would love that,” Lutha said, smiling at him. “What will you do, Galad?”

The apprentice healer lifted his shoulders slightly. “The Woodmen settlements were hit badly by winter sickness last year. Nestaeth and Ada Nestorion want to travel around offering medicine and care to anyone who needs it. But this is also the first year in about a decade that neither my grandfather nor my brother are scheduled to be on duty. So, we’ll see. Perhaps I could do both.”

“Oh, your grandfather!” Lutha exclaimed. “That reminds me! You remember the story that I told you about my father and Dirnaith camping here?”

“How could we forget,” Alphros said under his breath.

“I don’t think I told you how that story ended, which is really very unfortunate because it's the best part.” Lutha unfolded the beeswax wrapping from around the block of cheese and held out his hand for Alphros’ belt knife. He cut the cheese into wedges before cleaning the knife and handing it back. When he looked up, his friends were staring at him impatiently. “Oh. Right. Ada and Dirnaith made it to the early hours of the morning before they got caught. They were sent to your grandfather, Galad, because he was their training master. He strapped them for sneaking out and camping at the bridge.”

“What?” Galad said mildly.

“Your grandfather, Captain Bregolas,” Lutha repeated, so patiently that he thought Faelind would be proud of him. “He strapped Ada and Dirnaith for sneaking out and camping at the bridge.”

“Hmm, no, I got that,” Galad said. There was such an ominously pleasant edge to his voice that it made Lutha swallow nervously. “I was simply surprised that you didn’t think to share this crucial piece of information with us before we made the decision to do the very thing that got Elder Faelind and Elder Dirnaith strapped by my grandfather.”

“Just because they got caught, it doesn’t mean that we will,” Lutha said.

“But it doesn’t bode well, does it,” Galad hissed, the pleasant edge to his voice wearing off.

“Honestly, Lutha,” Alphros said reprovingly. “I’m with Galad on this one. You should have told us!”

Lutha sat back with a dismayed sigh. “What are you saying? You want to quit?”

“It isn’t too late to quit,” Alphros replied without hesitation.

“Well, it is, because all four of our guardians already think that they know exactly where we are,” Galad reminded him with an exasperated huff. “If you want to quit then our options are going home and confessing everything or going home and telling even more lies to explain why we’re not at the places they expect us to be in the very vain hope that they don’t figure out that we’re lying. Or, we take our chances here and pray that this miraculously goes according to plan.”

“Fine,” Alphros sighed.

“Have some cheese,” Lutha suggested.

Alphros took the cheese and ate it glumly. “So Elder Faelind and Elder Dirnaith got strapped by Captain Bregolas,” he said finally. “What’s that like, Galad?”

“How should I know?” Galad demanded.

“He’s your grandfather,” Alphros said.

“That doesn’t mean that I have ever earned a strapping from him,” Galad snapped, his cheeks flushing pink in the dim light. “But I think we can safely assume that it isn’t very nice!”

Darkness came early. The boys set aside their food in favour of shifting closer together for warmth and safety. They talked and they sang and they talked some more, but in time their voices slowly died away until they just sat quietly. The silence around the bridge was so complete that when a bird broke cover from the trees and flew across the dell, they gasped and grabbed at each other only to breathe out nervous laughter. But they didn’t let go. Galad angled himself inwards so that he faced away from the open archway. Lutha pulled his cloak more tightly around himself and stared at the dark floor. Only Alphros kept an eye on their surroundings, turning his head this way and that as he scanned the area with his keen hunter’s gaze.

Lutha supposed that he must have started drifting off to sleep because he was startled when Alphros grabbed his shoulder and whispered his name. Rubbing his eyes, he felt Galad stir on his other side. “What is it?”

“Look.” Alphros wasn’t pointing but his head was turned to the north. Lutha leaned forward to stare past him. At first he didn’t know what he was looking at, but autumn mist beyond the northern arch swirled and parted to reveal a tall figure clad all in black. Cloaked, but not hooded, he was looking intently at the boys huddled under the bridge. Lutha froze, his breath catching. “It’s Elder Faelind,” Alphros added in a dismayed whisper. “He found us.”

“What?” Lutha whispered back. “That’s not my father.”

“It is! I’m looking right at him.”

“So am I,” Lutha hissed, his breath visible in the cold air. “I am telling you that is not my father.”

“Galad,” Alphros said.

Their friend shook his head uncertainly. “I don’t know. It looks like Elder Faelind, but in the dark and at that distance…I don’t know.”

“How are you two not seeing this?” Alphros snapped, sounding more like Galad than his usual bright self.

“I don’t think that you are the authority on whether a stranger is my father,” Lutha snapped back. But under his vehemence was the reluctant knowledge that it was an uncomfortably close likeness. The shadowy stranger held himself like Faelind, unmovable as a statue though mist and wind blew about him. He held his hands clasped behind his back, his chin lifted at a noble angle. Tendrils of fine black hair lifted and danced in the breeze. In that shadowy place where neither moonlight nor starlight reached, it was impossible to make out his features. “That is not my father,” Lutha repeated quietly.

“It would be like the Dark Lord to disguise himself and trick us into believing that he is someone else,” Galad ventured.

“A moment ago you didn’t even believe in the Cursed Bridge,” Alphros said. “Now you think that the Dark Lord has paid us a visit?”

Galad reached across Lutha to flick Alphros on the ear. “I don’t think anything. But I also don’t think that I’m looking at Elder Fae- where did he go?”

“He’s gone,” Alphros breathed. “We were looking right at him and the mist came in strong again and he…he disappeared!”

Low laughter rolled beneath the bridge on a wave of chilled air. It was laughter that Lutha knew well because it was the quiet and restrained laughter that he heard so often from Faelind. And yet…he didn’t know it at all. It sounded like Faelind. It did not feel like him. The temperature dropped and a biting wind swept through the arches, bringing with it ice and the unpleasantly sweet scent of rotting leaves and an animal that had long lain dead. They recoiled as one. As Lutha scrambled backwards, he felt Galad pulling him up with fingers tangled in the collar of his cloak. Alphros had frozen, so Lutha caught him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. They stood still, clutching at one another, their breaths ragged as their eyes strained to pierce the darkness. But it was absolute and the silence with it, until there came yet more laughter, sardonic and soft, nearer now though still they could see nobody.

Their food lay abandoned on the ground as they spun and ran. They ran straight into the waiting arms of dark figures who had emerged unseen and unheard from the trees. Lutha bared his teeth and wrenched himself free. He stumbled into one of his friends – he didn’t know which – but dark hands came after him and gripped his arms. Darting his head forward, he sank his teeth into a wrist. He tasted the sweet earthiness of a leather glove until he was shaken off and flung to the floor.

“Bite me again and I’ll bite you back twice as hard, boy!”

There was something oddly familiar about that voice. Breathing hard, Lutha dared to look up. Grey eyes glared back at him. “Pro…Protector Amathlogon!”

The warrior scowled and rubbed his wrist. Lutha did not particularly like abrasive Protector Amathlogon, but he had never felt more relieved to see him. He might even have hugged Amathlogon if he was not, well, Amathlogon. Lutha exhaled slowly and looked around as he got to his feet. Alphros was doubled over with his hands on his knees. Galad was being hugged. That made no sense to Lutha until he realised that the person doing the hugging was the youngest and – by far – nicest of Galad’s older brothers.

“What are you three doing out here?” Noendir asked incredulously, looking between Lutha and Alphros as he held Galad’s head against his chest.

“Look where we are,” Amathlogon sneered. “What do you think these foolish children are doing?”

“Oh…” Noendir drew back and looked at his little brother in dismay. “Not the Cursed Bridge?”

“Of course the Cursed Bridge,” said a warrior with glints of pale hair peeking out from under her hood, as Galad swallowed and did his best to avoid Noendir’s gaze. “Elflings have been daring each other to camp beneath it for longer than any of us here have been around. And elflings have accepted those dares for just as long.”

“I never did,” Amathlogon said with a sniff. “And if you did, Dagnirien, then more fool you.”

Dagnirien just curled her lip at him. “Are any of you boys hurt?”

“I’m not,” Lutha said, and his friends shook their heads.

“Best you savour the feeling, because not one of you will be sitting comfortably between now and Yule,” Amathlogon said.

“Yule is ages away, so that’s not true,” Lutha said under his breath.

Dagnirien gave Lutha a sharp cuff to the back of his head before lightly shoving him over to stand with his friends. “Amathlogon, you are not here to intimidate children into behaving. Resume your patrol. Noendir and I will see these three safely back to camp where the Captain may take custody of them. Protector Magor has the command until I return.”

A merry-eyed elf who had been leaning against a tree nodded to that and laughed sympathetically as his gaze raked over the boys. He melted into the shadows with Amathlogon and the other warriors, and Lutha breathed out in relief as he glanced at his friends. Alphros looked just as glad as Lutha felt, but there was only dismay on Galad’s face. Glancing between the three of them, Dagnirien lifted her eyebrows pointedly at Galad. “Tell your friends what disappoints you so.”

“My grandfather leads this company,” Galad mumbled.

Lutha bit his lip. He looked at Noendir who confirmed the unhappy news with a nod and a grimace. To the credit of both Alphros and Galad, neither of them berated Lutha for having landed them in their current predicament. He felt more grateful and relieved than he could say; he knew that it was his fault, that none of this would have happened if only he had kept his stupid idea to himself, but it would have devastated him to feel condemned by his best friends when all he really wanted was to know that they were all in it together, that he was not on his own. Even if, he supposed, they might privately curse his name.

The walk to camp was a mile and a half through cold and dark woodland under trees that dripped rain on their hoods. Lutha didn’t mind. The further away camp was, the further they were from the bridge. Dagnirien led the way with Noendir bringing up the rear, and as they approached the perimeter of the camp she let out a sharp whistle which Lutha guessed was meant to announce that warriors were approaching so that nobody shot them.

Most of the company appeared to be patrolling, so the camp was quiet. The trees concealed warriors on night watch. Those who were assigned later turns on watch were rolled in their cloaks to catch some rest. Only a few warriors sat around a campfire. Lutha was unfamiliar with two of the warriors at the fire, but the sight of the one who snapped shut the map that he was studying, who rose and turned ominously to face them, was enough to make the boys squirm and shift closer to each other.

“Captain,” Dagnirien said, dipping her head. “We found these three at the Cursed Bridge.”

Captain Bregolas Elhaelion did three things before stepping over the log that he had been sitting on. First, he took a very deep breath. Then, he closed his eyes. Finally, he breathed out. All those things combined took a grand total of ten and a half seconds, but it felt like an eternity before Bregolas moved. He approached the boys silently with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, but as he stopped before them he folded his arms over his chest and let his eyes linger on each of them in turn. “Of course,” he said, his voice as soft as the night sky. “Of course Faelind’s son would follow in his father’s footsteps with my own beloved grandson and their little comrade-in-arms along for the adventure.”

“I’m not little,” Alphros said bravely, but still he winced as Bregolas whipped his gaze towards him. “I am taller than both Lutha and Galad, and older too.”

“So you are. Does that mean that you knew better than them?” Bregolas asked.

“Alphros and Galad both knew better than me,” Lutha interjected. “It was my idea. All of it.”

“No doubt.” Bregolas shifted his stare onto his grandson. “Nothing to say?”

“Not at this moment,” Galad replied quietly, though Lutha noticed that he had relaxed slightly when Bregolas had referred to him as beloved.

“Tell me where your foster father believes you to be right now,” Bregolas commanded Galad.

“At Elder Faelind’s house,” Galad sighed.

Bregolas nodded and glanced at Lutha. “Where does your father – either, or both – think you are?”

“Feredir’s,” Lutha said with a touch of defiant pride.

“And Feredir?” Bregolas said, raising an eyebrow at Alphros. “Or let me guess. Feredir believes that you are with Nestorion. Is that the way of it?”

“Yes, sir,” Alphros admitted miserably.

“I see. I suppose you all thought that was terribly clever. We shall see how pleased you are with yourselves when you are returned to your proper places.” As Dagnirien and Noendir slipped away to resume their duties, Noendir with a sympathetic glance over his shoulder for the younger elves, Bregolas studied the unhappy trio of elflings. “Galadaelin,” he said finally, beckoning Galad to him with a meaningful crook of his finger. Galad swallowed, but he was too obedient to do anything but approach his grandfather.

As soon as Galad was close enough, Bregolas took him by the upper arm and turned him to the side. He swept Galad’s cloak out of the way before delivering half a dozen powerful smacks to the seat of his leggings that had Galad rising onto his tiptoes and hissing through the heat being applied to his bottom. It was not a privilege reserved only for the Captain’s grandson. Lutha and Alphros got the same. “Now,” Bregolas said sternly, pointing at the campfire when he had three remorseful, sore-bottomed boys standing in front of him, “you sit right there, all three of you, and think about your behaviour and the danger that you have put yourselves in this night. Do not speak. Do not move. Do not make trouble. This is your only warning.”

His bottom smarting beneath his leggings, Lutha sat on the log with his friends and squirmed as he tried to get comfortable. Alphros was sniffling tearfully but Galad was silent. Lutha sighed and lowered his eyes, feeling only somewhat comforted by the warmth of the campfire. One of the warriors had discreetly withdrawn as soon as she had realised what was about to happen. The remaining warrior let out a soft – but not unkind – laugh and leaned forward to rest his arms on his knees. “Try not to feel too despondent,” he said. “You haven’t done anything that we’ve not all done before.”

“Really?” Lutha asked uncertainly. “Everyone has sneaked out to camp at the Cursed Bridge?”

“Well…” The warrior hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps not quite everyone. Sorry. I was trying to make you feel better.”

“Thank you, Protector Himlas,” Galad said with a sigh.

“Thank you but nothing can make us feel better when we’re going to have our bottoms roasted so stop trying?” Himlas smiled sympathetically as they swapped dejected looks with each other. “All right, so you’re in trouble. Big trouble, even. But you’re going to be in big trouble with people who love you and want only the best for you. They might be upset with your behaviour, but that is nothing compared to how glad they will be that you are safe. The Captain included,” Himlas added, nodding over Galad’s shoulder towards Bregolas, who had moved to the far side of the camp and was methodically rubbing an elfling-induced headache from his temples. “You know that he thinks the world of you.”

“Of me?” Galad said blankly.

“No, the log that you’re sitting on. Yes, you!” Himlas laughed. “Doesn’t he tell you so?”

Galad shifted in embarrassment only to wince slightly and hold himself still. “Yes, but I didn’t know that he told other people.”

“Ah, of course he does. He talks about you all the time. When the warriors share stories of their families, he always tells us what you have been up to and how well you are doing with your apprenticeship,” Himlas said warmly. “Captain Bregolas is immensely proud of most of his grandchildren, but I think that he has a soft spot for you.”

“Oh. Um…thank you, Protector Himlas,” Galad said again, more awkwardly this time. “I think that I shall be quiet now like we were told to.”

“He doesn’t do well at taking compliments,” Lutha told Himlas.

“No, he doesn’t,” Alphros agreed. “But he’s right. Captain Bregolas told us not to speak.”

Lutha subsided with a sigh and wrapped himself in his cloak. Logs were not comfortable places to sit at the best of times never mind when one had just been unceremoniously bent over and subjected to the strong right arm of a warrior who had spent the last few millennia swinging a sword and honing his muscles as if in preparation for that exact moment. But he would still take the log over the bridge. Especially when the bridge came with an unsettling shadow figure who did a good impression of how Faelind might be if he ever crossed to the dark side. Lutha pulled his thoughts free from that disturbing idea. Shifting from the log down to the ground, he stared into the flames and let them hypnotise him into restless sleep.