Rohan was a beautiful land. Its hills were many and the grass went on for miles. It was a land famous for its fine horses.

Thranduil was riding aimlessly across Rohan. He saw herds of wild horses for afar but they scattered, running swiftly across the plains at the sight of the stranger on his moose. Eventually he would cross the mountains into Gondor. He thought perhaps Elrond has been misinformed as to the whereabouts of Ciran Greenwood or that the elf had moved on. He was annoyed at his inability to find Ciran Greenwood but it was hard to track anyone or anything in the middle of the plains. He was a week's ride from Edoras by now and he had nothing to show for it. He had bypassed a dozen or so groups of armed riders out keeping Rohan clear of orcs. He spoke to none of them in case they were familiar with his face for he had seen Oropher's accursed wanted posters pinned to the few lone trees. The last thing he needed was a pack of money-hungry rohirram after him.

"Well, Flyfire, I am done looking for Ciran Greenwood," Thranduil said with a sigh. "Elrond sent me on a wild goose chase. I bet he is laughing at my stupidity—whoa!"

Flyfire came to an abrupt halt. A dozen elves ride out of the long grass, longbows drawn back; arrows glinting in the setting sun. Thranduil was no about to try any fancy moves. Ducking orc arrows was one thing. Elven arrows were not to be messed around with. Elves had a famous aim.

"Dismount and throw down your weapons," said one elf. A cowl hid his face.

Thranduil dismounted. "I come in peace. But if you are of those determined to take me home to my father, you can forget it! I would rather die!"

The elf that has spoken circled Thranduil. "That could be arranged. I think your father's reward would be indeed great."

Thranduil frowned.

"Disarm yourself," the elf repeated.

Thranduil started undoing his sword belt. "Who are you?"

"That is irrelevant," said the elf.

Thranduil lifted an eyebrow. He let his sword fall to the ground, followed by his dagger.

"Now take off your cloak."

"What; must I disrobe out here and display my naked body to you?" Thranduil demanded, his temper rising.

"Just about," said the elf.

"Who are you?" Thranduil demanded again. He moved, grabbing the elf's cowl and jerking it back. The elf gasped and so did Thranduil. All he could do was stare.

"Do not shoot!" yelled the elf.

"Who are you?" Thranduil said uncertainly.

The elf sighed. "I am Ciran Greenwood."

Ciran Greenwood resembled Thranduil so closely there was no doubt they were related. But how?

"And I am also your half-brother," Ciran said. "We share the same father."

Thranduil recoiled. "Oropher would never cheat on nana!"

"I was born out of wedlock," Ciran explained. "Before Oropher married your mother, he was with mine. My mother never told Oropher about me. She was angry with him for marrying your mother instead of her. She tried to make me hate Oropher. And then she married my step-father and he—he mistreated me."

"So you ran away," Thranduil said.

"Yes, I did. Mount and come with us. Have no fear; I will not take you somewhere you have no wish to go."

Thranduil grabbed his weapons and mounted Flyfire. Ciran whistled loudly and a herd of wild horses galloped toward them. The elves mounted and horses and rode out across the plains. Thranduil rode next to Ciran.

"Why did you leave home?" Ciran asked. "You are a Prince. You must have had everything you could ever want. Life out here is full of danger, death, struggle, and hunger."

Thranduil shrugged. "Here I am free. I am not a slave to duty and the will of my father. I do not care if I starve to death as long as I die free."

Ciran sighed. "My stepfather treated me like a slave. I know how it feels."

"You really want the reward my father is offering for me," Thranduil said knowingly.

"We; the tribe I am a part of, could really use the money."

"I can solve your problems," Thranduil declared. "Are you the leader of the tribe?"

"No. I am only the second-in-command. I will take you to meet my chief when we reach home."

"How far are we from your home?"

"Only a few hours ride. We live in natural underground tunnel systems underneath Rohan. The rohirram consider us enemies and kill us for sport."

"Why?"

"The humans are unwilling to share the land with us. They are greedy and selfish."

"Have you done something wrong?" Thranduil ventured to ask.

Ciran shook his head. "We are just a group of runaway or exiled elves seeking to start anew."

"Surely you do not have to live here?"

"Trust me when I say this is the safest place for us. Other elves regard us as dangerous criminals."

Thranduil nodded. "Who is your chief?"

"Chieftess," Ciran corrected. "Her name is Elithial."

"Do you have any children?"

Ciran looked at his hands. "I have one son. His name is Jaiz. What about you?"

"Perhaps one day," Thranduil said cheerfully. "Where is your wife?"

"Dead. Rohirram killed her many years ago, when Jaiz was 67."

"I share your grief," Thranduil said sympathetically.

"Hannon le."

The group rode in silence until they reached more hilly ground. At the base of a hill, the riders stopped and dismounted. The horses turned and ran away. Thranduil patted Flyfire on the neck. "You stay here and keep a low profile until I get back, buddy."

The messenger hawk, named Dailily, screeched and flew into the sky. Flyfire bobbed his head.

An elf burst out of a door concealed in the hillside, startling Thranduil. "Sir Ciran, it is your son. Healer Faineth does not believe he will live."

Ciran let out a choked cry and dashed through the door into the tunnels beyond. Thranduil followed him into the hill. The maze of underground tunnels smelled of damp earth and the oily smoke coming off the torches bracketing the walls. Passing elves moved out of their way with curious stares at Thranduil. Ciran skidded to a halt before a round hole with a heavy blanket hanging over it. He took a deep breath and walked inside.

The air was hot and heavy in the room beyond the curtain. Lying in a bed was a young elf. Sweat drenched his black hair and pale face. He was moaning, writhing under the sheets. Blood leaked out of his mouth.

A woman rose from a kneeling position on the floor. Her brown hair was tied back from her face. She was tall and slender, dressed in a simple green robe.

"Sir Ciran, your son's condition is worsening," Faineth said impassively. "There is nothing I can do."

"How much longer does he have?" Ciran asked tearfully.

"Two weeks perhaps. I am truly sorry."

Ciran sat down numbly at his son's side and caressed the boy's cheek. At his father's touch, Jaiz calmed and stopped crying out.

"What happened to him?" Thranduil asked softly.

"Jaiz was out hunting with a group of elves," Faineth said. "They were attacked by rohirram with poisoned blades. Jaiz is a good warrior and he stayed behind so all his friends could escape. As a result of his brave actions, much of the Zyrackzil poison entered his veins. There is no cure for Zyrackzil poison once it begins to work."

Zyrackzil. Zyrackzil? Zyrackzil!

"No, no, there is a cure!" Thranduil cried. "I know from my extensive studying that there is a cure. It is a small flower that grows in the mountains called Pholia."

"We do not have any," Faineth said.

Thranduil looked at the dying elfling in the bed. Ciran was clasping his son's thin hand and weeping. The sight made Thranduil's heart ache.

Another woman entered the room with brusque movements. She moved with confidence in her armor. Her features were sharp and clear yet very attractive.

Ciran forced himself to rise and bow. "Chieftess Elithial."

The woman looked at Thranduil. Then she glared at Ciran. "Why did you not come to me immediately with your report? You have brought a stranger into our home that could well be a spy! I will have you punished!"

"F-forgive me, my lady. But when I heard of my son's condition, I acted without thinking."

Elithial's eyebrow twitched. "How unwise of you. We will all miss Jaiz. He was a good warrior. But he is dying from a poison for which there is no cure. To weep over him is useless."

Ciran turned quickly away. The words knifed his heart and made it bleed. Tears flowed from his eyes. Jaiz would be gone soon. Any time with him was precious. Once Jaiz was gone there would be nothing left in the world worth living for. He heard Thranduil speaking and whirled around as the words registered. Cure? There was a cure for the poison?

Ciran fell to his knees, begging, "Please, my lady, let me go and find the cure to heal my son. My child is dying; my only child! He is life to me. Let me save him! I beg you!"

"No, Ciran. I need you hear. This cure is only a mythic fantasy. You may not leave."

All hope faded from Ciran's heart. The light in his eyes went out. Jaiz would die and he—he would die to.

Thranduil grabbed Elithial by the front of her cloak and hauled her close, eyes flashing. "Listen to me, you heartless fiend! This child is dying and you would refuse his father the chance to save him? Even my father would not be so cruel! Do you know the love that exists between parent and child? To lose your child is like death itself to an elf!"

"Ciran will recover," Elithial said. "We all do."

"Have you lost a child?" Thranduil demanded.

"No. My daughters both live."

"Only thanks to Jaiz," Faineth put in.

"So it is like that!" Thranduil spat. "You would watch your daughter savior die without a bloody care!" He let go of Elithial, shoving her back. Thranduil turned to Ciran. "I am going to find the Pholia. You and Faineth stay here and keep Jaiz alive as long as possible."

Ciran's eyes filled with a small glimmer of hope. He rose to his feet and embraced Thranduil, trembling. "Hannon le, hannon le. You do not know—" His voice choked off into grateful tears.

Thranduil turned to Elithial with an icy stare that out hers to shame. "You will not disturb Ciran or Faineth while I am gone. If you do, I will not give you the 4,000 gold I was feeling so generous with today."

Elithial's eyes widened. "4,000 gold?"

"Yes. And if you behave while I am gone, when I come back, I might be feeling generous again," Thranduil said coldly. He winked over his shoulder at Ciran as he ran from the room. Elithial desperately wanted that money; he could see it in her eyes. She would leave Ciran and Faineth alone if that was what it took to get it.

Thranduil burst into the sun and flung himself on Flyfire. He knew there was a long chain of mountains to the southwest. If he rode hard, he could get there in five days, maybe seven.