"How much farther, Snips?" Míril asked the young man as they walked together side by side.

It had been at least five hours since they had met with the men of Nurn. The journey had gone on in relatively complete silence. Occasionally one of the men would comment about something they passed by but this was rare.

"Just over this hill," Snips told her. "No more than a half hour, tops."

Míril nodded before venturing a question quietly. "How did you get your names? They do not sound like normal names of Western mannish cultures."

It was the eldest who responded, to Miril's surprise. "Slave names, she-elf. We named each other while in the slave system. Nicknames. Most of us 've forgotten our real names."

She went silent, contemplating this. She had heard the horror stories told by the Gondorian soldiers who had ventured into Mordor. Stories of men and women, child slaves too. Brutally treated Men of the West and East. Even a few elves and dwarves here and there had been found, but mostly Men. They were forced to work in mines, plantations, and factoties. If you didn't work efficiently enough, you were fed to the orcs, wargs, or trolls.

The sun was just rising in the East when they reached the top of the hill. They looked down the other side and saw thatched houses and farmland surrounding a large fortress. A great lake, almost a sea, was ever further off.

"Welcome to Thaurband," Brute muttered. "That's the Sea of Nurn in the distance. Here you'll find plenty of people willing to trade with yah. Don't be stingy, either."

The four travelers nodded and, with Bill the Pony following them, made their way down the path alongside the men of Nurn. As they drew near Thaurband, Lash took the time to explain the history to them.

"That fortress there is the old prison. Now it's where Gnasher runs things." Lash pointed to it. "We also keep the Unwanteds there."

"What are Unwanteds?" Elrohir asked hesitantly.

Lash answered him with a short laugh. "Just what they sound like. Anyone who doesn't contribute, or does something people don't like."

"We do what needs doing here," Brute added as he saw their surprised and somewhat disgusted faces. "This isn't Gondor."

They were drawing near the first plots of farmland and small huts. Most were made either of stone or wood and looked precariously unstable. As they passed by, occasionally a child or two would appear and stare at the newcomers in shock and curiosity. Adults would look at them hungrily, as if knowing there would soon be new wares in the settlement.

The sunrise splashed colors of all sorts across the sky, light blues and pinks of many shades. Maglor looked at the fortress of Thaurband. It seemed more like a prison still than anything else. He knew what the prisons of Morgoth had been like; tales of their horrific torture chambers and elves who came out had been living proof of the atrocities.

"We will take you to Gnasher. He'll tell you where you'll stay and how long you're welcome," Brute told them as they drew out of the farmland and into the city itself.

The iron-black fortress loomed up right in front of them. Brute led them inside.

"Leave your pony here with me," Snips said. "I'll watch it."

Míril looked unsure and unconvinced. But in the end she relented and handed him Bill's reins so she could follow the other three elven men into the old prison. Lash took up the spot behind her. She almost felt like a prisoner.

When they had climbed many winding stairs and walked down several black hallways, they arrived at a huge set of doors. Brute went in first, instructing the visitors to remain outside.

"What do you think Gnasher is like?" Míril whispered to Elrohir who stood beside her.

There wasn't time for the half elf to answer. As soon as Elrohir opened his mouth, Brute returned and beckoned for them to follow. The group went inside the large room to find a man of southern decent sitting at a large iron table. He had orc armor on and was missing an eye. Míril shuddered. But Maglor was having much darker thoughts.

"Why did the army break early?" Maglor asked as he met his brother Caranthir on the field of battle.

"Out scouts say Fingon's army broke because of a prisoner that was released," Caranthir told him as he cut down an orc at his side.

The battle was just beginning. It wasn't going very well, but they had something to turn the tide, or so they hoped. Maedhros came running up to his two brothers, red hair flashing back and forth as he wielded his sword with his left, and only, hand.

"Order your Men to attack, Caranthir," Maedhros panted as he reached them. "We need them early!"

Caranthir nodded and stopped one of his scouts to send the message. But just as his scout was about to take off, a great shout and clammer arose.

"What is the meaning of this, Moryo?!" Maglor shouted at his brother between orcs. "Get your people under control!"

Caranthir glared back as he cut an orc's head off. "I do not know why they shout! If you still had an army this would be easier."

Maglor glared back at him. That cut deep, for it had been the previous battle that had seen the loss of ninety percent of his people.

"My Lords!" An elf ran up, blood dripping from his forehead. "It is the Southern men! They have turned on us! They fight for Morgoth!"

Maglor was jerked back to the present by Gnasher's chill voice beginning to speak.

"Welcome to Thaurband, elves." He nodded to them. "I trust you come here with only good intentions."

"We do, Lord," Elladan nodded in return. "And we thank you for allowing us to pass as we travel East and South."

Gnasher smiled. "Of course. Elves are enemies of Sauron's. Any enemy of Sauron is a friend of ours. Especially when they bring wares to trade."

The hungry look on Gnasher's face reminded Maglor just why he hated Southern men so much. For even more than Míril, he knew their treachery.

Hours of fighting had gone by. Caranthir's Men, the southern group of mortals, had turned on their protectors and friends. Maglor and Caranthir had cut their way through the mannish forces in vengeance. They had split not long ago. But now Maglor saw him.

Yet even before he could engage Uldor, the current leader and traitorous bastard of the Men, a great cry went up upon the field.

"Lord Fingon is slain! Lord Fingon is slain!"

Maglor almost stopped. Not Fingon. They couldn't have killed Fingon.

But he wiped the tears from his eyes as he let himself focus once more on the task before him.

"Uldor! You accursed bastard!" he shouted, readjusting the grip on his sword. "You will answer for what you did today. Face me, if you dare, spawn of Morgoth!"

Maglor still remembered the look on that traitor's face as he slew him after nearly half an hour of single combat. It was for Fingon. His brother Maedhros had never been the same after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and the death of his closest friend. Then again, neither had he himself.

Gnasher far too much resembled Uldor and his father Ulfang for Maglor's liking. They were all men of brown skin, dark hair, and swarthy complexion.

"Stay in the city as long as you like. There are a few rooms in this fortress that you should be able to occupy, though I cannot promise much comfort." Gnasher sighed. "Such is the struggle of these times. It will certainly be more comfortable than if you'd stayed here under Sauron's occupation."

"Thank you, Lord," Elrohir bowed. "We appreciate your hospitality, whatever you can offer."