Síladon ran till he was sure no one was following him, then slowed down and took the long way round home so he could walk alongside the river for a way – not too closely, Ada always told him not to do that because sometimes the sand fell away from the bank and it could be dangerous. The lane was deserted when he arrived, with no lights showing anywhere; everyone had gone to the field.

He hesitated a bit before opening the cottage door. He wasn’t scared exactly, this was home after all. Nothing had ever hurt or threatened him here, not till the day they were told Ada wouldn’t be coming back. There was no reason to feel this sense of – something or someone waiting. Ada wasn’t there, not really. There had been that other thing that had happened, the voice, but he hadn’t heard it since then and had almost convinced himself he had imagined it. Nana said he was a dreamer; she always made it sound like a good thing to be.

Pressing his lips together quickly, trying to push the memory away, he went in, leaving the door open so that he could see to light the lamp. When it was lit, he stood in the middle of the living room and looked around. Now that he was home, he wasn’t sure what to do next. Taking the lamp with him, he went through to the bedroom and lit the candle in there too, before going to sit on the bed, careful to keep his shoes off the cover.

The room was dead quiet, even the river seemed subdued. The tree was making noise with its branches, but it wasn’t talking to itself tonight, it was just a tree in the night making cracking, creaking sounds, its leaves swishing and occasionally brushing the window. His insides hurt. He bent over, arms clasping his stomach, and tried to make it stop aching. He didn’t want to think about last year either, didn’t want to wish time back. He already knew that couldn’t work.

He became aware of a strange, almost-familiar warmth near him, as though Ada had come to sit with him. He tried to pretend, but it wasn’t really Ada, he couldn’t turn and bury his face in Ada’s shoulder and cry and ask him why he couldn’t come home or tell him about Tegior pushing him. He couldn’t tell Nana about that either, she would worry, just as she would worry if she saw him crying, so it was better that he didn't.

The soft voice was no part of the tenuous warmth, the nearness, but it was there anyway, a whisper of sound. He straightened and reached up to the windowsill where he had left the pouch and almost without thinking drew it open. The ring had surely been Ada’s, there was no one else it could have belonged to. For a moment he seemed to hear Ada say "Síladon, no!" but it was a feeling, not a sound, and he knew it couldn't be real – and then the ring was in his hand and suddenly anything was possible.

“Put it on. Put it on so I can speak to you. You will hear me better if you wear it. See me too, but first there are things I need you to do.” The voice was distinct and no nonsense, and sounded so like Ada... Síladon hovered between obedience and the absolute certainty that this wasn’t happening. What he might have decided he couldn’t have said after, it was determined for him by a sudden knocking on the still-open door.

“Síladon? Síladon, are you there?” It was Calareg’s voice, and he sounded worried.

“We want to say sorry, Síladon.” The second voice was Tegior, sounding uncharacteristically subdued.

“Don’t trust them,” Ada told him. “This is just a trick. You need to get away from them. If you don’t, I will have to go away. I won’t be able to see or speak to you again, ever.”

Síladon sat on the bed, eyes wide and frightened. He found he wanted – he really wanted - to tell Calareg about the ring and ask what he thought, but the others were there too and Ada was saying he’d leave if Síladon didn’t get rid of them. Rubbing his eyes he got up from the bed and went slowly through to the living room.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” he told the waiting boys shakily before anyone could say anything. “I just want you to leave me alone. Go back to the festival.”

“Síladon, don’t be like that. We want you to come with us,” Calareg said.

Síladon shook his head and advanced towards the door. “I don’t want to. I want you to go away. I want you to leave me alone.”

“Oh, he’s cracked. Leave him, Calareg, let’s go,” Tegior said, disgusted, but Calareg and one of the other boys shushed him hastily.

“Come on, Síladon. It’s all right, really. We just want you to come sit with us. No one's going to tease you. We’ve got lots to eat, and…”

“Go up to the main trail, past the barracks,” Ada whispered. Síladon thought they would all hear, but no one gave any sign of noticing the adult voice. “Now, boy! Come!”

Ada never raised his voice to him like that. Síladon hesitated, caught between two realities: Calareg asking him to go back where there was light and music and people, and Ada telling him to go up the trail that led to the moorland above Imladris. The chance, no matter how unlikely, that this was really, truly Ada proved too much. He had no explanation to offer and so pushed past the boys in the doorway without another word, turned into the lane and once more began running.

The boys had not been expecting anything like this. For a moment they stood staring at his vanishing back, then everyone began talking at once. Opinion was split between the idea that Síladon had lost his mind and would go and throw himself into the river and good riddance, and the suspicion that they would be in deep trouble from no lesser person than Lord Glorfindel should this happen, which would lead to someone - perhaps even Master Erestor - speaking to their parents.

Finally Calareg exerted what remained of his authority. “Something's the matter with him, he never acts like this. I’ll go after him, he might get hurt or fall in the Bruinen by accident or … You go back and get someone, Tegior. See if you can find my dad, he always knows what to do. Go on, go get help.”
 

~*~*~*~*~

The fire was burning high and the musicians had already set to work. Food was going around, people were gathered in groups of family and friends and the night was alive with goodwill. Erestor had been snacking each time he passed the tables and wasn’t particularly hungry, although he had arranged for a plate to be kept aside for him for later – his experience was that he looked for it midway through the night. He picked out extra this time, to share with Glorfindel.

The twice-born warrior was deep in conversation with Elrond and Celebrían and it looked as though there would be little chance of him getting away for a while at least. Bringing in the harvest in the traditional way would have to wait its turn. As there was nothing that currently needed his attention, Erestor decided it was as good a chance as any to visit the kitchen and go fetch his cloak. The evening was growing cold and later the grass under the trees would be dew-damp.

There was no one around as he made his way up the pasture then took the path that led to the village. Everyone was at the festival, and the houses were in darkness. The only light came from the lanterns lighting the cross streets, but even so he could see well enough to take his habitual short cut to the main street. There were soft, chicken sounds as he passed too close to a coop, and a cat came out of a patch of garden to stare at him, otherwise nothing moved. Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of several pairs of rushing feet, and a boy's voice raised to call out, "This way, it's quicker."

He came out of a side lane just as a group of boys, the same ones Glorfindel had spoken to earlier, came tearing down the street towards him. His first thought, based on long years of experience, was that they were up to no good. He stepped out in front of them, raising his voice to demand crisply, “Get over here and explain yourselves, please.”

As intended, it stopped them dead in their tracks. For a moment they seemed collectively poised for flight, then they crowded round him, tripping over each other’s words, everyone trying to explain at once. Erestor let them run on – they were exactly as he remembered the twins at that age – and when they showed signs of slowing down, pointed to the one who seemed the most articulate. “You – Tegior, yes? What’s going on?”

The boy stood a little straighter and took a deep breath. “Sir, it’s about Síladon. We went to apologise as Lord Glorfindel said we should and he was acting really strange…”

“Really, really strange,” someone else cut in for emphasis, subsiding as Erestor gave him the kind of look that had reduced experienced courtiers to stuttering silence back in Lindon in the old days.

“… and then he just ran off, and Calareg said we should go get help, fetch a grown up, while he went after him. So we were going to fetch one of our fathers or Síladon’s mother or... or whoever we could find.” He stumbled to a halt, looking very young and worried.

“Well, you’ve found me,” Erestor told him practically. “While I see what's going on, you need to find Síladon’s mother, tell her he seems not to be well. Are any of your mothers friendly with her?”

There was some muttering and the exchange of uncertain looks. “Calareg’s mother, maybe,” someone suggested.

“Ask her to come along too, then,” Erestor said. A captain's wife should be a steadying presence. “I’ll go and find them. Which way did they go?”

“They took the river path,” Tegior told him. “The one that leads up past the House.”
 

~*~*~*~*~

Síladon moved as fast as he could, worried they might follow him and guess where he was heading; they all knew the main trail was out of bounds and might tell someone at the House. He kept to the shadows of the paved river path beyond the village that led past Lord Elrond’s House and ended a ways beyond the bridge. The big house was quiet, because most people were at the festival, but there were lights burning to welcome the residents home later. Even though he was upset he remembered to be careful, knowing there would be people around, kitchen staff and others whose duties had kept them from the fire and the dancing. He could only hope they would not be watching the bridge.

Crossing the Bruinen was easy, even though the bridge had no handrail and the river raced by beneath it, hurrying from one waterfall to the next. The night was bright from the moon, but he had never before gone up the steps carved into the cliff facing the House as this was an adult occupation. He knew it was safe because the warriors used them and even his own mother did when she went up to the barracks, but they were steep and it still felt scary. The ring was quiet now, a heavy, waiting weight around his neck. He counted steps as he climbed - eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen - to drive out fear and make himself feel less alone.

The steps ended high above the river, and he followed the track leading to where the barracks were built into the rock, and the stables beyond for the warriors’ horses. There was a ladder fastened to the rock where the steps ended, which his parents had told him about. It would have taken him up to the caves where they cured meat and skins; he saw the rungs were far apart and wondered how anyone could climb them carrying meat or pelts. He knew he had to be quiet now, not even breathe too loudly. He had no idea why Ada wanted him to come where there was open space and eyes to see him if he wasn’t very careful. There would be soldiers on guard and watchers on the trail, too, and he could only hope they wouldn't expect someone his size to be there.

He slipped past the barracks, moving like smoke, then down the side of the stables, hearing the soft snuffling sounds the horses made as they settled for the night. It was not really terribly late, it just felt like it because everything was so still. He wished he could stay with the horses, they felt nice and warm and safe, not afraid of anything, but Ada said up to the trail, so that was where he had to go. This was completely forbidden to anyone without permission, in case someone wandered off onto the high ground and a bad person was watching, but there were no bad people around, just him. He supposed he was bad because he knew what he was doing was wrong.

The trail above Imladris twisted and zigzagged deliberately so that an enemy would be slowed down, should anyone penetrate that far into the ravine. It was narrow and the stones were loose in places, but the centre was well looked after because no one wanted to risk the horses’ legs. There were trees here, but they were not friendly trees, they were silent, watching him pass in a knowing kind of way. The sky was clear above him, and he could see the moon if he turned to look back over his shoulder. The valley lay grey and dark and strangely empty below him, and this became even more unsettling as he moved higher. As if no one lived there, as if Nana was gone, too.

“Where must I go, Ada?” he whispered, clasping the pouch. “How far?” But the ring was silent. He slowed down, really looking around him now. The wind was stronger up here and the shadows were strange and inky dark. There were clumps of reeds and strange little rushes and a horrible feeling of eyes on his back. He was growing very frightened, but he was stubborn too; he would keep walking until Ada told him he could stop.

The air changed. There were no words to describe it, it felt as though he had stepped through a curtain, an invisible veil that tingled and shivered his skin with its strangeness as it rippled past him. After that the light looked different, harsher, the trail had less colour, and the valley when he looked down through the trees was eerily indistinct. Finally what guided the ring roused at last.

“We are beyond the Watcher’s gaze. Now, put on the ring. You must wear it or you will be unable to see me. Keep walking towards the entrance, and be careful of the guards. I will be there, waiting for you.”