As he slowly slid the sharp knife over his arm, he wondered. Why was he doing this?

All alone in his tent, no one around. He could hear the sound of his men softly speaking, laughing and singing at the fire close by. He had not joined them, he never did.

They knew by now, that their commander preferred to be alone in the evening.

At least tonight they had been able to light a fire and put up the tents. It had been a hard patrol, but they had made it back over the mountains, and they had brought important information with them for the High king.

He breathed out, slowly. He had not even realised that he had held his breath during the seconds that the knife touched his skin. Pain went away, as the blood welled up from the clean cut.

Another one.

The pain went away and he regretted it. The sharpness turned into a dull throbbing. Another wound. Another place. Everything hurt. His back, his arms. The back inflicted by others, his arms, only himself to blame.

He watched his lower right arm, flexing his hand so that the skin rippled. Inwardly he cringed at the sight. He was careful to clean his daggers before he even touched his skin - he knew better than to cause wounds that he could not treat himself - but he did not exactly care for the cuts either. Swollen skin, ragged yellowish edges, more infected cuts, all neatly arranged each next to another. It was wrong, wrong, wrong. And he knew it. Still he did not stop.

Why was he doing this?

He wanted to be alone, and still not. He wished for someone to notice, but hid any sign of weakness from all around him. He was in pain, and it was not the physical pain that was torturing him most.

Slowly he took a clean leather strip, and wrapped it around his lower arm. One turn, a second one, one more. Neat parallel bands of leather, protecting his arms. That was what most believed, that he still held to the old custom of wrapping his arms for protection instead of using pre-shaped guards.

He alone knew it absorbed the blood and pus better. He alone knew it would hurt more when he removed them.

Why was he doing this?

Soft footsteps fell close to his tent. As the tent flap was opened, the one that entered only saw that his commander slowly finished covering his arm.

"Yes? What is wrong?"

"It is Teliglan my lord, he seems not well."

Elenluin turned around, his dark eyes hiding whatever had occurred only minutes ago.

"Bring me to him, Inglorion, and tell me, what has happened?"


They walked together through their small camp, the tall black-haired elf and his second in command. Light and shadow, their men called them affectionately.

Gildor, always laughing, his clear grey eyes shining with mirth and hope even in the darkest days, the light of the trees radiating from his face.

Elenluin, always pensive and serious, never showing what was hidden behind the shadows that shrouded his dark eyes.

Elenluin, always thinking ahead, determining the plan of attack, fierce in battle, saving his men from numerous hopeless situations by boldly leading forward, inspiring them, holding the light in front of them.

Gildor, kind hearted, a brother to them all, executing his leader's plans, and even though he was older than the other elf, always his loyal follower, his shadow.

Light and shadow, indeed.

As they moved in silence, Gildor wondered what was wrong.

Throughout years at war together, they had never needed a lot of words to understand each other. But now he worried, he had felt some kind of change in his superior.

Gildor had thought himself to be a trusted friend during the War of Wrath to this silent elf, but many years had passed since and now he doubted if 'friendship' even ever had been the right word to describe what they had shared. His commander did not allow anyone that close. He had realised that when the other quite unexpectedly had left for Eregion. And of what had passed there during his many years of absence from court – no one knew the full truth. He had heard rumours as they all had, but none of the survivors were inclined to talk on what had happened. The only visible reminder of what had occurred were the many scars on Elenluin's upper arms and neck. Gildor had never dared to breach the topic since. He was even quite sure that as Elenluin had always closely guarded his feelings, no one aside from the High King truly knew what had happened there.

Still, he cared. He cared for this brooding, strong man that stood beside him now at the entrance of the common sleeping tent. It was why he had requested to be part of his troop again when the smith had returned to Lindon. Together they had lead some of the more daring patrols for Gil-Galad for the last two years. He would follow Elenluin through fire and ice, as he had before.

Elenluin stepped into the tent and observed the situation. Teliglan was huddled on his sleeping mat, uncontrollably sobbing. Close to him knelt another soldier, who tried to comfort the younger elf.

One look to Gildor sufficed to have his lieutenant take the well-meaning friend out of the tent, while he approached a desperately crying Teliglan.

The young one looked up at the motion around him and almost whimpered when he saw his commander sitting next to him, instead of soft-eyed Inglorion who his friends had told him they would fetch. Elenluin did not move. He just quietly sat there, close by, waiting, until Teliglan would calm down. He knew the boy would, given time. Eventually, they all did.

He did not know how long he had been there when Teliglan lifted his head. Hollow, red-rimmed eyes looked up at Elenluin, and the smith wondered, how had he missed this before today? The young one had probably been struggling for weeks before this breakdown. He chastised himself for not noticing. He had known that it had been the boy's first serious fighting patrol.

"I- I'm sorry sir, I do not know… I, thought I, maybe..."

"Don't worry, just tell me when you are ready, or tell me that you would like to be alone and I will leave." Elenluin paused a moment and then added in a whisper, "Inglorion will be back soon if you'd rather talk to him than to me."

The boy – for he really was little more than a boy in Elenluin's eyes – collected himself and shook his head. "Sir, I know it is silly, but I, I keep on thinking of those orcs I killed, I keep on seeing it before me, I should have…"

"Teliglan," Elenluin spoke very quietly with a sad look in his eyes "I know. We all have these feelings from time to time. Do not think that I do not know how hard it is for you and the others."

The tearful face that stared at him showed surprise. The boy had obviously expected some simple comforting words, not the acknowledgement of his commander that he too had felt this way.

"It would concern me more if you did not feel anything when killing." Elenluin continued, "If I may give you some advice, do not run from the feelings Teliglan. Think of those that you have slain and remember them, for they too are living creatures. But, while I do not want you to be unmoved by what you do, try to keep in mind that there are others that we have sworn to protect. We do what we can, we fight, we kill and sometimes, we get hurt and the hurt is not always caused by others…"

Inglorion re-entered the tent at that point, having left his charge behind with his friends. He looked at the two men in front of him and saw that the young one was calm now, and thinking hard on something he had just heard. Elenluin quietly rose, and with a small gesture of his hand invited him to come over. As he approached, he saw the commander softly pat the boy's shoulder, before he walked past Gildor, and moved out of the tent.

As Elenluin left the tent, the young one looked up to Inglorion and softly said "Do you know why he came to me personally? I did not expect him to be so…."

"Understanding?" a brief smile flickered on Inglorion's face, "Elenluin might be harsh at first sight my boy, but if there's anything I have learned in the long years that I have worked with him, it is that he does care a lot about you all. Did he ever speak to you before?"

Teliglan shook his head and Inglorion's smile returned, "Rest assured he does know you. He was very pleased with how you held your ground when we were attacked last week."

"What will he think of me now? Will he be disappointed that I, that I…" Teliglan could not finish his sentence and Gildor put his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"This will not change his opinion. He just cares for your wellbeing, as he does for all his men." And as he spoke those words, a thought occurred to Gildor. Who was there to care for their commander while he cared for his men?


Elenluin walked through camp, away, alone. He doubted on where to go. And while he longed to wander around, it would be foolish to dwell under the stars, in this place, at this time.

With a sigh, he went back to his tent.

Why? Why did even the responsibility for others not make him feel better anymore? It used to be different. At least when taking care of others that needed his help, he used to feel alive. These days the only time he felt anything was when he felt the sharp pain of a knife.

He slowly unwrapped the leather that covered his left arm and choked back a hiss of pain as he pulled the straps loose from the wounds that were hidden below. Here he was alone, here he could allow himself to feel to some extent, but the walls of the tent were thin and he did not want anyone to hear him cry.

Why did he do this?

The question resurfaced, as it had every evening, every day. Why did he find comfort in this? Why even during the day, looking forward to the sharp pain in the evening would bring his tumbling mind to rest? More than anything else?

Looking at his arm, he realised he could not go on like this. When he was back in Lindon, he knew he had to talk to someone, before it went too far. If it was not too late already. He cleaned the wounds with a wet cloth and removed the yellow festering crusts on top of the cuts.

But after that, even though he had been thinking of how to stop just seconds before, he found the knife in his hand again.

Carefully, deliberately, he moved the knife over his arm.

Pain rose and went away, as the blood welled up from the clean cut. Another one.

This time he did not stop, he pushed harder, deeper. Blood was flowing now, tears were falling from his eyes without a sound. What did he want? Why was he doing this? Was it really only pain he sought? Or did he want to run away from everything? Sink into oblivion, not know anymore, no more nightmares, no more memories?

With a sudden move, disgusted by himself he threw the knife to his bed.

The pain went away again, and he regretted it. The sharpness turned into a dull throbbing.

Another wound.

Another one.

He would talk to Ereinion when he was back in Lindon.