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"What are you called?"
Theo looks up.
The elf stands tall next to him, illuminated by the dim torchlight and the flickering cadence of the canopy of slowly fading stars above their heads. He stands close enough that Theo can make out each wayward thread on his vambrace; enough for him to feel the prickle of another body standing by his own.
Some of the other elves look on, curious to see if Theo will reply. So do some of the men on Theo's side.
"Theo, sir," Theo answers properly. "Theo, son of Thom."
The elf does not smile, but his face softens.
"It is a pleasure, Theo, son of Thom. I am Candur, son of Ursa." He pauses, and unfastens a sheathed blade, sleek and of elvish-make, from his hip. He holds it out, inclining his head towards the floor. "I would give you this blade, if you will take it. Amathaen, it is called. It is strong, and has fought victoriously in many battles. It will serve you well."
"Candur," warns a she-elf just a step away. She says something more in Elvish.
"I can't take this." Theo pales.
"I will trade you your blade for mine," Candur says, unmoving.
Theo looks up at his father, on his other side, with wide eyes; but all Thom does is shrug, eyes curious and a little selfish. "Take it," he whispers to Theo. "You're being given it. There ain't no shame in it."
Theo flickers a last, wary glance at his father before setting his hands on the blade Amathaen. Up close, the silver engravings stand clean and polished on the obviously dear sword. When Candur rights himself, Theo hands over his own blade, rusty and crooked, with shaking hands.
He gives the Elvish blade a little test swing. The sword is light—so light in his hands that it almost seems to swing itself. Theo marvels at it, and then looks up at Candur, who smiles down softly at him.
"Thank you, sir," Theo says, voice shivering in the thunderous rain. "I—really."
"How old are you, Theo, son of Thom?" Candur asks, pleasantly sheathing his new—or old—blade.
"Fifteen, sir," Theo replies honestly. Then, hestitantly: "How old are you?"
Candur's smile widens by a small fraction. "Most of us do not keep count for long," he responds, eyes wandering once to the darkened sky. "I was born in the Undying Lands, long before the sun or the moon began in their heavenly dance across the sky."
Theo blinks, trying to wrap his mind around that.
"How could you see where you were going?" Theo whispers, as if the question were scandalous. "If there weren't a sun or a moon, I mean."
"We had a different light," Candur says, huffing. "Two trees lit the land of Valinor, and it was from the fruit and flower of them that the sun and the moon were born."
"Wow," Theo says, struck by awe.
"Archers!" sounds a different voice, distant and commanding. "At the ready!"
The horn of the Uruk-hai blows.
"The enemy approaches," Candur says, eyes glimmering faint silver under the starlight that fades with every moment behind clouds of smoke and ash. "Stay safe and stay out of darkness, Theo, son of Thom."
"And—and you," Theo manages to say.
An elvish horn blows in response to the Uruk-hai. Then a human one, more faint and elsewhere.
"Elbereth!" one elf, Commander Haldir, yells—loud enough to be heard by all the elves in Helm's Deep. The word catches and spreads like wildfire, until the entire wall sings in uncanny harmony, in a song that is all things fair and haunting: Elbereth, Gilthoniel.
Candur says it softly under his breath, like a promise made to the dark. Then he turns to the horizon, rusted sword in hand.
"What does that mean?" Theo asks, boldened.
"It is a prayer," Candur replies absently, attention already elsewhere. "A call for aid."
"Come'n, boy, we're to be somewhere else," Thom says, tugging gently at his arm.
Theo doesn’t want to go.
Fear churns inside him, sharp and restless. The fortress feels too big, the night too loud—the rain hammering on stone, the distant thunder of war gathering beyond the walls. Everywhere he looks there are shadows and strangers and the cold certainty that something terrible is coming. And if the elf Candur makes him feel a little safer in his skin, why shouldn't he stay?
But Thom’s hand tightens, patient but firm, and Theo is too small against the weight of everything to resist.
He lets himself be led away without saying goodbye.
He allows himself one last look at Candur, who stands stoic under the rain-dimmed lights. Water runs silver through his pale hair and streaks across his darkened skin until he seems almost part of the night itself, a tall shadow carved in wet stone and flickering firelight. Theo’s battered sword rests steady in his hand, held with quiet certainty. Theo’s battered sword rests steady in Candur’s hand, as though it has always belonged there.
Then Thom pulls him around the corner, and stone of the Hornsburg swallows the view.
Theo would remember the way the rain made silver of him long after he forgot the sound of the horns.