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Chapter Text

Chapter One: The Gift of Foresight

"Give it time" they had told him. "For time eases the pain of the heart. With it, all will be well, as it was before." And yet, time seemed to stand still as he walked among the trees, the sounds of the night filling his Elven ears. It was a night of uncommon beauty; why did nature's song not touch his heart the way it used to?

Eregion had fallen, and with it, all remnants and memories of the great Elven smith, Lord Celebrimbor. And yet, Elrond did not forget. Nor did he fail to remember his father's prophesy of long ago, and how he had fallen short of the task before him. One day, Celebrimbor's life will be in my hands...

Looking to the shimmering heavens, the young elf searched for his father's star, something he had not done for some time. Even now, he felt a pang of shame as his eyes found the small light in the heavens above.

"I have failed you, Father" he managed in a faint whisper. "Celebrimbor is dead. I could not reach him in time... I could not stop Sauron..."

For the first time in his life, Elrond could not feel his father's presence or warmth guiding him. Both had been replaced by a dull ache that throbbed brokenly within his chest.

The distance from his family, father, mother, and twin brother, Elros, had never felt so vast. A single word from any of them would have eased his heart. But alas, he was alone.

"I know I chose the path of immortality" he murmured quietly to anyone that would lend an ear to his plea. "But I never wanted this." The war, the bloodshed, the crushing guilt and pain of loss that haunted him like a ghost... It was an ever-growing shadow that he feared would consume his once-illuminated soul.

For Elrond mourned not only the loss of his kin; he mourned the loss of who he had been before Eregion's fall. The lengthening days following the harsh defeat had only served to teach him that the days of sunshine and serenity were firmly in the past. What the future held had yet to be determined...

"Master Elrond"

Even in the depths of his dark reflections, Elrond recognized the voice of his lieutenant, Vorohil beside him. He turned slowly from the stars overhead.

"The High King demands your presence" Vorohil informed him. "He seeks your council."

Elrond merely nodded and followed the elf hence, leaving his place among the rocks and trees to be once again engulfed in a deafening silence.

The High King glanced down at the beauty of Vilya once more as Lady Galadriel entered his tent, bearing a lantern and a scroll.

"Our enemy will undoubtedly move towards Lindon" she was saying. "He intends to seize the rings and destroy all of Elvendom before we have had time to regain our strength and face him."

Gil Galad's brow raised at her suggestion. "Commander" he reprimanded with a touch of annoyance. "Are you suggesting that we move our entire company to Lindon? Is it wise to leave this region so utterly undefended?"

A glint of determination gleamed in Galadriel's eyes, but before she could answer, the flaps of the tent parted for Elrond to enter.

Gil Galad inspected him disapprovingly. "What seems to have been your delay, Elrond?" he chided, more sternly than he intended.

Elrond's eyes did not meet his as he strode to the table and map set out before them. "I apologize, High King" he murmured, dodging the question. At last, he raised his gaze to meet those of his comrades. "What news has brought about this council?"

Gil Galad frowned as he looked upon his herald. A new wave of hope had swept through the Elven camp since the healing powers of the rings had been revealed. Why did its light not reach the peredhel?

Elrond had always been a bit of a mystery to the High King. New facets of his half-elven nature were constantly revealing themselves, even after hundreds of years. He was, in a way, unpredictable.

Even now, Gil Galad could not grasp the complicated emotions that played across the young Elf's brow. In his failure to understand, he chose to ignore it.

"Our forces must concentrate on our most defensible city" the High King answered him. "Eregion has fallen, but Lindon still holds."

He eyed both Galadriel and Elrond thoughtfully before continuing. "As we have recently learned, these rings wield more power than we ever could have imagined." His eyes fell on Elrond, whose gaze did not meet his. "I believe they may be the very solution we need to turn the tide against Sauron's forces."

A light of agreement sparked in Galadriel's eyes. "High King" she answered. "I wholeheartedly agree. No one knows more than I of the healing powers that these rings possess. Even in death, Celebrimbor leaves us a great gift with which to challenge his tormentor."

Gil Galad nodded, glancing at Elrond. To his annoyance, the elf's face did not change aside from the faint hint of disapproval in those grey eyes. The High King grunted, frustration shifting his tone.

" As the one who successfully wielded their power to save Galadriel's life, I would like to know your opinion Herald" he commanded with a sternness that was not to be disobeyed.

Elrond was reluctant, his eyes still on the map before him. "It is above my station to decide such matters" he reminded the king.

Gil Galad frowned again, this time more deeply than before. "You are not to decide anything" he pointed out. "I merely ask your opinion."

Elrond squared his slumped shoulders and faced the king, masking his own annoyance better than his king had. "I do not think it wise to rely on the power of the rings for our salvation," he said at last. "They are untested. We know neither the extent nor the limitations of their power."

Galadriel stepped forward defensively. "Am I not living proof of their power?" she seethed, eyeing him with disgust. "You wielded the rings and pulled me from the clutches of the darkness! Why do you continue to allow your distrust to blind you?"

Gil Galad could see that Elrond was angry, though he said nothing. The steel of the grey eyes gazed downwards but remained unrelenting.

"I distrust reliance on a power that we do not fully understand" he responded quietly.

Gil Galad sighed. "I had hoped for some enlightenment from you Elrond" he reprimanded. "But this is hardly helpful."

His herald met his gaze, and there the High King found no anger. Only disappointment.

"You asked only for my opinion, High King," he said, the defeat evidenced in his tone. "The decision is yours to make."

Gil Galad's eyes narrowed. Elrond's cautionary stance remained the same, but the fight had gone out of him. He wondered which of the two bothered him more.

"Thank you, Herald Elrond" he responded flatly. "You are dismissed."

As he had often done since the fall of Eregion, Elrond stationed himself near the running stream to watch the beauty of the rising sun. It gave him a faint spark of hope that everything else failed to ignite. Tiredly, he leaned against the large rocks for support as he watched the expanding colors of the horizon.

A faint breeze caressed his face as his eyelids closed. Elves did not require sleep, but his half-elven nature had cursed him with a need for it. And in sleep, his dreams were no longer beautiful or comforting like they used to be. Not since...

With a heavy sigh, he forced himself to open his eyes once more before the nightmares could haunt him again. Neither Galadriel nor Gil Galad knew of his current affliction, and he preferred to keep it that way. Mannish dreams were too chaotic and nonsensical to explain to an Elf, whose dreams and foresights were always lucid, and almost tangible.

Straightening his back, he hugged his right knee against his chest. The sunrise was nearly complete now in all its golden glory. Despite the grief and pain that hung so heavily in the air, this place was beautiful, he admitted to himself.

Watching the sunrise had become a ritual that he would be loath to part with once the High King gave the order to leave for Lindon.

The king's dismissal had hurt Elrond, just as it had when the discussion of the rings had first begun. This time, however, he had expected it. The king had no reason to accept his council; not when the defeat at Eregion had been his. Not when Galadriel had been restored to her place as his commander.

I am but the king's herald, he deduced grimly. Nothing more.

The sun was radiant now upon his skin as its rays spread like wings over the sky. As the shadows bent to the beauty of the light, a stronger wind caught Elrond's tidal hair, encouraging him to lift his head.

Strange... The sunlight cast a golden glow against what he could only discern was a hooded figure not far away.

Who was this? An Elf watchman, standing guard? A Uruk spy, come to invade the encampment? Rising stiffly to his feet, Elrond clutched his sword and approached lightly.

The figure did not move. Not at first. Then, with the suddenness of its appearance, it vanished within the thicket, leaving no trace. Elrond's heart leaped, and he gave chase, sword now unsheathed. No friend of the Elves would wish to conceal themselves.

As he followed the trail into the thicket, he noticed that the sunlight cast an ethereal glow over the dew-covered grass and trees. The song of a nightingale filled his head with an unearthly sweetness as a faint mist parted in his path.

The scent of flowers and earth was so intoxicating that the elf briefly wondered if he had mistakenly wandered into Valinor. For a fleeting moment, he felt the weight of his burden lift and soar like a bird released from a cage.

And then, he saw it; the cloaked figure that had evaded him near the stream. It stood before him, still and unthreatening, its back towards him.

The clothes were simply colored, but they shined as if they had been bathed in moonlight. The armor glittered brilliantly in the light of the rising sun, forcing Elrond to shield his eyes. A crest of the Evenstar decked both the cloak and the breast of its wearer.

He noticed a delicately crafted circlet of brilliant mithril adorning the dark head as it turned in Elrond's direction. This was no common elf, but an Elven lord from a land unknown. The sword and scabbard however looked vaguely familiar to Elrond.

Frowning, he lifted his eyes to the face of the form before him and caught his breath in amazement. For he saw neither the face of an elf nor an orc, but rather his own staring back at him.

"Elrond!"

Elrond opened his eyes with a gasp, sitting up from his relaxed position against the stone. Before him, the sunrise had not yet pierced the sky. He was no longer surrounded by the heavenly thicket. The stunning vision had faded before his eyes.

Only Galadriel stood nearby, her hardened expression exchanged for worry.

"Elrond, I've been looking everywhere for you" she seemed to repeat.

Elrond struggled to his feet apologetically. "Goheno nin" he murmured softly, though his eyes still traveled to where the vision had first appeared. "My mind was elsewhere..."

Galadriel sighed and took a step closer. "As it has been since we fled Eregion" she pointed out with a faint, but sympathetic smile. "I mourn the loss of your smile, Mellon. What burden still troubles you?"

Elrond was tempted for a fleeting moment to share what he had seen but instead chose to refrain, for he could sense that the rare foresight had been for his eyes alone.

Swallowing, he lifted his eyes to meet hers. "I struggle to understand my place in all of this" he finally admitted, though vaguely.

Galadriel lifted her hand to rest against his bruised face, her warmth seeping into him. "Gil Galad has faith in you" she reminded him, as if reading his very thoughts. "As do I. When he asked for your opinion concerning the rings..."

"We need not discuss the rings" Elrond cut her off quickly. "My convictions have not changed, but I do not wish for it to come between us. Let us speak of them no more Galadriel..."

"When Gil Galad asked for your opinion..." she repeated, more sternly, though her expression softened upon hearing his wishes. "He did so because he values your approval."

Elrond gave a short, wry laugh. "My approval, given or withheld does nothing to alter the course of his actions" he pointed out. "I fail to see the value in that..."

Galadriel frowned faintly. "He values your wisdom more than you know, Elrond" she murmured. "In time, you will come to understand that."

Elrond was doubtful but nodded as convincingly as he could. "I reckon you did not seek out my company simply to inform me of that" he questioned, a faint grin gracing his face. "Why are you here Galadriel?"

Galadriel steeled herself, as if reluctant to deliver the message she sought to convey. "The High King has ordered the guard of Lindon to return home," she said slowly. "He wishes you to remain here with the people of Eregion..."

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: Half Among the Whole

In the shadow of the flickering candlelight, Elrond sought to hide his face from the High King as he gazed at the map spread before him. He understood perfectly well that Gil Galad's decision to leave him behind was a punishment for his recent defeat... It also freed his king to do with the Elven rings as he saw fit, with no further resistance from his herald.

And yet, as Elrond examined the weathered lines of the map, he was suddenly struck by the vast distance that would lie between them. Never in his immortal existence had Lindon, his home ever felt so far away. All thoughts of resentment fled him as the tide of realization brought with it an acute longing for the safe haven that he could not return to.

"I expect you to maintain regular correspondence" Gil Galad was saying as he paced about the dimly lit tent. "All of your movements and encounters are to be recorded, but with the utmost discretion."

Elrond nodded and turned away from the haunting map. "It shall be done, High King" he answered, hands behind his back in a gesture of respect. "I will await your orders."

Gil Galad's absent glance at the ring adorning his finger informed Elrond that no such orders would come, for only those who favored the use of the rings would be allowed into the King's council.

No matter. As herald, he would do his part, even from afar. He would strive to fill Celebrimbor's place among the people of the fallen Eregion. Perhaps it would in some way amend his own failure to save the Elven smith from the clutches of Sauron.

"This region, once peaceful, is marred by hostility" Gil Galad's warning voice roused him from his thoughts. "You must be vigilant Elrond. This valley rests nearer to the Trollshaws and the Ettenmoors than safety permits. Even without the threat of Uruks, the danger is great."

No danger is greater than Sauron.

Although he said nothing, the king seemed to sense his thoughts. He eyed Elrond with an expression that the young elf could not discern. Surprise perhaps? Guilt?

Before Gil Galad could speak his mind, Elrond made a short bow. "I assure you High King, the people of Eregion will take all necessary precautions against such enemies."

The High King's stern gaze did not soften with the response. His royal brow remained furrowed. "And you?" he asked pointedly.

Elrond frowned faintly, confused by the King's odd question. Instead of answering, he looked away. "The region shall not fall to the enemy" was all he could muster. "That, I can promise you."

Gil Galad was ill at ease the following morning as his company prepared to make for Lindon. Some unseen and unspoken twinge of discomfort seemed to dampen his otherwise lifted spirits.

Arondir was keen to notice the change as the High King prepared to depart. Even so, he acknowledged the Silvan Elf's presence with the characteristic grace that Arondir had come to know.

"Your service to our people has proven to be invaluable, Arondir," he said magnanimously, a gilded hand across his chest in salute. "You will always have a place among us if you so choose."

Arondir bowed deeply with the utmost reverence for the Elven ruler. "You do me great honor, High King" he murmured quietly. "It seems that I am needed here for a little longer yet. I will be of service in any way that I can."

The king nodded slowly, before mounting his regal steed. Once in the saddle, however, his thoughts seemed to shift and his gaze found the elf once more. "I have but one request, Master Elf" he implored, as the veil of royalty lifted for but a moment.

Arondir bowed his head once more. "Anything, my King" he breathed as softly as a summer's breeze.

The High King glanced about as if to make certain that no elven ears could detect his words and allowed his voice to drop to little more than a whisper.

"Watch over the peredhel" he commanded, though with much gentleness and uncertainty. "He is wise and capable, but his heart is stubborn. He does not treat with folly unless it is his own safety in question."

Arondir nodded knowingly. "I shall keep him under my protection" he promised. "He shall not tread this path alone."

Gil Galad nodded, though his conscience had not been eased. Was he wrong to leave his herald so near to the shadow of Mordor? Had he underestimated the danger that encroached upon Eregion's unstable borders?

"The hour grows late, High King" Galadriel's voice sounded at his side. "We must make haste before mid-day."

Gil Galad nodded, urging his steed onwards. As the company turned in the direction of the Great East Road, he paused for a moment to cast a final glance toward the shining sanctuary. Among the makeshift tents, he noticed Elrond, who watched their departure from afar.

"Take me with you" the lone figure seemed to say. "Don't leave me behind." And for a moment, Gil Galad nearly gave in. But the moment was fleeting, and soon his gaze had turned away once more from his herald.

A wicked, thick stench reeked among the shabby shelters and fire pits as he passed them with the ease of a phantom. The squelch of mud accompanied by the moans of the wounded completed the dismal picture as he examined his forces, newly under his command.

With a slow, faint smile of satisfaction, he fingered the crown in his hand, This filth, this misery was exactly what the Dark Lord desired, for it diminished the glow of all that even faintly resembled the light of Valinor.

He continued to watch with an unblinking gaze as one of the Uruk tentatively approached his side. "What are your orders, Lord Sauron?" the throaty rasp of a voice bellowed.

Annatar feasted upon the sight of a smoldering remnants of Ost-in-Edhil and a faint sneer flickered across his face. "With the rings for the Dwarves completed," he mused, lifting a leathery pouch from his side, "the time is right to distribute the rings for men..."

The Uruk seemed uncertain and unconvinced by this course of action. "Rings for men?" it spluttered with brutish indignation. "You told us that the age of the Uruk was at hand!"

Annatar was unmoved by the complaint. "It will be" he assured the lowly creator. "In time. The age of the Uruks cannot come to pass without the rings for men..."

The Halls of Khazah Dum were vacant and cast in shadow. A coldness crept through Elrond as his feathery footsteps echoed through the desolate cave. There was no light. No sign of life. Where were the dwarves of this once great kingdom? Where was Durin?

"Durin?"

His voice reverberated against the walls of stone as the mountain gaped above him like the mouth of a crouching beast. Had his friend abandoned the stone halls without notice? Had his limited time with the dwarf unknowingly slipped away without his knowledge?

"Durin! It's Elrond!"

His cry was desperate now, as was the echo that followed. And yet, there was no sign of Durin. The vast emptiness of the kingdom seemed to seep into Elrond's very soul, offering nothing but the stinging reminder that he was completely alone.

"Durin!"

Arondir's soothing voice sounded close to his side. "Commander? Your sleep appears to be troubled..."

Elrond realized then that he was no longer in the desolate halls of Khazah Dum, but sitting upright on the pallet in his tent, reeling from the dream. "I am well..." he assured Arondir, with little certainty.

Arondir leaned down once again to further secure one of the tent pegs. "Do not be ashamed of foresights" he murmured quietly. "For they are a gift from the Valar."

Elrond stood up quickly, his slight frame visibly tense with the memories of the nightmare. Without raising his eyes to Arondir, he threw his faded cloak over his shoulders and fastened the clasp. "It was only a mannish dream..." he muttered bitterly, inwardly cursing his peredhel nature. "Nothing more."

He felt the other elf's gaze upon him as he fitted the faded gauntlets to his wrists. "How holds our outer defense Arondir?" he asked, trying to shift the focus from himself.

"There have been no Uruk sightings throughout the night" his gentle elf companion informed him. "The changing of the guard will commence before long."

Elrond nodded stoically, trying to forget the sound of his own desperate voice ringing through the vacant halls of Khazah Dum. "Good," he said, finally turning to face Arondir. The caring sympathy in the other elf's eyes filled him with overwhelming shame.

Try as he might to suppress all weakness, his sleep had betrayed him. His gaze fell to the grass beneath his feet as he unconsciously fingered the hem of his hanging cloak. "Tell Vorohil that I will join him as soon as I have made the rounds" he instructed.

Arondir seemed to sense his state of mind and gave an obedient nod rather than questioning him further. "It shall be done Commander" he murmured with a graceful bow of his head.

As he exited the tent, Elrond finally allowed himself to release the breath that he had locked behind clenched teeth. As his heart thundered wildly in his chest, he considered for a moment that perhaps he was not fit to lead even this small Elven force.

The weight of command grew heavier with each passing day, as the longing for his place in Lindon tugged at his heart. But this would not be due... Much must be sacrificed in war, including his own, menial desires. He must find strength to guide his people, even if he, himself felt lost.

The grey light of morning gave little cheer as he made his way to the edges of camp. A light rain pattered idly over rocks and trees, breaking the silence of the peaceful sanctuary.

Despite the gentle murmur of the raindrops however, Elrond's Elven ears could discern the whisperings and grumblings of the watchmen who manned their posts.

"Eregion has been cursed since the rings were forged," one voice remarked. "First our Lord Celebrimbor abandoned us in his madness. Then, the elf Annatar revealed himself to be the Dark Lord..."

"And now we are to be led by a half-elven; the tainted blood of a superior race" another spoke with bitter resentment. "I tell you, this people is cursed..."

Elrond stopped in his tracks for a moment, a mixture of anger and shame rising within his breast. Anger for the accusations laid against the fallen Celebrimbor; shame in his own shortcomings as both a leader and as a peredhel.

There had been a time when he had been proud of his heritage; as of late, he found himself cursing it, concealing it, wishing beyond the realm of reason that he could whole like the Elves he led.

And yet, locking away that part of himself seemed to be the only path to proving that he was worthy of his people's trust. Weakness was not allowed on the battlefield; it would not be allowed here.

Squaring his shoulders resolutely, he approached the small company, pretending he had heard nothing, much to their apparent relief.

The shadow of Mordor itself seemed to blot out the sun as overcast skies robbed the sanctuary of its former warmth. While little contact had been made with the enemy, different battles needed to be fought within the camp and Elrond himself.

The distrust in him and his capabilities became clearer to him with each passing day. His orders and councils were met with increasing doubt. Whispers of his "tainted blood" reached his ears more often than it ever had. Even the face of his lieutenant Vorohil greeted him with traces of uncertainty.

In an effort to quench the growing doubt that haunted all of his steps, Elrond took further measures to conceal his shortcomings. He only slept when it was most necessary, and took nourishment in secret, for Elves had little need for such mortal things as sleep and food.

He insisted on sharing all necessary duties of the encampment, even those that were otherwise estimated to be beyond his strength. When the work was done, he kept himself apart from his people in an effort to hide the exhaustion that was overtaking him.

Despite his efforts, all eyes seemed to watch him with unrelenting scrutiny, as if waiting for him to crumble. Worst of all, Arondir's gentle gaze had been impossible to shake. The sympathy and concern that resided there were almost harder to bear than the critical watch of the other Elves, for it saw what the others failed to see.

Even now, as Elrond strained to help the watchmen build a fortification of stone on the outer defenses, he could feel the elf's gentle gaze upon him, as if willing him to release his burden. He could not; not when the lives of the Elves depended upon his strength...

And yet, his strength waned. The bolder that he had intended to hoist slipped from his shaking hands, crushing his palm beneath its weight and slicing through skin. It was all the peredhel could do to keep from crying out in pain. Immediately, one of the guards was at his side, lifting the stone effortlessly.

"Rest, Commander," he said quietly. "Better to assign one more capable to this post..."

The condescension was not lost on Elrond, and he met it stubbornly. "I am capable" he replied firmly. "The stone merely slipped."

"It is not your safety I am concerned for" the soldier replied curtly.

"He is right" a voice sounded behind Elrond, who turned with slow resignation. Vorohil. "You should rest, Commander."

Elrond reluctantly conceded, following Vorohil through the camp to the shelter of his own tent. It was no surprise to him that Arondir waited inside. The elf had probably witnessed the entire exchange.

Feeling outnumbered, Elrond strode towards a satchel that lay near his pallet and removed a few strips of cloth that he kept handy for incidents such as these. For he had not been graced with the ability to heal swiftly as other elves had, and petty injuries such as these happened often enough.

He felt both pairs of eyes upon him as he straightened to face them. Glancing from one to the other, his gaze rested on Vorohil, his eyes narrowing. "It is imperative that I share the burdens of our company" he reprimanded quietly. "I would not have anyone in this encampment perform duties that I myself would not do."

"No one doubts your heart, Commander" Vorohil responded with vague indifference.

Elrond frowned faintly, his jaw clenched with a hint of frustration. "Then why is there doubt in your eyes, Lieutenant?" he asked, seeing the swirling storm of skepticism that creased the elf's brow. "There is no point in withholding it."

Vorohil straightened his shoulders squarely as if parsing his words required a defensive stance. "Our forces question whether you possess the endurance necessary to lead this company" he admitted.

Elrond lowered his gaze, biting his lower lip to calm himself as he faced what appeared to be yet another betrayal. "And you?" he asked at last, resignedly.

Vorohil shifted uncomfortably but seemed determined to express his discontent. "Your will bears the soundness of Mithril" he conceded. "I only pray to the Valar that your strength is in equal measure to your spirit Commander." Saying this, he gave a slight bow before dismissing himself.

Alone with Arondir, Elrond leaned heavily against the table and signed wearily. His hand stung more than he wished to admit, and his body ached from the exertion that he had forced upon himself.

He saw no point in trying to conceal his apparent weakness from Arondir now; already the elf had seen enough to know the truth.

Arondir seemed to sense his exhaustion and came to his side. "They test you Commander" he reassured him quietly. "They do so out of fear, not belief..."

Elrond closed his eyes. "I do not fault their concern" he admitted wearily. "My limitations are troublesome. But perhaps, with time, I can conquer them."

Arondir frowned faintly as if to disagree. "You told me that Annatar and Lord Celebrimbor sought to create a power that transcended anything of this world" he observed. "It would seem that, in times such as these, a keener understanding of our limitations is precisely what this world needs."

Elrond felt the tensity of his shoulders ease as Arondir carefully cradled his injured palm, washing away all of the blood and impurities. "Do not be so quick to dismiss what others might consider to be your shortcomings" the elf murmured quietly. "It is through these qualities that we learn the wisdom of restraint."

Elrond winced only slightly as he attempted to bandage the hand with neat folds. "What is wisdom without the strength to implement it?" he questioned wistfully, the nettlesome weariness causing his hands to shake.

Arondir saw his struggle and took pity, arranging the bandages around the palm and wrist himself. In doing so, his eyes met Elrond's and the peredhel glimpsed a hidden knowledge there.

"I see a secret strength in you Master Elrond" the elf murmured with both understanding and sincerity. "There is a spark that carries you beyond what is possible."

Elrond gave a rueful smile that did not quite meet his eyes. "For a mortal, perhaps..." he admitted sadly. Stronger than a man, weaker than an Elf... Such an undefined power offered little benefit when the most powerful of beings had been placed under his command. And yet, Arondir continued...

"I watched as you crossed the riverbed of the Glanduin through Uruk lines and reached the wall of the city" he explained. "I thought you were lost when a hill troll smote you with its mighty blow. And yet, you defied death and dealt the fatal blow instead. A power lies within you Commander, one that you may not yet see."

Elrond frowned faintly at the memory, daring to consider for a moment that, perhaps those feats were more extraordinary than he had originally thought them to be.

Arondir saw his apparent perplexity and folded his hands. "The strength will come" he promised quietly. "In ways you do not expect... Do not dismiss the strength of mortal men that resides in you. For I have seen a determination of spirit in mortal men that is lacking among the Elves..."

Elrond considered Arondir's words with thoughtful deliberation, unconsciously examining the bandaged hand before him as he did so. The strips of cloth were skillfully bound in a fashion he had never seen before. Curious, he glanced up at Arondir.

"Where did you learn this?" he asked quietly, holding out the carefully wrapped injury. Arondir suddenly looked sorrowful, his eyes distant as he considered his work. "A mortal showed me" he breathed reverently, his gaze not daring to meet Elrond's. "She was a skilled healer among men."

Elrond's heart clenched with knowing sympathy, as he remembered his own brother, Elros who had chosen a mortal life. Despite all its strengths, immortality bore with it the pain of losing much to the passage of time.

"Will you teach me?" he asked softly, hoping that his eagerness to learn might lift the elf's spirits. He was successful, for Arondir smiled again.

"I would be honored to, Commander" he agreed. "She... would be heartened to know that her skill in mortal medicine continues to be of use, even among the Elves."

Chapter Text

Chapter Three: A Swarm of Orcs

Flames and smoke rose all around Elrond, blurring his vision. He coughed and choked, to no avail. The thick air would surely suffocate him.

The earth had been cast in a light of fiery red. Dark shadows flicked about in the corners of his vision as he searched for an escape. Yet none emerged. Only walls of smoke and flame surrounded him.

His body was heavy-laden with exhaustion as he proceeded forward, his gleaming sword at his side. A glance to the ground showed him the spattering of blood, which he knew instinctively to be his own. 

"There is no time... No Time..."

Shadows rose before him, veiled in the smoke and darkness. Their apparent nearness diminished, as they glided away from where he stood. Yet even in the faintness of the outlines, he recognized them all. 

"High King..." he called, trying to quicken his pace. "Galadriel! It is Elrond!"

Neither seemed to hear, causing his heart to drop. There was no time. 

"Hear me, Master Círdan! It's Elrond! I'm here!"

His cries elicited no response as the shadows faded into the smoke, beyond his sight.

"Wait! I am here!" he called again. "I am right here!"

"Commander, you must awaken."

How could he when there was no escape? He had to draw their attention somehow. He had to warn them that the time was running short.

"You are dreaming Master Elrond... Open your eyes."

Elrond did so with a sharp gasp as he was forcefully returned to the world of the living, his whole body shaking from the nightmare. Looking up, he saw Arondir by his side, watching him with deep concern. 

It was dark still. The sun had not yet risen and a chill hung in the air. Allowing himself a moment to catch his breath, he glanced at Arondir soberly. "Forgive me" he apologized, his voice slightly shaken. "It appears as though my tendency to dream has taken you from your post..."

"My post is here Commander" Arondir answered quietly, rising to his feet when Elrond did the same. "What is it that torments you? Your sleep is always so troubled."

Elrond looked down at his shaking hands and sighed faintly. "The dreams seem to have no meaning" he admitted, almost longing that they had. For then, these nightly disturbances would at least have purpose. "They are but shadows that linger in the recesses of my mind. I do not understand them..."

Arondir nodded sadly. "Perhaps you will" he attempted to encourage. "With time. The passage of time has a way of casting light upon that which is yet unclear."

Elrond sighed hoping rather than believing it to be true. "At least in that, I might draw comfort" he murmured with a rueful smile. "Return to your post Arondir. I will join you shortly."

Arondir frowned faintly, causing Elrond to shift with discomfort under his perceptive gaze. He knew that the elf could not fail to see the weariness that burned his eyes, the stiffness that gripped his shoulders. The smile that did not exude joy. 

"The hour is yet early, Commander" Arondir observed at last. "There is still time for you to rest."

Elrond adjusted the hilt of his sword at his side. His body begged for respite, and yet his mind ever robbed him of it with its twisted labyrinths. He dared not return to the land of shadow and smoke. 

Laying a grateful hand on Arondir's forearm, he tapped it gently. "A moment among the forests and streams will do more to quiet my mind" he assured the worried face before him. "I am well mellon nin. It will pass."

And yet it did not. As the young Peredhel wandered alone through the morning mists, he felt the weariness of his spirit grow. How long would the isolation and longing in his heart endure? How long would he wait in vain for even a whisper of acknowledgment from his people?

It had been several months since Gil Galad and Galadriel had departed, and no word from them had reached his place of refuge. His frequent reports to the High King had gone unanswered. His company had been granted no aid or relief.

Most frightening of all, he had no knowledge of the enemy's tactics beyond the confines of the sanctuary. It was a helpless, lonely feeling as if he were a soaring nightingale at the mercy of the raging wind.  

Leaning his weight against one of the many trees of the forest, Elrond closed his eyes and attempted to soothe the rapid breaths of his lungs and the furious beatings of his heart. 

He could not let his fear be shown to those under his command, for their doubt in him yet remained. Even Arondir must not be allowed to know the truth of their fragile position. The burden was his alone to bear.

"You have visitors King Durin" Narvi announced from the doorway with a quick bow. Durin looked up wearily from the table whereat he stood and breathed a long sigh. Even the comfort of Disa's hand on his forearm could not dispel the inevitable dread that he felt at such announcements.

Another visitor... Another false show of loyalty and pretense. Such had been the nature of things since his father's passing. Khazah Dum's future hung in the balance as unsteady alliances were forged while others fell to ruin.

 "I will go to greet them" he managed to say, squaring his shoulders. "Who is it Narvi?"

Narvi nodded. "A rather large company of Elves," he said, crossing his arms. "The leader wants a word with ya." He smirked as if his meeting with the Elven leader had left him amused. Durin's eyes narrowed and he glanced at Disa questioningly. Surely Narvi would take a visit from Elrond more seriously than this.

His puzzlement turned to understanding and annoyance when, upon entering the great hall, Durin was met instead by High King Gil Galad. It was all he could do to keep from huffing indignantly, for the High King embodied everything that Durin disliked in an elf. 

Beyond that, he was not quick to forget the deception that Gil Galad had placed upon both Elrond and himself in pursuit of Mithril. An unsteady alliance had remained between the Dwarves of Khazah Dum and the Elves of Lindon, but Durin knew that Elrond was the true bridge between them. 

Even now, without Elrond here to play the part of a diplomat, the gap between the two peoples seemed impossibly wide. 

"King Durin, I am most grateful to you for granting me this audience" Gil Galad greeted him with a flowery flourish that lacked all of Elrond's warmth and charm. "Our people owe you a tremendous debt for your aid at Eregion."

Durin eyed the golden elf before him and raised an eyebrow. "Where's Elrond?" he demanded, ignoring the High King's greeting. 

Gil Galad did not seem ruffled by the straightforward question, though his eyes were evasive. "His company has set up their defensives in nearby regions" he explained, vaguely, "Though I dare not disclose their exact location. Any knowledge of it could compromise his safety."

Durin nodded sarcastically. "Safety..." he muttered. "And what safety do ya expect he'll find in a place overrun with Orcs?" His comment seemed to hit a nerve with the Elven king as a spark of indignation, and perhaps guilt lit his eyes.

"Sauron's eye is not upon Elrond," he said firmly. "The Dark Lord seeks to gain powers that are beyond the battlefield or the throne." Durin watched as the High King's gaze dropped to the glittering ring upon his finger as if the object itself spoke to him. Durin scowled at the sight and folded his burly arms across his chest.

"I'm guessing ya didn't come all this way just to thank me for aid, now did ya?" he deduced indignantly. "Ya want something from me!"

Gil Galad stared stonily at the dwarf as if deliberating between diplomacy and the truth. His hesitance only confirmed what Durin already suspected. 

"Out with it!" he demanded passionately. "Ya have never been straight with me before. Now is as good a time as any! I already know what ya want..."

Gil Galad drew in a deep breath, his jaw tensed. "King Durin, I have been informed that your people are in possession of seven rings, the work of Lord Celebrimbor..."

"Aye," Durin confirmed, eyeing the one that glittered on the High King's finger. "Against my better judgment..."

It was Gil Galad's turn to raise an eyebrow. "I begin to understand my herald's loyalty to you" he mused though his eyes were mirthless. "You share the same mind."

Durin smirked, secretly relieved and pleased to find out that Elrond had not been seduced by the power of the rings. "He has always been wiser than most Elves" he answered saucily. 

Gil Galad's frown darkened, but he chose to refrain from arguing the nature of the rings with the Dwarven king. "In light of the recent turn of events, I assume you are aware that the Dwarven rings harbor a dark power, crafted by the malice of Sauron himself."

Durin scoffed. No one knew better than he how destructive the power of the rings could be. The image of his father's slow decline flashed before his eyes like it had so many times before. "And I suppose" he responded, though with less anger in his voice, "That you think you are the one to dispose of them?"

Gil Galad's face was calm as if Durin had presented him with the only logical course of action. "In a word, yes..." he answered coolly. "There is no other way to prevent the corruption at hand, King Durin."

Durin nodded, though in disbelief rather than agreement. "Do not speak to me of rings when ya wield one yarself!" he growled. "I have seen the corruption first-hand! I watched it tear my father apart! How can ya stand there and tell me to hand them over while wearing one on yar own hand?!"

Anger flickered in the golden elf's eyes as he stepped closer, his voice low and heated. "I ask this" he hissed, "because I witnessed the unspeakable pain of my herald as he waited for you to keep your word at the dawn of Eregion's fall! Your delay was caused by the unruly actions of your father. It would surely break Elrond's spirit if such corruption took hold of you... That is why I ask this!"

 Durin's eyes narrow, though his heart sank at the King's admission. He had feared this; that his failure to arrive when promised had broken Elrond's trust. More than ever, he wished the elf was here with him now. 

"I understand yar concern" he admitted, his eyes shifting to the ring on the King's finger. "And I'm sure ya understand mine, placing the Dwarven rings into yar hands when you, yerself wear one. No, I will dispose of the seven rings myself. And I accept yar gratitude."

Gil Galad muttered something about Dwarven stubbornness under his breath before answering. "And now, I see where Herald Elrond learned obstinance" he mourned grimly. 

Durin's nostrils flared. "And I see where he got the lines in his forehead!" he muttered. "He has my support, even if he does not have yours..." Durin saw the High King's eyes soften then, like a father disciplining a petulant child. 

"Despite our differences King Durin," he said quietly. "Our care for Herald Elrond is one and the same. You may not agree with my methods, nor I yours, but our goal is the same. No harm shall come to him, as was my intent when I left him. If he is to be the thread that keeps this alliance between us from breaking, so be it. I only ask that you exercise caution with the Dwarven rings; if not for your own sake, then for his."

Durin nodded in reluctant agreement. "Only if ya give me yar word to do the same" he bargained. "Elrond is as a brother to me. He's family. I do not wish to see him abandoned by his own people." 

The tantalizing smell of a rich stew greeted Elrond as he wearily entered his tent that night. It had been a long time since the aroma of a warm meal had graced the encampment. To his surprise, he found Arondir standing inside, ladling out two portions from an old kettle that must have been recovered from the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil. 

The sight brought a tired smile to the Peredhel's face as he drew to Arondir's side. "Man agóreg, Arondir?" he asked, taking the serving that was quickly held out to him. Its warmth quickly seeped into his cold fingers. "What have you made?"

Arondir's eyes were sincere as he gestured towards a warm fire that he had kindled just outside of the tent. "It is a remedy for fatigue" he explained, "and nourishment for the body. At least, that is what I was told during my time in Pelargir... I thought perhaps we might reap its benefits, now that winter is nearly upon us."

Elrond concealed a smile, for he knew that Arondir had done this, not for himself, but for his commander who truly had need of it. With all his Elven pride, he was not too proud to refuse an act of kindness such as this.

The comfort of the fire's heat against his chilled body paired with the internal warmth given to him by the stew was a welcome sensation that Elrond had not realized he craved. So long, he had felt only the coldness in his bones, in the furthest reaches of his very soul. Perhaps Arondir's kindness was the true source of warmth that thawed the iciness that had settled there. 

A familiar wave of sadness washed over him as the memory of Lindon's comforts and peace came to mind. In the days of sunshine and starlight, he had never given such things as food and shelter a second thought, for they were never lacking. 

He supposed he was fortunate to have lived such a life, now that his survival hung in the delicate balance of sufficient sustenance, rest, and protection against the growing chill. It was a difficult balance to strike and a constant reminder that the violence of the Uruks was not the only threat to his fragile immortality. 

The never-ending effort he expended in the simple act of surviving made considerate acts such as Arondir's all the more cherished when they were offered. 

"Commander Elrond," Arondir's steady voice broke through his thoughts. "Forgive me if I am too bold in asking, but... Your brother was Elros, the first king of Númenor, was he not?"

Elrond nodded, still staring into the flames. "Yes," he breathed, leaning forward, hands folded. "He was." What would Elros say to see him here; a product of war, who wielded a sword rather an a quill? Even now, Elrond could hardly believe it himself. His heart ached for his twin brother, despite the passage of time. It was an ache that would never fully heal. 

"Men of Númenor have stationed themselves here in Middle Earth" Arondir commented, bringing Elrond's thoughts back to the present. "It gives me peace to know that Pelargir is under their watchful eye in my absence."

Elrond nodded, pursing his lips in deep thought. "Tell me about Pelargir"  he encouraged the gentle elf across from him. "Long has it been since I spent time in the company of men."

Arondir smiled as if remembering something amusing. "Men are fascinating creatures" he pondered with a faint laugh. "Easily swayed, yet stubborn in their ways. There is a boy among them... Theo. He shows promise, but I fear for him. Fate has yet to determine which path he will take."

Elrond observed Arondir's genuine worry with sympathy. "Perhaps, with your influence, he may yet find his way to the light" he suggested.

"Perhaps, Master Elrond..." he agreed sadly. "I should like to see him again when the fury of war has quieted. He is as a rudderless ship, in need of steering."

Before Elrond could offer words of comfort, the crash of armor and metal rang in his ears, until Vorohil was at his side. "Commander!" he gasped breathlessly. "A swarm of orcs has been spotted near the main pass. We are directly in their path! We will be discovered!"

Elrond felt his heart drop. Just as he had feared... There were no horses for escape. No able-bodied Elves to engage in a fight. They were outnumbered and out of time. 

"Gather everyone to the center of camp" he commanded "Menib!" 

Galadriel quietly entered the boathouse of the Grey Havens, so as not to disturb the shipwright at work. His keen eyes observed her, however, and a smile of unimpeded sunshine graced his weathered face.

"Lady Galadriel," he said, setting aside the tool in his hand. "To what do I owe the honor of your presence? Searching for a runaway peredhel again, perhaps?" he quipped.

Galadriel smiled, though the comment stirred the already surging turmoil in her heart. She would be lying to say that Elrond had not been on her mind since they had left the sanctuary. 

Lindon and the Grey Havens felt empty of warmth without his presence. All of the time, she caught herself longing for a glimpse of him in the halls, among the golden trees, near the sweeping cliffs. Everywhere, she searched for his sweet smile, but never found it.

"It would seem" she considered thoughtfully with a glance at Círdan, "That even in his absence, he occupies my thoughts."

Círdan smiled in affectionate understanding. "I am glad he has elected to trust those who care for him once again" he admitted. "It is a comfort to know that the bond between you both has not been severed." 

Galadriel longed to share in Círdan's satisfaction. And yet, the keen sense of loss lingered. Elrond had not been himself when they had parted ways. 

An unexplained sadness had hung in his eyes that had not been there before. There had been a distance, an impenetrable veil through which she could not pass to reach him. 

He had offered her healing and comfort and she had accepted both. But no sweet words or lofty reveries had accompanied them; only a muted sorrow that seemed to still his once free tongue.

"I worry, Círdan" she offered, her face perplexed. "That my failures have become too much for him to forgive. In my desperation to avenge the loss of a dead brother, I fear I have lost the one that yet lives..."

Círdan sighed, moving from his place beside the worktable. "I suspect that Elrond believes himself to be alone in his struggles, like a lonely sailor upon an empty sea."

Galadriel eyed the shipwright. "Is he?" she asked pointedly

Círdan opened his mouth to answer but refrained. After a pause, he continued. "It is up to all of us to show him that he is not" he encouraged. "A single ship will surely be crushed by the waves. A fleet has more chance of survival."

Galadriel pondered for a moment on the storm within her; how it had always calmed under Elrond's gentle care. In the centuries filled with blood and war, he had become the glimmer of starlight that hastened away the darkness, even for a moment. 

Now the starlight had hidden itself behind clouds of doubt, leading her to realize how much she cherished its glow. Trust had been carelessly broken. Perhaps it could be carefully repaired.

"I shall write to him" she decided, igniting a smile from Círdan. "He must know he is not alone."

"Commander, they'll kill us all!" 

"They will take us as slaves!" 

"We cannot outrun them!"  

"What are we to do?"

What were they to do? In a moment of desperation, all Elven eyes turned to Elrond for salvation, despite the doubts and criticism that had previously reigned. The pleas of elflings, maidens, and even warriors fell at his feet, all begging for mercy. But could he truly provide it?

Squaring his shoulders, the peredhel swallowed the pulsing sensation that rose from his heart to his throat and drew an even breath. 

"Do not break camp" he ordered, his voice louder and stronger than he felt. "Leave the fires burning and the tents pitched."

He caught sight of his lieutenant, Vorohil's bewildered gaze among the faces that surrounded him. "We cannot hope to defend this place against such a horde!" he argued. 

"And yet, we cannot escape" another shouted, "For we have not the means!

Elrond kept his breathing steady, hoping that his heart would follow suit. Unconsciously, he clutched the hilt of his sword the hide the tremble in his hands. 

"We will not retreat" he explained, remembering his oath to his king. "Nor will we engage in open warfare in defense of this place." Glancing around, he saw that he had captured their attention. Their eyes, so full of fear and hope were likened to those of a small child, pleading for protection. 

"We shall lure the enemy into our grasp" he continued. "Let them think that they have conquered this outpost, then fall upon them when they do not expect it. In doing so, the attack shall no longer be theirs, but ours..."

One nod. Two. A murmur of ascent. Slowly, a wave of agreement seemed to replace the fearful dread that had arrested the crowd of faces surrounding him. Feeling emboldened by the small encouragement, he stepped forward.

"All who have strength to fight" he called, "Arm yourselves and gather what weapons we yet have." He glanced towards the healer's tent. "Help those who cannot to reach higher ground, out of sight from the enemy. Arondir..." He glanced at the Silvan elf nearby. "Position archers in the forest with eyes on the camp. The encampment will serve as the bait for our snare."

Arondir made a respectful bow. "It shall be done, my Lord" he murmured. When his head raised once again, Elrond caught the faintest traces of a smile as the elf gifted him with a subtle nob of approval. The small gesture gave Elrond courage.

"Keep the fires burning" he commanded. "And prepare your swords. At the first sign of Orcs, make for the shelter of the trees. There we shall wait until the enemy has placed itself in our grasp. Aphado nin!"

The preparations were swiftly done, and the weak and wounded were hastily hidden among the rocks and trees of the nearby hills. Even now, Elrond quickened his pace as he carried a small elfling on his arm while guiding another with his free hand. 

Time was running out, and yet even a small mistake could cost them the element of surprise. They must stay hidden and keep quiet as the enemy swiftly approached.

A faint whimper from the child in his arms alerted Elrond's elven ears to a greater sound in the distance. The low vibration, almost inaudible, sent a chill down his spine. 

Again it sounded. And again. The distance pulse of Uruk drums that announced the approaching swarm carried like thunder on the night air. The storm was rolling in, and with it the vicious blood-lust of the orcs. 

Closer and closer, the drums reverberated through the darkness. Then, the faint light of torches appeared on the blackened horizon. Even the guttural shouts and growls now reached Elrond's ears. The enemy was upon them.

They were out of time.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four: Son of the Nightingale

"You must be strong, my dear children." Elwing's voice remained steady though her hand trembled as the long fingers ran through dark curls. At her breast glowed the beautiful, yet horrible Silmaril, though little Elrond could not imagine anything brighter than his mother's young face before him.

"Don't go, amil" he whimpered, tears streaming down his small face. "Please don't go!" Beside him, he could almost feel the angry fire radiating from his twin brother. 

"I won't let them take you!" Elros almost shouted, his little fists balled in shaking rage. Tears also streamed down his cheeks, though his were born of hot anger rather than fear. 

Elwing's eyes widened with sudden panic. "No Elros" she cried, cupping a hand to his reddening cheeks. "You must not fight them. Promise me, you will not, little one."

Elrond felt his breath tremble as his brother vigorously shook his head. "What if they... What if they kill you?" he blurted out, a fresh cascade of tears causing his little frame to shudder violently. "They can't kill you! I won't let them!"

"You must not resist!" their mother pleaded. "For me, dear Elros... You must protect your brother. You need each other now more than ever." Saying this, her sweet but tearful gaze also found Elrond's, and her gentle hand caressed his moist cheek. 

"Promise me, both of you."

Elrond and Elros looked at one another, and in silence, their eyes spoke in agreement. "I promise" Elros relented. Elrond nodded his ascent and lifted a hand to rest against his mother's in a last attempt to comfort the sorrowful face before him. His little gesture was not lost on her. 

"My dear Elrond" she whispered tenderly, tearfully. "Do not let anyone steal your song."

Saying this, she kissed them both hastily on the forehead before standing. "I love you" she whispered, her tears flowing freely as she made for the door. "More than life itself..."

And then she was gone... 

The memory was fresh in Elrond's mind as the small elfling in his arms continued to whimper while Uruk drums thundered threateningly through the night. He had never seen his mother again, though her beautiful face remained etched in his memory as clearly as if they had parted yestereve. 

"Hush, young one" Elrond soothed the the tiny elfling in his arms with the softest of whispers. "It will pass. No harm shall come to you." His words had a calming effect on the little elf, even as the sounds of the enemy grew louder and more violent with each passing moment.

"You are safe here" the peredhel assured her, helping the little one to disappear into the shadows of rock and tree. "Keep out of sight. I will protect you."  

To his relief, the whimpers ceased, and the little elf obeyed. As the fearful eyes looked up at him with complete trust, he was momentarily reminded of the teary-eyed gaze of his twin brother on that fateful day. 

Elros was not here any longer but in honor of his memory, Elrond resolved to defend this little one, along with every other elf that sought shelter in the sanctuary. It was a promise; his promise, from so many years ago, renewed even as the darkness threatened those in his care once again.

Inching his way toward a position closer to the empty, yet bright encampment below, he spotted Arondir and other archers hidden among the thicket. With a brief sigh of relief, he thanked the Valar that amble weapons had been gathered to structure a defense.

Any moment now... His eyes focused on the camp before him. Not a sound save the approaching pack of Uruks broke the utter silence as tents swayed in the wind and fires flickered toward the heavens. It was so quiet that he feared the pounding of his own heartbeat would reveal his place of hiding. 

A sound near the south side of the clearing caught his attention. The snapping of twigs and the gurgles of the lumbering brutes alerted him to the swift approach of the enemy. Torches appeared, and the sound of drums loudened until it caused his head to throb. 

It did not take long for the Uruks to descend upon the makeshift camp. They swarmed like hornets from a disrupted nest, tearing down everything in their path, until it seemed as though the clearing thronged with their angry, triumphant howls. 

There were so many. Too many? Elrond clutched the handle of his sword and drew a deep breath. He must be patient, for the element of surprise was their only defense. If timed wrongly, they would all be slaughtered, like they had been at Eregion... He could not bear to think of Eregion. Not now.

He caught Vorohil's questioning gaze from across the grove. Arondir also tried to communicate through dutiful glances. And yet, he waited, for patience was the difference between life and death.

As he watched, he saw a tall, fearsome Uruk step out from the shadows, his face twisted in a snarl as he brandished a crude sword above his head. "Where are the Elven swine?!" he shouted angrily, grabbing a fistful of fabric from one of the remaining tents and tearing it down with searing rage. 

Shouts of the others met his question.

"They've escaped!"

"The Elves are gone!"

"They can't be far!"

The leader scanned the now-destroyed encampment, sniffing the night air as if he could smell the fear there. His eyes wandered aimlessly, searching and sensing... until his eyes met Elrond's. 

The Peredhel saw the Uruk's expression change and knew he had been discovered. He could wait no longer. Now or never, he must make his attack. 

"Herio!" he shouted as loudly as he could muster, emerging from the shrubbery, sword in hand. In answer, the shouts of dozens of Elves met his ears as they charged from all sides, falling upon the unsuspecting Uruks with sounding fury. 

As he raced towards the beasts, Elrond heard the faint whistle of arrows above his head as Arondir's deadly aim cleared a path for him. Lifting his curved blame towards the skies, he met the attack of one of the hissing creatures as it lunged toward him, eyes bulging wildly.

Hadhafang rang true as the cleaving motion sent sprays of blackened blood in every direction. Elrond's battle cry and attack had drawn the attention of the enemy, and they rushed towards him, shouting angry, hateful curses as they observed the destruction he had wrought.

"Cut him down!" He heard the bellow pierce the air, and once again, his eyes met the Uruk leader, even from across the field. "Bring my the Elf's head!"

Elrond managed to swat away the swarm of Uruks that sought to obey. With a hint of satisfaction, he realized he felt stronger than he had when fighting beneath the walls of Eregion. His sword aimed true, the blows both clean and accurate. None of the surrounding brutes could lay a hand on him. 

Arondir observed the young commander from his perch among the trees and strung an arrow to his bow. Elrond fought with the grace of an Elf and the doggedness of a man as he slew the orcs that sought to overwhelm him. 

Never had the peredhel's dual nature been more clear to the Silvan elf. It set him apart on the battlefield, making him both a fierce weapon of war and a target of the enemy's fury. Brow furrowed with concern, Arondir watched over him, firing upon the enemy whenever he could. 

The tides seemed to be shifting in their favor, despite the vast numbers of orcs that were now surrounded by Elven forces. At the center of the conflict, Elrond's strength shined as brightly as the morning star, stirring courage in the hearts of Elves. 

And yet, Arondir sensed a weakness in the Elven lines. To the West, Vorohil and his troop seemed to struggle as a concentrated force of orcs descended with crushing fury on their position. The net that tightened around the forces of their enemies was beginning to fray. None must escape, for their position in the sanctuary would otherwise be discovered by Sauron. 

The thought of the name sent a shiver down Arondir's spine as he took aim. "Look to the western wall!" he shouted above the din to the archers beside him. "We must not allow their escape!" 

Even as he spoke, he the Uruk leader seemed to recognize the danger and immediately sought to exploit it. "Break the lines!" the beast shouted, pressing towards Vorohil's weakening position. "Bring them down!" 

Arondir was desperate. "Turn your bows to the West!!" he cried again, firing with every spare second he was given. "Make haste!" 

The gentle swish of deadly arrows rained upon the battlefield, thinning the furious herd of enemy forces that pressed to Vorohil's company. But it was not enough. Arondir's heart dropped as the Elven warriors fell back against the onslaught. Orcs began to escape the borders of attack that surrounded them, rushing towards the safety of the forest.

"To the hills" hollered the orc leader, while delivering a smart blow to Vorohil's head, leaving the Lieutenant in an unconscious heap. "Make for higher ground!"

Higher ground... Arondir instinctively emerged from his place of hiding, towards the escaping orcs. The higher ground was where they had hidden those who could not fight. He had to stop this retreat before they reached those helpless souls. 

"Commander!" he cried out desperately, continuing to fire upon the orcs as they made for the hills. He could not do this alone, for even his skill with a bow was not enough to stop the impending massacre. One orc alone could wreak havoc upon the unsuspecting Elves that huddled in the shadows. 

As if in answer to his thoughts, Elrond appeared in his line of vision, followed by others in pursuit of the retreating orcs. Arondir saw the steel in the Peredhel's eyes as he laid waste to the enemy in his path, managing to slow the flow of escaping orcs as they pushed through the broken lines. 

For his part, the archer brought down each orc as they distanced themselves from the raging battlefield, his aim sure and true.

Elrond had seen the weakening lines and had acted quickly. Even now, he gave pursuit as the forces of the enemy moved towards the hills. His gaze never wandered far from the Uruk leader, who also seemed to watch his steps like a panther ready to pounce. The Uruk towered over the rest, his makeshift sword made of darkest iron.

He cast a sneer in Elrond's direction before his path turned towards the incline as if knowing that his actions threatened what was dear to the Elven Commander. Elrond saw his intention and gave chase. "Nahta, Arondir!" he shouted breathlessly, even as he sprinted. "Kill him!"

He saw Arondir take the shot. Another. A third. The Uruk was out of range, and quickly approaching the hill. There was no time. It was up to him now.

As Elrond pursued the escaping Uruk, the trusting eyes of the little Elfling appeared in his mind. He remembered his promise to his mother, to Elros, to his people. The memory gave speed to his legs even as they burned with exertion. At the crest of the slope, he finally gained on the beast and swung his sword.

His blow caught the orc on the back of the leg, causing him to tumble, but only momentarily. Regaining balance, he turned on Elrond with the fury of an injured animal in a trap. The iron sword swung wildly, forcing Elrond to dodge even as the wind of the blow touched his face. 

The orc towered over him, with half the agility but twice the strength that he carried. Again the weapon came down upon him with such force that sparks rose from the rock upon which it fell. 

He rolled out of the way and again landed a cut of his blade on the outstretched arm before the fist made contact with his face, sending him sprawling in the damp grass. 

For a moment, Elrond was dazed, his head throbbing from the blow. He had to stand up before the Uruk could make another attack. Stand up!

His vision cleared in time to see the powerful beast raising the crude blade above him for the kill. Just in time, he dove out of the way, the weapon sinking into the ground where his head had rested moments before. 

Jumping unsteadily to his feet, he readied himself for the Uruk's retaliation. But it never came. Another sound had caught the brute's attention. It was the mournful whimper of a child, drifting from the shadow of the rocks. Elrond's heart froze.

To his horror, the Uruk before him gave an evil grin before limping determinedly toward the sound, his weapon raised for destruction.

"No!" Elrond heard himself shout, even as his body lurched forward. He threw himself at the Uruk and pulled him down in a crushing tackle that was beyond his strength. His view of the world around him became jumbled and confused as he struggled against a thrashing tangle of arms and legs, which rolled over him and grabbed a fistful of his curly hair. 

"I'm gonna kill you, Elf!" the malicious voice hissed above him, even as he felt the scratch of sharp fingernails against the skin of his throat. "And cut your heart out!"

Close by, the cries of the small elfling grew louder and nearer. Its nearness momentarily distracted the Uruk, giving Elrond the chance he so desperately needed. Swiftly, he sank his blade firmly into the Uruk's chest, causing the black blood to flow against his. 

The Uruk gave a slow, agonizing wheeze before his body went limp and did not move again. Drawing his blade from the fatal wound, Elrond summoned his remaining strength and pulled himself from under the crushing weight of the dead creature. 

When he was finally free, he lay back against the cool grass, gasping for breath as his limbs shook from the strain. His eyes slowly closed, and for a moment, his mind drifted, the sounds of the battle drifting away with it. For a moment, there was peace... 

"Commander!" Arondir's voice reached him, and he reluctantly forced his eyes open. The loyal elf knelt beside him, a hand on his shoulder. "Are you hurt?" he asked with so much intensity that it dispelled some of the fogginess that clouded Elrond's mind. 

"No, I am alright" he assessed, though he could feel a bruise darkening against his cheek where the Uruk had struck him. "Merely winded..." 

"You came back..." a small voice chimed in at his elbow. Turning his head, Elrond was not surprised to see the little Elfling, her eyes large and frightened as they looked upon him. A smile softened his gaze at the sight, and he forced himself into an upright position. 

"I made a promise to protect you" he reminded her quietly. "No harm will come to you little one. But you must return to the shadow of the rocks until it is safe again. Can you do that?" The little elf nodded soberly and disappeared once again into the shadows. 

Elrond's eyes drifted to the battlefield below as Arondir helped him to his feet. "The lines have strengthened once again, Commander" Arondir informed him. "The enemy will soon be ours."

Elrond nodded, sucking in a deep, yet shaky breath as the adrenaline of the moment began to wear off. Reaching down, he lifted his sword from the ground and gripped it tightly. "What of Vorohil?" he asked tensely. Despite the Elf's doubt in him, there were still traces of loyalty left between them, faint though they might be.

"I know not how he fairs" the Silvan elf admitted sadly, his face stricken. "I only saw him fall."

Elrond's heart clenched sharply at the revelation as his eyes wandered over the blackened field, searching for the body of his Lieutenant. "He may yet live" he murmured, moving back down the slope. "Prepare a place of healing, Arondir. I shall join you soon."

"Your brother will be well soon, dear Elrond" Elwing's voice was calm and soothing as she rocked him gently in her arms, his headful of curls resting against her shoulder. 

Little Elrond snuffled sadly and looked down at Elros, who lay pale and still against billowing pillows. Seeing his brother wounded or ill always left him feeling so helpless and lost.

"I want to help him, amil" he whispered brokenly, his small voice barely carrying. Her soft smile met his tearful eyes and she nodded slowly.

"Sing to him, ionneg" she murmured. "Like I taught you. He will hear it."

Reaching out, she settled him on the bed beside his brother and stroked his hair. Her smile softened when his angelic voice filled the darkened room and seemed to cast the shadows aside. 

The smile turned to wonder when, as the song continued, the paleness in Elros' young face fled, and his color returned to its natural state. Breath quickened even as the breathing of the ailing little one steadied in rhythm with Elrond's sweet song. 

When Elrond finally opened his eyes again after his music had faded, he saw awe in her face where there had once been comfort. He felt his little heart flutter as she reached out and took his tiny hands in hers. 

"Elerondo" she whispered quietly, tears he did not understand filling her eyes. "You have indeed helped him. And you will help many in the years to come... Do not let anyone steal your song, my starlight."

"Do not let anyone steal your song."

Even now the song returned to him, along with the feeling of helplessness as he stared down at the prone figure of Vorohil before him. "Vorohil" he called as the last traces of battle raged around him. "It is Elrond. Open your eyes. Please, open your eyes..."

The lieutenant did not respond, and the sight of blood streaming through his red hair caused Elrond's heart to sink. Again the song of his childhood rang through his head, and his mother's foresight touched upon his memory. Could he save Vorohil, even without the use of... the use of the rings?

Closing his eyes, he laid a hand over the wound and searched within himself for the strength and power he had easily harnessed when healing Galadriel. He feared that the rings alone would grant him such abilities. And yet, the same strength and power rose to meet his need. 

It was the song of his childhood, he realized... A hidden balm within himself that had long lay untouched, yet ever-present. It beckoned him, and he answered, willing the power to flow through him and reach the wounds that threatened Vorohil's life.

"Vorohil, return to the light. Be free of this darkness."

Recalling the words, Elrond allowed them to fill his mind as the melody flowed from him like the sweet song of a nightingale. With each note, he felt his helplessness and doubt lessen, replaced by glowing warmth like a salve to his spirit.

His breathing steadied. His heart slowed, choosing instead to beat to the song that filled his ears. With closed eyes, his mind wandered through the furthest and most beautiful memories, as if the power within him drew upon the beauty that resided in his soul.

When the song ceased, and his eyes once again opened, he found himself staring into the awed face of Vorohil, whose expression mirrored that of his mother's so many years ago. 

"Commander..." his lieutenant mumbled faintly as he sat upright, with no trace of pain. "Your eyes... They shine with silver starlight... Amazing!"

Elrond frowned momentarily, confused by his lieutenant's words. Reaching out his hand, he helped the fiery-haired elf to stand. "Are you well, Vorohil?" he asked tentatively. "The Uruk dealt you a harsh blow..."

Vorohil's gaze was still transfixed in awe upon Elrond's face, though the memory of the attack seemed to return. "I felt it..." he recalled vaguely. "The darkness clouded my sight. Then the pain was replaced by something far brighter. I saw the beauty of Lindon again... And you... You pulled me back to the light." He paused for a moment, his eyes full of regret. "Elrond, I must beg forgiveness..."

Elrond shook his head quickly. "Peace, Lieutenant" he assured him seriously. "Let us not revisit what has already passed."

Arondir wasted no time in preparing a place for those wounded in battle. Around him, pyres of dead orcs were consumed by flames while able-bodied elves hurried to restore the wreckage that remained of their encampment. 

He watched with a smile as the Commander made his way to each of the pallets that bore the wounded. The soothing melody filled the air and seemed to call peace upon all who listened, despite the war-wrought circumstances. 

The starlit serenity of the youthful face carried the same determined expression of another healer Arondir had once loved. His beloved, Bronwyn, who had passed from this world. 

With bittersweet reflections, he came to Elrond's side, handing him bandages for the wounded elf in his care. "None of our enemies escaped" he informed the Peredhel. "Our sanctuary will survive for a while longer..." 

Elrond simply nodded in response as he carefully wrapped the angry wound beneath his fingertips with the strips of cloth that Arondir offered. The healing power that flowed through him brought tremendous peace to his soul; a peace he had not felt since the days before the forging of the rings. 

And yet, the strength required to wield such power took its toll on him with every new melody that his heart sang, every wounded elf that he pulled from the darkness. With each journey to the next bedside, he felt weaker, as he gave his strength to those who had none.

"Just one more" he whispered each time, like a mantra guiding his steps. "Just one more..."

As he rose to stand beside Arondir however, he immediately realized that his limits had been reached. What strength he had mustered to heal had been utterly spent. Feeling the color drain from his face, he stumbled and would have fallen had Arondir's strong arms not rushed to catch him.

"Commander Elrond!" he heard the urgency in the elf's voice, but could not respond. He had no strength left, not even to open his eyes. Gentle hands cradled his throbbing head as the sound of distressed voices rang in his ears. 

"He is spent, my liege."

"Give him space to breathe..."

"If not for him, the sanctuary would have fallen..."

It had not fallen. He had promised his king that the sanctuary would not be taken. Soon, Gil Galad would know that the promise had been kept. Soon... Clinging to this consolation, his mind drifted with the last remnants of the nightingale's melody, and he was lost to the world. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Five: Heart of the Mountain

“Still no change?”

The voice of Vorohil at his side roused Arondir from the haunting thoughts that clouded his wandering mind. “He has not stirred, except in dreams” he answered sorrowfully. “Those with any knowledge of healing know not how to awaken him…”

Vorohil nodded solemnly, looking down at Elrond’s still form, a sharp stab of guilt pricking at his heart. “I should have shown trust in him” he muttered in bitter self-deprecation. “He saved my life that night…”

Arondir did not lift his eyes from the prone figure. “He saved many lives” he mused. “And, should he return to us, I foresee he will save many more.”

Saying this, he finally lifted his eyes to the distressed Lieutenant, and extending his hand, clasped his forearm.

“In such trying times as these, Middle Earth needs healers as keenly as it needs warriors” he murmured, his blue eyes solemn. “We fight a war with darkness itself, mellon-nin. We must protect that which is sacred.”

Vorohil nodded, his face panged with shame. “If, by the Valar, I am given the chance” he vowed. “I swear, I shall never forsake him again.”

When he was alone again, Arondir looked once more into the still face before him. There was no crease in his brow; no trashing in his movements. In the short time of their acquaintance, he had witnessed that Elrond’s sleep was rarely restful, for it remained haunted by nightmares.

And now… He was so still, so peaceful. Arondir had been given accounts of those whom the peredhel had healed. The nightingale’s song and the starlit eyes were not to be forgotten. Perhaps, more power lay hidden in the young elf than he had originally suspected.

“Come back to us, Commander” he whispered, letting his hand rest upon the thin shoulder. “The people of the sanctuary look to you, as do I. We have already lost too many healers, my friend… You must return.”

There was no answer to his plea, except the faint whisper of one wandering in a world unseen by Arondir. Elrond’s hand twitched feebly, though he otherwise did not stir. It was as if he were reaching for something. Someone.

“Durin...?”

It was with no small amount of satisfaction that Elrond sheathed his sword once again, watching as the lumbering trolls fled into the forest. It was not often that his swordsmanship was called upon in such dire need.

And yet, with the help of the fiery-haired dwarf beside him, the feat of defeating the large beasts had proven to be quite effortless. A scoff from the dwarf seemed to signal that his face betrayed his thoughts.

“Well, it seems we have won a great victory, Master Elf” the Dwarf observed, crossing his arms. “Perhaps a pint of Dwarven ale could serve as reward?”

Humor had little place among the elves of Lindon, and yet this dwarf’s expressive wit had stirred the laughter and joy in Elrond’s fëa. Both had been absent since Elros had passed… Now, he could not help smiling.

“First” he quipped, “I should like to know the name of the one I drink with…”

The dwarf gave a short, amused laugh, his arms still crossed. “Of course, ya would” he huffed, shaking his head. “Durin is the name.”

“Surely, you cannot be Durin, crowned Prince of Khazah Dum?” Elrond guessed, with a brief, respectful bow. His show of reverence however was met with nothing but a scoff.

“Don’t be daft” Durin muttered with a careless wave of his hand. “I am Durin to friends. None of this ‘prince’ business now… What are you called, laddie?”

Elrond’s face was alight with amusement now as he too crossed his arms. “I am Elrond of Lindon” he introduced himself with the greatest politeness, though a mischievous twinkle brightened the grey eyes.

“A pint of famous Dwarven ale would be most welcome. I fear my deeds in battle have left me quite parched…”

Durin snorted sarcastically. “Ya don’t strike me as the battle-ready type” he mused. “Ya’re far too feathery for that…”

Elrond shrugged, unoffended by the remark. “Words and knowledge are my preferred weapons” he admitted. “I would rather barter with an Elven lord than cross blades with a troll.”

Durin shook his. “Shocking” he deadpanned. “Ya truly are the strangest Elf I’ve ever crossed trails with.”

Elrond smiled again. “And I cannot say I have ever met a dwarf quite like you, Durin…” he jested.

His jest brought a chuckle to the Dwarf who then started to move back towards the path. When he realized that Elrond did not yet follow, he turned again. “Well, are you going to accept ale or not Elf?” he asked.

Elrond smiled and fell gracefully into step behind him. Long had it been since his spirit had felt so lifted. “I accept” he assured Durin. “With much gratitude to my host.”

“Durin..?”

It had been no small effort for Elrond to bury his thoughts of his dear friend. Ever since Eregion had fallen, he had received no news from Durin. Narvi and his forces had returned to Khazah Dum, and the great Dwarven city had remained silent.

Since that fateful day, Elrond had not allowed himself to long for Durin’s company, even though his dreams and nightmares alike never ceased to remind him.

The memory of their first meeting sharpened the loneliness that he already so keenly felt. How he wished he could see Durin again, for no reason other than the brotherly bond that had formed between them.

And yet, it could not be… “I asked too much of him” he reminded himself cruelly. “That bond is broken, and I, alone am to blame.”

“Commander!”

He glanced up at the sound and observed Arondir seated beside him. A smile graced his face as the Silvan elf reached out and clasped his hand. With his help, Elrond sat upright, the weakness still lingering in his shaking limbs.

“Na vedui!” Arondir breathed, with so much relief that Elrond felt his heart clench. “We feared for your life, Master Elrond. Thank Eru Ilúvatar, you have returned to us.”

Elrond smiled ruefully. “Forgive me for causing such concern” he lamented. “I am well, truly.” He started to stand before the elf’s hand on his shoulder prevented the motion.

“Rest, my Lord” he encouraged, in a tone that softened the Commander’s inclination to resist. “The sanctuary and its people are in good hands until you are strong again.”

His words were enforced by the ascension of Vorohil, who appeared in the doorway of the healer’s tent. “The people eagerly await your return, my Lord” he affirmed with a bow of reverence that Elrond did not feel he deserved.

“Many have kept watch through the nights, begging the Valar to spare you” the lieutenant explained. “They will be overjoyed to hear that their Lord has returned to the realm of the living.”

The Peredhel could not lift his eyes to meet Vorohil’s, for his own pooled with emotion, and he could not bear to show such weakness when his people sought such strength. Arondir must have observed his reaction, for a silent gesture between him and Vorohil sent the Lieutenant away.

“What troubles you, Commander?” Arondir asked quietly, laying a hand on the burdened shoulder.

Elrond suppressed the swelling emotion within him and shook his head. “They think too much of me” he managed to say. “For I am no Elven Lord.”

Arondir’s concern softened. “You are in their eyes” he countered. “Though it is not the title, but rather their trust that they wish to bestow upon you. They look to you for guidance.”

“Perhaps I am not worthy of such devotion” Elrond pondered, hardly daring to consider that he deserved it.

“There is none more worthy, Commander” Arondir assured him. Sensing that Elrond would disagree, he straightened.

“A letter from Lady Galadriel arrived in the sanctuary, two days after you collapsed. Her words may bring you comfort as your strength returns.”

Elrond accepted the small scroll that Arondir held out to him, though a question haunted his gaze. “How long has it been?” he asked. “Since the Uruks were defeated?”

Arondir looked towards the sunlight in deep thought. “Nearly three days, Commander” he murmured. “No Elven lives were lost and many of the wounded have already recovered thanks to your skill.”

He paused, and Elrond could see that his thoughts had strayed beyond the number of casualties. “The song of your fëa,” he said in wonder, his gaze fixed on Elrond’s face. “It settled the hearts of all who heard it. You seem to have inherited the gift of Lúthien…”

Elrond frowned faintly. “A gift I have not yet learned to master” he mourned. “Perhaps, with more knowledge, I will make better use of it. But I am no Lúthien…”

“You are her grandson” Arondir reminded him, for he had become familiar with Elrond’s impressive heritage. “I sense the same greatness lies within you.”

“Lord Sauron…” How tiresome the wailing drone of his name upon unworthy Uruk tongues was becoming to the Dark Lord’s ears. Such fowl creatures, with no mind for anything beyond the bloodlust that defined them.

How could their Adar ever have come to love such simple, mulling beasts? Suppressed by his current position, however, Annatar would endure their singular ways until power restored him to his proper place in the world.

Feigning interest, he turned to face the driveling creature before him with the iciest of stares. “What of our reinforcements from Mordor, Uruk?” he asked. “My gaze has turned to Lindon. I will not suffer such a delay!”

There was fear in the miscreant’s eye. Good. They should fear him.

“There’s no sign of ‘em” the Uruk faltered, wary of the fiery gaze that was upon him. “They vanished, Master! There’s talk of Elves in them woods… Survivors from the city…”

A cruel, mirthless smile graced Annatar’s lips. “The survivors are too weak and too few to wipe out an army” he hissed, raising the dark blade that shook with fury in his pale hand. “Do not speak to me of whispers, Uruk! My eye is on Lindon, and there it shall stay!”

The sword sliced flesh and black blood gushed as the Dark Lord unleashed his momentary rage upon the messenger. He had no time for such fables from this insufferable species. Not when conquest lay within his grasp.

The sight of the sanctuary was a welcome one indeed as Elrond gazed upon its humble glory from his rocky perch near the stream. After the attack, the tents had been torn down and were being replaced by structures of stone and wood.

The small victory had given the Elves confidence in their position, leading them to begin the enhancement of their fortifications. Perhaps one day, a fortress, or even an Elven city might stand upon this very spot.

The thought gave Elrond peace as he unraveled the scroll that held words from his dear friend, Galadriel. Despite his longing for the beauty and familiarity of Lindon, he was growing accustomed to the encampment.

The sunrises and sunsets were beautiful here. He sat before one now as his eyes fixed upon the letters on the page. Once again, the pang of loneliness for his home struck him, though not so keenly this time.

Perhaps it was because he was still too weakened and exhausted from the exertion of healing to feel such sharp feelings. Perhaps it was because he was slowly growing to love his dwelling place, for it had been hard won.

In any case, he gave it little thought, for his mind reflected on the words that Galadriel had been so kind as to share with him. So starved had he become for any contact with those closest to him that he relished each word like a rare delicacy.

Dearest Elrond,

Lindon is so strange in your absence, for it lacks the light of its brightest star. Círdan and Gil Galad offer me their company but fail to give me the same comfort that your smiles and words always do.

I hope this letter finds you in merry spirits, though I do not pretend to know what challenges you surely face at the sanctuary.

Sauron’s position is yet uncertain, though the High King suspects he will strike our finest city next, for he knows that our forces are weakened, even as his numbers grow.

The King himself is perplexed and weary with the troubles of war. I fear he has endangered his alliance with the Dwarves of Khazah Dum. It seems as though he and your dear friend, Durin exchanged unsavory tidings. Gil Galad refuses to elaborate on the specifics of their conversation.

In his zeal to suppress the evil at hand, I fear he has forgone the use of diplomacy and shaken the bond between our people and theirs.

I know your feelings on this development must be delicate. I know that the very existence of this letter, should it even reach you, is a danger to your safety and concealment.

But I must implore you to do what you can to mend the breach between Elves and Dwarves. As darkness falls upon Middle Earth, those of us who resist Sauron must band together if we are to defeat him.

Write to Durin if you can. Help him to see that the alliance remains strong. You alone enjoy a friendship with him that yet may mend what has been broken.

I hope that our paths will cross again, dearest friend. If safety permits, I will write again soon. Look to the light as we pass through the darkest of times.

Namárië, Galadriel

Elrond let his aching head rest against the stone and breathed a weary sigh.

Durin.

The friendship that Galadriel had eluded to in her letter had grown silent and cold since the fall of Eregion. And if Durin had been so resistant to Gil Galad’s attempt to establish the alliance, surely he would not wish to see Elrond.

And yet, in his heart, the Peredhel longed for his brotherly bond with the Dwarf, despite the distance between them. Loneliness and grief had worn away at the stubbornness of past hurts. For he missed Durin. Very much, he missed him.

No, a letter to his friend would not do. Already, the cold silence between them had lingered for far too long. Only a reunion between them could dispel such coldness without the shadow of a doubt.

“I must go to Khazah Dum” Elrond surmised, looking into the worried faces of Arondir and Vorohil. “And I shall do so alone…”

“No, my Lord!” Vorohil balked at the idea. “There is danger along the banks of the Bruinen. It has long been occupied by the enemy.”

Elrond remained unmoved in his resolve. “Then I shall travel by way of the Misty Mountains” he decided. “An elf may pass unseen in such uneven terrain.”

“But alone…” Vorohil protested. “Reconsider Commander, I beg you!”

He looked to Arondir for support and was disappointed to find that Arondir’s face showed favor in Elrond’s apparent recklessness. For unbeknownst to the Lieutenant, the Silvan elf had been privy to countless nights of the peredhel’s anguish as his dreams were haunted by the dwarf in question.

“Master Elrond is right” he murmured quietly. “This meeting must be between him and King Durin alone…”

Elrond was relieved to have Arondir’s support and allowed the small gesture to kindle his confidence as he trekked alone through the rocky slopes of the Mountain path. It was a dark, lonely road, and the whipping wind of oncoming winter tore at his cloak as he fought to retain warmth.

The bitter cold did not only linger upon the surface of his flesh. It gripped and clawed at his very soul. Would Durin welcome him with open arms? Or had the fall of Eregion been an indication that their friendship had become a mere afterthought to him?

Pulling the folds of the grey cloak against his aching chest, Elrond plodded onward, his head down. After feeling so much betrayal at the hands of those closest to him, it was the kinship he felt for Durin that had kept his hope alive.

How it had broken him when his dwarven brother had not come… Even now, the memory caused him to shudder, for he had locked it away in the deepest crevices of his soul. It had been too painful to examine then. Now, he must…

His distress caused him to pause for a moment when the great Dwarven kingdom was within sight. It had not been long since he had last entered the great doors. And yet, it felt as though centuries had passed…

Would Durin welcome him? Or had he asked too many favors of his dear friend? Had their bond been broken forever? Or could it yet be mended?

Swallowing his fears, he approached the entrance, and, lifting his chin resolutely to the light of the stars above, announced his arrival with a rap to the door.

When the tiny frame opened, Elrond straightened, drawing in a sharp breath. "Who goes there?" a dwarven guard shouted angrily, his face hidden beneath the metal of a helmet. “And at such a late hour?”

"It is Elrond of Lindon" Elrond answered, more cheerfully than he felt. "I come alone and in peace."

There was hesitancy from within, and for a moment, Elrond wondered again if he had been mistaken in returning to Khazah Dum. Just as he was beginning to entertain the idea of turning back towards the sanctuary, the doors finally drew back, and there stood Durin, in all his kingly glory.

For a moment, Elrond was at a loss for words; what should he say, could he say to his friend, now King Durin who, in the wake of his father’s death must have more important duties and priorities than to a single elf who had nothing to give but the hand of friendship?

Despite his towering stature compared to theirs, he suddenly felt small and insignificant, wondering once again if this journey had been a mistake...

"It's good to see you Durin" he managed to say with a cautious, hopeful smile.

His voice seemed to unlock Durin's silence. "What are ya doing here ya mad elf?" he cried incredulously. "Ye're supposed to be in hiding!"

Elrond took a step closer before dropping to one knee. "I had to see you Durin" he explained. "To offer my condolences. And to offer you comfort, if I can..."

"You came all this way just to say that?!" Durin asked with a raised voice. To Elrond's dismay, he genuinely seemed angry, though he could not make out why. Fearing the worst, he soldiered on.

"I suppose my reasons are not entirely unselfish" the elf admitted ruefully but sincerely. "I came here hoping that the ties of friendship between us have not been broken... If you feel that they have, I would like to do what I can to make amends."

"Amends?" Durin scoffed, but his eyes could not hide the tears that made them shine. The sight caused Elrond's heart to swell. "What would ya possibly need to make amends for?"

Saying this, the dwarf strode forward, his face fixed with resolve, and threw his burly arms around Elrond in a strong, breath-stealing embrace.

It was an uncommon gesture among the Elves, but Elrond understood its deeper meaning with overwhelming relief and gratitude. Closing his eyes, he returned it with equal force.

He had feared that the bond with his dear friend had been lost; that the seeming betrayal at the fields of the Glanduin had been a reflection of how little the friendship truly meant to Durin.

Even now as the dwarf's arms gripped him tightly, he felt those fears melt away, dispelled into oblivion. For Durin would have come if he could... He would have sent aid to the survivors if he had known where to go.

A lingering darkness that had haunted Elrond's mind lifted with the revelation, for the fears had quite often been the source of his sleepless nights or violent dreams. Even his weary body seemed to draw some strength from the comfort of Durin's gesture.

When they parted at last, the peredhel saw the tears streaming down the dwarf's face before his friend quickly wiped them away with a grunt. It seemed that his relief was mutually felt.

"It's good to see you too, Elrond" Durin murmured, his voice raspy with emotion. "Can ya ever forgive me...?"

"There is nothing to forgive" Elrond assured him, his gaze steady and firm. He laid a gentle hand on the Dwarf’s shoulder. "I understand, Durin. Truly, I do."

Durin nodded earnestly before breathing a quick sigh of what Elrond suspected was a relief. "Let's get ya inside, near a fire" he suggested, his characteristic humor creeping back into his tone. "Disa will have my head if she finds out I kept ya out in the cold for so long."

Chapter Text

Chapter Six: The Broken Wings

And yet, the peredhel's appearance did not please him. More pale and slim than he should be, Elrond was shrouded by an inexplicable shadow, his noticeably less-than-graceful movements betraying his weariness.

Despite his outer presentations of cheerfulness, the elf did not look well—At least, not under Durin's trained eye.

"His people have nothing left" Durin recalled with a sharp pang. Nothing but the ruins of a fallen Ost-in-Edhil... Glancing around, he silently examined his and Disa's situation, which remained luxurious enough despite the circumstances.

Too often, he had grumbled to his wife about the sacrifices that needed to be made in such hard times. Too frequently he had wallowed in the heavy grief he felt following his father's sudden passing.

How could he forget that Elrond had lost a father too? And a mother... Foster fathers... A twin brother... Who was Durin to complain when his wife and children were still by his side? When his dear friend had no kin left to call his own?

With no heed to the exchange that his wife and their guest were sharing, he reached out and laid a rough hand over Elrond's forearm. The gesture caught the Elf's attention, and his eyes rose inquisitively to meet Durin's gaze.

"I'm glad ya came, Laddie" he murmured, with a gravel of emotion in his voice that he had not intended. The question in Elrond's eyes softened into a warm smile that gently reminded him of better times.

"So am I, old friend" he answered quietly. "So am I." There was an inflection of longing in his voice that Durin did not fail to detect.

Something in the elf's tone and the hunger in his grey eyes told Durin that he had become desperate, willing to lay aside old grievances and broken promises if only to keep the bond between them alive.

He worried for his friend as they moved towards the blazing fire in search of warmth and respite. The feathery manner of dress that he had come to associate with the peredhel had been replaced by garments more suited for harsh conditions, as the carefree poet took up the mantle of a warrior.

Much had been lost at Eregion, Durin realized, as he watched the flames of the hearth dance across the pensive face. The sunny smile had faded like a wilting flower under the touch of frost. So brief had their time together been, and yet the Dwarf cherished those memories with incomparable fondness.

He missed the unbridled joy of the Elf, as one mourns for summer amid winter’s throes. Perhaps the sun would return someday when the trials of war could be laid aside…

And yet, that which had been lost had been replaced by a certain newness in Elrond’s air, one that filled Durin with wonder as he watched the peredhel gaze deeply into the leaping flames. There was confidence in his bearing, as if the elf was beginning to discover truths within himself that he had long searched for.

For the first time, Durin understood that his friend had become his own master, no longer a mere messenger of his king. And with a swell of satisfaction in his chest, the Dwarf realized that there were no barriers left to prevent their bond of brotherhood. They were free to extend the hand of friendship to one another.

Perhaps the transformation of all he held dear had not been completely void of improvement. Elrond was in their midst, alive, and willing to forgive the past. It was not lost upon Durin that he had been granted another chance to cherish the time he still had with his brother of another race.

He would not waste it… Not when the Elf had chosen to absolve him so freely.

Disa seemed to share the sentiments stirring within him, for she doted upon their beloved guest with all of the warmth and tenderness that his Dwarven heart loved her for. The words, the embrace, and the fussing all brought delight to the face that smiled too little now.

And for the first time in far too long, a gentle silence and glow settled over Khazah Dum, as if the very mountain itself rejoiced in the Elf’s return.

"Kemen!”

Theo’s low voice rang through the courtyard with a fury that matched his disgust. He watched as the Numenorean turned to face him, his face twisted with an angry sneer.

“You shall refer to me as you would an officer of the law, low man” he challenged, his deceitful eyes rising to meet Theo’s with a hint of satisfaction, for he knew there was no authority behind the boy’s words. “What is your grievance?”

“The workers refuse to cut down the trees” Theo explained, even as he hugged himself against the ever-growing cold. “The Ents protect these forests. I saw them with my own eyes… They will kill us if we disturb the growth there.”

Kemen stared searchingly at Theo for a long moment, as if debating whether or not he told the truth. The disbelief in his eyes was enough to make Theo’s blood boil. At last, he spoke.

“You can’t be serious?” he scoffed. “The tales of the Ents are fairy stories, invented for children… Surely, you know better than to believe them, eh Theo? Or did your mother forget to tell you they weren’t true?”

A hiss rose from the crowd of dirty faces surrounded them, even as Theo’s first clenched. “You don’t get to talk about my mother!” he growled, raising his hand to strike. His wrist, however, was caught by Kemen’s bodyguard, who brushed him aside, sending him sprawling into the cold mud.

Kemen smirked from where he stood, before dropping to one knee beside Theo and tilting his head to one side. “Bring me the lumber” he murmured savagely. “Or you will be banished from Pelargir, by order of King Pharazôn.”

Saying this, he snatched an axe from the hands of a poor worker who stood by and thrust it into Theo’s muddy hands. “I expect to see results by dawn” the Numenorean ordered, before adding with a scoff, “But if you do happen to see these… imaginary creatures, I should like to know about it.”

Theo gripped the axe tightly in his hands as he slunk through the forests, wishing darkly that he could drive the blade into Kemen’s skull as recompense.

Arondir had promised… He had promised… How could he go back on his word and risk death, for he knew the Ents would not be merciful this time?

Grimly, he tossed the tool aside, fists clenched as he sank to his knees and pounded the ground. He would not survive banishment, for Orcs and wild men did not welcome low men into their ranks.

The borders of Mordor had grown perilous and violent after Adar’s lordship had been taken away. Theo hated Adar and his children with a burning passion, for they had murdered his mother.

But without Adar’s temperance, if it could be called that, guiding their steps, the Orcs had become less like soldiers, and more akin to bloodthirsty monsters as they pillaged the surrounding lands. Nay, it would be unwise for him to lose his place in Pelargir, the only haven that remained available to him.

“What troubles you, young one?” A voice in the wind suddenly caught his attention. A soft voice, that would have soothed had it not been touched by a hint of iciness. “What brings you to the depths of the forest, Theo, son of Bronwyn?”

Theo quickly sprung to his feet, looking for the source of the sound, but finding none among the dark shadows. “Who’s there?” he hissed, reaching instinctively for the axe that he had tossed aside. “Come out of the shadows!”

“My aim is not to harm you, Theo” the voice assured him, the tone still soft, yet cold. “But perhaps, I could be of service. To you. To Pelargir.”

Theo stilled at the offer, unconsciously lowering his axe as he did. “To Pelargir?” he repeated doubtfully. “What do you mean? Who are you?”

“A friend” the voice answered vaguely. “I come in the hope of restoring peace to the world of men. Perhaps you can help me, Theo. Are you not the rightful lord of Pelargir? Now that your mother has passed from this world?”

Theo considered this and found no lie in it. His mother had been considered by all to be the leader of their company, before the king, Halbrand had retaken his throne. But Halbrand had disappeared, and Pelargir was slowly falling into Numenorean hands under an oppressive rule.

“I suppose…” he ventured, somewhat flattered by the recognition. “What do you have to offer me?”

Together, Durin and Disa ensured that Elrond was warm and comfortable, before providing him with more hot food and hearty ale than he could ever hope to consume in a single sitting. Durin felt his heart clench when he observed how hungrily the Elf ate, and raised a glance to Disa, only to find his worry reflected in her face.

The peredhel’s hands seemed to tremble with what Durin suspected with exhaustion. His clothes, once elegantly crafted for war, were faded and threadbare. Even the cloak across his shoulders appeared worn with usage, its hem frayed beyond recognition.

Such signs of weariness and neglect did not escape Disa’s notice either, for she reminded Elrond more than once to take his fill of the small feast before disappearing to fetch blankets and furs for his comfort.

Elrond seemed keenly aware of their fussing and tried to resist it, saying repeatedly that he did not wish to be a burden. And yet, his weariness made his attempts to sway them quite feeble, and the tremor in his slender hands did not disappear.

When they were left alone before the fire, Durin decided to inquire further into the matter, hoping to relieve his dear friend if he could.

“Are you alright, Elf” he ventured, attempting to disguise the worry in his tone with an ease he did not feel. Extending his hand, he grasped one of Elrond’s in an attempt to steady it.

Elrond feigned surprise at the question and attempted to straighten his posture. “Of course, Durin” he answered, so casually that the Dwarf knew it was a falsehood. Seeing this, he decided to pry further.

“Gil Galad told me ya were taking refuge in the mountains” he explained, eyeing the Elf in the hopes of gouging a reaction. “He didn’t say where… If I had known you were upon hard times, I would have tried to find you… I’m sorry, Elrond."

Elrond frowned ever so faintly and shook his head. “You need not apologize, my friend,” he reassured the dwarf quietly. “Your duty is to your own people… That is the way of things.”

For a moment, he brightened with a faint glow of mischief as he added, “I will admit, your title will forever be strange to my tongue… King Durin.” Their eyes met then, and their laughter filled the hall, though it did not alleviate the worry that Durin felt for the elf.

He saw the way Elrond tried to hide the trembling of his hands by flexing them in his lap. The way his head rested against the pillar of stone as if the support was necessary. The sight tore at Durin’s generous heart and he finally spoke. “Elrond..?”

“Hmm..?”

“Ya don't look well” the Dwarf admitted, though gently. “Not at all…”

He expected his friend to protest and was surprised and grieved when the elf merely breathed a sorrowful sigh as his smile dissolved, showing the true weariness that lay hidden beneath it.

"I am tired, Durin" he admitted at last, in a rare and precious moment of vulnerability. "Very tired..."

Tired was not the word Durin would have used to describe it. Stretched thin, perhaps? Lost. Alone, even... He felt an ache in his chest as Elrond's sad gaze wandered aimlessly into the flames, searching for a means of comfort that did not exist.

The dwarf nodded understandingly and laid a hand on the peredhel’s shoulder. "Rest then" he suggested gently. "While ya're still here with me and Disa. Take a moment to collect yarself."

Elrond smiled serenely at his friend's kindness and sighed. "I came here to ease your burden, Durin" he countered. "Not to trouble you with my own..."

Durin raised a mischievous eyebrow. "A wise elf once told me" he quipped. "That a burden shared can be halved or doubled, depending on the heart that receives it..."

The comment elicited a very un-ethereal smirk from his friend’s face as he crossed his arms. “And this, coming from the Dwarf who dismissed my words as… What was it? Quail sauce?” he laughed, this time with genuine amusement.

“Aye,” Durin admitted with a sheepish grin. “For all yar feathery shards, ya do have yar moments, Master Elf.”

Vorohil could not keep his eyes from Arondir, who paced along the fortifications with an uneasiness that was so unlike the gentle elf he had come to know.

Perhaps Elrond’s absence had left him fraught with worry. Or could it be that the archer sensed danger at their borders? Whatever disturbed Arondir’s mind surely should not be lightly dismissed.

Bracing himself, the fiery-haired lieutenant approached his restless companion and halted his steps with a light touch of the shoulder. “What ails you, Arondir?” he whispered seriously. “Your spirit is as troubled as a stormy sea…”

Arondir eyed Vorohil sadly, before shaking his head in dismay. “There is a bond I share with a mortal boy…” he explained brokenly. “A bond I also shared with his mother, before she…”

He paused in a need to collect himself before continuing. “He is in Pelargir, yet even now, I sense his distress. A darkness surrounds him that I cannot dispel. I fear for his safety…”

Vorohil drew in a breath of surprise and nodded in understanding. “What is to be done?” he asked, failing to comprehend a viable solution. “Are you certain, my liege?”

Arondir nodded gravely. “Nothing can be done as it stands” he admitted. “I shall await Commander Elrond’s return, and seek his council… Perhaps he will permit me to make the journey.”

“Galadriel…” The words were icy and void as they brushed against her consciousness, causing her to halt in her steps. The voice was familiar to her; painfully so. A chill erupted in her body, starting at the place of the old wound and causing her to cry out when it crept further.

“Why would you discard such greatness and power for such a broken cause?” The deceiver’s words haunted her, threatening to blot out the newfound hope that stirred within her soul.

Even as he spoke, the wound in her shoulder twinged, then flared with angry pain as she fought to close her thoughts from his whispers.

“It is fruitless” he beckoned tantalizingly. “Why fight it when you could join me, and take your rightful place in Middle Earth? They fail to see your worth… Your abilities. You are powerful beyond their petty limitations.”

Galadriel shuddered herself away from his fiery gaze. “Your power is fleeting!” she hissed.

“It could be eternal” he calmly answered. “With you by my side…”

“Never!” she cried angrily. “You think you are above the creatures of this world! And yet, you will never be welcome here or anywhere in Middle Earth!”

“We are both greater than all of them, Galadriel” he soothed coaxingly. “We shall be loved by all…”

“You are incapable of love!” she retorted. “Return to the shadowlands where you belong! Your lies have no place here!”

“Should you refuse” he threatened quietly. “There will be grave consequences… Do you really wish to see your power stripped away? For those you love to live and die in torment? I have no care for them as you have. They are powerless against me…”

“You are powerless against the light” she answered. “For you are blinded by the darkness.”

As abruptly as it had interrupted her senses, the voice of Sauron went silent, and spoke no more, though the pain of the wound continued to ache as she regained her bearings.

Iciness lingered as the chill of realization washed over her when the voice no longer sounded. This was no vision. It was a threat from the enemy himself.

The High King must be informed that the Dark Lord’s eye was fixed upon Lindon. They were running out of time.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Darkness Rising

He cupped the young head in his hands and closing his eyes, glimpsed into the brave child's fëa. Much had he suffered, Círdan could see. But with suffering had come resilience and a mighty spirit, despite his young age. A sweet melody sang in the boy's heart, though it did not carry as much strength as Elwing's had, for Elros seemed to share many more of Eärendil's qualities.

A flicker of the elfling's future flittered before his eyes, causing him to smile. Círdan was pleased to see much beauty and prosperity there. The light that enveloped the child's future bathed the world with a golden glow, causing the shipwright to sigh with satisfaction. After suffering so greatly, it was reassuring to know that such a young soul would be granted such a peaceful and beautiful life in recompense.

Opening his eyes, Círdan released Elros from his gentle grasp and eyed the spirited elfling with a warm smile. "There is much strength in you, Elros" he murmured, patting the child's shoulder in reassurance. "When you come of age, Middle Earth will greatly need your many gifts."

The boy smiled proudly and there was a lightness in his step as he skipped behind the attendants towards the hall. Círdan chuckled lightly at the sight before turning his attention to the other child.

The starlit, pensive eyes carefully observed his movements, as if every detail must be studied and memorized with quiet precision. Elrond had always been more gentle and reserved than his twin brother.

Unlike Elros and his somewhat mannish appearance and tendencies, the child seemed to have inherited the features and temperament of his foremothers, Melian and Lúthien. Wise and introspective, with a strong connection to the movements of the unseen world.

"Do not be afraid, Elrond" Círdan reassured the skeptical eyes before him. Like before, he cradled the little face in his gentle hands and closed his eyes. Almost immediately, the child's fëa greeted him with the brightest beauty and a melody so strong that it stirred his own soul.

It seemed that appearance and temperament were not the only gifts the child had inherited from his revered foremothers. Smiling to himself, Círdan moved his eyes toward Elrond's future.

It did not come as readily as Elros' had; not at first. A few faint traces of it reached Círdan, but they seemed to clash with the light that currently surrounded him. Venturing forward, Círdan's curiosity turned to fear, and then dread as a familiar sensation assaulted him with sudden, sounding fury.

It was not the darkness that he had feared he would find there. It was pain. So much pain, both in body and spirit. It came in waves, each one greater than the last until tears welled in Círdan's eyes. Tears for this wise, gentle child, whose future offered so much loss, betrayal, and despair.

And yet, the brightness of the fëa did not dim. It held against the waves that threatened to crush it and grew stronger, even as the sweetness and volume of the melody grew with it. Amid the despair, hope yet lingered.

The tears were still in Círdan's eyes when he opened them once more and looked upon the solemn little elfling before him. The gentle soul had already suffered. How could the Valar allow such cruelty to continue to one who did not deserve it?

"Master Círdan?" the little voice interrupted his thoughts.

Círdan felt his heart bleed for the child and by instinct, bent and kissed the little head. "Ai Elrond" he breathed, his voice unsteady. "Nothing darkens your starlight, little one." Saying this, he patted the little shoulder. "Join your brother then, hm?"

Elrond nodded and hurried off to join his twin, whom he never strayed far from. When he was safely out of earshot, Círdan stood, wiping the moisture from his eyes.

"What have you seen Nōwē?" the High King asked anxiously, seeing the tears and the distress. "What has left you is such anguish? Have the Fëanorians darkened their hearts against us?"

Círdan sighed and shook his head. "On the contrary..." he murmured, looking towards the West. "There is much beauty in their souls. We need not worry about that."

Gil Galad was not convinced. "What then troubles you so?" he asked, rather indignantly. He was not a patient man, even if he tried to be. "What have you seen that could summon such grief?"

Círdan turned to face him and the High King saw the sorrow in his face. "Elros has a bright path ahead of him" he admitted. "The boy will do well. I fear for little Elrond... The future I saw was not kind to him. There is much pain in store for him, and naught we can do to prevent it..."

Gil Galad nodded gravely, his eyes focused on the shoreline in the distance. "Then we shall ensure he is not alone when he faces such trials" he decided. "Perhaps the pain can be lessened if it is indeed inevitable."

Círdan’s gaze was doubtful as his eyes traveled to the steadily crashing waves of the tide. “Perhaps…” he pondered. “And yet, perhaps not.”

Gil Galad’s thoughts were astray when Galadriel stormed into his office, looking rather pale. “High King” she announced herself breathlessly, but with no ceremony. “I fear Sauron has fixed his gaze upon the city. You must gather what forces we have left and prepare the face him.”

He set down the quill in his hand and sighed, folding his fingers in anticipation. “We have suspected as much since the fall of Eregion, Commander” he chided listlessly. “Our forces have done what they can to prepare.”

“This time, I am certain…” she insisted, her face set in icy stone. The thought seemed to perturb her as she lifted a hand to her shoulder, her eyes drifting toward the doorway. “I have heard his voice clearly in the corners of my mind.”

Knowing that the rings had often granted both of them whisperings and glimpses of the unseen world, the golden king stood up from his desk slowly.

“Perhaps it will give you peace to know that I have begun correspondence with the leaders of Númenor” he explained, moving gracefully to her side. “Even our finest troops are no match for the support that Sauron has amassed. It would be wiser to avoid the field of battle until an alliance has been firmly reforged with the Island City.”

“Our time runs short, my king” she countered, her fists clenched, her knuckles white. “It is wisest for us to act swiftly."

Gil Galad nodded, glancing down at the unfinished letter before him. Words had never come easily to him; he had always been a man of action, a king of deeds rather than speeches.

In Elrond’s absence, he began to realize just how much he had come to rely upon his herald… And yet, he did not have the heart to replace him. Not for the first time since the sunrise did he wonder how the Peredhel faired in the sanctuary, despite having received many faithful reports.

Functions, meetings, and especially dinners carried a distinct emptiness with them, for the unpredictable, vibrant soul no longer occupied his favorite seat.

But these thoughts did not achieve his purpose. Reaching towards his desk once more, Gil Galad retrieved a scroll and handed it to Galadriel. “A message arrived from the sanctuary yestereve” he explained, folding his hands behind his back. “It is addressed to you. I suggest you read it before making a decision that could prove to be rash…”

Galadriel’s face brightened at the king’s statement and hurried to open the letter. Her eyes danced eagerly across the page. “It is from Elrond” she confirmed.

“Is he… well?” Gil Galad asked despite wishing to keep his concern hidden. “Has he given us any insight into Sauron’s position?” he amended quickly.

Galadriel did not answer immediately as she read, her brow furrowed by the words before her. “The sanctuary remains strong” she murmured. “A battalion of Orcs was defeated not a week ago. None were left alive.”

She glanced up from the page and detected the unspoken concern and the raised eyebrow of the king before she continued. “He says he is weary, but otherwise well” she confirmed, not failing to detect the faint sigh of relief that the high king breathed.

“And he requests any texts we can provide on the subject of healing…” she added. “It seems he has taken a keen interest in it. We always suspected that he might inherit the gift of Lúthien…”

Gil Galad nodded slowly. “Círdan could sense the power within him when he was but an elfling” he agreed. “He has the heart of a healer. The role would suit him well.” He let his hands rest on the workmanship of his desk and breathed a deep sigh, one Galadriel recognized as one of longing and regret.

“He longs for home, High King” Galadriel murmured, with a hint of sorrow. “He has been apart from us for far too long… Surely, we may require his council when Sauron’s forces choose to strike…”

“Elrond will remain exactly where he is, Commander” Gil Galad interrupted her, with a sharpness that he had not intended. “He has proven himself useful in his new role… Besides, you, yourself have stated that time slips away from us. I cannot afford to waste it arguing with him about the nature and use of… the rings.”

“I fear I am a rather poor guest, Disa” Elrond confessed.

The great halls of Khazah Dum were still and peaceful in the late hours of the night. And yet, a shift in one of the many mineshafts proved to be one of the kingly duties that took Durin away, leaving Elrond in Disa’s company, the two little ones having drifted off to sleep long ago.

Even now, the peredhel tread the stone path of the great bridge with the Dwarven princess, following her lead as he spoke.

“I am not at my full strength, and it seems Durin has taken to worrying…” he admitted. “Please know, that was never my intention. I hope you can forgive me for causing him unnecessary concern.”

“Durin worries because he cares” Disa assured him stoutly. “As do I, Dearie… When Eregion fell, we had no way of knowing what became of ya. It was hard… Watching him fret so.”

Elrond felt the urge to apologize once more but thought the better of it and chose instead to refrain. “I worried for him too” he murmured. “I was told he was in mourning… I cannot pretend to imagine the suffering he has endured.”

“My husband is at a crossroads, even now” Disa admitted with a heavy sigh. “There are threats to his inheritance. He did not part with his father on the best of terms…”

“What sort of threats?” Elrond asked warily, his grey eyes narrowing. Who would dare to question Durin’s legitimacy?

Disa slowed in her steps, her eyes on the river below. “His brother” she explained with some annoyance in her voice. “Durin’s father was not in sound mind when he was killed… He has brought much debt and danger upon this kingdom. Even from the grave, his choices threaten to sunder it by pitting his sons against each other.”

She paused, eyeing him thoughtfully before stopping in her tracks and turning to face him. “Durin would not ask it of ya, but I will” she ventured with shrewd politeness. “I had hoped that perhaps… Ya’d act as a diplomat between the two of them? Their bad blood may yet be resolved if they have someone to keep them from tearing each other apart.”

Elrond considered her request quietly before smiling in agreement. “I would be happy to help Durin in any way that I can” he assured her. “In exchange, I would ask for your aid, Disa…”

Disa was pleased with his answer but perplexed by his request. “What could ya possibly need my aid for?” she asked with an incredulous smile. “Whatever it is, I’m eager to help…”

Elrond’s gaze turned pensive as he deliberated about how best to explain his need. “A short while ago…” he began, with some uncertainty, “I discovered a power within myself… The power to heal through song. It seems that, in some small degree, I have been granted this gift from the blood of my foremothers.”

Disa’s face was alight with wonder at his admission. “The gift of healing” she breathed with awe. “I had heard of such things among the Elves. Through song, you say? Perhaps, ya could even resonate if ya put yar mind to it…”

Elrond smiled. “Hardly” he laughed softly. “I had hoped that your knowledge of the power you wield might assist me as I learn to harness my own.”

He paused with a rueful smile, lacing his fingers in front of him before adding, “I confess my first attempt was more taxing than I anticipated. Even now, my strength has not fully returned.”

Disa tilted her head to one side, her hands on her hips. “Ya keeled over, didn’t ya?” she guessed with a hint of exasperation. “Elrond, ya really have a talent for causing concern…”

Elrond reddened and tried to stifle a smile. “So it would seem” he agreed, his eyes falling to his feet with slight embarrassment.

Disa must have sensed his discomfort, for she took two steps closer to where he stood, folding her hands neatly. “Wielding the power of song can be like weighing gold upon a scale” she explained.

“You must draw from the forces around you and unite them with your own power. Fail to balance the two, and you’ll find yerself with nothing left to give… You cannot rely upon your own strength.”

Elrond nodded knowingly. “Of that, I am keenly aware…” he admitted, glancing down to observe the remaining tremor in his hands. He felt Disa’s eyes upon him, observing his actions, and quickly looked up to face her thoughtful gaze.

“Well now” she murmured. “Since ya have had yar first lesson, ya really should get some rest, Dearie” she coaxed. “Durin has a fine room set aside for just such an occasion. I’ll get ya settled so ya can sleep properly.”

Despite his eagerness to learn, his weariness had also grown and was, he sensed, becoming visible to his hosts. Realizing this, Elrond submitted without protest. “Sleep would be most welcome, Disa” he assured her gratefully. “Thank you.”

“The hour is quite late, my king” Círdan chided as he entered Gil Galad’s study unannounced. “Allow yourself a moment of rest, hm?”

“You know as well as I that there is no time for respite” the golden king mourned, standing slowly in his weariness. “The letters will not write themselves, I am afraid…”

Círdan nodded, his arms crossed in front of him. “You are unnerved” he observed. “I can see it in your eyes… In your resistance to rest… What troubles you?”

Unconsciously, Gil Galad cast a wayward glance at the ring upon his finger, which hummed and glittered with a beckoning power. “I had not anticipated the burden it would be to bear such power…” he pondered wearily. “I am sure you understand, Nōwē.”

Círdan frowned faintly. “What foresight of yours has proven to be so burdensome?” he asked, with perplexed worry. “What have you seen?”

Gil Galad did not immediately answer, though the images that had previously plagued him rose once again before his eyes. Hands wreathed in flames seeking to strangle him… The foul stench of burning flesh and blood… Searing pain gripping his body in unrelenting torment…

Even without the clarity of the scene, he knew in his soul that he beheld visions of his death, its timing still unknown. The horror of it frightened him, but he refused to let it be shown.

“I know only this” he answered the shipwright, though vaguely. “That I should like to face the approaching darkness with due diligence and preparation.”

Círdan stepped closer, allowing his hand to rest upon the burdened shoulder. “Do not shield yourself from those who would seek to ease your burden” he urged him. “The weight of the world need not rest on your shoulders alone. Your commander and your herald both stand ready to assist you.”

Gil Galad stared into the dying fire and sighed. “Galadriel means well” he agreed. “But she is as reckless and unfettered as the wind. I foresee greatness in her, but much has yet to be learned…”

“And Elrond?”

Gil Galad’s eyes shifted uneasily. “You and I have both glimpsed the suffering that awaits him” he murmured, lifting his face to the shipwright’s. “In what time remains of my life, I had hoped to prevent his pain. Selfishly, I have no wish to see him face such cruelty while I yet walk this Middle Earth.”

“The choice may not be yours to make” Círdan reprimanded calmly. “Take care, Ereinion… In your attempts to undo the inevitable, you may become the very root of the suffering you seek to prevent…”

Elrond was grateful for the love and warmth he had been given so generously by his Dwarven friends. He had always valued the bond he shared with Durin, but now, amid such dark and perilous times, he clung to it like a candle in the darkness of night.

True to her word, Disa had ladened him with whatever archives concerning the arts of healing they had to spare. Before laying his head to rest, he had examined them, finding the remedies to assist mainly Dwarven ailments. Not Elvish in nature perhaps, but it was a start…

His parting with Durin had been hopeful, full of the promise that he would soon return. “Don’t stay away for too long, Laddie” Durin had chided, his voice shaky with emotion. “And promise me, ya will get some rest…”

Elrond had smiled then. “Thanks to your hospitality, I have taken all the rest I could ever need” he assured the Dwarf. It was not a lie; for the first time since Eregion’s fall, his sleep had been dreamless and restful, and the tremor in his slender hands had finally ceased altogether.

He felt his strength renewed as he passed through the Misty Mountains, and returned to the hidden sanctuary. The sight of the place was more welcome than he had ever dared to think possible.

New structures had arisen, replacing old tents and makeshift shelters. At the crest of the hill, a sturdy hall of wood and stone stood proudly, like a fine jewel upon a studded crown. He marveled at how the little place had transformed so quickly in so short a time.

The air and expressions of the Elves seemed to have changed as well, for the distrust he had become so accustomed to seeing in their eyes had been replaced by fervent admiration. They stood back reverently as he passed through their midst, nodding and smiling in greeting.

“Welcome back, Lord Elrond.”

“I trust you faired well upon your journey?”

“We rejoice in your return, my Lord.”

“The sanctuary is blessed by your presence.”

All looked to him with the uttermost respect, a respect he did not feel he was worthy of. Their tender greetings touched his heart nonetheless, and he returned their fervor with an equal spirit.

“I am honored to receive such a welcoming return” he breathed, his face brightening. “King Durin sends his love and loyalty, as do I. Thank you.”

The warm sentiments and praise did not cease until he was led to his new quarters in the newly constructed hall and left to settle himself. Only a small palette took up space and the four walls were still bare and rudimentary.

But to Elrond’s grateful eyes, it might have been cast in gold and silver, so glad was he to once again know the protection of a solid structure. With a contented sigh, he sank to sit on the makeshift bed and unburdened himself with the scrolls Disa had gifted him. It was only a small collection, but a collection nevertheless.

It was not until the sun sank from above the sanctuary that Elrond’s peaceful return was suddenly interrupted. A walk around the now largely unrecognizable fortification flooded his senses with the comforting smells of fire and warm food, and the welcome sounds of his people’s joy and laughter.

As he passed a newly formed wall of stone at the edge of the camp, he spied a familiar figure crouched in a deeply focused watch.

“Ai! Arondir!” he called in greeting, approaching the hooded figure. The Silvan Elf glanced up and quickly rose to his feet in salute.

“Aldol, Commander” he murmured, setting down his weapon. “I was not informed of your return…” He forced a smile, though Elrond could detect, even in the darkness that it did not reach his eyes. His expression was deeply troubled, though the Peredhel could not discern why.

“What troubles you, mellon-nin?” Elrond asked with grave concern. “You are in distress. What has happened to cause you grief?”

Arondir’s facade melted with a heavy sigh as he allowed Elrond’s concerned gaze to witness the truth of his state. “Forgive me, Commander” he mourned. “I do not wish to cause you concern, but… I fear for Theo; the mannish child in Pelargir.”

Elrond nodded, laying a hand on the slumped shoulder. “I remember” he confirmed. “What has befallen him?”

Arondir shook his head in dismay. “At present, I am uncertain” he admitted. “But with every passing day, the darkness that threatens him grows. I fear…” He paused as if deliberating before he dared continue. “I fear I must leave the sanctuary to seek him out. If unchecked, the darkness will consume him and take him from my sight…”

Elrond nodded in agreement. “Of course, Arondir” he murmured quietly. “The boy needs your guidance.” He paused in deep thought for a moment before adding, “But the journey is a perilous one. I would not have you make it alone.”

Arondir glanced up at the commander with bewilderment. “My Lord?” he questioned, his hand resting once more upon his bow.

“Our people may be planting roots” Elrond explained, glancing back at the newly fortified encampment. “But we still lack the proper weapons and horses necessary to defend ourselves against the rising enemy. I will accompany you, and barter with the men of Pelargir to fulfill our needs.”

Arondir’s eyes widened. “I must forbid it, my Lord!” he protested. “The low men carry much disdain for the Elves in their hearts. We would be received with hostility, I am afraid.”

Elrond however, remained unshaken. “All the more reason why I would not have you go alone” he argued. “Sauron’s shadow ever grows across Eriador. We must be prepared for his assault upon our lands. I will go with you to Pelargir to seek the resources we need.”

Arondir, knowing he could not sway the Commander’s stubborn will, relented, though a question lingered in his eyes. “Forgive me for my boldness” he ventured. “I must ask… What could we possibly offer in trade for such needs as these?”

A hint of confident starlight shimmered in Elrond’s eyes as his gaze wandered to Eärendil’s star above. “What I have to offer them is mine alone to give” he reassured the elf. “We shall leave as soon as preparations can be made.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: The World of Men

He fell farther and farther into the blackened void until he discovered himself, face to the ground. Above him loomed the dark shadows of trees, swaying with the bitter wind. The light had faded from the day, bringing a deep, lonely night over this forsaken place.

His sword lay blackened and useless beside him. And in every direction, blood soaked the earth. Somehow, he knew it to be his own…

Yet, even the horrific sight could not compare to the dread that strangled his very soul. A shadowy presence loomed ominously over him. Elrond felt the darkness of an evil gaze penetrating his fëa, searching it, studying it. Instinctively, he clutched at his chest.

The darkness was oppressive, blotting his vision like the thickest of fogs. Fading… Fading… With each passing moment, the evil presence threatened to crush him under its weight.

Elrond called for Galadriel, but there was no answer. He fought to catch Gil Galad’s ear, but his words were spoken as if to the deaf. Losing strength, he went limp against the cold ground, his cries growing weaker.

“Please…” he pleaded.

“Commander…”

“Don’t leave me here to die…”

“Master Elrond!”

He heard Arondir’s voice calling him back to the land of the living. And yet, he lingered, as if held by the dark presence surrounding him. Cautiously, he turned his head to confront it, for the unknown was far more terrifying than anything he dared to face.

Looking up, he beheld a face, cloaked by shadow and mist. So dark and cold, save the eyes… The eyes flickered with flames of malice and burning hatred. A hand reached for him, touching his face, bringing with it searing flames of pain.

“You call yourself a healer?” an icy voice hissed mockingly in his ear. “Such a fragile immortal as you?” He knew the voice, and as his ever-widening eyes fixed upon the dark figure, he recognized the face. Halbrand, king of the Southlands… Sauron.

The grip of the burning hand tightened then, forcing him to cry out in anguish.

“Master Elrond! You must awaken! Open your eyes!”

At last, the frantic cries from the other side drew Elrond back to consciousness. Trembling from head to foot, he discovered himself to be held tightly in the strong grasp of Arondir, who had offered his shoulder as a resting place for his ringing head.

Shakily, the Peredhel tried to slow rapid breaths and racing heartbeats, even as his body stubbornly refused to obey. Unconsciously, his fingers dug into the thick cloak of the Silvan elf, as if gripping a life-line.

“Shh… You are safe, Master Elrond” Arondir whispered soothingly, with such gentleness that Elrond could have broken into tears. “It is only another nightmare… It will pass.”

“I… I’m sorry…” was all Elrond could manage to whisper. Gulping the fresh air, he sagged against the other elf, allowing the stillness of the night, and the gentle sounds of the Anduin’s flow to settle his state before venturing to speak again. “In my dreams, I saw him. I saw the face of Sauron…”

“Sauron…?” Arondir’s eyes grew wide and tense with concern.

Elrond nodded, shuddering at the memory of those eyes that flickered with icy, malevolent flames. “His touch was fire against my skin” he explained, lifting a shaky hand to where the burning sensation had swept over him. “His gaze threatened to crush me, Arondir… I do not understand it…”

Arondir nodded, applying reassuring pressure to Elrond’s shoulder. He did not answer immediately, and his silence caused the Peredhel to lift his head, concerned. “What is it?” he asked tensely.

Arondir sighed resignedly. “Perhaps it is a warning” he suggested. “We are two days away from Pelargir… Our approach may be unwelcome by more than the men who reside there… I will not lead you into danger, my Lord. We will turn back if we must.”

Elrond shook his head resolutely as if finding new courage in Arondir’s words. “No…” he insisted, suddenly sitting upright to face the elf. “No, we cannot turn back now… Sauron seeks to frighten us from our task… It is his wish for us to turn back. That is why we must press on.”

Arondir shook his head in clear distress. “What sort of soldier would I be?” he asked. “To allow you to risk harm on my account?”

Elrond was moved by Arondir’s concern but refused to allow it. “It was my choice to accompany you” he reminded Arondir. “I will not be swayed, mellon-nin… I will not.”

Arondir considered his words for a moment before relenting. “Very well, mellon-nin” he murmured in reply, a faint smile gracing his lips. “Try and rest then… We shall continue at first light.”

Elrond could not sleep after the night terror had left him so ill at ease. Instead, he lay still on the dampened grass, gazing into the night sky at his father’s star above. Was his journey to the world of men as ill-fated as Arondir feared? Or was Sauron eager to prevent it for reasons yet unknown?

“What would you do, Father?” he whispered softly to the twinkling star overhead. “If you were in my place?”

As always, there was no answer except the silence of the night.

Kemen had heard far more yarns of Arondir’s great deeds than he ever wished to stomach. Even the lowliest of the Low Men never ceased to sing his praises. And yet, it was the realization that the famed Silvan elf had returned with a companion that truly incensed him.

With willful sullenness, he crossed his arms as the pair came into view, their pointed ears hidden beneath hooded cloaks. “Are we to be overrun by Elves?” he muttered to his voiceless guards, stepping down from the balcony whence he stood. “What in Morgoth’s name could they possibly be about?”

It seemed that he had not been the only one to observe their approach. Several of the townspeople had begun to gather in the streets, their eyes fastened on the impressive pair.

Arondir was exactly the sort of elf Kemen had expected; solemn, stalwart, imposing, and perfected by every standard. Despite himself, he squirmed under the sharp-eyed gaze and looked away, for he found such sacrosanct airs to be unsettling.

So his eyes rested on the other… Smaller and slighter than Arondir, the elf did not maintain the same formidability as his companion. His fairness, framed by dark and wayward curls, was touched by both Elvish delicacy and mannish validity. The eyes were bright with starlight, though their gaze did not cause Kemen to shrink.

This one carried himself with a surety and openness that was inviting and welcome to the common eye. Even now, as the two approached the silent crowd of watchers, he offered a smile and a nod as he passed through their midst. There was a warmth about him that caused Kemen to scowl.

Something about this elf stirred a certain loathing that he could not describe… Something familiar…

“What brings you to the world of men?” he asked, sidling forward with all the swaggering confidence he could muster. “Passing through, are we?”

“I have come to see Theo, son of Bronwyn” Arondir confirmed, pulling down his hood. “Tell him, Arondir has cause to speak with him.”

Kemen did not move a muscle, but cast an accusatory glance in the other Elf’s direction, taking in his appearance with cold calculation. “No, I think not” he muttered with a faint sneer. “We do not need Elves among our ranks.”

“How can you say such a thing?” a voice sounded at his elbow. Turning he observed the Low Man, Hagen standing by and rolled his eyes. “Arondir is a friend to our people. He procured a truce with the trees of the forest…”

Kemen scoffed but chose to refrain from lecturing Hagen about the false fables of the Ents, something he hardly expected a Low Man to understand. Instead, he turned on Arondir once more.

“And yet, he brings with him another” he observed, stepping forward. “In time, he will, no doubt bring more, until we are overrun with this infestation, like our crops under the plague of vermin.” Eyeing the Silvan Elf with contempt, he glowered through barred teeth. “Is that your intention, Elf?”

“It is not.”

Arondir’s companion spoke, drawing back the hood as he did. He stepped closer, causing Kemen to shrink back under the starlight gaze, for it commanded an authority he had not expected.

“I come with business of my own,” the strange elf said quietly, glancing around at the mute faces that watched him. “A proposal, which I wish to lay before the Commander of Pelargir.”

Kemen scoffed. “And who are you to make such a proposal to his lordship, Elf?” he asked with a petty smirk. If the threadbare cloak and faded tunic were any indicator, this one stood to offer nothing of value.

To Kemen’s surprise, he did not seem deterred, but rather, proud to share his status. “I am Elrond Half-Elven, Commander of the survivors of Eregion” he answered, straightening slightly as if at attention. “I seek horses and supplies for my people in exchange for my services…”

Kemen raised an eyebrow, amused by the utter sincerity on the face before him. “Your services?” he asked. “What could you possibly hope to offer me for so high a price, Half-Breed?”

A glint of anger sparked in the grey eyes, but the face otherwise remained serene. “I am a healer” he declared. “In trade for the needs of my people, I would proffer my skill for the needs of yours. For you are the Commander of Pelargir, are you not?”

Kemen did not know whether to be flattered by the recognition or unsettled by the Elf’s keen awareness. Something about the way those grey eyes looked at him seemed to lay bare who he was; what he was…

A thousand years of wisdom, maybe more resided in those eyes. And as they gazed upon him, he felt them unearthing his weakness, he fears, his crime. A hasty assessment of the creature before him resolved the matter: the elf knew too much…

Before he could even open his mouth to refuse, a ragged cry came from the crowd. “Elven healer!” a dirty washerwoman cried, pushing herself through the silent crowd of watchers, carrying with her a screaming bundle.

“Please!” she sobbed, shoving the hysterical child into Elrond’s arms. “The wee one’s fading with fever… Been like this for three days… Please help him, I beg you!”

Kemen watched with disgust as the elf cradled the child more comfortably in his arms, gazing down at the little flushed face. A strange hush seemed to fall over the crowd, and even the weeping mother as the eyes closed and the sound of a sweet melody vibrated through the air.

It was faint at first, like a feathery whisper or a soft breeze; but it steadily grew into something stronger, its power affecting all who heard it into a state of calm. It was ever-gentle, yet marked by an undefined force of strength.

Even Kemen felt the brush of its soothing power upon him for a moment before he remembered the knowing wisdom in the Elf’s gaze and swore to resist it. An eternity passed in an instant before the melody ceased, and silence reigned again, for the child cried no more.

Instead, it nestled peacefully in Elrond’s arms, the angry flush in its little face replaced by a natural rosiness. But the elf was the true wonder to behold, for his eyes shone with bright starlight and his face, framed by dark curls, shone with it. In all his strangeness, he must be the most ethereal being Kemen had ever laid eyes upon.

The thought only served to annoy the Numenorean even more, and he stepped forward to make such disdain known. His attempt, however, was blocked by the sudden rush of Low Men and onlookers as they pressed forward to speak to the Elven healer, their pleas flowing faster than the rush of a waterfall.

He watched as the eager faces crowded around the half-elf, peppering him with questions and begging him for aid. “Surely, we must accept the Elf’s proposal, Kemen” Hagan’s voice sounded at his elbow. “You cannot deny there is a need for his skill…”

Kemen glowered in Elrond’s direction, watching with silent fury as the Elf’s shining eyes met his. “Very well…” he muttered. “We shall discuss the matter in private… Summon the leaders, Low Man. Make it quick!”

Arondir glanced about the small, thatched hut that he and Elrond had been granted to shelter them from the harsh winter winds that had managed to freeze the Anduin. It was humble and poorly crafted, but it would do.

His eyes then came to rest on Elrond, who had begun building a small fire in the tiny hearth and breathed a faint sigh. “When you told me you had a means of bartering with these people” he murmured, “I had not considered that you would offer them your gift of healing…”

Elrond did not look up from where he crouched before tiny flames. Carefully, he fed small twigs and fistfuls of hay to the weak blaze until it strengthened. “It is all I have to offer them” he answered at last.

Arondir took a step closer, his face etched with concern. “But is it wise, my Lord?” he asked. “Your last attempt left you bereft of all strength… I feared for your life, mellon-nin. I fear for it now…”

Elrond gazed into the little source of warmth he had managed to create before rising to his full height. His gaze was grave but resolute as it met Arondir’s.

“I have not entered into this exchange wholly unprepared” he assured the worried elf before him. “I gathered what knowledge I could regarding the nature of this gift. All being well, such knowledge will prevent a similar outcome.”

Arondir shook his head slowly, his eyes pleading for caution. “And if it does not?” he asked with much distress. “Am I to stand idly by as my commander relinquishes himself? I swore to the High King that I would protect you with my very life… I cannot allow you to endanger yourself in such a way.”

At the mention of Gil Galad, Elrond’s gaze hardened and fell. “It is the only way, mellon-nin” he murmured quietly. “The High King is too hard-pressed to provide aid. We are left with no other choice.”

His words, though full of truth, did not settle Arondir’s uneasiness. All oaths aside, he had come to care for the elf, considering him more of a friend than a commanding officer. He searched his heart and found that he could not bear the thought of losing the Peredhel to such a sacrificial act.

His pain must have betrayed him, for Elrond’s eyes softened with gentle sympathy, even as his hand came to rest upon the shoulder of the Silvan elf. “No harm shall come to me” he vowed with quiet firmness. “I promise.”

Still unconvinced, but grateful for the gesture nonetheless, Arondir gave a slow nod and a brief smile. “Very well, my Lord” he relented. “Shall I accompany you as you stand before the men of this fortress?”

Elrond merely shook his head. “I would rather see your mind at ease” he countered. “Find the boy, Theo, and settle your fears. He needs you more than I do.”

Darkness had long settled over the riverside fortress when Elrond finally stood before the Numenoreans and the Low Men with his proposal. The distrust and skepticism in their eyes were all too familiar to him, though they seemed to rise from a different source than he was used to.

Among the Elves, his nature was looked down upon as tainted and lesser; here among the world of men, it was feared. Ever a foreigner he remained among those whose blood he shared. So it had always been, and so it seemed it would always be.

“The people of this settlement seem quite… taken with you” Kemen’s sharp voice cut through his thoughts. “How can I be sure you have not cast them under some spell to sway them to your cause?”

Beside the Numenorean, Hagan the Low Man opened his mouth in protest. “Surely, you don’t believe us to be under his influence…”

“Silence, Low Man!” Kemen cut him off mid-sentence before turning back to Elrond. “Let the Half-Breed speak for himself.”

Elrond felt a fire stir in his chest at the derogatory slur but chose to remain diplomatic. “I have no wish to barter with anyone who is not of sound mind” he pointed out, “For my offer extends not only as a simple exchange, but as an alliance between our peoples.”

“An alliance between Men and Elves?” Kemen pondered with mock interest. “How primitive of you to suggest such a thing… It has been centuries since such an alliance could stand, and for good reason.”

Elrond felt his breath hitch, for the memory of such an alliance remained fresh in his mind; an alliance so pure that it had preserved the bond of brothers separated by the Great Sea. His brother, Elros… Had the world truly changed so vastly in so short a time?

Swallowing his grief, he squared his shoulders. “Sauron’s power threatens all of Middle Earth” he pointed out. “An alliance between us will eventually prove necessary as his evil continues to spread.”

The mention of the Dark Lord caused a stir among the council before him, making it clear to him that little news of Eregion’s fall had reached their outpost. Even the Numenorean, Kemen’s face went pale.

“I suppose that does… alter the situation at hand…” the Commander of Pelargir faltered. “In light of Middle Earth’s current circumstances, what would you suggest?”

Elrond drew in breath and made to answer, but was interrupted by the violent thrust of the door behind him, accompanied by a sharp gust of bitter wind. Panting, two guards of Númenor tumbled through the entryway, their golden armor splattered with blood.

“Commander Kemen” one of them managed to say between labored breaths. “There has been an attack upon our woodsmen… An ambush in the forest… They were caught in the path of an Orc pack… There was no warning, Commander…”

Kemen jumped to his feet but seemed unable to speak, his knuckles white as he gripped the table before him. Feeling his own heart thundering within his chest, Elrond spoke for him.

“How many yet live?” he asked with dread, a hand unconsciously finding the handle of his sword.

The news did not bode well if the expressions of the guards were to be believed. “We are yet uncertain” one of them managed to reply. “But the number of wounded is too great to be counted… Even now, those living are in full retreat.”

Elrond felt an iciness settle over his hands that could not be attributed to the cold winter wind that swept through the open door. It felt as though his heart had settled in his throat as he drew closer to the messengers.

“What of my companion, Arondir?” he dared to ask, fighting to maintain steadiness in his voice. “Was he among them?”

The man soberly shook his head. “The Elf was with us when the assault was made” he admitted. “Yet, I fear he was not among our ranks when we made our retreat… Even as we fled, he turned back to retrieve the boy, Theo Son of Bronwyn…”

The revelation struck Elrond in an icy wave of agony. Arondir, his most trusted soldier; his dear friend… No, the possibility was too horrid to entertain. Valar, spare the good-hearted elf from such a fate…

“Well, Half-Breed…” Kemen’s arrogant yet shaky voice sounded in his ear. “You claim to offer us your skill as a healer… Now is your chance to uphold your claim.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: The Breaking Point

“Send for more blankets!” Elrond called over his shoulder, even as he cleansed and bound a sutured gash that marred his current patient’s upper leg. “Keep the fires stoked. I will require hot water in a moment…”

Hours must have passed since the alarm had been sounded, and yet, the number of wounded did not lessen. Already, the keep had been transformed into an infirmary, lined with pallets, blankets, and mangled bodies.

Cries of anguish and pained groans came from every direction of the hall, countered only by the nightingale’s melody that seemed to flow from the peredhel.

Draw from the forces around you and unite them with your own power.

Disa’s words echoed through Elrond’s mind as he moved from one patient to the next. The melody remained gentle, but its power, paired with the surrounding forces of the unseen world was enough to diminish pain.

Maintaining the clarity of mind and heart necessary to fight the shadows was proving to be more difficult, for Elrond could not bury the fear he felt for the wellbeing of his companion. The evening turned to night, and yet the Silvan elf remained missing, his fate unknown.

Wiping the sweat that had formed upon his brow, Elrond slowly straightened, glancing around at the sea of broken souls under his care. Already, he felt weary, though he suspected such weariness might be the result of grief rather than the labor of caring for the wounded.

“Cease dawdling, Half Breed” Kemen hissed, his words accompanied by a light shove as he passed. “Every moment you linger brings my men closer to death!”

Swallowing the anger that swelled inside him, Elrond bent down once more, his careful hands binding the wound before him. Head bowed, he attempted to quicken his pace, despite the growing unsteadiness of his fingers. The sheer number of wounded seemed to mock his efforts. Already there was no place to lay the stricken bodies…

“…knows. He knows…” The man lying under his care moaned feverishly, his gaze resting upon Elrond. Knowing the words were merely a result of delirium, Elrond attempted to calm the man, his voice quiet and soothing.

“Be still, my friend” he murmured, taking the trembling hand of the Low Man in an attempt to steady him. “You are not well…”

The wildness in the bright eyes did not calm, however, and the restless man reached for him, gripping a fistful of the grey cloak that hung from his shoulders. “He knows…” he insisted tensely, shaking Elrond with unexpected strength. “He knows you are here… He sent them for you…”

Elrond’s eyes narrowed sharply. “What are you saying?” he asked, a sense of dread sending a chill through his body. “Of whom do you speak?”

But it appeared as though the man’s delirium had twisted his mind elsewhere, preventing him from answering. “Can’t stand…” he muttered, his head thrashing from side to side. “Against the tide…” His feeble words faded then as unconsciousness swept over the injured man.

Lips pursed, Elrond released the now limp hand from his grasp and tucked it beneath the thin blanket. He knows you are here… The words sent a shudder through him, for such sinister threats could only belong to Sauron himself.

“Someone, help!” a distressed voice cried from the now-open doors of the hall. “Please! You’ve got to help me!” Elrond lifted his weary head to see the newest arrival to his makeshift infirmary, and immediately, his heart froze with an icy horror.

There stood a boy, clad in the humble attire of the Low Men, his dark hair dusty with newly fallen snow. His terrified eyes found Elrond’s as he struggled beneath the weight of the burden balancing across his shoulders; a cloaked form, limp and unmoving… Elrond did not need to see more to know that it was Arondir.

“Bring him closer to the fire” he directed tensely, rushing to stand. “Hurry!” The boy, who he guessed must be Theo, did as he was told, laying the still form down before the blazing hearth. He stood by, clinging doggedly to the cold hand as Elrond knelt beside the wounded elf and cupped a warm hand to the chilled face.

“Ai Arondir!” Elrond murmured, his heart in his throat as he took in the other’s injuries, for they were grave indeed.

The broken shaft of a Uruk arrow protruded grotesquely from the left side, trickles of blood dripping to the floor. The wound was so deep that Elrond suspected the deathly barb had grazed both flesh and bone. The quickened breaths informed him that too much blood had already been lost.

“He’s dying, isn’t he?” Theo whimpered in profound misery. “It’s all my fault…” A faint moan from Arondir silenced the boy’s woeful murmurings for a moment as he leaned in. “I’m sorry…” he cried, tightening his grasp on the limp hand. “For all of it… I’m so sorry! It should have been me.”

Seeing the distress on the boy’s face, Elrond reached a hand over the body of his friend and grasped Theo’s trembling shoulder. “I will do what I can to save him” he assured him with a quiet steadiness he did not feel. “Arondir will require your strength. Do not allow your heart to be clouded by despair.”

Saying this he closed his eyes, his hand coming to rest over the weeping gash. “Echuio. Awaken,” he whispered, allowing the melody of his fëa to flood his senses as he reached for that of his friend. “I bid you, return to the light. Please, Arondir...”

The entreaties of his mind were met only by a soundless, darkened void, and for a moment, he feared Arondir was beyond his reach.

“Do not fall into the darkness, mellon-nin…”

At last, a faint flicker of life rose to meet his song; small and hardly distinguishable at first. But slowly, it grew, glowing like the rising sun, until he was fully immersed in it.

Amidst the gentle light, he could almost hear the soft, delicate voice of a woman, her words blending harmoniously with the song that flowed from within him.

“In the end, this shadow is but a small and passing thing…”

Her words soothed his heart, even as he felt the pain of his friend lessen and subside. The waking light of Arondir’s fëa steadied, its strength enduring despite the wounds. With the power of the nightingale’s song, Elrond extended comfort to the gentle elf, even as he carefully dislodged the splintered shaft from his side and stemmed the bleed with deft fingers.

“Rest, mellon-nin,” he whispered when the work was done. He drew a relieved breath into his lungs when he observed the serenity that had settled over Arondir’s face. “Be at peace…”

It seemed as though the melody had calmed Theo’s heart as well, for his weeping ceased and his shoulders straightened. He eyed Elrond with a questioning gaze as the peredhel skillfully bound the wound with fresh bandages.

“Will he survive?” the boy asked, rather timidly. Elrond breathed a weary sigh, mopping his glistening brow once more. “There is strength yet within him” he assured Theo, even as he looked down at his own, now trembling hands. Once again, the act of healing was testing his resilience, leaving him weak.

“We must ensure that he gets the rest he needs” he continued, careful to keep from swaying when, upon rising, a wave of lightheadedness swept over him. Theo nodded, tightening his grip on Arondir’s limp hand. “I will stay with him until he wakes” he promised. “He risked his life to save mine.”

“It would seem he effectively accomplished his goal” Elrond agreed, though a faint seed of doubt took root in his mind, causing his brow to crease. “Hardly a man among them survived without wounds… How is it that you escaped unharmed, Theo?”

His question, though light in nature, cast a shadow over the boy’s face, is if the truth were being concealed. “I… was hidden from their sight” Theo explained with notable nebulosity. “They never saw me.”

Strange… Why had others not shared Theo’s good fortune if that was in fact, the case? Elrond’s eyes narrowed as he examined the face before him and sensed dishonesty there. Before he could pry further, however, rough hands came to rest on his shoulders, nearly causing him to stumble.

“Come, Half Breed!” sounded the voice of a Numenorean guard in his ear. “Commander Kemen demands your presence. He is greatly displeased.”

Elrond felt his jaw clench with frustration, as he attempted to shrug off the rough hands. “As he stated himself” he pointed out coldly. “Any delay in my progress will lead to more death among the ranks.”

“Hold your tongue!” the guard hissed, tightening his grip on Elrond’s thin shoulder until he winced. “We’ll use force if we must!”

Wincing once more when the iron grip did not lessen, Elrond turned back to Theo with silent desperation. “Can I entrust Arondir to your care until I return?” he asked, hoping that the darkness he sensed in the boy was merely a passing shadow. While he was loathe to leave his dear friend in such a vulnerable state, he had little choice.

Theo merely nodded, visibly relieved by the turn of events. The look was not lost on Elrond, and he pondered it as he was savagely dragged away by the Commander’s messengers.

It was not a lack of skill or effort that displeased Kemen… On the contrary, the Elf’s work far exceeded all expectations. Nearly the entire company of woodsmen remained in stable condition through Elrond’s gift alone. Such success in his trade placed the peredhel in a position to demand anything he wanted of Pelargir.

And yet, it was in the lives of those precious few who still lingered between life and death that Kemen found the leverage he needed to forego fulfilling his part in the trade.

For it was becoming increasingly clear to him that the Elf was largely unaware of the astounding strength of his abilities, and could be coaxed to give far more than he would receive. He took no small pleasure in preying upon the Elven healer’s ignorance.

Even now, as the guards brought him forth, Kemen recognized with satisfaction that the pressure he had applied was pushing the Peredhel far beyond his limitations, for Elrond’s face was pale as moonlight, and his hands shook with the strain.

The effort was slowly killing him, making him malleable to further duress. Kemen reveled in it, nearly giddy at the thought of domineering an elf, especially one who wielded such power.

“Father would surely be proud,” he muttered under his breath as he laced fingers together, taking in Elrond’s ashen countenance before standing to approach him. The dark curls only served to accentuate the paleness of the face they framed. And yet, grey eyes remained illuminated by starlight…

“You have failed to uphold your side of the arrangement, Half Breed” he muttered with much disdain. “There are those among the wounded whose lives hang upon a thread. Have you been negligent in the task before you?”

“The weapons of the Uruks were poisoned” Elrond countered with assured fierceness, though Kemen sensed the fire in him was dwindling. “I can extract such impurities from the blood, but I cannot repair the damage it causes to human flesh through power alone.”

Kemen scoffed. “Why not?” he asked. “What else is needed to bring about such a cure?” Elrond’s grey eyes grew more weary as they met his.

“The roots of the willow to ease inflammation,” he said, at last. “Athelas to slow the remaining poison… I need both to help those who are beyond the reach of my song.”

Kemen rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Both were easily accessible to them since these herbs and plants were stored away for such a need. And yet… If Elrond had so readily presented him with the solution, why must the Elf be the one to implement it?

Did they not have self-proclaimed healers of their own here in Pelargir, who could administer such remedies without the help of the Half-Elven? Without a need for his skill, there would be no need to honor Elrond’s demands. Already, a plan had begun to take form in Kemen’s mind…

“You won’t find anything of the sort here in Pelargir” he lied, smirking at the way sweat glistened like silver against the Elf’s pallid skin. “There is, however, a village across the river. They keep an apothecary there… You may find what you seek among their stores.”

A faint smirk emerged at the corners of Kemen’s mouth when Elrond closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. “Every second I spend away from the wounded condemns another of your men to death” the peredhel pointed out. “Can you not send another to gather what I need?”

Kemen circled back towards his oaken desk. “No, I think not” he denied the request. “I will not risk sending my men on such a foolish errand through orc-infested areas. Besides, the frozen river would not hold the weight of a man, though it may be more forgiving to a light-footed elf. If you do indeed possess that Elvish trait, Half Breed…”

The silver starlight of anger flashed in the knowing grey eyes, but this time, it caused no dread in Kemen. Instead, he laughed at it, mocking the thousands of years of wisdom that stared back at him. “The choice is yours” he challenged. “But I swear, if you fail to save their lives, neither trades nor alliances will stand between us.”

The shock of the frigid wind managed to dispel some of the dizziness Elrond felt, and in that, he drew some small comfort. Still, exhaustion tugged at his limbs and caused his fingers to tremble unbidden. He flexed them stiffly as he ventured forth.

The stars looking down upon the Anduin were particularly bright on such a cold winter night as this. Amon them, Elrond’s gaze found the passing light of his father’s star as he forged his way across the frozen river, his footsteps treading as lightly as a feather.

“I am told that you would have preferred the company of Men” he addressed the twinkling light, as he often did. “…had it not been for my mother’s lineage.” The Peredhel sighed heavily, his breath forming billowy clouds in the bitter air. “Was there more honor amongst Men when you walked this Middle Earth, Father? I struggle to find it now…”

How he longed for Elros’ company, for his twin brother would not hesitate to set straight the path of his line… How things had changed since the first king of Númenor had passed…

For there had been a time when a deep regard had existed between the races of Elves and Men. It saddened Elrond to remember those times, replaced by an age in which he was met instead with unrelenting mockery and scorn.

“You need not answer” he assured the silent star above with a wan smile, for no answer was ever given. “I would only have you know that in such times as these, I miss your company… All of you.”

His Elven eyes, raised to the stars, lowered then and settled on the horizon, where distant mountains raised their jagged peaks to the skies. The mountains of Mordor… A shudder swept through Elrond at the sight, and for a moment, the faintest hint of foresight seemed to touch his senses, like a whisper or a faint breath…

The burning of lava’s flow… Whitened ash and smoke… Drops of blood upon pure, white snow… The flaming eyes of the Deceiver himself…

Gasping, the peredhel lifted a hand to his chest, the silent throb of his heartbeat thundering against his fingertips. What could it mean, this glimpse of what lay ahead? He could not make sense of it, even as his short traverse across the ice led him into the shadowy forests on the opposite side.

With every step forward, he sensed danger, though none immediately presented itself. Dark shadows danced under beams of moonlight, and the trees seemed to loom above with ominous anticipation. A threat he could not discern lurked in the darkness. Sensing it, Elrond laid a hand to rest upon the hilt of his sword.

There is danger ahead… You must flee… Flee while you can!

It was as if the wind itself had whispered the words to him, warning him of an unseen threat. But he could not turn back… Not when the lives of the wounded depended on his success… Not when the needs of his own people in the hidden sanctuary were so great…

He pressed on, hoping that his weariness was the true voice of alarm that continued to sound in the corners of his mind. With each step, the warnings grew louder and sharper in their message, until…

Elrond stopped in his tracks, observing the looming shadows of huts and buildings that now stood before him. They were nestled among boulders and dilapidated fences… long since abandoned.

The promised village appeared dark and silent as the grave, with no indication of movement or inhabitance. There was no life to be found here… Rushing forward, Elrond battered down the rotting doors of one lodging, only to find the skeletal remains of what had once been a living quarters.

Only the sound of the wind rustling dried leaves at his feet served to break the bleak silence. The ruined state of the place, along with those of the shelters surrounding it left him with a single explanation; this village had not been lived in for quite some time, many years perhaps…

With an angered clench of his fist, Elrond swallowed and accepted the reality that he had already begun to suspect; Kemen had willfully deceived him, in an attempt to obstruct the trade between their peoples. He had been sent on a fool’s errand indeed…

The peredhel had hoped beyond reason that honor remained in the Numenorean, whose own blood he shared. Such betrayal and deception, though not entirely unexpected, was enough to devastate him, for it cast unthinkable shame upon the line of his brother, Elros, desecrating that which should have been kept sacred.

Sinking to his knees, Elrond allowed his clenched fist to pound the cold ground, his rage silent, for fear of waking hidden threats. Had it not been so, he would have unleashed a cry so strident, that it would have echoed as far as the borders of Mordor.

It seemed as though the very moon and stars veiled themselves from such righteous wrath as clouds gathered above, plunging the world into deep darkness. The winter winds answered with increasingly forceful gusts, whipping and clawing at the dark and unruly curls.

The storm that built and broke within the elf seemed to thunder and rage without, until a voice above the wind captured his attention, drawing him back to the world…

“What have you here?” a grating voice snickered, so close that it caused Elrond to start in surprise. “Well, if it isn’t a lonely Elf…” The peredhel felt his mouth go dry as he stared into the menacing face of an armed Uruk, who, sensing his fear, flashed a repugnant grin.

“Such a pretty little thing…” the creature mocked, drawing a crude sword and holding it to Elrond’s throat. “The Dark Lord will want to see it… alive.” The name sent a chill through Elrond, causing him to shiver. His Elven ears already detected movement nearby, informing him that others were closing in. He was surrounded.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Blood of the Maiar

He was surrounded.

With as much subtly as he could manage, Elrond laid a bare hand against the cold metal of his sword. He watched with dread as the hideous forms of the Uruk emerged from the shadows, cutting off all paths of escape.

Beady eyes considered him with mixed curiosity and amusement as he slowly backed away from them, his back scraping against the rotting wood of the hut.

“Are you lost?” the creature at his throat sneered, dribbles of salivation escaping his putrid lips and teeth. “Are there… others?” The Uruk let out a venomous hiss then, drawing so close that Elrond could feel breath upon his cold face. Swallowing, he turned away.

His body stiffened when the misshapen stub of a hand roughly clawed at his chin, forcing his gaze into submission. “Face me, elf!” the hoarse voice scolded. All amusement had disappeared in the glinting eyes that met his. Only bitter spite remained. “Where are the others?”

Elrond fought to remain calm, his face unmoved. “There are no others” he muttered coldly. “I am alone.”

A grin flashed across the Uruk’s face then, and with it, traces of crimson blood and flesh. Mannish flesh. The sight and smell nearly caused the Peredhel to retch, even as he imagined a similar fate for himself.

“No one to run to…” the beast muttered gleefully. “Nowhere to hide…” Brandishing his crude weapon before Elrond’s eyes, he laid it to rest against his throat, the edges of the blade breaking skin. “Squeal and no one will hear.”

The foot of the Uruk crushed the bare hand that grasped his sword, causing Elrond to gasp in pain, a pain that afflicted both body and mind. Even now, the crushing weight of betrayal and failure lingered, adding to the trembling weakness of his limbs.

He had neither strength nor will to fight back, as despair lay siege to his heart. How darkly poetic that he should die alone in a nameless place, cast out and discarded as he was by Elves and Men alike.

Fight, my child.

Once again, the trees themselves seemed to speak to him, rousing him from the shadows that darkened his mind. Feebly, he considered the words, his mind drifting. How was he to fight when all strength had left his body?

There is strength in you yet. Stand and fight.

The command echoed in his mind, growing louder and more forceful until he relented, his free hand reaching for the dagger tucked away from sight. Doggedly, he gripped the carved handle. As he drew it, the pounding of his heart throbbed in his ears.

“He’ll make a fine prize for Sauron” he distantly heard the Uruk mutter. The suggestion was met with rough sneers and grunts as the creatures closed in around him. “The Dark Lord likes breaking ‘em.”

Elrond’s grip on the dagger tightened as he spied the weakness in the roughly hewn armor before him. There, just below the nape of the neck… Gritting his teeth, he drew breath and struck.

His blow did not miss its mark. “He shall not break me” he murmured savagely, shoving the gaping creature back with force.

A vile gurgling rose in the throat of the mortally wounded Uruk as he stumbled backward, his blood soaking the cold ground. “…kill it” it gasped as the lusty glint went out of its eyes. “Kill… the elf!”

Before the lifeless creature managed to sink to the earth, Elrond had already sprung to his feet, sword in hand. Fighting the despair that threatened to extinguish all hope, he remembered the sanctuary and his people…

If not for himself, he must resist death for their sake. Even the deepest betrayal and dishonor to his brother’s house must not deter him from the task at hand.

His strength was meager, but he did not falter. The head of one beast rolled at his feet while the blood of another splattered against his cloak.

A mangled hand pulled his head to one side, clenching a fistful of dark curls. But he remained undaunted and his aim proved true, sending the Uruk sprawling with howling curses upon dying lips.

Only one remained before him, eyeing him and the carnage at his feet with spiteful apprehension. “You can’t hide from him, Elf” the creature growled threateningly. “There is no escape from Sauron.”

Before Elrond could consider this threat or reply to it, the sound of nearby shouts and jeers caught his attention. Raising his head, he glimpsed a parade of bright torches and raised swords beyond the abandoned settlement; an army of Orcs was fast approaching.

In horror, he swung to face the Uruk, who was already retreating, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “What’ll it be Elf?” he taunted, flashing his jagged teeth.

A gentle swish reached Elrond’s ear, and a blackened arrow sank into the ground at his feet. Another landed a few paces away. And another sank its pointed head into the rotting wood of the hut…

Run, child!

Once again the voice sounded in his head, and once again he remembered the faces of those under his care. He could not face this horde and escape alive. The people of the sanctuary were depending on him. He must survive.

With a last glance at the leering Uruk, he took off, away from the dilapidated village, away from the shadowy gloom. His steps were followed by shouts and a rain of arrows as the monsters gave chase.

“Kill the elf! The chant rose, reaching his ears as he sprinted back to the place from whence he came. “Kill him!”

Run, henig!

“Theo?” Arondir’s voice was faint but steady as his eyes fixed upon the boy. A surge of relief flooded Theo’s chest at the sound, even as he leaned closer to the Silvan elf. “Are you alright?”

“I am, thanks to you” Theo whispered gratefully, his voice shaken by emotion. “I thought I was going to lose you… Like I lost mother…”

Arondir’s brow furrowed and his eyes closed once more, though his gentle hand reached for the head of the grieving boy. “Ai, Ionneg” he breathed, allowing his hand to caress the dark head. “Long ago, I gave her my oath to never forsake you.” Then, once more, his gaze found the child’s. “I swear it to you now, as I did to her…”

A betraying tear ran down Theo’s face, which he roughly brushed away. It seemed that his desperate reach for manhood was forever impeded by this debilitating grief in his chest. If only Isildur had remained in Pelargir, for the Numenorean had suffered the same loss. He would have understood.

Arondir, usually steadfast and stoic as a mountain of stone, seemed to understand too. He did not criticize but rather took the boy’s hand and held it tightly. “You are not alone in this world, Theo” he murmured softly.

The statement gave him no comfort, and he shook his head soberly. “If it weren’t for the Half-Elf, I would have been…” he muttered, not daring to lift his eyes to meet Arondir’s. How heavily the guilt weighed upon his heart, for he knew that blame for Arondir’s death would have rested upon his shoulders.

Arondir however, did not seem to recall any part of Theo’s role in his injuries as his mind wandered instead to the fate of the half-elven. “I felt Elrond’s spirit in my mind” he reflected distantly, his eyes moving away from Theo’s face as they remembered. “I sensed great weariness in him… Where is he?”

Theo felt his heart stop at the question, his widening eyes answering for him. Arondir stiffened at the sight of his expression, and with great effort, raised himself on his elbow. “Theo?” he asked tensely. “Where is he? Where is Elrond?”

Theo squirmed under the elf’s intense gaze and glanced at the door. “He left town hours ago. I know not where” he admitted at last. “He has not yet returned…”

From the spark that ignited in Arondir’s eye, Theo knew that the Elven warrior was both horrified and furious. “How could this happen?” he murmured vehemently. “Who allowed this?”

Leaning his head against the rough bark of a tree, Elrond tried to slow his breathing as his trembling fingers closed around the shaft that protruded from his bloody ankle.

The barb was slick with blood, causing his hand to slip when he attempted to dislodge it. It was all he could do to stay quiet as he muffled a cry of pain into the crook of his elbow.

He had managed to hide himself from the Uruks, but not before one of the many arrows had found its mark. The blow had caused him to stumble, but not to fall.

Slumping against the tree once more, he allowed himself to rest a moment before making another attempt. He could not bear to look upon the wound or his bloodied hand, instead training his eyes towards the west.

His father’s star had since disappeared, and the first vestiges of dawn crept along the horizon. The sun would rise soon, and with it, all hope of evading his pursuers would dwindle, for there was nowhere to hide.

Gulping in a breath of the sharp air, he mopped away the cold sweat that had settled on his face, wishing once again that he were not so utterly alone. He wished for the warm light of Lindon, and the comfort of his bed there, which more than likely had since been removed from its place.

How he longed for the days of sunshine, and the company of those he considered to be his own kin… Surely, those in Lindon had not forgotten him, for their faces and their smiles were ever-present in his mind.

Swallowing, he reached once more for the slippery arrow. His part in this war against Sauron was small, he knew. Smaller still due to his apprehension of the Elven rings… But he had long ago resolved to do his part no matter how small, pledging duty to his people and his king.

If the mere act of survival fulfilled his promise, he would find a way. He must. The thought gave him a little strength, though it did not ease the churn of his stomach as his shaking fingers gripped the blackened barb. Bracing himself against the pain, he squeezed his eyes shut and pulled.

Kemen was far more pleased with himself than he could publicly show and had returned to his quarters once his own healers had begun administering the medicine that Elrond had recommended.

He even poured himself a glass of the rare wine Eärien had provided for him upon his departure from Númenor. How sweetly the wine of victory tasted upon his lips as he smirked at the clever ruse he had enacted.

“I would much rather it that you were wise than clever.”

His face darkened as the memory of his father’s words mocked him. With disgust, he set the goblet down, his eyes narrowing. Why must the pleasure of victory be stolen by such petty contrivances? Did his father think himself wise in all of his elaborate schemes? Wise was not exactly the word for it…

Scoffing, he turned towards the balcony to watch the dawn but was intercepted when the doors of his quarters were forced open, bringing the Low Man, Hagan, Theo, and the elf, whose anger burned like fire.

“Commander Kemen!” Arondir’s voice was strained with pain and he leaned heavily upon Theo for support, though his eyes blazed. “What have you done to him? To Elrond?”

Kemen looked calmly into the questioning faces that stood before him, and crossed his arms with a dismissive sigh. His fingers drummed impatiently. “I have done nothing” he muttered dishonestly. “He went of his own accord.”

“Went where exactly?” Hagan demanded, his brow furrowed.

Kemen cleared his throat uncomfortably. “To the village across the river,” he admitted. “What of it? We were short of medical supplies…”

Hagan and Theo both groaned at the admission, leaving Arondir perplexed. “What does that mean?” the elf asked tensely, sensing trouble. “Tell me…”

“That village has long since been abandoned!” Hagan raged, grabbing the goblet of wine that yet rested on the table and flinging it to the floor. “You knew, didn’t you? You cowardly, witless…”

“Careful, Low Man” Kemen hissed, causing his bodyguards to stand at attention. “I can have you hung for treachery! Both of you!” he added, eyeing Theo with disdain. “I am son to the King of Númenor!”

“You dishonor your line!” Arondir murmured, his fury sending a chill through Kemen’s body. “Elrond shares your blood; his people are your people! And you have sent him to his death! Kinslayer!”

Kemen paled at the accusation and backed away slowly. “He’s not dead yet” he muttered lamely, causing Arondir’s frown to darken. “He knew the risks when he set out.”

Just then, one of the guards keeping watch from the balcony derailed his train of thought. “My lord…”

“Not now Cedric!” he snapped, turned back to Arondir. “When my father hears of your insolence…”

“My lord!” the guard insisted. “Look to the river!”

Still angered by the disrespect shown him, Kemen did not immediately comply, though the other three were quick to observe what had worried the Numenorean guard. Only their gasps of horror managed to draw his attention, and sullenly, he slunk to join them.

What he saw caused his heart to plummet with dread, as an icy chill crept over his skin. What had he done?

Elrond’s breath came in short, wheezing gasps as he fought against the fatigue that gripped his movements.

Behind him, the screams and shouts of the Orcs strengthened and grew, their torches brightening the way. It had not taken them long to discover his place of hiding, for the darkness continued to lift.

“Kill the Elf” was the chant that followed him. “Cut him down!”

His hope lay in the river, for the lightness of his feet would allow him to pass where no Uruk could follow. The ice would not hold their weight. If his strength would only hold out for a bit longer… Just a bit longer… Already, his legs burned like fire with the strain.

Run, child. Do not turn back.

Hardly able to draw breath, Elrond lunged forward, his boots pounding against the cold, hard ground. Just a bit longer… Hold on, just a bit longer.

Relief flooded his heart when the sight of the icy expanse spread before him, and for a moment, he felt a small renewal of his strength. Without so much as a glance at the thundering horde behind him, he limped onto the frozen path.

Already, the lights of Pelargir were in clear sight, their warm glow and promise of safety giving speed to Elrond’s aching legs. Despite his wound, he managed to maintain some speed, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

The cold wind struck his lungs and face, its force lifting his cloak behind him like wings. Despite the cold shock, he kept on, his gaze focused on his destination as he listened for the sounds of the Uruk army to fade.

But the uproar at his back did not lessen, nor did the arrows cease to fall. Horrid cries of “Kill the Elf” continued to fill the air, causing Elrond to turn his head and observe. The sight sent an icy chill of alarm through his frame.

The ice had not deterred the Uruk. Nor did it sink beneath their weight. It held, like a bridge as they continued their pursuit of the Peredhel... who drew ever closer to Pelargir. Even now, Elrond’s Elven eyes found the horrified faces of those watching the approaching onslaught.

His eyes beheld Kemen’s face, ghastly pale in the faint light of dawn, as he gazed from his balcony perch upon the river.

“Elrond!” Arondir’s voice cut through the din like a lifeline, catching Elrond’s attention mid-sprint. His eyes met those of the Silvan Elf and perceived the oppressive dread that resided there. Seeing the face of his friend, Elrond’s heart sank sorrowfully, and gradually, his broken steps slowed.

The sound of the Uruk at his back paired with the panicked worry in Arondir’s eyes informed Elrond that he failed once more. Failed as he had on the fields of Eregion. He had been a fool to believe that Durin would come. He remained a fool now for trusting in the honor of his brother’s line.

He knew had failed in his duty to his people, for his death would leave them leaderless. The haunting fear in Arondir’s eyes told him so, and he understood what he must do. It was he the Uruks sought. He could not allow the city to fall into their hands. Not before facing them himself.

With a last, sorrowful glance towards his companion, he halted in his steps, and drawing his sword, turned to face the approaching army.

“Commander, no!” Arondir’s voice was desperate, almost a scream, for he realized what Elrond intended to do. But Elrond did not turn back. He could not. Slowly, he retraced his steps, gripping his sword as he prepared to meet the army before him.

“Namárië, Mellon-nin” he whispered softly as the faint hiss of arrows met his faltering steps. “I am sorry…”

Arondir’s pained face played before his eyes now even as he faced his foe and certain death. Summoning what little strength he had left, he marched forward, Elven cloak and unruly curls blowing in the biting wind. His face remained calm and steady, even as he swallowed the ache of betrayal and pain.

Call to the water.

The thought struck Elrond like a Uruk arrow between the eyes, and his steps stilled. The water? The Anduin was covered in ice… There was no water to be found. But again, the voice sounded in the recesses of his mind.

Call to the water.

Elrond frowned faintly, glancing at the ice beneath his feet, and felt the strange beckon of the flowing tides beneath it, as if its flow reached for him. Perhaps streams lay beneath solid ice, but what of it? He did not wield the power as his foremother, Melian the Maia. Did he?

Setting his sword aside and bending to his knees, Elrond rested the palms of his hands against the cold surface. A gentle wind caressed his face as he closed his eyes, reaching for the power of the river, as Disa had taught him. Already, the melody of his fëa was greeted by a surge of life.

“Echuio! Waters of the Anduin… I command you to awaken!” he murmured, his trembling hands steadying. “Shed the bonds of winter’s hold… Echuio!”

The flow of the river beneath the surface seemed to join in the song of his soul, rushing like the swollen currents of spring. The flooding nature of the force stole his breath for all its power, causing his jaw to clench.

“Be free of the bonds of winter” he repeated, his own voice thunderous in his head as it warred and blended with the raging waters. “I command it!”

A loud, unmistakable crack erupted and broke the stillness of dawn. It was accompanied by a resounding crash, like the shattering of glass under duress. The whiteness shook under Elrond’s feet and splintered, as the current of the river fought to break free.

Distance screams caused him to glance up from his reverie. Before him, the ice caved beneath the rushing flow of the Anduin, sending the Uruk army into a feverish panic as the creatures turned back toward the shore.

But the fury of the river had been unleashed, taking with it the howling beasts as solid ice gave way beneath their feet. In a matter of seconds, the horde had been submerged and was swept away with the speed of a torrent.

Looking from the sight down to his cold hands, Elrond noted how violently they trembled. Never had he wielded such power before…

Before he could ponder it further, he felt the solid ground beneath him shatter and give way beneath his weight. Cries from the shore warned him of the danger, but he was too late.

With a fierce shock that gripped his limbs, he was swallowed up by the rushing river and dragged below the surface. His body was flung in every direction. He was too weak to stop it. The river raced with the force of a strong wind, carrying him through dark depths like an autumn leaf.

He fought to surface, but his cape had been caught on a broken branch. It pulled him down, deeper and deeper into the cold dark, until he thought his lungs would burst.

The cloak… He must remove the cloak. Reaching, his stiff fingers fought with the pin until at last, he freed himself, fighting amidst broken ice and debris to reach the surface.

No sooner was he free than he found himself face down on the shore, gasping and coughing until his throat burned. The cold morning air hit him like a crushing blow, leaving him to shiver uncontrollably where he lay.

Too weak to move, his mind drifted, with only the sound of distant voices to break the silence.

“Careful… I don’t know how… get him warm…”

Feeling gentle hands cupping his face, he drew an unsteady breath and allowed himself to rest at last.

Arondir refused to leave Elrond’s side, even long after the healers had tended to his wounds and given him dry clothes. Not even Theo’s worried insistence that he too needed rest could deter the loyal Elf from his post.

The young peredhel looked so pale in the firelight. Even under the cover of several blankets, his body shook, and his hands remained cold as ice. Weary as he was, Arondir suspected that his last efforts had nearly taken his life.

“You must be more temperate, Master Elrond” he chided softly, with a pained smile. “There is great strength in you, but… You must keep a bit for yourself.”

His eyes wandered to the flickering fire, willing his Commander to be well and hoping that the warmth of the flames might seep into cold skin.

After a short time, a faint cough caught his attention, and he turned to find Elrond stirring. “Commander” he murmured, lifting a steaming cup of tea to the Peredhel’s lips before settling him back against the pillows.

“Are they safe…” Elrond whispered hoarsely, eyes half-closed as he gazed up at Arondir. “The people… Are they safe?”

Arondir smiled and nodded, tucking the blankets more firmly around Elrond’s shoulders. “Perfectly safe, mellon-nin” he assured his weary companion. “They speak only of you, and your courage. You have saved their city and won their hearts…”

Elrond however, seemed to have drifted away, answering only with a faint hum as his eyes closed once more. “Rest, Commander” Arondir encouraged, laying a gentle hand against his shoulder. “Let sleep heal your body and unburden your heart. I will be here when you awaken.”

Annatar scowled darkly as he gazed upon the Mannish fortress, his fists clenched. Once again, it seemed, things did not play out as he had hoped, for few Orcs had returned alive.

Some unearthly force had thwarted his efforts to prey upon their fear, causing the river itself to melt mid-winter.

With a disgusted scowl, he turned away, his face darkened. “Find what you can” he instructed the creature standing at attention before him. “We will not march upon Lindon until I am certain we are not to be ambushed by this…entity.”

“An Elf, my lord…” the orc had the gall to counter. “It was a he-elf who did this…”

“Find him then” the Dark Lord hissed, losing patience. “Kill him if you must…”

Turning back towards the river, Annatar’s eyes rested upon a strange, grey shape at the water’s edge. Too small to be a body… Too limp to be a stone…

Drawing it from the water, the Dark Lord noted its Elven make, even as a flash of gold caught his eye. The pin, delicately crafted, was surely the work of Celebrimbor, though it did not bear the mark of Eregion. No, this crest he recognized to be that of the Elven High King himself.

The Elf he sought was of Lindon, he realized. A servant of the king…

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: The Sundering

It was different this time… Arondir could sense it in Elrond’s spirit, even as he rested. There was a distance, a brokenness that had not been there before. The uncertainty worried the Silvan Elf, his brow furrowing as he tucked the woolen blanket more securely over thin shoulders.

“Follow my voice, Commander” he encouraged soothingly, hoping that the return of strength to his body would renew his spirit as well. “I will not leave your side.”

The firelight played against the pale face, accentuating lines and crevices in the troubled brow that should not have appeared there. Dark curls lay scattered carelessly against the pillow, a stark contrast to the lightly-colored chemise the elf now wore.

How young Elrond appeared in his current state. How very young and Mannish, despite his immortal blood… It seemed as though the people of Pelargir had also taken notice, for they were inexplicably drawn to the Peredhel, tending to him as if he were one of their own.

For it was not the power of his song, nor the might of his deeds that had earned such loyalty, but rather the traits of his dual nature that had endeared him to their care. Bríd, one of Pelargir’s few healers, confirmed Arondir’s suspicions as she cleaned and redressed Elrond’s wound.

“He’s like us” she explained, notable tenderness in her movements as she bound the swollen ankle that rested in her lap. “To bear mortal blood is to understand limitation… To understand pain, My people would not wish to see him endure his suffering alone. Not when he has shown mercy upon our own.”

“I fear that his efforts take as freely as they give” Arondir noted, taking Elrond’s cold hand as a faint groan escaped the sleeping Commander. “Such power does not come without its price.”

The effort had taken its toll on the Peredhel, leaving him with little energy. It was the sorrow in his spirit, however, that truly unsettled Arondir. The burden upon the young heart lay heavy, but hidden beneath the guise of rest.

What was the source of such pain? How might he grant his Commander the relief he so desperately needed to heal? The answers evaded him, leaving him to observe as mental torment laid siege to the mind of his dear friend.

Kemen paced around the Great Hall, his steps anxious. The tenseness of those under his command hung heavy as fog in the air as glaring eyes and faint mutterings followed his steps. He had not anticipated the ruin he had nearly brought upon them, nor the splendid show of courage and power that Elrond had performed.

They were indebted to him... Every last one of them. Over the course of a few hours, the Elven Healer had captured the hearts and minds of the people; their healer. Their... savior...

The word nearly caused him to choke as he once more drowned himself in aged wine, though no longer in celebration. If the Elf recovered, the truth of his deception would be laid bare. And if he did not survive...

Kemen's hand shook as he placed the goblet down. Already, public humiliation, disgrace, exile, and even death played before his eyes as he tried to imagine what his people might do.

Worse still, he dared to imagine what the half-breed might do, should he live to see the light of day... With such immense power at his beck and call, there was no saying what unspeakable tortures the Elf could concoct...

“You would choose to sit here and wallow?” It was Hagen, the Low Man. Kemen could not remember when exactly the peasant had entered the room. “You coward…”

Kemen shot him an unsteady glare but did not refute the accusation. Instead, he dowsed his lips in another gulp of ruby wine. “How fares the half-breed?” he mumbled, his voice slurred.

Hagen’s eyes narrowed. “Mending” he answered shortly. “No thanks to you… Perhaps, I am too bold in asking, Commander… What were you thinking? Sending him to his death? Did you truly believe it would serve you well?”

Kemen slammed the goblet in his shaky hands down upon the oaken table. “Silence!” he muttered thickly, standing upon unsteady legs. “Do not question the actions of your leader…”

Even in the hazy light before him, Kemen could discern that Hagen felt no fear. “Commander, I do not count myself among the Faithful” he explained. “But I do believe this; the Elf was sent to us by the will of the Valar… He risked death to save us all from our demise… One that you hastened with your foolishness! I suggest you find a way to salvage this alliance!”

Kemen hissed angrily. “I will not grovel at the feet of an Elf!” he cried, nearly hysterical with intoxication. “He mocks us with his power!”

Hagen shook his head. “No…” he murmured sorrowfully. “You bring mockery upon us all with your insolence. If Númenor refuses to forge an understanding, Pelargir will do so without her council. Theo and I stand ready to offer Lord Elrond anything he wishes, with or without your consent.”

Not waiting for a response, the Low Man departed, leaving Kemen alone once more. Burying his aching, dizzy head in his soft hands, he bade his thoughts to cease as the wine dulled his awareness.

"You should be resting, Mellon-nin." Arondir's voice was quiet but firm as he came to Elrond's side. "I see how you favor your leg... It is too soon for you to resume such tasks..."

Elrond breathed a faint sigh and brushed away the incriminating moisture that had settled against his brow. Rising to his full height, he glanced at the bedded wounded among which he had been making rounds, before facing his companion once more.

"There is no cause for worry, Arondir" he assured the Silvan elf, with a small smile. "I am alright, truly..." Seeing the clear doubt in Arondir's face, he pursed his lips seriously. "I will rest when we have made our return to the Sanctuary" he assured him, laying a hand upon the Elf's shoulder. "You have my word."

His heart sank when his promise did not ease the concern in the solemn eyes of the archer. Instead, Arondir's gaze drifted downward to the hand that rested on his shoulder... Too late, Elrond noticed its tremor, and pulled away sharply, his eyes not daring to meet his companion's.

"Anin gell nîn, Master Elrond..." Arondir's voice was neither angry nor sharp. Only desperate with worry. "You are pushing yourself too hard. You have hardly rested. I fear for you..."

"Your fear is misplaced" Elrond cut him off sharply as he turned his back on the Silvan elf. He could not bear to face the disquiet he caused. Swallowing, he glanced down once more at his trembling hands before clenching them stubbornly. "I am well... We need not speak of this again."

He had been too harsh, he knew... Too quick in his dismissal of Arondir's concern. But the fear in the eyes of his companion only served to match his own, for even though the waters of the Anduin had spared his life, he felt as though he was drowning.

In a realm of unfathomable power, he considered himself to be too small and too fragile to wield forces beyond his strength. Every attempt left him weaker and more vulnerable than the last, leading him to wonder what would be left if he persisted.

He felt true purpose when exercising the art of healing. The sweet melody of his soul seemed to settle his fears, for there was comfort in the power of light over darkness. And yet, such ventures were not without cost...

He felt it now as he hurried away from the warmly lit hall to the moonlit banks of the Anduin. Something had been taken from him without replenishment; as if the very layers of his fëa were being stripped away... The light of his soul had not been extinguished, but rather, seemed to slowly dim like the dying light of dusk.

An unsteady hand came to rest against his aching chest as he slowly sank to his knees, his head bowed. The growing weakness within him could not be ignored, and it frightened him to his core. What would become of him if he continued to exceed the limitations of his mortal heritage? Would he fade unnoticed into the shadows?

No, he must continue, for it was the only way he knew how to protect and shelter his people... The Sanctuary was alone in its dogged survival, for no one knew nor cared enough to send aid. It was the only way...

Long ago, Elrond had begun to accept that Gil Galad would not summon him to Lindon. The orders to return home would never come... And yet, despite the diminishing hope, he had clung to the notion that his King would offer what was needed for the settlement to endure. Only now, as he stared down at trembling hands did he understand the folly of such a belief.

The aid he so desperately longed for was not coming; perhaps it never would... The High King cared no more for his herald, leaving him to his fate in a conquered land. His failures at Eregion had been too great to overcome.

His apprehension of the rings had been too inconvenient... For how could an elf of Peredhel blood hope to compete with the irresistible power of Celebrimbor's wonderous creations? What did he offer to his king that the rings did not?

Burying his shaking hands against his chest, Elrond closed his eyes to the silver river before him and drew in a slow breath. Who was he amid these warring powers? Where was his place in such a world?

Theo felt a chill run through him as the mist gathered and settled at his feet. The dark gloom of the forest had long ago begun to unsettle him. Even now, the faint rustle of twigs caused him to start with fright, his hand resting carefully on the thing around his neck.

"What kept you, Theo son of Bronwyn?" a voice sounded from the shadows, causing his head to turn sharply. "Why have your reports been delayed?"

Theo knew he should be reassured by the familiarity of the voice, and that his heart should settle in its uncontrolled beating. Yet, the iciness of the tone sent prickles of trepidation down his spine, and he shrank back with something akin to horror.

"Villagers were waylaid" he explained. "My friend, the Elf was among them... He was badly injured, I fear. He's getting stronger now..."

"Tell me..." the voice continued, as a figure emerged into the dim light. A tall, imposing figure, whose fiery eyes caused Theo to squirm under their fierce gaze. "Is your Elven friend responsible for the release of the Anduin?"

Theo's hands shook as he stammered in reply. "N-no... Not at all, my Lord" he managed to say. "Arondir does not wield that sort of power..."

The figure before him did not look pleased, eyes narrowing as he stepped closer. "I see..." he muttered with mock interest. "And does this belong to him, perchance?"

Saying this, the dark Elf deposited a ragged, grey Elven cloak at Theo's feet. Its threadbare edges and faded fabric were hardly noteworthy but not entirely unfamiliar to Theo.

"No..." he admitted at last, running a hand over the unimpressive cloth. "This is not his... It belongs to his companion. The Elven Healer..."

The burning eyes of the imposing Elf glinted, even in the darkened forest, causing Theo to shrink back, despite himself. The giver of gifts seemed amused by the revelation. "The Elven Healer..." he repeated quietly. "I know of no Elven Healers who wield such potent power... Perhaps, you are mistaken, Theo. Perhaps, this Elf is one of the wandering Wizards..."

Theo frowned with a quick shake of his head. "I think not, my Lord" he countered, though respectfully. "He is no wizard... Only Half-elven..."

"Half-elven?" the revelation seemed to stir something within the dark Elf that Theo could not discern. There was a deafening silence before the icy voice continued. "The Peredhel. I remember now..."

Theo frowned quizzically, taking a cautious step forward. "Remember...?" he asked, suddenly suspicious. "Remember what?"

The elf, who suddenly seemed lost in thought, started at the question, his gaze suddenly darkening. "Why do you tarry so, Theo?" he muttered, anger hinted in his tone. "I have given you the means to take your rightful place in Pelargir... Why do you allow others to fight your wars for you?"

Theo's eyes grew suddenly stubborn and defiant at the accusation, his fists clenching at his sides. "The time is not right" he spat back. "The Elves acknowledge Kemen's authority, not mine! They answer to Númenor..."

"In time, they will answer to you alone" the dark Elf promised, his voice as coy as a serpent. "If the ring you carry is put to proper use..."

Theo nodded vigorously, his hand clutching the object that hung from his throat. "It shall be" he promised. "I swear it..."

"See to it, you do not break this oath" Annatar's eyes were accusatory as flames flickered in their icy depths. "My gifts are given only to those deemed worthy of them."

Guilt pricked Arondir’s conscience as he tended to the small fire of the hut, his eyes upon the dancing flames. Elrond had surely been through a greater ordeal than he could ever dare to understand… It was not his place to question his Commander as he had…

And yet, the worry lingered, for he cared for the young elf, as one cares for a dear friend. With a sigh, he tossed another log upon the fire and slowly rose to his feet. So deep was he immersed in his thoughts that he hardly noticed the door open behind him until it was once again shut.

He was not surprised to see Elrond standing by, his face pale in the firelight. “Commander…” he ventured cautiously, stepping back to allow the Peredhel to enjoy the warmth of the hearth. “Shall I prepare us some tea?”

Elrond’s face was unreadable as he stepped closer to the flames. “Tea would be most welcome” he admitted, his voice low. He was silent then, staring listlessly into the blaze, until at last, he seemed to gather his thoughts.

“I was wrong, Arondir” he murmured wearily, his eyes still downcast. “To speak to you as I did… For that, I am sorry.”

Arondir’s face melted with compassion as he set the kettle down. “There is no need for apologies, mellon-nin” he soothed, his voice gentle. “I should not have pressed you…”

Elrond turned to face him then, and Arondir’s heart stopped when he observed that the grey eyes were bright with unshed tears. Never had he seen such distress in the Commander before…

“You were right” the Peredhel admitted, his voice low and somewhat unsteady. “Your fears are not misplaced, my friend… I share them, though I am too much of a coward to admit it, even to myself…”

Arondir frowned faintly, shaking his head. “You are no coward, Elrond Peredhel” he protested. “Rarely have I witnessed such courage as you have shown… But it troubles me to see you suffer so…”

His words brought a grateful smile to Elrond’s face then, though the burdened lines in the youthful face remained. “You are kinder than I deserve” he murmured quietly. “But I would not have you burden yourself with my troubles. All will pass in due time…”

Arondir nodded with understanding, though the worry remained etched in his brow. “Is there nothing I can do to ease your pain, Commander?” he asked with the mildness of spring rain.

Elrond’s eyes softened then, and he once again laid a hand to rest on the broad shoulder, this time with no shame. “Your friendship” he explained. “is the greatest source of comfort. And I am grateful for it, mellon-nin…”

Arondir nodded and smiled, his heart eased by Elrond’s reassurance. Breathing a sigh, he allowed the heaviness that hung in the room to pass.

“The Low Man, Hagen tells me that we are to be summoned to the Great Hall” he explained, skillfully changing the subject. “It appears as though the people of Pelargir are grateful to you for your services, and wish to make their gratitude known.”

Elrond frowned faintly, shaking his head. “I hardly think I am worthy of such gratitude” he fretted, to Arondir’s amusement. “I merely honored my share of the agreement.”

Arondir shrugged lightly. “It would seem you have done more than that, in their eyes” he pointed out. “Not all of the sons of Men stand with those who wronged you. Most look to you as their healer. Their ally. You have won their hearts, Commander.”

The headache was nearly unbearable as Kemen sullenly observed the fondness that his people showered upon the peredhel and his Elven companion in the Great Hall. Too much wine the previous night might be the true cause, but he chose instead to attribute it to the nauseating sight before him.

He had not spoken to Elrond since the inciting incident, nor did he wish to. Already, Hagen and Theo had managed to maintain negotiations, foregoing all discussions of betrayal and attempted murder.

Swallowing uncomfortably, Kemen moved away from the bedazzled scene, his steps noticeably hastened as he fled. Perhaps the Elves would depart from Pelargir without further need for discussion. Perhaps his position as leader of the small fortress was not to be jeopardized by his rash attempt at deception.

In any case, he wanted no part in tonight’s festivities, and opted instead for the safety of his quarters…

"Commander Kemen." The voice halted his retreat as all eyes turned on him. Turning to face the call, his gaze met the grey eyes of the elf. Forcing a weak smile, he swallowed nervously, for though the face across the room was serene, a fire burned in the starlit eyes.

"I should like to have a private word with you" the half-elf declared unassumingly, even as he moved forward to do so. Kemen found himself cornered, for all those under his command had beheld the exchange. They could not be allowed to see a show of cowardice from him, especially not under the gaze of an Elf.

"Very well, Half-Breed" he muttered, turning again towards the door, knowing the Elf would follow. A shiver ran through him as he emerged in the night air, though the cold was not the true source. With dread, he listened as the door closed and Elrond made his approach.

Though steeling himself for the confrontation, he could not have anticipated the deathly stare that greeted him when he turned around. For all his gentle kindness, the elf's face has suddenly been transformed by anger. Dark and terrible it was, with a fearful likeness to that of an avenging angel.

Kemen felt his heart leap in terror, for too late he realized that he had incurred the wrath of one who could smite him at will, should he so choose. But he must not cower. Not to an Elf.

"When you introduced yourself as half-elven" he scoffed brazenly, backing away even as he did, "You might have mentioned the power of the Valar that flows through your veins. Our negotiations would have been far different, for I would have never presumed upon your power..."

The Elf was silent as the grave, but he strode closer, causing Kemen to stumble backward in terror. "You might have been straight with me..." he spat, shuffling away from the Elf's approach until he felt his shoulders collide with a wall of stone. "Who are you, truly? I have never known an Elf to wield such power..."

Elrond said nothing, though his starlit eyes flared with such anger that Kemen recoiled in fright. The Peredhel's quiet fury might as well have been the scythe of death, for he had woefully underestimated the half-breed of Maiar descent; he had enraged one who wielded the very power of the gods.

Grey eyes bored into his soul, causing him to shrink, trembling from their gaze. "Spare me!" he shrieked, his breaths coming short and fast. "I never intended to send you to your death! I swear it! I will give you anything you ask! All of your demands..."

He felt Elrond's hand reach out and grasp a fistful of his fur cloak, pinning him to the stone wall at his back. "I demand only this..." the elf hissed, his eyes narrowed. “That you cease the dishonor that you bring upon your house! You disgrace the line of kings with your willful deceit!”

Kemen frowned, though his terror was in no way lessened. “And why would an Elf care so deeply for honor amongst men?” he scoffed. “There is no love left for the Elves in Númenor…”

Elrond’s gaze darkened. “I care” he countered. “Because, I am Elrond, brother to Elros, the first King of Númenor. He would surely weep to see the state of his line…”

Kemen squinted for a moment until his eyes slowly widened with understanding. “Elrond… Brother of Elros…” he murmured, remembering the hall of Lore. The tapestry that hung there… Two of them there were. Brothers, separated by the thundering seas. “You have not aged a day, since…”

There was grief in the grey eyes before him, and for a fleeting moment, Kemen regretted his treatment of the half-breed. But only for a moment, for those immortal eyes seemed to stare into his soul, and once more, they saw more than the naked eye could detect. He knew too much, this ageless creature with the knowing eyes…

“I swear on my life, I never meant to harm you” Kemen repeated desperately, cowering like a child. “You must believe me.”

“I do…” Elrond’s voice was calm and even, though touched by profound sadness. “You did not intend to kill me. That does not testify to your innocence, for you have killed before. Haven’t you?”

Kemen’s mouth went dry and his heart plummeted in his chest with dread. “H-how would you know?” he stammered, his voice unsteady. “You don’t know me!”

“I know the eyes of a murderer” Elrond pointed out stoically, though the rage still flashed silver in his eyes. “I know the eyes of a man who cannot escape what he has done…”

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: The Gathering Storm

“I know the eyes of a murderer” Elrond pointed out stoically, though the rage still flashed silver in his eyes. “I know the eyes of a man who cannot escape what he has done…”

“You are wrong, Elf” Kemen spat, trying to wrench himself free. Elrond, however, did not release him, for his grip on the fur cloak was as immovable as iron. “Unhand me!”

Elrond’s face darkened once more. “Do not try to deny it!” he murmured, his jaw firmly set. “I was raised in the company of Kinslayers. You think I do not recognize the haunted steps of one who has shed innocent blood?”

Kemen felt his breath hitch. He was cornered. No one in Pelargir knew of his crime. None save the strange creature of starlight before him. For all his cleverness, he had been discovered. “I would rather you be wise than clever.” Inwardly, he cursed his father’s words.

“I acted under the orders of the king!” he pleaded, cringing at the folly of the statement once it had been spoken. “I thought that, by my actions, I would find favor in his sight! And he sent me away, to my doom… You will never understand what it is to be banished by your king… By your own father!”

Kemen was surprised when the iron grip relaxed at this, even more so when he found the Peredhel looking at him strangely, as if unshed tears now glistened in his eyes.

“I do know…” The response was quiet but laden with grief. Elrond’s starlit gaze remained stern, though the anger had been replaced by profound desolation. “Many times over have I felt this pain. To be brushed aside as you have been…”

Something about the solemn sincerity of the Elf’s words moved Kemen to wonder if Elrond had, indeed experienced the blow of such a rejection. Was this pity he detected in the half-elf’s eyes?

Superior in every way, and fond of reminding the race of Men, the Elves, he had been taught, were to be resented and feared. But this one… He seemed to understand things in ways that his race did not.

Always, Pharazôn had revered Elven immortality as something to be coveted and won; a prize in his sight but just beyond his reach… Yet, never had Kemen considered that perhaps eternity brought with it unending hardship rather than unending joy… Had his father been mistaken in his desire?

“It matters not” he answered defiantly, attempting to mask how deeply Elrond’s words had affected him. “None of it. It was foreseen at my birth that I would come to ill ends… What reason is there to act rightly when my fate has already thus been ordained?”

Elrond frowned faintly in disagreement, though the sadness did not leave his eyes. “Do not attempt to place meaning upon that which you do not understand” he warned warily. “You know not the nature of the ill fate that has been foretold.”

Kemen scoffed and rolled his eyes. “And I suppose, you think that you do?” he mocked bitterly. "You may be a healer, but you cannot ease my pain!"

Elrond pursed his lips together seriously. "I cannot" he agreed. "But perhaps, I can prevent its spread..."

Kemen tossed his head indignantly. "Do not speak to me of such things!” he spat, his clenched fists shaking. “How would you know, Half-Breed?”

Elrond did not reply immediately, and Kemen recognized the hesitancy in his eyes as if the answer brought him immense pain. The silence was heavy between them as the Elf parsed his words. But at last, he drew breath to respond.

“Because I have lived it,” he said quietly, guilt coupling with the grief in his tone. “It was prophesied that the fate of one whom I greatly admired would be placed under my care. Celebrimbor, the greatest of Elven smiths, told me himself of my father’s foresight. In the end, it was not his future, but rather his blood that was left upon my hands.”

Kemen felt a chill run through him at the words as the Elf paused, gathering the strength to continue. And for a moment, Pelargir’s Commander felt compelled to relieve him of sharing more, so stricken was the face before him. But he chose instead to remain silent, and once more Elrond continued.

“I could not save his life, nor his legacy,” he explained softly. “And in my attempts to impress fate, I only hastened his demise. We cannot know the truth of the future until it comes to pass. Do not tempt yours, Commander… Even now, I sense that honor will be restored to you before the end. Take comfort in them.”

Whether Elrond spoke with the knowledge of foresight or merely in an attempt to restore hope, Kemen did not fully know. But the words themselves pulled away some of the darkness that had plagued him since the death of Valandil, for the Elf did not condemn him.

“Perhaps, there is no honor left in me” he muttered in grim despair. “Many would say that I am beyond the reach of redemption…”

“As long as you live and breathe, your honor may yet be restored” Elrond assured him, his eyes full of earnest sincerity. “Do not waste the opportunity to regain it, Commander.”

Kemen looked into the knowing, grey eyes before him, and was surprised by the strange awakening their gaze stirred within him. The Half-Elf was unpredictable, and so foreign in manner to those of his race that the Numenorean was left to question any preexisting notions he had maintained regarding the Elves.

And yet, in all of his strangeness, never had Kemen beheld a being of such ethereal yet warm bearing and wisdom as Elrond. Mortal blood touched by the very power of the gods… The sight evoked a feeling he had not felt for some time.

Hope.

Arondir was seated before the flickering flames of the hearth when Elrond made his return to the Great Hall. The beaded sweat across Elrond’s brow and the slight limp were not lost on the Silvan Elf as he drew closer. How tired the Peredhel appeared to be in the dim light of the fire…

“Commander” he murmured gently as he approached. “The men of Pelargir stand ready to prepare horses and supplies for our people. All shall be given when we are ready to depart for the Sanctuary.”

Elrond nodded his assent. “Good,” he said quietly, hastily brushing away the moisture from his forehead. “I should like to set out at first light. The sooner we make our return, the better… How is your wound, Mellon-nin?”

Arondir released a breathy sigh, his hand moving unconsciously to his injured side. “Not yet healed, my Lord,” he admitted. “But it shall not delay our departure.”

Elrond’s expression was skeptical as he slowly knelt before the Silvan elf. “Nevertheless, I would like to examine it,” he protested, though gently. “Do not feign vitality for my sake, Arondir. You have suffered a terrible blow.”

Arondir’s wound had improved considerably, Elrond discovered, as his eyes looked upon the mending abrasions. Neither infection nor swelling remained; only ugly, jagged scars. Still, the Peredhel could sense that his companion was weakened by the loss of blood.

“I would have you rest,” he commanded Arondir, who could not hide a wince as Elrond wound clean gauze tightly around his midsection. “You will need your strength for the journey.”

"Is it safe for you to travel back, as you are?" A voice at his shoulder asked tensely. It was Bríd, one of Pelargir’s few healers, who could be found most often at Elrond’s side as he worked. Dark and unkept hair framed her ashy face as she stepped forward. "Orcs yet roam these forests. You will no doubt attract attention."

Elrond sighed, his eyes drifting to meet hers. "The danger will not change if we stay," he concluded tiredly. "My people are well fortified, but have not the means of escape nor the supplies they need. I cannot delay."

She nodded reluctantly. "Perhaps my wish for you to stay is rather selfish" she admitted ruefully. "I had hoped that you would teach me the ways of healing... In the past, I gathered knowledge from our healer Bronwyn, before she…”

Elrond felt Arondir stiffen under his careful hands. “You knew her?” the Silvan asked breathlessly. “Were you an apprentice?”

Bríd shook her head sorrowfully. “I was not” she admitted, shrugging. “Merely a seeker of knowledge… Without her guidance, I hardly know where to start.”

Elrond nodded faintly as he wiped his hands of blood on a spare cloth, his dark curls cascading over his glistening brow. “I would be happy to offer you what little knowledge I possess,” he offered. “Have you pen and paper, so that I might inscribe it?”

Bríd shook her head. “You’ve done enough for us already, Elven Healer,” she declined, though reluctantly as she lightly touched his shoulder. “A lengthy journey awaits, and you are positively knackered.”

Elrond’s expression sobered, but remained kind. “We all are,” he agreed, attempting to shift the focus from his own exhaustion, which he sensed was becoming great. Choosing to ignore it, he forced a faint smile. “Get some rest, my lady. Pelargir will require your strength in the days to come.”

Elrond sensed Arondir’s steady gaze upon him as he tidied up after Bríd’s departure. There was no use in attempting to conceal the tremor in his hands… Already, the incessant shaking could hardly be missed.

It was the shadows beneath his eyes and the slowness of his steps that he wished to keep hidden, as he ignored the burning sting of sleeplessness and the dull throb of an ever-growing headache. His efforts, however, proved futile when fatigue caused him to stumble and nearly fall.

“My Lord!” Arondir was up in an instant, anxiously assisting the Peredhel to his feet once more. “Are you ill?”

Elrond slowly shook his head, drawing a quick breath. “Not ill” he assured Arondir, with a faint smile that did not quite reach the starlit eyes. “Merely clumsy. Nothing a bit of rest won’t amend… I am well.”

He hoped his friend would believe the lie.

“I suppose this is goodbye then,” Theo muttered grimly as he followed Arondir and Elrond through the muddy streets of Pelargir, a herd of five and twenty horses in their wake. “Will I ever see you again?”

Elrond felt his heart clench as he watched his companion lay a reassuring hand on the shoulder of the boy. “I made a promise to your mother, and you that I will never forsake you” he murmured. “It is an oath I intend to keep. I shall return, Theo. As soon as I am able…”

Theo nodded bravely, though Elrond could detect the tears in his eyes. At last, the young man could withstand the pain of departure no longer and thrust himself into the arms of the Silvan elf. “Be safe…” he mumbled thickly, even as tears ran down his cheeks.

Arondir nodded, his hand resting against Theo’s dark hair. Theo’s eyes then traveled to meet Elrond’s and his expression softened with gratitude. “Thank you” he said, almost in a whisper. “For everything…”

Elrond smiled faintly, his head inclining in a single nod. “Be well, Theo, son of Bronwyn” he answered graciously, clasping the boy’s outstretched hand in parting. As their hands separated however, a trace of darkness seemed to reach for the Peredhel, like outstretched fingers groping in the dark.

“Elrond…”

A whisper, both faint and resounding, echoed in his mind. The voice did not belong to Theo… Yet its familiar tone unsettled him, causing him to shiver.

“I see your mind… PEREDHEL…”

With a sharp inhale, Elrond drew back from Theo, even as he felt his face drain of all color. Arondir saw his distress, and at once grew concerned. “Commander?” he questioned, his tone urgent. “What ever is the matter? Have you foreseen something?”

No, not foresight… Something far more sinister had prodded the recesses of Elrond’s mind, though he could not determine what… He waited in a moment of breathless anticipation, but no whispers reached him now. There was nothing… All darkness had vanished without trace.

Perhaps, the weariness he had so diligently suppressed was beginning to warp his mind… “I thought…” he began to explain feebly. And yet, his words fled him and his thoughts collapsed. “Forgive me. It’s nothing…”

Nothing. The voice had been familiar. And it knew his name…

The morning light cast a glorious golden light over Númenor’s beloved hall of lore, illuminating the bright colors of the tapestry that hung before them.

“I never believed my likeness had been portrayed with justice," Elros remarked dryly, the way he always did. "You were a bit more fortunate... At least there's a resemblance."

Elrond gave a soft laugh. "Hardly" he protested fondly. "I barely recognize myself..."

Elros' expression morphed into one of profound concern then. "I hardly recognize you either," he admitted, his eyes traveling over his brother's appearance, so foreign from what he had become accustomed to.

Despite his more forceful nature, Elros had always been gentle with Elrond. He was now as he lifted a hand to his face.

"What have they done to you, little brother?" He asked, almost in a whisper.

Elrond felt his heart clench at the question, though he fought bravely to hide his pain. "It was my choice, Elros" he said quietly. "I followed this path of my own volition..."

Elros shook his head slowly, his gaze mournful. "The light is fading from your eyes..." He observed sadly, causing Elrond to swallow back tears. "If I had chosen differently, perhaps..."

Elrond placed a hand on his brother's forearm. "You chose rightly" he assured Elros, despite the ache of grief that begged otherwise. Your life was full and beautiful. I would not wish any less for you..."

Elros looked away for a moment before his sorrowful gaze returned. "Nor I you" he admitted. "And yet, it seems fate has not been kind to you. This..." He glanced at Elrond's curved sword. At the threadbare tunic… "This is not who you are."

Elrond squared his shoulders, once again attempting to rally his courage. "It's who I need to be" he countered, his voice soft. "Until Sauron is vanquished..."

“See your mind… Peredhel…”

The voice. A chill coursed through Elrond like deadly poison as he realized. It was Sauron… The voice was Sauron’s, reaching for him in the dark…

“Brother?” Elros’ voice cut through the panic that gripped him now. But only for a moment…

Before Elrond could answer, the world turned grey and dark, and a blackened sword lay useless at his side. In all directions, his blood was split upon the ground. And in the distance, a shadowy figure approached; slowly, like a wild animal crouching to kill.

“You call yourself a healer?” the voice hissed with searing malice. “You call yourself a Lord?”

Elrond shot up from his place beside the dying embers of the fire, his sword drawn. The night was dark and quiet. Sauron’s chilling whispers in his mind were no more… Panting, the Commander glanced in Arondir’s direction and was relieved to find that his nightmare had not disturbed the Elf’s rest.

Sheathing his sword once more, he glanced up at the night sky, searching for his father’s star in the hope that the little light would grant a bit of comfort. But alas, dark clouds gathered above, blotting out all light of the stars. In the distance, the horizon shone blood red as the fires of Mordor burned, hateful and destructive.

Elrond quickly lowered his gaze from the sight, glancing down at his stiff fingers, which now trembled with uncontrolled fury. His strength was dwindling, like the sands of an hourglass. He knew that he could not continue this way… Not for much longer.

And yet, Sauron’s gaze was upon him, making vigilance vital… Rest, complacency, weakness… They were luxuries he could no longer afford. Standing, he limped stiffly to the bank of the Anduin and dowsed his face in the icy water. It accomplished its purpose, for all traces of sleep fled him.

But when the water settled and the ripples smoothed, he was left to face his own reflection, a sight he was not entirely prepared for. Elros had been right in his assessment, for the face Elrond saw before him was one he barely recognized.

The curls were fuller, the skin paler, the clothes thinner and worn beyond recognition. But it was the eyes that startled Elrond most, for they had not the softness nor the light that he had seen there before. Only grey orbs, clouded by grief and loneliness, stared back at him.

“You call yourself a Lord?”

He was no lord. Only an abandoned outcast, forgotten and unwanted by those who claimed to care for him… The face before him could hardly be called lordly.

So different was the image before him from the vision of the bright and noble lord of starlight that he had foreseen long ago. Had he fallen so far from the future’s promise that it was now beyond his reach? Was this the price he must pay?

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he turned away from the damning sight, burning with intense humiliation even as his body shivered with cold. With no cloak to shield him from the chill, he huddled once more beside the faint warmth of the dying fire and willed his teeth to cease chattering as he awaited the dawn.

He must have drifted off once more despite himself, for a gentle nudge at his back roused him, causing him to turn. To his surprise, one of the horses had wandered to his side, its dark eyes considering him quietly in the dark. The steed was black as ebony, its mane hanging softly down its neck.

Through their travels, Elrond had noticed it among the others, for it had appeared frightened and wary of its companions. Now, it acted gently as it nuzzled his shoulder. “Tolo anin naur” he whispered, running a hand over its velvety nose. “Welcome, my friend.”

The creature seemed to understand, for to Elrond’s surprise, it settled down carefully beside him, whinnying softly. Its neck was soft and warm under Elrond’s gentle touch.

“Are your dreams troubled as well?” he asked lightly, smiling when the horse’s head bobbed in response. “It seems only Arondir has managed to find peace this night. I am glad of it. He requires much rest.”

The horse whinnied, once again tossing its head. “It’s alright” Elrond reassured the creature with a light caress. “No harm shall come to you here.”

Again, the animal protested, as if insisting, and for a moment, Elrond was silent, considering its meaning. When the horse did not quiet, except under his touch, he leaned closer, allowing his head and shoulders to rest against its broad neck. Only then did the horse calm with a rippling grunt of satisfaction, causing Elrond to smile.

“Thank you, my friend” he whispered, curling in closer as the animal’s warmth seeped into his shivering frame. Little time passed before his eyes drifted closed once more under the watch of the gentle creature.

“Arondir and Lord Elrond have returned!” The shout reached Vorohil’s ears, even from the Hall, and he dropped the sword he sought to sharpen. “At the gate, the Lord of the Sanctuary has returned!

The fiery-haired Elf’s fleet footsteps carried him to the place with uncommon speed as a welcome sight greeted his eyes. Horses, laden with food and supplies, filed into the fortifications, followed by Arondir and Elrond.

“Welcome” Vorohil called, hurrying to help the Silvan Elf, who looked poorly and pained as he dismounted. “Long have we anticipated your return!”

Other elves from the settlement were close behind Vorohil, all just as eager as he to see the return of their finest archer and their Commander. One of them steadied Elrond’s black steed as he dismounted.

"I am grateful, Lieutenant,” Elrond breathed as he approached. “For such a warm welcome.”

“It is well deserved, my Lord” Vorohil answered, clasping Elrond’s outstretched arm in greeting. “There shall be much celebration tonight.” Before he could explain further, he noticed that the Silvan Elf leaned heavily upon the support of his horse. Quizzically, he directed a worried glance back to Elrond.

“Arondir was gravely wounded during our time in Pelargir," the Peredhel explained, taking the reins of his mount once more. "Ensure he is comfortably settled. I shall see to his wounds once the horses have been bedded in the stables."

Vorohil hastened to obey, along with several others as they guided Arondir's weakened steps towards the Hall. In his efforts to support the Silvan Elf, the Lieutenant did not fail to observe the limp with which the Commander walked as he made his way in the other directions.

Elrond was pale, he noted, and dark shadows hung beneath his grey eyes, as they often did when he was overly taxed. A Mannish trait to be sure, but one Vorohil had come to recognize.

"Gunnalf" he called to the dark-haired elf at his side. Instinctively, he allowed his voice to drop. "Assist the Commander with his horse" he ordered, his eyes following Elrond with faint concern. "He is doubtless tired from the journey."

Tired could hardly describe what Elrond felt amid the evening’s festivities. Only the will to present strength to his people kept him on his feet now, as he wandered to the broad balcony overlooking the river below and watched as ominous clouds gathered across the horizon.

Light flickered and flared in the sky above, like the last remnants of his own strength. Somehow, his will must carry him, if his weary body would not. He must not let them see what the gift of Lúthien had done to him, for they needed it now more than ever… For Sauron’s shadow was ever growing. Ever seeing…

“There you are!” Vorohil’s voice sounded behind him, eager and loud in his ringing ears. “I’ve searched everywhere for you Commander. The people demand a toast.”

Elrond closed his eyes slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose against the headache that thundered in his skull. “I stepped out for some air” he admitted, his voice slow with tiredness. “And to admire your work since my departure. You’ve done well, Vorohil.”

Vorohil beamed at the praise, coming to his side to join Elrond’s watchful reverie over the growing fortress. “Only through your efforts, my lord” he countered. “You’ve given us what we need to survive against the enemy. You’ve given us hope.”

Hope. How could he supply them with hope when his faded with each passing day? When his wish to return to the service of the High King in Lindon drifted farther away as the orders failed to come?

“We have a fresh start, Commander” Vorohil continued. “A place we can call our own; a home.”

Home? This wasn’t home. It was a punishment; a cell he had been banished to for his distrust of the rings. How could he call such a place a home, when it was bereft of those he loved?

The pain in his face must have shown, for Vorohil's head tilted to one side in sudden understanding. "I know you have long desired to return to the beauty of Lindon, Elrond" he noted seriously. "But have you considered that perhaps, you could be happy here?"

Elrond tried once more to neutralize his expression; to hide the slow ache that sundered his heart. "I am quite content, Lieutenant" he murmured, with a faint, rather unconvincing smile. "How could I not be?"

He saw the doubt in Vorohil's eyes as a frown settled on his brow, and realized that his lie had not been accepted. "The people of this sanctuary love and admire you," the fiery-haired Elf explained passionately, with a hint of the same devotion in his tone. "After all that you've done for them..."

"I have merely done what anyone in my position would do," Elrond countered, though quietly. "No more."

Vorohil shook his head decidedly. "You have given far more than your share, my lord" he murmured, glancing briefly at the tremor in Elrond's hands. "And all of it, so that we might recover from the devastation we endured. Are you truly so repulsed by your place here that you would overlook its merits?”

Elrond raised weary eyes to the dark horizon and flashed a bitter smile. “I fear my own selfishness continues to cloud my judgement,” he murmured, his fingers moving absently along the wooden rail before him. “Lindon is the only place I had ever dared to call my home. To be sent away from it… To be seen as an unwanted burden… It is a wound that refuses to heal.”

Vorohil eyed him steadily, his cloak flowing with the increasing wind. “Perhaps” he suggested. “It is you yourself who refuses the healing.”

He turned to leave then, but paused at the door, his eyes meeting Elrond's as his face grew suddenly thoughtful. "Maybe it is time to let Lindon go" he suggested softly. "This is where you are truly needed, Commander."

His words haunted Elrond. Vorohil was correct, of course. The Peredhel knew it as he gazed at the oncoming storm. His place was here in the Sanctuary. The realization lent itself to him just as freely as the sting of loneliness that accompanied it.

"Let Lindon go..." The words reverberated through his mind like a hollow shout into the void. No matter the rationality of truth, his heart balked at the notion that Lindon was no longer a home to him. Eregion's survivors had lost their homes, and for the first time, he understood that he had also lost his...

Elrond felt his head swim with dizzying pain as his thoughts spiraled and his vision blurred. Frame drooping against the wooden rail, he was only faintly roused by a hissing whisper in his ear, that seemed to carry with the howling wind.

“You are weary, Peredhel… I can give you rest.”

Sauron. The Deceiver. Even in weakness, the Commander mustered the determination to resist. His whole body trembled as he gripped the wood beneath his white fingers.

“Be silent!” Elrond’s command shook the walls of his own mind like a violent earthquake. “I never let you in!”

The power of his words caused the taunting words to flee, taking with them the last of Elrond’s fleeting strength. Lightning radiantly split the sky above even as he slowly sagged to the ground. Stormy winds whipped at his curls as his aching head met the stone.

Not even the strength of will could sustain him now, for already he felt himself slipping away. The hourglass had emptied itself. Only faraway echoes remained, not near enough to contemplate or understand.

"Commander, are you well?" There was worry and volume in the distant voice as strong arms cradled his limp body. “Commander Elrond! Someone help! Fetch some water!”

Anxious anticipation nearly drove Arondir mad when he rushed as quickly to the Hall as his limited strength would allow. Wicked gusts and drops of rain from the impending squall tore at him as he hurriedly mounted stairs and burst through the double doors, his chest heaving with breathless gasps.

“Where is Lord Elrond?” he asked, moving closer to the silent faces that had already gathered to wait for news. “What has happened?”

When there was no answer from the grim group before him, Arondir eyed one of them sharply. “Varitan” he named the dark-haired elf insistently. “Tell me…”

Varitan shook his head. “We know not, except that the Commander yet lives” he explained. “Those with healing knowledge are at his side. The Lieutenant also.” The Elf’s explanation was interrupted when the door to Elrond’s chambers opened, allowing Vorohil to pass through. Immediately, he was met with the questions of those who loyally held vigil.

“How is he, Lieutenant?" “What caused his collapse?” “Has he awakened?”

Vorohil’s worry had turned to weariness as he surveyed the anxious faces before him. “There has been no change” he muttered flatly. “We have not yet discovered the answers we seek.”

As his burdened gaze swept over the crowd, his eyes met Arondir’s and he beckoned soberly. “Come” was all he said, and Arondir quickly obeyed.

The room was dimly lit by flickering candles, and completely silent apart from the steady drum of pouring rain overhead. Both the Ellon and the Elleth who stood at the bedside parted and stepped aside, allowing the Lieutenant and the Silvan elf to pass.

“Ai, Elrond…” Arondir whispered in agony as he glimpsed the frightfully pale face and reached out a hand to cradle it. Despite the beads of perspiration, the Commander’s skin was cold against the palm of his hand.

“I saw his poor condition,” Vorohil chided himself harshly. “And I spoke nothing of it… If I had made mention of it… Voiced my concern…”

Arondir shook his head, swallowing back the sudden swell of emotion that throbbed in his chest. “It is not your fault, Mellon,” he assured him, his eyes never leaving Elrond. He felt the Lieutenant’s anxious eyes upon him as he examined the bloodless face before him.

The lazy rumbling of thunder sounded in the heavens above before he spoke again. “I have seen the signs of this illness before…” he admitted at last, his voice heavy with grief. “It is the work of Uruk poison.”

As proof of his assessment, he uncovered the bandaged ankle of the Peredhel, revealing a healing scar beneath darkly spidering veins. While the wound itself had healed, the poison remained, seeping destructively into Elrond’s mortal blood.

The sight struck Arondir deeply as he was forced to remember Bronwyn’s painful death while fearing for the life of his dear friend, who appeared destined to suffer the same fate.

“Fetch herbs to slow the poison’s path,” he heard Vorohil order the Ellon and Elleth, his voice unsteady. “His strength has been too greatly diminished to resist it’ spread.”

Several tears smarted in Arondir’s eyes as he once again knelt beside the young Lord, cupping the cold face in his warm hand. “Do not take him from me, my Love” he whispered, so softly that he doubted Vorohil had heard. “Spare his life, Bronwyn, I beg you…”

At that moment, Vorohil knelt beside him, his face grave. “How may I be of help to you, Arondir?” he asked listlessly, his question drowned beneath the sound of torrential rain and thunder. “Is there nothing we can do?”

Before Arondir could properly answer, a knock at the door brought forth one of the many Elves who waited soberly on the other side.

“Begging pardon, Lieutenant,” the Elf said with a salute, failing to conceal his distress at the sight of Elrond’s poor condition. “A messenger has just arrived. From Lindon…”

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: Hide No Hurts

A dull quiet hung over Lindon's library, disturbed only by an uproarious rabble of young Elves passing the door on their way to the terrace. They were likely off to excise their swordsmanship, Elrond suspected.

What did it matter? Elros was no longer among them. He was far away, across the sea, a kingdom now in his care. In the days since his departure, the thought had struck Elrond many times, in many different ways.

Swallowing the ever present lump in his throat, Elrond's eyes drifted back to the weathered scroll before him and attempted once more to read what had been written. But already, his vision had been blurred by forming tears, a few of which fell soundlessly against the page.

The library was the only refuge that had not been seeped in fond memories of his brother, for the boisterous, charismatic Peredhel had spent little time there, despite his love of lore.

Elrond had hoped that such memories would not haunt him in this place. But alas, Elros' presence could still be felt, even through familiar sounds that drifted past the closed door.

Wiping away treacherous tears with haste, the Peredhel sighed heavily. Elros had chosen differently but rightly, a choice Elrond refused to make more difficult with the burden of his own sorrow.

He would find a way to carry on alone. For surely, the loneliness that wore away at his heart would pass, would it not..? He had never been alone before…

The High King too mourned Elros’ departure, for he had grown quite fond of the boy, whose commanding presence and kingly airs bore some semblance to his own. The very halls of Lindon felt silent without the rich tones of his resounding voice.

Gil Galad sighed heavily against such silence, broken only by the gentle swish of his golden robes. Where the spirit of Elros reverberated like the unfettered thunders of the skies, his brother’s was gentle and calm as a summer’s day.

Elrond had always been the quieter albeit the wiser of the two, with an intellect that dazzled even the most learned scholars. While his gifts set him apart, Gil Galad had often struggled to reach an understanding with the Elf, for their differences were stark indeed.

And yet… Despite such differences, the golden King had come to care for Elrond, as all who knew him did. Thus, his heart was torn when, upon entering Lindon’s library, he discovered the Peredhel, eyes brimming with tears, some of which lay spilt along aged pages. As it seemed, his longing thoughts of Elros were shared.

It saddened him to see Elrond brush his grief aside in exchange for proper decorum. “My king” he breathed, hastily rising to his feet. “You honor me with your presence… Forgive my appearance… I am not myself…”

Gil Galad’s eyes softened with compassion at the young Elf’s clumsy attempt to hide his tears and approached him quietly. “That is understandable” he admitted. “Given the circumstances…”

Elrond nodded slowly, his lips pursed in a thin line, as if to ward off unbidden emotions. The High King recognized the courageous effort, however, and chose to ignore it, lifting a hand to draw the Peredhel’s brow to rest against his own.

“Your brother’s choice has been made” he murmured in an attempt to soothe. “But you are neither kinless, nor friendless, Elrond… Do not forget that. I will not abandon you to your grief.”

“A messenger has just arrived. From Lindon…”

Vorohil’s steps were rushed and steady as he approached the main hall. The room was dim in the firelight, casting flickering shadows over a dark figure huddled near the door. He stood slowly as the fiery-haired Elf entered.

“Greetings, Lieutenant…” the low voice uttered in a somewhat grim salutation. Upon closer examination, Vorohil was surprised to recognize the face of the Elven messenger as a member of Gil Galad’s guard, whom he had long served with. Neither the shadow of night nor the hooded cloak could hide the familiar features and dark eyes.

“Guruthos” he murmured in awe, his arm extended in greeting. “What brings you to the Sanctuary? And in such wretched conditions as these?” Surely, a messenger of such high ranking spoke to urgency…

The messenger's cloak was slick with rain as he marched between the rows of staring Elves towards the hearth, streams of water dripping from him to the floor. His steps were heavy as he approached the warm fire, barely sparing a glance for those who were gathered in the Hall.

An uneasiness settled over Vorohil as he took in the hardened expression of the Elf, whose angular face sharpened with shadows cast by the burning blaze.

"Lindon has received no correspondence from Herald Elrond in nearly a month" he said dryly, his eyes cold. "The High King has sent me to discover the reason for such a delay. Have you an answer for me?" The dark eyes met his, and they were joyless in their critical gaze.

Vorohil, and the others looked at one another in bewilderment and even a touch of upset before the Lieutenant stepped forward tentatively.

"The Commander returned from Pelargir only this evening," he explained. "The journey these past weeks would surely account for his failure to write."

Guruthos did not seem pleased by the reply. "Perhaps the Herald could inform me of that himself," he challenged, invoking a sudden protest of whispers. "If he were here to welcome the messenger of the King..."

Frustration darkened Vorohil’s face then, as a scowl furrowed his brow. Was the Commander’s short-lived return not reason enough for his absence? "Commander Elrond returned to us in poor health," he countered defensively. "Even now, he is gravely ill."

The elf before them remained unmoved. "Is he, now?" He muttered in annoyance, his voice as icy as rainwater. "See to it that his duties resume when he has properly recovered from his… ailment. The High King has not the time nor the patience for such trivialities."

The Lieutenant's eyes flashed with righteous indignation as he stepped closer, genuinely satisfied to observe that his feelings were reflected in the faces of those who stood by.

"You are unfair in your assessment, ohtar," He replied with mounting rage, his fists clenched. "As you well know, Commander Elrond is peredhel... He has been laden by unspeakable strain, and is slow to mend.”

Guruthos grunted disapprovingly as he straightened the satchel across his chest. “Your words, Lieutenant, not mine” he muttered darkly. “In my estimation, the afflictions of mortal blood deem him unfit to command. I wonder that someone of your rank would take orders from one of such inferior breeding.”

Vorohil stared aghast at the other, stunned beyond words. “How dare you?” he murmured savagely, his eyes locking with the dark ones facing him. “I pray your words do not represent those of the High King himself…”

The Elf’s eyes narrowed. “You know they do not,” he admitted, his voice dropping. “The King favors the Peredhel, for reasons I do not understand. Come, Vorohil… He has always been lesser than us. Always strange. I heard doubts spill from your own lips after Eregion fell. Or have you forgotten the respect you once held for the strength of the King’s Court?”

Vorohil’s nostrils flared and clenched fists began to tremble. “I would gladly forget such notions” he muttered angrily. “For they were spoken in ignorance. Elrond has earned my loyalty, despite my doubts. He saved my life…”

“Then your loyalty is understandable,” the Elf admitted, patting Vorohil’s shoulder with mock reassurance. “Even if the Peredhel is unworthy of it.”

Vorohil violently jerked away from the gesture, his eyes burning with hot anger. “You may inform the King,” he seethed. “That communications will not continue until Lord Elrond is well. Now, leave this place!”

Guruthos glared at the disrespect shown him, but chose not to argue, for several others had risen to their feet, their eyes glowering with disgust. Wordlessly, the dark-eyed Elf retreated, making for the door and disappearing into the raging storm once more.

Vorohil’s breath came in short gasps as he angrily watched the messenger depart. Such disdain in Elrond’s own house would not be borne. Not if he had any say in the matter. And yet, his own guilt haunted him, for he recalled a time when he too might have uttered such mindless words as these…

Glancing about, he recognized the same thoughts in the eyes of those surrounding him, as they pondered their part in the doubt that had been laid upon their Lord.

“No one is to speak of this to Lord Elrond” Vorohil commanded soberly, his eyes hardly daring to meet theirs. “He is, at present, too sick to focus on such trivial matters. Do not trouble him…”

Every limb in Elrond’s body seemed to shiver with the icy ache that was rapidly taking hold. While the hum of rain on the rooftop was soothing, the clamorous bursts of thunder were horribly loud in his ringing ears.

The whispers of voices were distant and faint, except one. One continued to torment him, even when he strayed from the realm of the living…

“Such fragile immortality…” It mocked with false concern. “It’s a wonder you’ve survived thus far, Peredhel.”

“Get… out!” Elrond managed to say through clenched teeth, even as a violent chill swept through his veins like a plunge into freezing water. “You have… no place here…”

“Neither have you, it would seem,” was the languid response. “Even now, they stand by and jeer at your pathetic weakness.”

Elrond drew a sharp breath, his trembling hands tightly gripped the blankets. “Was it weakness…” he hissed. “That sent your Orcs to the bottom of the Anduin?”

A flare of angered flame alighted Elrond’s mind, searing him with new pain. “Beware, son of Eärendil…” Sauron’s voice was vicious with spite. “Such defiance shall be rewarded with torment…”

The chilling voice haunted him no more, but the sharp sting of his tired limbs remained. causing him to groan unbidden. Shivering relentlessly, he clung to the cover spread over his cold body, hoping it would relieve him, even in some small measure.

“Commander? Can you hear me?” the voice was low and soothing. “Arlayna has brought tea. It will lessen the chill. Try and drink a bit.” Gentle hands propped him up into an upright position and held him tightly as the rim of a warm cup touched his lips.

With great effort, he swallowed a portion of the hot liquid before his teeth rattled once more and his head sagged against the other’s shoulder. “I cannot…” he whispered, his voice nearly inaudible with fatigue. “I am sorry…”

“You did well,” the voice encouraged; Arondir’s surely. Who else would be so patient and kind? “Save your strength, Master Elrond. A deadly poison has caused this sickness. You must resist it.”

Careful arms guided the Peredhel back against the cushions and a warm hand came to rest against his cool brow.

“Remain here with us, mellon-nin” Arondir pleaded, his voice broken, Elrond discerned, with anguish. “I could not bid my Bronwyn to stay… She drifted beyond the reach of this world… Do not follow her, I beg you… My heart could not bear the grief.”

Despite the tremor of his limbs, Elrond lifted a hand toward his dear friend, who quickly grasped it. “I will stay…” he promised weakly, eyes still closed. “If I am able… It's… so cold…”

The warmth of another blanket settled over his shivering body in answer. Though it did little to lessen the chill, Elrond was moved nonetheless by the kind gesture.

“Better?” Arondir asked tensely.

“Hmm…” Elrond hummed in false affirmation, the loss of strength robbing him of the ability to form words.

“Rest, Commander” the Silvan Elf encouraged, running a thumb over the chilled, trembling hand he held. “I shall not leave your side tonight.”

Rest. It was a thing Elrond had only frugally partaken in since Eregion fell. And always, the haunting dreams and voices would rob him of it without warning. Even now, he feared the return of Sauron's venomous whispers accompanied by the thunderous storm that raged overhead.

Shaking still, he breathed a faint sigh of frustration, realizing that rest would be impossible, despite his mortal need for it. Arondir seemed to sense his distress and allowed a careful hand to rest over him, atop the woolen blankets.

“You were born in Beleriand, if I correctly recall…” the Silvan murmured softly, voice distant. “So was I, Commander. It was beautiful there, especially during the long summer months. I was a gardener in those days, tending to many living things. There was an especially lovely place by the river…”

Arondir's purpose proved successful, for visions of the untouched beauty of Beleriand began to fill Elrond's weary mind as he finally drifted towards the healing promise of sleep.

Days passed. And with each day, winter rain fell listlessly over the quiet valley. Arondir was beside himself as he took to the Halls to pace. To plead with the Valar to spare the dear Commander.

Elrond's condition failed to improve despite their efforts. Rather, he seemed to worsen, the plain of his mind darkened by a heavy fog of sickness and pain. He no longer cried out in sleep, leading Arondir to conclude that he had become too weak to do so.

Thus had it unfolded with his beloved, Bronwyn. Her strength had dwindled like the embers of a dying fire, until it was snuffed out altogether.

Arondir could not bear to watch the starlight collapse and fade within Elrond, and at last, he left the Commander's chamber to clear his head.

The rain had abated at last, leaving a blanket of dense mist in its wake. It parted lightly as the Silvan Elf passed, like an old friend making way for his steps. Arondir, however, hardly noticed, his eyes focused on the barracks ahead.

He had known that Bronwyn was unwell in her final weeks. And yet, she had kept her silence, as if avoiding mention of the danger would protect her from its deadly stroke. His inquiries had been dismissed, until far too late. He should have insisted on further care; should have recognized the signs and protected her from an enemy he could not see.

And he should have done the same for Elrond... The Peredhel had pushed himself too hard. Many had noticed, had asked, and had forgotten, yet none had acted as the Commander sickened before their eyes, growing ever weaker until his body gave way beneath the strain.

The surge of bitter shame that ate away at Arondir was accompanied by the familiar feeling of hurt that had settled over him when he wondered why Bronwyn had insisted in wellness, when it was so clearly false.

Why had Elrond and Bronwyn alike concealed their suffering from him? Did they find him untrustworthy? Or did the burden of what was expected leave them feeling the need to prove their strength?

Neither should have borne such pressure, he thought dimly as he leaned against the support of a stone wall. Bronwyn's courage and leadership had shown brightly, both in battle and in peace.

And Elrond... Even now, Arondir continued to find himself awed by his Commander, a sentiment he knew was shared by all in the sanctuary. There was a greatness and a power in him that the Peredhel failed to recognize in himself. Perhaps, someday he would.

As if in answer to his thoughts, sunlight broke through the heavy mist allowing the Silvan Elf to see the glittering world around him. The valley was surely beautiful, lending restful places among the trees and rocks to anyone who might find them. If only the Peredhel would allow himself to partake in such comforts…

"Arondir..." A voice cut through the Silvan Elf’s thoughts as he shouldered his ready quiver. "Commander Elrond has awoken."

The news immediately broke the silent vigil Arondir had kept in his heart. "Tell me..." He breathed anxiously, falling into step beside the Ellon with a brisk pace. "Does he improve?"

"Greatly so," the Elf replied, with no hidden sense of relief. "He is stronger this morning. He even accepted food and water when they were offered. He requested to see you, if you are not otherwise occupied..."

"Of course..." Arondir nodded slowly, mixed emotions stirring within his anxious thoughts. "Of course, I shall see him "

The sweet warble of a bird's song greeted him as he entered the sunbathed room. The charming sight of a nightingale perched on Elrond's outstretched hand brought a smile to his face before the little creature retreated through the open window, leaving them alone.

“Commander” Arondir breathed, stepping into the room with the lightness of a summer’s breeze. With some hesitancy, he took in the Peredhel’s appearance, somewhat altered from what he had grown accustomed to.

Though pale and notably weak, Elrond’s face seemed to glow with the restorative light granted by hard-won rest.

The dark curls were untamed and touched by golden strands as they spilled loosely over his shoulders and against the pillows. The grey eyes shone brightly of soft starlight as they considered him with eager anticipation.

Descendant of Melian and Lúthien indeed… Even as their power, no longer dimmed by illness, flowed through him, the sight once again stirred awe in Arondir, as if he witnessed it for the first time.

Beneath the shadow of weariness, it had become far too easy to forget that the one he served was a child of the stars.

“Commander” he repeated softly as he approached the foot of the bed. “It lifts my spirit to see you well again.”

Elrond’s eyes were gentle with a smile as he drew in a deep breath. “I owe you a debt of gratitude, mellon-nin” he murmured thankfully, his voice steady, though not yet strong. “Your words… They guided me towards peaceful thoughts. Only then, did I find rest.”

Arondir smiled, acknowledging the thanks with a bow of his head. A faint frown, however, continued to crease his brow as he gathered the right words before he was prepared to speak once more.

“Why did you conceal your suffering from us, Commander?” he asked suddenly, for memories of the agonizing fear that gripped him only moments ago were not easily forgotten. “What was the cause for such secrecy?”

Arondir wondered for a moment if he only imagined it when a distant cloud blotted out the shining sun, for it reflected the distinct downturn of Elrond’s bright smile. The Peredhel shifted uneasily under his questioning gaze.

“I thought it would pass…” he admitted at last, a faint blush betraying his humiliation as it colored his pale face. “I did not realize the serious nature of my condition… The Elves of this sanctuary require my strength. How could I offer them weakness in its stead?

“Weakness?” Arondir’s frown deepened as the memory of Bronwyn’s dying breath assailed his senses. Death had stolen the very warmth of her hand as he held it like a treasure slipping through his fingers. How close Elrond had come to sharing such a fate…

Frustration, fueled by grief, suddenly simmered in his chest, for the stubborn Peredhel seemed determined to minimize the mortal danger he had faced.

“We all feared for your life, Commander!” he protested with more severity than he intended. “Twas foolish of you to conceal your ills. Before his departure, the High King warned me of your disregard for your own safety. Even now, you shield yourself from your people when you should not."

Glancing up, he realized that Elrond’s face now ached with true remorse as he lowered his gaze in shame, nearly causing the Silvan elf to regret his harsh reprimand.

"Forgive me..." Elrond murmured unsteadily, his eyes dark and large against his peaked face. "It was wrong of me to hide it from you..." The heartfelt apology and the clear distress on the youthful face before him was enough to dissolve any frustration that remained.

Not for the first time, Arondir was reminded of how young Elrond truly was. Hardly beyond Elven youth and inexperienced in war... Armorless and swallowed up by an array of blankets and cushions, he appeared so small to his eyes. Merely a boy...

“An appearance of strength would do your people no good, my Lord” he answered, more softly this time. “If your ailment had sent you to the Halls of Mandos…”

"I fear I have disappointed you," Elrond mourned with regret, his gaze falling with shame upon his trembling hands. Arondir's sternness dissolved instantly as he seated himself beside the young Lord.

"On the contrary," he assured him. "You have inspired your people with the goodness of your heart and the strength of your will. Yet, you keep yourself apart from us. Are we to stand by and observe as you shoulder a burden that threatens to crush you? You became ill under my watch, but you spoke not of it. Speak now, Mellon-nin... To me. To your people."

Elrond's eyes were bright with unshed tears when they rose at last to meet Arondir’s. "If they find frailty in me,” he murmured, his voice low. “All the love and loyalty I have fought so hard to earn will be destroyed..."

Arondir shook his head, taking Elrond's trembling hands in his. "In seeing your hurts, they shall know that they are not alone, Commander" he assured the Peredhel quietly, cradling the pale face with his warm hand. "They are a broken people... They look to their healer for guidance. Can you give it to them if you do not heal yourself?"

“Lieutenant Vorohil claimed he was quite ill… Though I suspect one of his odd Peredhel afflictions is truly responsible for his absence.”

As he unsheathed his sword, Gil Galad could not settle his mind in preparation for the onslaught that threatened Lindon’s encampment. According to the messenger, his herald was unwell. Quite unwell, and miles away from the home he held dear… From the people who cared for him…

Regret soured the High King’s stomach as he passed through the camp, wishing with every fiber of his being that he could ride to Elrond’s aid and ensure that he was well.

“The enemy approaches, High King!” Galadriel’s warning roused him vaguely, though his thoughts remained with his Herald. Perhaps he had been mistaken in sending Elrond away… Perhaps Cirdan’s council had proven true; that he was the true source of Elrond’s foreseen torment. The very thought sickened him now.

He would write, as soon as time permitted. As soon as there was a moment to spare, rare as such moments were, he would send a message to his herald, and ensure his safe return. As soon as this was over…

“High King!”

The shout alerted him, but too late, his attention returned to the situation at hand. Showers of arrows rained down upon him and his guard, lodging all about like the wayward barbs of an angry quillback.

Dazedly, Gil Galad fell to his knees amid the shafts, hissing sharply as he felt one buried deeply in the flesh beneath his shoulder plate. Blood poured over his hands and the shining gold of his armor. Firm hands lifted him to his feet, though he could not distinguish the faces they belonged to.

In a dizzying haze, his head swam and his vision blurred as he stumbled forward, helped along by others stronger than himself. Vilya pulsed frantically on his finger as if in rhythm to the beating of his own heart.

And then… The voice erupted in his head, like a hidden geyser flooding his senses with crushing force.

“This is but a taste of the pain that awaits you…”

Lulling forward, the Golden King’s head sagged, his dark locks shielding his face. “High King!” Galadriel’s frantic voice sounded in his ear.

“Ereinion!”

Even with Arondir and Vorohil at his side, Elrond worried that his unsteady legs would give out. He knew the weakened state of his body following the illness was not entirely to blame.

Rarely had he addressed those under his care in such an open fashion as he planned to now. He could feel their eyes upon him as he stood at the head of the Hall. A tight knot formed in his stomach when his gaze wandered over the room, meeting theirs.

Some appeared relieved at the sight of his recovered state. Some seemed to continue to hold concern for him, for neither his strength nor the color in his face had fully returned. In all, the faces before him waited, eager to hear the words he sought to share.

Sparing glances to the loyal Elves that flanked his either side, he drew a calming breath before he spoke, his voice a bit stronger than it had been.

“In light of wise council offered by a dear friend, I felt it necessary to call you here” he said, casting a grateful smile in Arondir’s direction. “There has been a shift in the tide… Sauron’s strength ever grows in Middle Earth. I have perceived threats… Glimpses of his mind. We must prepare ourselves to face whatever he has in store…”

The dread on the faces before him stirred reluctance in his heart, for the burden of such knowledge should remain his alone. But the strength of the city demanded transparency. Who was he to withhold the truth from them?

“Our position is vulnerable” Vorohil admitted doubtfully. “And as such, we are forced to depend on our allies for support…”

Elrond nodded slowly. “You are not wrong, Lieutenant,” he agreed. “But, we cannot forget that our relations with the peoples of Middle Earth are where we draw strength. Sauron has no friends nor allies. He is alone in his fight…”

Silent nods of agreement passed over the beloved Elves before him, and a smile flitted across his lips when he felt the weight of Arondir’s hand come to rest upon his shoulder, as if in silent agreement. The small gesture gave him the strength to continue.

“We must also rely on one another” he added, his voice softer. “That is why… I feel I must be straightforward with you. As your leader… As your friend…”

He felt Vorohil’s eyes upon him quizzically, but did not turn to face him, determined to press on. The palms of his trembling hands grew moist as he parsed his words, which were strangely difficult to express.

“The songs of power have placed a heavy strain upon me,” he admitted, swallowing his shame as a blush brought color to his sunken cheeks. “With every attempt, I find myself weaker than before, and in my cowardice, I chose to conceal the truth from you. Such secrets do not become of people of our resilience, for the truth is our most lethal weapon against the Great Deceiver.”

Expecting to receive looks of ridicule and admonishment, Elrond was surprised to see his contrition reflected in the faces before him, as if all had been led to reflect upon their own short comings.

“My Lord,” Vorohil dared to speak at last, his brow furrowed with guilt. “There are perhaps none among us who did not question your capability in the past” he admitted honestly. “How could we hold your distrust against you, when the blames lies with us alone?”

“My limitations continue to be irksome,” Elrond protested quietly. “Your doubts are not entirely without merit…”

“You have proven them to be so, my Lord,” a fair-haired Elleth declared from the crowd of faces. “You have given us a haven after Eregion fell. Our wounds have been healed by your hands…”

Another stepped forward, his eyes remorseful. “We have fought by your side, Commander,” he murmured. “And we have all seen the strength in you… There is no doubt left for you to dispel.”

“You need not seek to prove your worth,” Vorohil affirmed, laying a hand on Elrond’s shoulder with genuine care. “When you were ill, we did not condemn you… Rather, we suffered with you, and begged the Valar for your life… We care only for your protection, my Lord.”

“And I, yours” Elrond managed to answer as he felt his heart stop at the praise. With the admission, it seemed as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and a lightness fluttered like bird’s wings in his chest.

His face must have betrayed the sudden flood of relief, for a glance told him that Arondir’s face beamed with pride and satisfaction as he listened.

“Still, you are owed the truth from your Commander,” the Peredhel admitted humbly. “It is our trust in one another that makes us one. Let us hide no hurts from each other. It is a difficult oath to keep, but… a burden shared may be halved. And when the burden is eased, all of us are stronger for it. Hidden wounds have no cure; only those brought into the light can properly mend."

“You speak the words of a healer, my Lord,” Arondir murmured with a devoted smile. “As Middle Earth falls beneath the destructive power of the Dark Lord, it is the search for peace that will lead us to the light.”

Elrond nodded, glancing once more at the Elven faces who now looked to him for guidance. “I swear to you” he promised, his eyes lifting to the visible night sky, seeking his father’s star. “We shall indeed find what we search for.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: Reckless Abandon

Even before the news reached the Sanctuary, Elrond felt it. The sharpness of the wound, the chilling whispers, the darkness closing in. The brush had slipped from his hands and Caurëa’s blackened mane as he stood beside her in the stables.

“High King…” The words had escaped his lips, even as he sank to his knees beside his frightened steed. “Ereinion…”

Frightened whinnies from the stalls and frantic breaths from his aching chest had summoned Melthorean and Vorohil, who hastily hauled him upright. “What ails you, Commander?” the tall Ñoldorin cried franticly. “Speak!”

Elrond’s hand had come to rest over the wild beating of his heart, as if the action might slow it somehow. Drawing breath, he spoke at last. “Gil Galad…” He murmured faintly. “I feel his suffering in my mind…”

Vorohil paled at the realization, his grip on Elrond’s arm tightening. “What has happened?” he asked, his voice sharp with worry. “Commander…”

Elrond shook his head apprehensively, gently freeing himself from their grasp when he felt equal to standing alone. “I do not know,” he admitted, with a hint of frustration. “It is difficult to decipher…”

The news came two days later; the High King had been badly wounded in an unforeseen ambush and showed no sign of awakening. The wretched news had left all in the Sanctuary shaken and fearful. Yet none were as distraught as Elrond, whose fear grew desperate as it trammeled him like a heavy chain about his neck.

“I must go to him.” His voice had been strong and insistent as it echoed through the Hall. “Who will carry on his duties when he cannot?” Arondir and Vorohil, however, had been quick to discourage his zeal.

“Galadriel writes that you are to remain here,” the Lieutenant had pointed out, waving the incriminating scroll in front of him. “Orders will come when the High King has given them.”

Elrond’s face then fell in defeat, his eyes downcast as his comrades attempted to console him. “Then we must do what we can,” he insisted, his voice more subdued than before, though the desperation remained. “Even in our current position, we can draw enemies away from Lindon to relieve the King’s forces.”

And so they had. Scouts scoured the surrounding districts, searching for enemy parties as they moved from Mordor to Lindon. The Commander spent his days in the saddle, assisting patrols in their pursuit of Sauron’s forces, with varying success.

When darkness fell, Elrond’s nightmares returned with unforgiving vengeance as his tired mind conjured the horrors done to his King or, worse still, the gruesome fate of Lord Celebrimbor. Some nights, sleep evaded him altogether, leaving him to pace about the quiet sanctuary like a wandering ghost in the night.

Restlessness tortured him with a relentless grip as he went about his self-imposed duties, futilely hoping that such efforts to ease Gil Galad’s troubles were not in vain.

Had it been mere hours or many days? Gil Galad could not quite recall, for the light was dim behind his eyelids. Consciousness came slowly, aided by the call of Nenya and Narya as they hummed in tandem.

Evil voices whispered through the darkness, beckoning to him like the sirens of the sea. Yet, he must resist them and stay the course. He must not falter. With this resolve, High King opened his eyes at last, gasping for breath.

“Steady… Steady now…” Círdan’s voice was soothing as he helped his king to sit upright. “You are still weak, Ereinion… Your wound was grievous.”

“The Orcs who waylaid your company are being hunted as we speak,” Galadriel spoke from the corner at which she stood. Her eyes were narrow with vengeful intensity as she watched the King’s ginger movements. “I shall command a sortie, even now, if you but speak the word…”

Gil Galad shook his head, breathlessly raising a hand to the once-injured shoulder that now seemed to heal, a feat accomplished only by the rings of power. At last, the heaving of his chest began to slow.

“No, that is not necessary,” he assured Galadriel, more quietly than either of his companions had expected. “Do not shed more Elven blood in fruitless efforts… The fault is mine alone. I was… distracted, as I ought not to be.”

Galadriel huffed indignantly, though it was clear from the paleness of her face that the situation had been more grave than her stern stoicism betrayed. Sensing that she had taken the guilt for his fall upon herself, Gil Galad chose to give her reason to ease it.

“Send word to our allies that our need has become dire,” he commanded, daring himself to avoid the concern in Círdan’s eyes. “The enemy grows ever bolder in his pursuit of victory. There is no telling what course he may yet follow…”

This satisfied Galadriel’s ire, and she quickly returned to the field of battle to obey, her gaze defiant and stony as she left the regal tent.

When at last they were alone, Gil Galad finally gave way to Círdan’s worried gaze. “You are greatly troubled,” the shipwright guessed tensely, his armored hand reaching out to ease the High King’s attempt to stand. “What seems to have caused your distraction?”

Stumbling towards the rudimentary desk on the other side of the tent, Gil Galad leaned upon it heavily, his eyes traveling to the scrolls scattered before him. “I have heard whispers,” he admitted wearily. “Voices and words I do not wish to recall. I fear…”

When he did not continue, Círdan stepped forward with sharp urgency, his blue cloak fluttering with the breeze. “What is it you fear, Ereinion?” he asked soberly. “What have you seen?”

Silence lingered for only a moment before the golden King dragged his reluctant gaze to meet the shipwright’s. “I fear I was wrong to leave Elrond in the hidden valley,” he murmured at last. “Perhaps, you were correct in believing that I might become the source of the suffering you foresaw. His face haunts me day and night…”

Círdan’s concern did not abate with this revelation as he lifted a hand to the High King’s shoulder. “Do you have reason to believe that Elrond has come to harm?” he asked quietly.

Gil Galad swallowed helplessly. “I do not know,” he admitted gravely. “A messenger brought ill tidings; that Elrond was quite unwell… I have had no word since..”

Círdan nodded slowly, his hand dropping to the sword at his side. “You wish to summon him to Lindon then?” he guessed, the light of the lamp flickering against the shine of his breastplate.

Gil Galad sighed and closed his eyes, sinking weakly into a chair nearby. “I am hesitant to interpret what I have seen and heard,” he admitted. “I should like to take counsel with my advisors before a decision is made.”

The thunder of hooves filled Elrond’s ears as his small company returned to the courtyard, faces grim with failure. Hours in the saddle and a sleepless night had left him exhausted and sore, though he spared a faint smile as Arondir took Caurëa’s reins.

“Aldol, my Lord,” the Silvan Elf greeted him with characteristic warmth, as if sensing the fruitlessness of their mission. “My company was not far ahead of yours…”

Slipping fluidly from his loyal steed’s back, Elrond removed both bridle and saddle before patting the darkened mane with a gentleness that ironically contrasted the fierce armor he wore. “Abarad, Caurëa,” he whispered. “Return to the stables.” When the horse obeyed, Elrond turned his attention to his friend once more, a tired smile gracing his face.

“Your spirits are raised, Mellon-nin,” he observed. “What news of the enemy?”

Arondir shook his head, though his brightness did not falter. “None, Commander,” he admitted. “Though our travels did not leave us entirely empty-handed… We returned to the Sanctuary with a familiar face.”

“Balderdash, Arondir!” Vorohil spluttered at Elrond’s side, the escapade having dampened his mood. “Just another mouth to feed when we barely have enough to go round!”

His raving stopped short, however, when a fair face emerged from behind Arondir, her expression alight with some touch of amusement. “You are quick in your judgments, Elf,” she chided with an easiness that quickly struck the fiery-haired Elf dumb as she stepped forward. “I need not your rations to sustain myself.”

Elrond’s weary face shone with recognition. “Aldol, my Lady,” he murmured, taking her hand in warm greeting. “Lieutenant Vorohil, this is Bríd, Pelargir’s finest healer. She assisted me greatly during my time there.”

Vorohil’s face with pale with both embarrassment and something else that Elrond could not quite discern. “I beg your forgiveness, my Lady,” he murmured respectfully, his head bowed low. “My words were spoken without care. I fear our journey has left me ill-tempered and short of strength.”

Bríd smiled as mortal blood cast a delightful rosiness upon her fair face. “As I see,” she agreed, glancing at Elrond and Arondir. “You look as though you've had no rest.”

Elrond laughed softly at her boldness. “Surely, you require it as well,” he suggested, taking her hand and leading her towards the Hall. “The path from Pelargir is no small journey…”

“Indeed, it is not,” she admitted, evidently honored by the kind reception she was receiving from her Elven hosts. “I come bearing news and gifts from Commander Kemen.”

Concern flitted across Elrond’s striking features, even as a frown darkened Vorohil’s face. “He sent you here, alone, my Lady?” the Lieutenant asked incredulously. The burning starlight in Elrond’s eyes reflected the question as Bríd sheepishly sought to answer it.

“Commander Kemen refused to spare a single man to accompany me,” she admitted. “But the choice to leave was mine alone. He did not believe it could be done, less so by a woman such as I. He has been proven wrong before…”

Elrond nodded, brow still furrowed, though his eyes were kind. “Tell me everything, Bríd,” he encouraged.

“I do not come without reason, I fear.” Bríd’s voice was timid as she met the intensity of Arondir and Elrond’s stares. “Pelargir verges on civil war. Theo is gathering support among the Lowmen. Rumors suggest that he seeks to overthrow Kemen and secure leadership over the settlement for himself.”

Elrond rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes upon the favors from Pelargir that lay scattered upon his desk. “Kemen knows of these rumors?” He asked seriously.

“They have certainly reached his ear,” she confirmed. “I believe he intends to request support from Númenor, should the unrest continue…”

Arondir’s eyes were grave. “This unrest…” he asked. “Was it the reason for your departure? Is there danger in the city?”

Bríd slowly shook her head. “There has been no escalation,” she admitted. “Only words spoken… I was not driven from Pelargir in an act of self-preservation…” She paused, as if ashamed, before continuing, her eyes meeting Elrond’s. “It was my desire to learn the art of healing that brought me here,” she admitted quietly. “Though I dare not ask such an indulgence.”

Elrond smiled gently and shook his head. “You need not ask,” he assured her. “You are welcome to stay here if you wish. I am no master of healing, but together, we might pursue the knowledge we seek.”

Bríd appeared to be close to tears, so profound was her relief. “May the Valar bless you, Elven Healer!” she breathed, her hands clasped in gratitude. “Had you refused, I would not know where to turn…”

“You shall have a place here,” he promised her warmly. “For as long as you wish.”

Arondir’s thoughts, however, had already turned to the unexpected peace offerings spread upon the table. “What of Commander Kemen’s gifts?” he asked, perplexed. “If I may be so bold, it is unlike him to express such generosity… Is there no message? No request to accompany this offering?”

Brid smirked wryly at the question, her nose wrinkled with amused annoyance. “My only instruction was to present the gifts to ‘the half-breed’, in so many words…” she explained, glancing at Elrond with a hint of worry. “A token of his kindest regard and friendship… But, be wary, my Lord,” she added carefully. “I doubt his intentions were noble.”

“You must think me naive,” Elrond mused thoughtfully. “If you believe I would consider this a mere gesture of goodwill…”

Bríd shook her head with a relieved sigh. “Well then, it would seem your wisdom has proven me wrong,” she admitted, concern draining from her countenance. “I suppose Commander Kemen has not exactly been… subtle, in his attempts to garner your support.”

Elrond smiled knowingly at the jest. “Fear not, my lady,” he murmured, examining the items spread across his desk. “In my esteem, allegiance cannot be won with bribery… These shall be treated as gifts, nothing more…”

A glance in Arondir’s direction, however, informed him that the Silvan Elf was not yet prepared to abandon the discussion. “And what of Theo, my Lord?” he asked cautiously. “Surely, you would not withhold support from his cause, should the need arise?”

Elrond stared down at the weathered map before him, leaning forward as one bearing a heavy burden. He admired Arondir’s loyalty to the boy, and yet… Instinct warned him against any such pact with Theo.

“We shall remain neutral in such matters,” he decided evenly, sensing rather than seeing the sudden betrayal that clouded Arondir’s expression. “Our alliance is with the men of Pelargir. The question of leadership is theirs to answer.”

“Forgive me, Commander,” Arondir protested, with forced diplomacy. “But as the situation stands, Theo is the rightful ruler of the Southlands. The crown should rest upon his brow.”

Elrond’s gaze rose to meet the steely one of the archer’s, his jaw set against the willful stubbornness that hung heavily between them. “That is for Pelargir to decide,” he reiterated, his voice unwavering. “It is unwise for us to determine the fate of a people that is not our own.”

Arondir’s frown deepened, his frustration clearly mounting. “I look upon Theo as if he were my own,” he countered, his voice low in its anger. “His people look to him as they did his mother… How can you discount that, my Lord?”

Elrond’s fingers tensed in an attempt to curb his own stubbornness before speaking. “Forgive me, my Lady,” he addressed Bríd, his eyes never leaving Arondir’s. “Might we have a moment of privacy?”

Bríd was hasty in her departure from the room, for the tension was thick as boiling pitch. Elrond did not lower his gaze until the door had been securely shut, leaving only a painful silence between himself and the Silvan Elf.

“Elrond…” Arondir’s voice shattered the stillness at last. “I understand that Commander Kemen’s position promises communication with Númenor… But are you truly so quick to forget his crimes against you? Theo is guilty of no such atrocities… I beg you to reconsider.”

Elrond breathed a tired sigh and glanced again at the map. “I will not determine the legitimacy of Pelargir’s ruler,” he insisted. “Not when both leaders in question have left me in doubt of their aptitude…”

Arondir’s eyes widened, bewildered by the suggestion. “In doubt?” he questioned, aghast. “What cause have you to doubt Theo, Commander? What has he done to share the bitter scrutiny of one such as Kemen?”

Swallowing tensely, Elrond straightened once more, his shoulders squared resolutely as he faced his friend. “I sense great darkness in him, Mellon-nin,” he explained, his heart aching when Arondir’s face tensed. “An evil shadow haunts his steps… I felt it strongly in his presence.”

Arondir released a troubled breath, his face betraying his horror. “Perhaps grief has darkened his spirit,” he suggested, though his tone informed Elrond that even he could not accept such a notion. “With guidance, he might be swayed…”

“I fear he is already under the sway of one who might turn his heart to darkness,” Elrond murmured, his voice strained by the difficulty of the admission. “When our paths parted, I felt his presence… Heard his voice in my mind… The Dark Lord.”

“No!” Arondir backed away slowly, his face stricken with alarm. “It can’t be… As I recall, you were quite unwell at the time, Commander. Surely, your fevered mind is to blame for such illusions.” Elrond eyed the Silvan Elf with as much gentle compassion as he could muster before slowly shaking his head.

“I fear, there was no error in my perception, Arondir…” he confessed softly, his eyes eager to offer comfort. “To grant power to Theo is to give agency to the Deceiver… He must denounce the shadow before we can offer support.”

Arondir’s face remained unmoved in its displeasure. “You spoke not of your concern at the time, Commander,” he muttered brokenly. “Why did your fears remain hidden?”

“Would you have listened?” Elrond asked pointedly, knowing well the answer. Arondir’s steadfast loyalty to Bronwyn, and by extension, her son, would dismiss such accusations as utterly false. As if in answer to his grim thoughts, the Elf shook his head.

“No,” he admitted joylessly. “I would not. Nor will I now, for I refuse to believe that my beloved Bronwyn’s son would allow himself to be prevailed upon by the shadow of Sauron!”

Saying this, he brushed past his Commander with a desperate fury that none in the Sanctuary had ever seen in the characteristically gentle soul. The sight caused Elrond great disheartenment as he moved aside and sank into the softness of his pallet, his face buried in his hands.

How he wished he were wrong regarding Theo's state of mind… How he wished to give the kind-hearted Silvan Elf peace…

The impossibility of pleasing all under his care was a burden Elrond had not anticipated. Perhaps, this was a taste of the difficulties the High King faced as he led his people through uncharted waters. Not for the first time since sunrise, Elrond longed to be by the King’s side…

The beginnings of a fierce headache knocked against his temples, forcing him to massage his brow in search of relief. Perhaps, a strong tea would alleviate the pain…

Before he could stand to fetch it, however, he was surprised by Melthorean, who entered his quarters in a blusterous hurry.

“My lord,” the towering Elf panted tensely, his hand upon the hilt of his sword. “A swarm of Orcs has been spotted on the East Road, en route to Lindon!”

Vorohil could sense the strained tension between his Commander and the Silvan Elf, even from a distance. Both were uncharacteristically silent as the armed company rode to meet the unsuspecting enemy in combat. Their eyes did not meet, not even in wordless counsel.

Perhaps the terror that had taken hold after the High King’s injury was the true reason… He was aware of the sorrow that now rested in Arondir’s eyes. The burden that now weighed too heavily upon Elrond’s young shoulders.

The men were tired, their tempers short. After so little rest or relief, even warriors such as Arondir and Elrond might falter in the face of such darkness. The sight of Orcs in the distance, however, captured his attention before he could reflect further on the matter.

“Steady!” Elrond’s voice was strong, despite his weariness. “Steady! Av-'osto! Do not fear them! Remember our King!”

“For the King!” Vorohil shouted the cry before his mind realized. “For the King!” the riders answered in unison, their battle cries capturing the attention of the Orcs below.

“On my mark!” Elrond shouted, turning Caurëa about to face his followers. “Archers, wield your arrows to the right flank! Swordsmen, follow me! Ride for your King! Remember what they have done! Prove love and loyalty as you face them now!”

Unsheathing his curved blade, he held it high above his bare head, dark curls flying in the breeze. “Follow my lead!” he cried, his voice commanding in its fury as he whirled about with Elven grace. “Herio!”

Despite the friction that had come between them, Arondir could not help the sheer wonderment that stirred within him when he beheld the clouds part and the heavens open for Elrond as the young Commander galloped toward the ferocious horde. Descendant of Melian the Maiar indeed…

The sight gave him and all beside him courage as the light from above cast the Orcs into confusion and terror, falling easily beneath Elven blades.

“Take aim!” he called to the archers at his back, drawing his bow with ease. “The armor is weak! Find your mark! Fire!”

A shower of arrows rained down upon the Orcs, while the fierce blows of Elrond and his followers wreaked havoc on the other side. The enemy was faltering, even after the first charge.

“Raise your bows!” Arondir lifted his own, reaching for an arrow, when an unpleasant gnashing of teeth reached his attention. Glancing around frantically, he immediately saw the danger as it approached.

A dozen or more rabid creatures, unleashed in desperation, were rapidly approaching. “Wargs!” Arondir cried, alerting his company as the beasts fast approached. “Brace for the Wargs!”

The warning served them little, for a single arrow was not enough to subdue the violent, snarling beasts. Their claws tore through armor, rending flesh and bone beneath. Erratic movements sent even the strongest of warriors into a panic, as the creatures buried their teeth into flaying limbs, drawing rivers of blood.

“Steady!” Arondir’s shouts were fruitless as he watched his company fall back beneath the attack of the maniacal dogs. “Hold the line! Kill them!”

Grimly, he prayed to the Valar that Elrond’s company had fared better as he strung an arrow to his bow, a gesture that was quickly nullified by the sudden weight of a Warg as it knocked him from his horse, its wild eyes raving with a thirst for blood.

For far too long, Arondir wrestled with the beast until at last, his trusted dagger sank into the roof of its gaping mouth. Wiping the poisonous drool from his face and neck, he sprang to his feet, only to find that his victory had come too late. Already, Orcs swiftly approached, their arrows aimed in readiness to kill.

“Raise your bows!” Arondir shouted to anyone of his company who still stood. But alas, the charge of the Wargs had sent them into disarray, making them vulnerable to the slaughter at hand. “To arms!”

“Fire!” The thunderous growl of an Orc shouted, unleashing the deadly whistle of poisoned barbs. Ducking his head, Arondir braced himself for the approaching wave of death. But it never came…

The Orc shafts fell harmlessly to the ground, as if redirected by a strong gust. Impossible! Arondir stumbled to his feet, glancing up in time to see a single, dark horse and its rider gallop fearlessly past him and toward the gathering Orcs.

Elrond.

“Dagranno!” The Commander’s shout rang out over the battlefield, inspiring courage as he charged. Another round was fired upon him, and again the very wind itself cleared his path. The Orcs were powerless against the skill of his deadly blade, falling beneath him as he passed through their lines like a reaper.

“The Elven Healer!” one of the foul beasts shouted, even as he fled. “Bring him down! Kill him!”

Elrond’s heedless charge had given Arondir’s followers the time they needed to regroup, but it came at a cost, for the Commander stood alone as he faced the enemy’s wrath. Surrounded by snarling faces, he still managed somehow to ward them off.

“Commander!” Arondir’s voice was nearly a scream as he lifted his bow. “Get out of there!” A breath later, he realized that his calls had been in vain, for the earsplitting crack of explosive powder echoed through the open air, blowing the frozen ground, along with several unfortunate Orcs completely to bits.

Arondir watched in horrified shock as Elrond was brutally flung from his horse with the force of the blast, only to plummet heavily to the ground, eyes closed, face to the sky.

“Elrond!” Arondir’s movements were frantic as he surged forward to reach the fallen elf. Was he badly wounded? Dead? From the looks of it, the powerful blast could have easily killed him.

His was not the only voice that cried out for the Commander. His company voiced their distress also, as they hastened to his aid. Despite their haste, the Orcs reached the fallen Peredhel first, descending upon him with all of their wild cruelty. The sight gave speed to Arondir’s legs, determined as he was to retrieve the Commander, though dreading to think what he might find.

And yet, there was a shout, a choked growl, and a frantic scramble ahead… Orcs fell back screaming and hissing, favoring injuries that could only have been inflicted by an Elvish blade.

Hardly daring to believe what took place, Arondir looked upon the panicked horde and saw… Surely, it could not be! But there was no mistake. Elrond had managed to rise once more, his entire body slick with blackened blood as his curved blade dealt death.

He fought with the raging fury of the Fëanorians, no doubt remembering Gil Galad’s brush with death as he faced it now himself. He hardly noticed as Arondir cut his way through the lines to reach him, his eyes focused on nothing but the enemy at hand.

“Commander!” Dodging blows, Arondir laid a hand on the Peredhel’s armored shoulder. “Get to safety… Go!” Why did the stubborn Elf not listen? Instead, his gaze remained trained on the fight, his movements determined and deadly.

“Commander!” Arondir’s voice was sharper now, as he remembered the fear that had gripped him only moments before. “We need you alive! The High King needs you alive! Get out of here!”

Only mention of the High King seemed to sway Elrond from the task at hand, and at last, he reluctantly relented, swinging himself into the saddle behind Vorohil when the Lieutenant galloped by to assist.

“Bring him to safety!” Arondir instructed Vorohil. “All shall be over soon!”

Sure enough, the skirmish did continue for long, as the Orcs found themselves outmatched by Elven skill. Those that were left retreated towards Mordor once more, too few to cause harm to any save themselves.

Bríd had taken it upon herself to ready the Hall for healing and was prepared when the Elves triumphantly returned at nightfall. Noticing the number of wounded, she immediately mingled among the ranks.

“Take the injured to the Hall,” she called, assisting a wounded swordsman as he dismounted. “There are blankets and bandages ready for use!”

“Clever of you to arrange things ahead of time, my Lady.” She turned in time to see Vorohil approaching her, leading a speckled mount. “Our company is most grateful.”

“I suppose then that I have earned my place,” she guessed, her voice teasing. “As more than just another mouth to feed…”

Vorohil smiled ruefully and shook his head. “Goheno nin,” he apologized, his head bowed once more. “I fear I have spoiled your welcome here…”

She smiled playfully. “There is time yet to prove yourself,” she offered. “Are you hurt?” He shook his head, though she sensed the lie, and noticed a horrid gash inflicted upon his palm. “Allow me,” she murmured, holding gentle hands toward his. Without glancing up, she could feel his soft eyes upon her as she worked and found strange comfort in them.

“Thank you, my Lady.”

Despite the tension between them, Arondir continued to worry for Elrond. The Commander moved now among the wounded, his skilled hands and gentle melody bringing comfort to those under his care.

Despite the outward appearance of warmth and serenity, the Silvan Elf saw a stiffness to his movements; a haunted look in his eyes. It was hardly the appearance of one who had triumphantly vanquished many foes… Grey eyes, though bright with starlight, were troubled and restless as Elrond went about his work.

Assisting where he could, Arondir remained close by, determined to ensure that the Commander did not work himself to death in a fit of stubbornness. Sighing heavily at the thought, he turned back to the makeshift cot he was constructing.

“Arondir,” the Silvan Elf looked up sharply into the face of Melthorean, who had not partaken in the day’s skirmish. “A message arrived for you this evening… From the very hand of High King Gil Galad.” Saying this, he held out a scroll to the archer. “It seems rather urgent.”

The mention of the King caused Arondir to glance in Elrond’s direction and notice how the Commander’s hands had begun to tremble with the strain.

“Thank you, Melthorean,” he murmured, his voice low. “I shall read it at once. In the meantime, ensure that Commander Elrond seeks rest. He is, no doubt, exhausted.”

Try as he might, Elrond could scrub neither the blood nor the grime from his thin tunic, which could hardly be called anything but a sorry pile of rags in his dripping hands.

The steam of hot water filled his lungs and dampened his face as he leaned over the makeshift washtub, his fingers frantic in their efforts to free the torn, grey cloth from its many stains.

"Your mighty deeds will not save him, Peredhel..."

That voice... Again, it taunted him, even in victory. Swallowing, he pursed his lips together and doggedly continued the task before him, scouring the tattered garment with greater fury. Gil Galad had been wounded, and his own herald had not been there to take the blow for him...

He would have done so gladly. He would face a vicious Orc horde and cover himself in their blood ten times over if it granted his king any relief at all... He could not fail again. Not again. Not now.

"His fate is sealed," the whispers hissed. "Your efforts will not correct the course of fate…”

His fingers grew raw against scalding water and worn material. Why did the darkened blemishes remain? Perhaps if he tried again, with greater force, they would be erased, and the tunic might be saved. His hands shook, but he pressed on, more feverishly than before. The stain must be expunged. It must.

“Ereinion will fall.” The sickly sweetness of the tone left him nauseous as it filled his head. “Like Celebrimbor before him…”

Elrond’s hands went still, and the threadbare tunic, discolored beyond recognition, sank to the bottom of the basin. Gasping in the thick cloud of steam, his gaze fell vacantly upon his reddened hands as they trembled.

He had been too late, for long ago, the blackened smears had been set in permanence, never to be reversed or removed… He had been too late to salvage it. He had been too late…

“My Lord…” a voice pulled his gaze toward the door, though his mind remained embroiled in its downward spiral. Only the worry on Arondir’s face could pull him from it enough to speak plainly.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, making to stand and finding the motion to be torturous. Masking a sharpened wince, he struggled to his feet. “I did not hear you knock…”

Arondir’s blue eyes narrowed as they examined the Peredhel’s face. “You are injured, Commander,” he observed quietly, his brow furrowed with concern. “The bruising upon your back…”

Elrond gulped silently, realizing that Arondir had undoubtedly seen the consequences of his reckless abandon that now decorated his bare shoulders and spine. He forced calm amid inner conflict, allowing his breaths to slow.

“It’s nothing…” he assured the Silvan Elf, his voice only slightly clipped with unspoken tension. “I am fine. Truly.”

Arondir drew closer, his eyes falling upon the shakiness of Elrond’s chapped fingers. “I see the pain in your eyes,” he observed softly, setting his bow aside.

“Do not trouble yourself, Arondir. In truth, I…”

“Elrond!” Arondir’s voice was low but stern in its reprimand, and Elrond chose to heed it, though with great reluctance. With a slight dip of his head, he slowly turned toward the hearth and allowed the Silvan Elf to examine the injuries that spread like a map across his back.

“Your stubbornness is enough to test the most patient of hearts, Mellon-nin,” Arondir chided quietly, his eyes following the dark contusions that evidenced injury. “Must brave deeds come at such a cost?”

“Would they be considered brave if they did not?” Elrond asked, his eyes distant as they gazed into the flames of the fire and took in its warmth. “Much must be sacrificed in war. It is a price I willingly pay if it- Ah!”

He cried out in agony when light pressure was applied to the soreness, and felt more than saw Arondir’s growing concern. “You need medicine,” the Silvan Elf murmured after a momentary pause. “You cannot continue to exceed your limitations…”

Shaking his head, Elrond moved away, bending carefully to lift the sodden remains of his grey tunic from the washbasin before wringing it out. Already, the water had gone cold, and it sent a shiver through his body as he straightened.

“Our King lies wounded in Lindon,” he countered with slow deliberation. “You would have me stand idly by as the enemy rages upon his threshold and attempts to prey upon his vulnerable state?”

Arondir’s frown deepened. “His state would become more vulnerable still,” he muttered calmly. “If he knew you had come to harm. He cares for you, and as such, values your wellbeing above all else…”

Arondir spoke with layered meaning, which Elrond did not fail to detect. Relenting beneath the fierce perseverance that shone in his friend’s eyes, he nodded slowly. “Just as you care for Theo…” he guessed, his tone even once more.

Arondir blinked, subtly surprised that the Commander had sensed the true intention behind his words.

“I fear that, in my stubbornness, I have been uncaring,” he conceded. “Your concern for the state of Theo’s mind bears weight. But I must show support for him, regardless of the risks. I cannot abandon the pledge I once gave to his mother…” Elrond’s eyes immediately softened with sympathy.

“And I would never ask that of you,” he assured the solemn Elf. “You are my friend, Arondir. As such, I order nothing but caution concerning Theo's fate. I would not have you, nor this Sanctuary in the path of Sauron's eye.”

Arondir nodded slowly, his eyes brightening at last. “I understand,” he murmured reverently. “Time alone will reveal what path Theo will choose. Until then, I will exercise the utmost caution. You have my word.”

Saying this, his eyes fell to the ruined tunic in Elrond's shaky grasp. “Twas your courage that won the day, Commander,” he murmured quietly. “And yet, victory has not satisfied your disquiet.”

Elrond spared a glance at the rumpled fabric in his hands before tossing it aside with a sigh. “I cannot rest until I am assured of the King's protection,” he admitted. “Though I am helpless to ensure it…”

A strange look passed across the Silvan Elf's face then. Seeing it, Elrond froze, the words dying on his lips. “What is it?” He managed to ask at last. “Arondir?”

The archer eyed his Commander with apprehension, and a slow hand reached for the small scroll tucked away at his side.

“I have had word from Lindon,” he admitted, holding out the correspondence to Elrond. “The High King recovers, thanks to the power of the Rings… Even now, he summons allied nations to himself and prepares to retaliate.”

Elrond glanced at the written words and nearly wilted with relief to find that the hand was indeed Gil Galad's. “This is…” his voice was but a fluttering laugh as the tension left his chest. “These are welcome tidings indeed…”

Arondir nodded gravely, but did not smile. “Indeed, my Lord,” he agreed. He paused for a moment before continuing with some difficulty. “He wishes you to remain here, but… He has asked that I join him in Lindon.”

In an instant, all elation sank with Elrond's heart as the words struck him like a blow. Arondir had received orders to depart. And while he yet remained in the Sanctuary, the armies of Middle Earth would gather to face Sauron's power.

All of the fierce loyalty and concern he had felt for Gil Galad were replaced with the familiar disappointment that always haunted his steps.

Arondir, his dear friend, would go. And once more, he would watch alone as his people moved towards a new age. One that surely would not include him.

It did not matter… The fate of Middle Earth was in the balance, and he would do his part, small and trivial as it may seem. The ache of rejection would pass, as it always did. Eventually, it would pass.

Forcing a brave smile to hide his devastation, he lifted his eyes to meet the question in Arondir's. “Your skill as a warrior will surely prove invaluable to them,” he affirmed, his voice surprisingly steady. “The High King could ask for none better.”

“Commander…”

“Lady Galadriel is, no doubt, eager to fight at your side again,” he added, with forced lightness. “And King Durin… I daresay you will greatly enjoy his company. The strength of his loyalty and heart is uncontested…”

“Commander.” Arondir's hand against his shoulder ceased the flow of his words, and a shiver ran through him as intense blue eyes rested on him.

“I have decided to remain here, with you,” he said quietly. “I will not be leaving for Lindon.”

It was not the answer Elrond had expected, and he struggled with a reply. “I don't understand…” he stammered, lost for words in a way that was so foreign to his silver tongue. “This is a great honor, Arondir…”

Arondir shook his head. “An honor I have chosen to forego,” he explained. “My place is here, for I sense the need is greater.”

Elrond tilted his head to one side doubtfully. “The great war is being waged,” he pointed out. “The High King requires his finest warriors for such a fight. Are you certain?”

Arondir smiled, nodding slightly. “Quite certain,” he affirmed with utter surety. “I would not leave my post so readily, Mellon-nin. The King has many to stand at his side. Someone must stand at yours.”

Gratitude flooded Elrond's face as he was once again struck speechless by his friend’s kindness. With a breathless sigh, he guided Arondir's brow to rest against his. “Thank you…” He whispered, trembling fingers tightening in their grip of the Silvan Elf's shoulder. “Your friendship is a gift I can never hope to repay. You have my sincere… Ah!”

Once more, an unbidden cry escaped him as agony flared from his injuries. Arondir was quick to act, gently encouraging him to lie face down upon his modest pallet.

“Do not thank me for friendship, Master Elrond,” he ordered, turning to create a salve from the herbs that lay scattered about the Peredhel’s quarters. “It is freely given. Though perhaps, it is I who owes you thanks… You saved my life today, to your own peril… Rather recklessly, may I add…”

Elrond’s eyes were already tightly shut against the pain of Arondir’s careful ministrations as the liniment was applied. Despite himself, he managed a faintly mischievous smile. “And I would do it again,” he admitted shamelessly. “If only to see the surprise on your face anew.”

His saucy reply brought a smile to the Silvan Elf’s lips. “I am not so easily amazed, Commander,” he admitted with a slight nod. “And yet, by the Valar, you manage it somehow with each passing day…”

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: The Eve of Battle

“The light grows dim, my Lord.” From his place astride a now-shingled rooftop, Elrond glanced down to the ground where Melthorean stood and mopped his brow with weary satisfaction.

“I need but half an hour more,” he protested lightly, glancing at the other Elves who shared his task. “The shelter is nearly complete…”

Melthorean, however, refused to relent. “You are out of time, Sir,” he called from below, his hands cupped to his mouth. “The labor has not ceased since dawn… Do not deprive yourself of rest or sustenance. Come, supper has already been prepared.”

With a sigh, Elrond shoved the hammer he held beneath his leather belt and swung his legs over the newly constructed ridge. “Very well,” he relented with a faint smile as he descended the ladder, followed shortly by the other artisans. “We must hurry to complete the work tomorrow. I sense the winter winds carry snow with them. Far better to be prepared…”

“Indeed,” Melthorean did not bother to question his Commander’s keen awareness of the weather as he threw a cloak over thinly clad shoulders. Instead, his focus found Elrond’s face. “You look tired, my Lord…”

Elrond nodded slightly and fell into step beside the towering elf as they made for the Hall. “I am tired,” he admitted, “But content. The strength of the valley grows each day. It lifts my spirit to see such progress.”

Indeed, the little Sanctuary had grown and flourished in the weeks after Elrond’s return from Pelargir. Fortifications had been strengthened. Housing had been skillfully erected. There were even hopes for an extensive garden, an undertaking which would be overseen by none other than Arondir, who delighted in the idea.

In all tasks, Elrond did what he could to assist. Building walls, clearing paths, hammering boards… He found the physical labor to be both challenging and rewarding, despite the fatigue that accompanied it.

It also served as a worthy distraction, though he was loath to admit it, even to himself. It would be a falsehood indeed to claim that Gil Galad’s indifference towards him had left him unaffected. It hadn’t. It stung with the fire of a poisoned wound and worsened with every new rebuff.

Curse his mannish emotions! How he longed for the steady stoicism of his people, who could pass centuries without a trace of fluster. Why did the hurt continue to grieve him with such persistence?

Such reflections led to false indifference as he turned his focus elsewhere. How childish of him to continue to care, for surely, he had failed in the eyes of Gil Galad. His leadership had guided the resistance at Eregion down the path of ruin. He would not allow himself to feel betrayed. He could not.

Thus, his attention was forcibly turned to other matters at hand. The Sanctuary must be fortified and expanded. His people must be sheltered and well-fed. He must continue to wrestle with whispers of the Dark Lord that regularly haunted his sleep.

Such weighty thoughts paired with the loss of rest in the late hours took their toll, as they always did. The days, however, were not entirely bereft of joy. It gave Elrond great pleasure to observe unbridled laughter and ease among the people of the valley.

Even now, as he entered the Hall at Melthorean’s side, his heart warmed to see them gathered in the firelight’s warmth, enjoying a warm meal and the flow of wine as it passed through their midst. Smiling at the welcoming sight, the Commander found an unassuming place among them and seated himself.

“Eat your fill, Master Elrond,” Gunnalf, the dark-haired elf, encouraged as he presented his Commander with a sizeable portion. “You need your strength.”

The steaming stew was hearty and richly familiar to Elrond, for Arondir had prepared it once before. Again, its warmth dispelled winter’s icy chill and served to soothe aching bones.

He ate slowly, finding that the comfort of a hot meal brought with it unexpected drowsiness, until even the din of chattering voices and song became but a faraway drone in his ears.

The sudden jerk of his head into wakefulness informed him that exhaustion was quickly taking hold and caused him to push aside his half-eaten meal. A need for sleep pricked his eyes and caused his fingers to twitch irritably. Perhaps, if he took but a moment to gather himself…

Groggily, he allowed his brow to rest against folded arms on the tabletop. “Just for a moment…” he assured himself sleepily, his eyes and ears closing to the warm surroundings of the Hall. “Just a moment…”

Despite his firm resolve, his fatigue was stronger, pulling him deeply into the realm of dreams, entirely unobserved by those around him.

“Lord Sauron!” Annatar scoffed quietly as the stumbling, bloodied creature lunged forward, falling to his feet with guttural gasps. “The Elves… Our forces were slaughtered on the Great East Road… There were few survivors…”

The Dark Lord beheld the creature with unhidden disdain as his eyes traveled over its bleeding, blackened body. Slaughtered indeed. Once more, the Dark Lord inwardly cursed the inferiority of his soldiers. Bending languidly towards the trembling brute, he caught it by the throat and dangled it before him with cold disinterest.

“Worthless…” he hissed, his grip tightening until the Orc squealed. “How am I to rule when such enfeeblement infects my ranks?”

“…stood no chance…” the thrashing creature gasped. “…couldn’t stop… The Elven… Healer…”

Wait a moment… Icy eyes flashed with recognition at the mention of the title. Gaze narrowing, he lowered the creature with slow movements, allowing it to fall in an unceremonious heap at his feet.

“The Elven Healer…” he repeated introspectively, his fiery gaze cooling with chilled calculation. The Peredhel described by Theo had struck another blow… “His power ever grows…”

The racket of lowly gasping before him continued to reach his attentive ears. “There’s no stopping him!” the crouching Orc dared to mewl. “Our legions are afraid to pass through his lands…”

“Afraid? Of what?” Of the Peredhel? Annatar scoffed at the notion. Yet, despite himself, he found he was intrigued. “You fear only what you do not understand,” he chided the cowardly beast who groveled in the dirt. “Gather a small force and seek him out. This… Elven Healer.”

Follow his movements. Uncover his refuge. Discover the hornet’s nest and crush it before the swarm dares to sting…

The Orc shrank back. “Lord Sauron…” he resisted feebly, his hunched frame shivering with fear. “He leaves no survivors… Water and wind obey his commands…”

A glint of angered annoyance sparked in the Dark Lord’s eye as his jaw set with scornful purpose. “The threat must be met,” he muttered, his gaze shifting towards the direction of Lindon. “For even now, we ride to war. If you so greatly fear death at his hand, you shall find it by mine…”

Sullenly, the Orc slunk away to obey, and Annatar was left to gaze upon the reddening horizon, pondering the Elven Healer. Elrond Peredhel, the son of Eärendil, descendant of a house determined to forever incur his wrath.

It hardly seemed within the realm of believability that the eager, subservient courtier, unseasoned in his optimism, had become a legendary terror among his troops. Surely, it could not be so.

"Herald Elrond..." The Dark Lord whispered the words as he searched his memory for any sign that such a transformation had indeed come to pass. The naive, scholarly boy he remembered from the forges of Eregion had not even carried a sword at his side nor any weapon on his person.

The courtly airs and lofty ideals hardly painted the picture of a fearsome warrior. Of a strange creature whose power resembled the likes of Lúthien and Melian.

Though perhaps the unassuming guise had been the child's salvation, for in his unimportance, Halbrand had overlooked him, dedicating his energies to the captivity of Galadriel's and Celebrimbor's attention.

He had cared little for the High King's herald, who offered clever advice on matters unfamiliar to him, or dared to question everything with an unsettling acuity.

Despite clear intelligence, the eager child had ultimately proven himself to be nothing beyond the useful idiot that he and Celebrimbor so desperately needed to procure necessary time for the forging of the rings. Thus, Elrond Peredhel had been given little consideration once his purpose was fulfilled.

And yet... Another memory rose to his mind. Galadriel, ensnared in a labyrinth of his making, plunged deeper than the depths of the sea towards darkness and despair… And the light of Valinor had pulled her from it...

Only the light had a face, and a hand as it reached through the illusion and guided her to shore. A voice had called her name and dispelled the darkness. Upon further reflection, Annatar could not deny that the untimely interruption resembled the Herald... How had he not seen it before?

Perhaps further attempts to seduce Elrond would have served him well in later days, when the distrustful Dwarven prince demanded assurances and answers that could only be satisfied by the Peredhel himself.

How strange that the minds of Galadriel and Celebrimbor had become to him, well-versed, while the Herald's ever evaded him in his time of need. So, he had lied, for half-truths were impossible when he held no knowledge of the Half-Elven in question.

How Elrond fared in war, he knew not, though suspicion suggested that Galadriel's inexplicable survival of the punishment he had dealt could only be attributed to the one who had managed it before.

For a moment, the face of the Herald appeared in his sight: resigned, world-weary, and terrified as the grey eyes seemed to pierce his very soul. This was hardly the earnest, hopeful young Elf he remembered from the forges of Eregion, for distrust now haunted the gentle gaze.

Their paths had crossed again at Pelargir, the work of the Elven Healer disrupting all plans he had formulated to seize the city for his pursuits. In the Peredhel, the Lowmen had hailed their savior… They would not readily seek another…

Through it all, the Herald’s guarded mind had resisted every probe, every attempt to gather insight, for the mannish stubbornness that marred his nature bred distrust. Annatar reached for him now, sensing sorrow and weariness, the results of an isolation that seemed to fetter his spirit.

Alone. Betrayed. Slowly languishing in the confines of exile. These were not the shadows that the Dark Lord had expected to find in one so beloved by his people or so feared by his enemies. And yet, he recognized them all now as his mind pressed against the Herald’s.

“Who are you, Elrond Peredhel?” he whispered in a breath upon the wind. “What have you become?”

A chill of dread spread through the sleeping mind beneath his distant prodding. Shivering pain flailed as he spun familiar shadows: a darkened forest, a useless sword, the horror of blood splattered across the ground.

“The day grows dark, Elven Healer.” Even the hushed tones of his warning caused the Half-Elf to groan and thrash in his sleep. “It is time.”

A light snow had begun to fall during supper, as if the conscious will of the Commander had been the only force to keep it at bay. Arondir watched it fall as silently as Elrond slept at his place close by.

The Hall had long since emptied, though many had noticed the sleeping Peredhel as they departed. None among them had the heart to wake him, choosing instead to leave him under Arondir’s watchful care as he rested.

Only the flicker of the fire broke the peaceful quiet as the Silvan Elf stared into its warm light. He did not regret his decision to remain in the Sanctuary, and yet, the call to war had left his heart restless to act and aching for his Commander, who had taken the news quite hard.

Elrond bore it with grace, but Arondir knew him too well to miss the disappointment and hurt in his eyes whenever mention was made of the war in Lindon. He, too, wished to come to the aid of his king, though instinct warned him that young Elf needed him more.

The stillness was unsettling, for it resembled the eerie calm that heralded a mighty storm. It was too quiet. Too peaceful amidst the raging violence of war. Unconsciously, the archer had begun to pace the floor, his eyes distant as he sought relief from feverish thoughts.

A soft sound at the door caught his attention, and his eyes found Brid’s as she came into view, a heavy cloak protecting her head and shoulders. She nodded a silent greeting to Arondir before her trained eyes wandered to the sleeping form slumped against the table.

“A stubborn thing, isn’t he?” she observed wryly, her voice soft but merry with amusement. “I see he did nothing to heed my warnings…”

Arondir huffed a small laugh, his gaze affectionately resting on the bowed, curly head. “He rarely does…” he murmured, a faint smile gracing his lips before his expression became serious once more. “May I ask where you are headed, my Lady?”

Brid reddened at the question and fingered the vile and small bundle of gauze in her hand. “Vorohil is stationed at the wall tonight,” she whispered, her eyes downcast. “I saw him favoring his injured hand as he laid boards for a footbridge today… I thought it would be best for me to see him…”

Arondir stared at her soberly, his thoughts marred by grief. “Perhaps, it is none of my concern…” He ventured, eyes narrowing in question. “Do you harbor feelings for the Lieutenant?”

Brid blushed more brightly than before, her eyes hardly daring to meet his. “We have discussed nothing…” she admitted weakly. “But in knowing him better, I believe my regard for him has grown. I understand, it is foolish, perhaps… For a mere mortal like myself to seek the heart of an Elf…”

Arondir’s face softened, though the sorrow remained. “Perhaps…” he admitted quietly, his eyes misty with tears. “My heart belonged to Bronwyn, but I, too, was called foolish for such feelings. Maybe rightfully so… But I would not trade the time spent in her company for endless lifetimes without her.”

Tears shone in Brid’s eyes, too, as she listened to his words. “You wouldn’t?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Arondir shook his head slowly. “No,” he confirmed. “I would only wish to make better use of the time that was given… Do not waste yours, Brid. It is a sacred thing, one that may be taken at any time…”

“It shall not be wasted,” she promised resolutely, her proud chin rising. “My time here is fleeting, but he shall have the best of it…”

Arondir watched her hurry away into the light snow, his heart both lifting and falling for the precious yet unfortunate fragility of such a match. He had loved a mortal woman, and she had been taken from him… Valar, spare Vorohil and Brid from such a fate…

A faint groan drew his mind away from his grief, and he turned to find Elrond troubled in sleep once more. Immediately, he crossed the room and came to the Commander’s side, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Be at peace, mellon-nin,” he soothed, shaking Elrond slightly to rouse him from the torment. “You are safe…”

There was no indication that his words had reached the Peredhel, for Elrond cried out in sudden pain, a hand clutching at the bunched fabric over his heart as his breathing turned to frantic gasps.

“Commander…” Arondir’s grip on Elrond’s shoulder intensified as he tried once more to shake him into wakefulness. “Commander, you must awaken…”

A cold sweat now soaked Elrond’s face as his hand thrust forward, nails digging into the wood of the table. His body stiffened and his breathing shallowed as another cry escaped him, one of chilling agony.

Seeing this, Arondir’s efforts to pull him from sleep grew desperate as he took the Commander by both shoulders and forced him into an upright position. “Elrond!” His voice was sharp as it sought to cut through the hold of the nightmare. “Open your eyes! Follow my voice, Mellon-nin. You must wake up!”

At last, the violence of the dream seemed to release the Peredhel, and he slumped against the Silvan Elf, his breath still alarmingly rapid. When at last, he raised his head, Arondir noted at once how dark his eyes and how pale his clammy skin had become.

“Arondir…” he breathed shakily. “Forgive me… I did not mean…”

Arondir shook his head quickly and cupped a hand to the ashen face. “Peace, Commander,” he whispered, his tone reassuring. “I feared you would not awaken… They continue to worsen, do they not? The nightmares?”

Elrond nodded resignedly and carefully rose to his feet. The Silvan Elf noted how his body still trembled as he wearily rubbed his eyes. “Sauron’s voice continues to trouble me…” The Commander’s voice remained rough with sleep, though his eyes were alert and fearful. “I am well, Arondir… Merely shaken. It will pass.”

“Then, let us pass the time until you are at peace,” the Silvan Elf suggested, adjusting the warm cloak that had slipped from the Commander’s shoulders to protect him from the chill. “The fire is warm, and the night is still.”

Elrond merely hummed in agreement, his eyes wandering towards the flicker of flames as he settled himself beside his dear friend. He was more shaken than usual, Arondir could see, for his slight frame still shook, and his knuckles showed white as he gripped the cloak more securely around his shoulders.

Despite his concern, the archer did not press, knowing Elrond would speak when he felt equal to it. There were times when even the mere comfort of company in such dark moments was enough to calm his spirit.

Tonight, however, something was different and strangely wrong. Dread was far more pronounced than terror in the grey eyes that stared unseeing into the flickering light, as if the Peredhel were troubled, not by fright, but by sudden clarity.

The silence held for several minutes before he spoke at last, his voice no more steady than before. “King Durin and his army will be riding to the High King’s aid very soon,” he observed quietly, his eyes finally finding Arondir’s. “If it is agreeable to you and Lieutenant Vorohil, I should like to bid him farewell before he departs…”

Arondir had not expected such a request, though perhaps he should have, for the eve of battle was upon the Dwarven king. It stood to reason that Elrond would wish to see him off, considering the dangers that lay ahead.

“Of course, my Lord,” he assured his commander, laying a comforting hand over Elrond’s. “Allow me to prepare, and I will accompany you there…”

“No, no…” Elrond’s head shook with firm decision. “It is only half a day’s journey, and…” he paused, a heaviness in his voice that Arondir quickly recognized. “I should like to go alone…”

Arondir frowned quietly, sensing an unspoken reason for Elrond’s willed seclusion. Perhaps the eve of battle weighed heavily upon his heart? Perhaps the nightmare had somehow affected his sudden urge to call upon the Dwarven King?

“The journey will be perilous if traveled alone,” the Silvan Elf pointed out. “Is it wise, my Lord?”

Elrond neither confirmed nor denied Arondir’s concerns. “I shall pass through the Misty Mountains,” he murmured, accepting the cup of tea that Arondir held out to him. “On foot. No trace of a path shall be left in my wake.”

Arondir nodded doubtfully, unable to shake the feeling that Elrond had not disclosed the entire truth. The troubled expression on the young face did not lessen in the firelight, shadows prominently ridging his forehead.

“Among his many gifts,” the Silvan Elf offered carefully, attempting to redirect Elrond's heavy thoughts, “Commander Kemen issued a new set of clothing for the winter months. The cloak and tunic are of the finest Numenorean make… I urge you to take both in exchange for your older garments. The newer will protect you from winter’s chill…”

Elrond graced him with a faint smile, sipping the tea with a thoughtful air. “I suppose I have little choice,” he quipped softly. “Considering my tunic is now in such utter disrepair…”

His effort to make light of the tension that clung to him brought a smile to Arondir’s face as he stood and plucked the clothing from its confinement to the mantel. He held up the cloak to the firelight, its deep hues of lovely sapphire trimmed by a lining of silver thread.

“Blue marks serenity of nature,” he mused, holding it out to Elrond, who took it with reverence. “And white,” he observed, examining the finely crafted tunic, “Is the symbol of hope. These colors suit you well, my Lord,” he said, watching as Elrond held both as delicately as if he swaddled a newborn.

“The colors of the sea…” the Commander murmured, hardly above a whisper. “My brother’s sign…” He paused, his eyes soft in recollection, before adding, “I shall feel closer to him by wearing them.”

Vorohil heard the approach of footsteps in the newly fallen snow and knew before seeing that the sound did not belong to the graceful gate of an elf.

"You should not be here," he murmured without turning, fighting to suppress the turmoil that undoubtedly showed upon his face. "There are Orcs about, my Lady."

Bríd was unimpressed by his warning and waited until he had turned to answer. "Your wound..." She explained quietly, her eyes never leaving his face. "The bandages should be redressed."

"There is no need." Damned fool! He knew better than to speak such folly. "Your services are not required."

"Does that make them unwanted, then?" Her voice was steady, though, and to his surprise, he detected a note of wistful longing in it. How her eyes sparkled like the finest of gems in the silver moonlight.

"No..." He managed to answer, though lamely. "No, indeed. I only meant..."

What had he meant? That he wished to send her away, when the call of his heart begged her to stay? That the delicacy of her beauty and kindness had shaken his spirit more profoundly than any Orc or monster ever had?

Graciously, she ignored his stammering and reached out gentle fingers towards his injured palm. Beneath the bindings, the wound swelled and wept, signs he had not taken care when he should.

She sighed wearily, her eyes meeting his. "Do you insist on stubbornness at your own peril, Elf?" She asked, though her annoyance was softer than he deserved.

Vorohil swallowed back foolish words and shook his head slowly. "Forgive me," he murmured, hardly daring to meet her earnest gaze. "I fear my neglect has undone your efforts..."

"It has," she assured him, a small smile beginning to form at the corners of her lips. "You are a mighty warrior... Unused to the confines of healing..."

Vorohil smiled at the subtle praise. "And you, my lady, are far too patient with me... In truth, I fear I am a hopeless case. My stubbornness will indeed be my undoing."

Her eyes softened then, with a touch of sadness that he faulted himself for placing there. "I hope not," she whispered quietly, placing crushed herbs over the enflamed wound and covering it once more. “There are those who would seek to prevent such an end..."

Vorohil was touched by her concern for him, and his heart stirred with something foreign yet utterly intoxicating as he looked down upon her work.

"Thank you," he murmured, daring to clasp her careful hands in his with tender adoration. "You are unspeakably kind, my lady..."

Her lovely face, framed so perfectly by dark tresses suddenly grew perplexed. "You find it surprising" she guessed. "That the race of men could show kindness to an Elf?"

Vorohil shook his head. "Nay," he assured her. "It is your kindness to me that has left me in awe, for I am undeserving of it..."

She smiled then, and the warmth and beauty of her face stole his breath. Even his heart seemed to stop in its incessant beating when her hand extended towards him, resting against the warmth of his face.

"You are more deserving than you know," she whispered, before drawing back and departing far too soon. He watched her disappear into the snowy darkness, his head and heart pulsing with the elation of her words and the agony of her parting.

The angelic healer had deemed him worthy... Had given him the kindness of her words and gentleness of her touch... Had tended to his wounds with the greatest of care...

Oh Valar! How was he to tarry at the barracks until dawn when his heart followed her back to the Sanctuary?

Looking out to the white, moonlit forests under his somewhat distracted watch, he sighed heavily, leaning against the stone wall with forlorn delight. He thought her, and silken verses of song reached his lips, filling the lonely night with melodies of longing and love.

Oh, how he loved her...

Darkness had fallen over the expansive battlefield, with only a few stray fires and lights in the distance to prove that the enemy held fast. Soon, Galadriel pondered as she gazed toward the faraway signs of life that promised danger. Soon, we will go to war.

Instinctively, she reached for her sword, but paused when her hand brushed against something unfamiliar tucked against her belt. A scroll, small and rather brief in its message, fell into her hand as her memory provided her with answers.

Elrond’s letter… It had arrived only this evening, though duty had prevented her from reading its contents until now. She was grateful to receive word from him, for loneliness and longing for his company had pressed upon her spirit like a shadow over the sun.

In truth, she missed him and had not been passive in her opinions when the King had elected not to summon Elrond to Lindon. And yet, the King would not be swayed, convinced by the urging of his guard and messenger, Guruthos, that Elrond was unfit for battle, given his recent ailments.

She sensed that Círdan agreed with her sentiments, though the shipwright had been hesitant in sharing any opinion, opting to offer guidance and support to the High King instead.

Sighing at the thought of the distance that lay between herself and her dearest friend, Galadriel slowly unraveled the little scroll and read the words beneath the flickering light of torches as the night breeze tugged at her golden hair.

My Dearest Galadriel,

The eve of battle ever reminds me of what is most precious and dear in this Middle Earth, and I find myself compelled to extend what small comfort I can.

I fear it is a poor offering, one that utterly fails to erase my shortcomings as both a fellow in arms and your friend. I long for your forgiveness, though the sharpness of memory haunts me with my unworthiness of it.

You embody the very strength of our people, and your light shines with the beauty of the Valar's brightest star. The Dark Lord fears your power above all others, as indeed he should, for the shadows of his influence will not stand against such light.

How my heart longs to stand at your side once more and witness such a glorious victory. But alas, we each must follow our own path. Carry my love and loyalty as you tread yours, for it is all I have to give.

Hold to the goodness of this world, even though the darkness threatens to destroy it. As you have so wisely reminded me in past counsel, it is for such a purpose that we live and breathe. We each have our part in this war, and it is yours that will outshine all others.

He fears you, my friend, and in his fear, he will seek to extinguish your light. Do not let him, I beg, for you are a symbol of hope for all of Elvendom. No matter what happens, hold to a hope that all will be well in the end.

For my part, I have not forgotten my promise to you. I shall not rest until the evil that threatens this land is destroyed.

How I have missed the solace of your kindness and the strength of your spirit. I pray to Eru that someday, the pleasure of your company will once more be mine, though I find myself hardly to be deemed worthy of it.

Your friendship has been a constant source of comfort to me and all who share the honor of holding it. I wish only that I might have repaid such a debt with more than this humble letter, for you deserve far more.

Hold fast to goodness, Galadriel. Hold fast to the light as you prepare to face the darkness. And, if you find it in your heart, forgive your foolish friend for his many faults and failures.

Namárië,

Elrond

Chapter Text

"Pernat!" The sudden shout in his ear caused young Elrond to jump, breaking his graceful stance. "Half-thing!" The eyes that stared at him as they came around bore the familiar disdain he had grown accustomed to since his arrival in Lindon. Those he shared daily lessons and tasks with had made no secret of their disgust for himself and Elros.

Glancing up, he felt little surprise as he recognized the face of Ringûr, son of a Noldor noble, who took great pleasure in causing the Peredhil discomfort and distress. Beside him stood Yátor and Guruthos, the vicious youth's constant companions, who often found amusement in Ringûr's taunts and prods, though rarely partaking in them.

On this particular day, they snickered and smirked, watching with interested anticipation as the one they followed leaned closer, clenching Elrond's downturned jaw with a cruel hand.

"Easily distracted, are we?" the older elf hissed, forcing Elrond's eyes to meet his. "Look at me, Pernat!" Elrond swallowed, unable to turn away, and squared his shoulders, bracing for the interrogation that would inevitably follow. With grim resignation, he granted his antagonist his full attention.

Ringûr's mouth twisted into a fiendish smile. "That's better," he muttered with mirthless satisfaction. "Perhaps, a bit of focus will sharpen your memory as well… I’ve told you time and again, Half-Thing… You are not welcome here! Or have you already forgotten?”

The wicked fingers tightened on Elrond's angular jaw, and he winced sharply, daring to wrench himself from the iron grasp. His efforts only earned him more pain as the spiteful youth shoved him backward against the cool stones of the courtyard, causing him to drop his sword with a deafening clatter.

"Do you have a voice?" Ringûr barked, stepping towards the fallen Peredhel with sinister intent. "Or has your Mannish cowardice stolen that as well?”

Still silent, Elrond scrambled backward in the face of the approaching threat, his blade forgotten as his boots scraped the pavement in escape. His antagonist, seeing his somewhat pathetic efforts, flashed a wicked smile.

“You have no place here, you mutt!” he hissed, sending Elrond’s abandoned weapon skittering across the stones with a sharp kick. “Will you ever learn?”

A strange sensation of bitter pleasure coursed through the proud veins of Guruthos as he watched Ringûr exact revenge on the very stain of Lindon’s court. The beating, he reasoned, though brutal, was entirely necessary, for since their arrival, the Peredhil twins had threatened to make a mockery of Elven society with their secondary limitations and their mixed blood.

Perhaps, Ringûr was excessive in his cruelty towards the meekly quiet one… Even so, had not the Fëanorians been utterly barbaric in their savage quest for the Silmarils? And had not Elrond and Elros openly professed affection for Maedhros and Maglor, the Kinslayers?

Such justification granted Guruthos a clear serenity of mind as he watched Ringûr unleash his wrath upon the crumpled half-breed, who, despite the savagery of his Fëanorian sympathies, offered little resistance to the beating.

Even centuries later, the same, malicious satisfaction curled like a sly serpent into the heart of Guruthos as he gazed upon his king, who stared distractedly at a scattered array of maps and charts.

Under his counsel, the Peredhel had not been called to Lindon, thus relieving the High King’s company from further disgrace. He coyly hid a smile, even as Gil Galad’s brow furrowed. The King’s doubts, though troublesome, could be easily quieted.

"We live in dark times, my liege..." Guruthos was grave in tone as he raised his eyes to his king. "The shadow of war has a way of... Revealing the weaknesses of body and heart, just as it shines upon the strongest among us."

Stepping closer, he lowered his voice with well-crafted gravitas. "You were right to leave your Herald in the hidden valley... He has not the resilience nor the foresight to accept the sacrifices that must be made in the face of such an enemy. He is young, inexperienced, and... I fear the mortal blood in him has heightened feelings that could dull his judgment. You were right to protect him as you did, even if only from himself..."

Guruthos’ words seemed to unsettle Gil Galad, for the undercurrent of accusation and belittlement was not lost on the King. Yet the truth remained; Elrond's stubbornness, his fragility in both body and spirit, and his distrust in the rings all roused alarm in the golden King's heart.

Elrond was primitive in his scruples, perhaps, but more importantly, he was precious in the eyes of his King, a treasure to be protected and shielded from the enemy's gaze.

Gil Galad’s fears had only increased when reports and whispers reached his ear of an Elven Healer, whose growing power and remarkable gifts continued to win the hearts of all races of Middle Earth. Even the King of Númenor had made mention of him through letters, passing on the praises sung by a wayward son.

The Elven Healer could be none other than Elrond, the High King knew... Even from his youngest years, his Herald had always shared a keen connection with the powers of the ancient world. Círdan had sensed it when the boy was but an elfling.

The realization brought both wonder and dread to the High King's reflections, for such power had surely not gone unnoticed by the Dark Lord. Better to keep Elrond hidden and safe, far from the reaches of darkness and despair...

"I understand..." Gil Galad answered at last, uneasy, but steadfast in his conviction. "He will be safe far from the fields of war. Elrond's wisdom must be guarded, for we will require it when peace once again ascends the throne.”

From the shadows of the tent, a twisted smile rose upon the lips of Guruthos as he watched a tense glance pass between Gil Galad and Master Círdan. The Shipwright’s face expressed his doubt, and yet, the King’s word would not be swayed.

"Not this time, Caurëa..." Elrond whispered as his gloved hand came to rest against the velvety nose of his beloved steel. The dark-eyed creature stamped nervously, sensing what lay hidden beneath the gentle reassurances of its master.

The riverbank was quiet in the still morning light, its silence only broken by the anxious creature at Elrond's side, who whinnied and kicked at the newly fallen drifts.

"My steps are light upon the snow," the Peredhel reminded the restless horse, whose agitated huffs sent billowy clouds into the cold air. "I can leave no trace; no sign in my wake... You understand, don't you?"

A bend of the proud creature's head seemed to indicate assent. So did the disconcertment, for the loyal animal, though wordless, appeared to express a deeper understanding of the unspoken fear that stirred in Elrond's heart.

Such fear, Elrond sought to keep hidden, and was grateful that his timid companion would guard his secrets, unable to unleash the horrors that it now sensed in the shadows of his mind. With a sympathetic but deeply grateful motion, he lifted a hand to stroke the dark neck.

"I know you are afraid," he soothed quietly, the breath of a sigh hanging in the frigid winter air. "I know you see the darkness too. But it will not touch you, noble Caurëa... I will not allow it to. The Sanctuary will stand, and you with it... This, I swear to you."

Such heavy words were spoken, not only to the frightened creature, but to the valley itself. To its people, whom Elrond had come to love and foster with the heart of a caring steward.

In their eyes, the protective and healing guidance of the young Commander had forged the path towards a promising and once impossible future that shone like the rising sun.

But this beauty demanded a heavy price, and Elrond knew that the toll must be paid in full. He had known for some time now... And he would pay it, deeming the cost worth the preservation of such a future.

"It is a small price..." he whispered, allowing his brow to rest against the softness of Caurëa's shining mane. His eyes shone with an unnatural brightness as the starlight overtook him, its strength extending from the gentle shores of the river toward the forests and shelters of the valley. "I offer it freely."

The gentle breath of Elrond's power, reaching and shielding the place and the people he loved, seemed to calm the fretful steed's movements. Its eyes followed its young master with quiet wonder, as the Elf wandered over snowy drifts towards the river's edge, hands outstretched, reaching for an unseen force.

The striking face shone with the mystical light of his foremother, Melian, dark curls framing an otherworldly glow that reflected the power flowing through him. He quietly offered protection and strength to the growing fortification. He extended the gentle peace of his spirit to his people.

A clement wind caressed his face and fluttered the folds of the blue cloak as he looked towards the light of dawn. Perhaps, in his heart, he had always known where his path would lead. The indelible knowledge, the dark whispers, the recurring foredreams... All had caused deep terror within his restless spirit, a terror that now dissolved into firm resolution.

He knew the path before him, understood its price, and now made peace with it in his heart, knowing that the future of his people was worth far more. Sinking to his knees, Elrond entreated the valley for the protection that even he could not offer.

"Beria i chên." His voice was soft as the whisper rose on the wind like an offering. "Protect them from the darkness that draws near... Make strong the girdle that guards this sacred place... Let the shadows pass it by. Menatha."

Gloved hands rested gently against the snow at his sides as Elrond lifted his gaze once more, his dark hair whipping in the gentle wind. "Menatha," he repeated quietly, his eyes bright with shining silver as he slowly stood once more. "It will pass."

From the moment Elrond had awakened from his devastating night terror, Arondir had sensed a shift in the young Lord... There was fear to be sure. But with the fear came an unsettling clarity that the Silvan Elf could not discern. He paced the courtyard feverishly, hoping that such a perception was false and held no meaning.

A deep stillness had settled over the valley since the Commander had gone to the river in search of solace before his short traverse to Khazah Dum. And yet, the silence only served to further carve out the growing concern in Arondir's chest as he awaited Elrond's return.

The sight of his Lord's approach on the brightening horizon was a welcome one and offered some small relief to Arondir's relentless worry. The Peredhel was a vision to behold, his face alight with a gentle power, his eyes radiant with beautiful starlight. How proud he appeared in the blue and white trimmings of Númenor, his cloak rising with the wind in his wake.

He smiled as he approached, extending a hand towards Arondir, who held out a leather satchel, bearing supplies for the journey ahead. There was peace in Elrond's countenance, Arondir noted, though the grey eyes, in all their radiance, exuded a deep sorrow that he could not claim.

"Thank you, Mellon-nin," the Commander murmured, taking the leather pouch and slinging it easily over his shoulder. "You are too kind. You always have been..."

Arondir shook his head dismissively, his hand coming to rest against the Peredhel's shoulder. "Nonsense, Elrond," he protested softly. "I would not have you catch your death of a cold..."

“Even so…” Elrond’s eyes softened as they met Arondir’s. “You have done more for me than I could ever hope to repay. I am grateful… For everything.”

Arondir frowned faintly, detecting both gratitude and wistfulness in Elrond's words. He shifted uneasily. "Think nothing of it, my Lord," he assured him, his eyes searching the face that stared back at him. "Perhaps another cloak and some hot food for the way? Varitan assures me that it is no trouble..."

Elrond's smile returned then, his eyes falling as he gave a quiet laugh. "I shall be well enough without them,” he assured the Silvan Elf. “Durin and Disa are gracious hosts… I do not doubt they will dote upon my every need…”

Arondir's worry did not lessen when, with these words, his Lord cast a longing glance about the Sanctuary, until his eyes rested once more upon him. "Parting with this place has become increasingly more difficult," Elrond admitted quietly, his voice giving way to a light sigh. "Look after the others while I am away... Please, Arondir..."

There was a note of desperation in Elrond's tone that alarmed Arondir greatly. Brow furrowed, he drew closer, his voice low with worry. "Are you well, my Lord..." he ventured, his eyes focused on the Commander's face as Elrond attempted to dodge his gaze. "You are not yourself..."

Elrond raised his eyes at last, and Arondir saw in them only an indiscernible resolve touched by a profound sadness as the young Commander sought to answer. "I am troubled, Arondir," he admitted soberly, his jaw clenched in grim determination. "But it will pass… For this shadow is but a small and passing thing.”

A bittersweet smile brightened Arondir’s face as he recognized the phrase. “Bronwyn’s words…” he murmured in fond remembrance. “How did you…”

“When you lay injured in Pelargir,” Elrond recounted quietly. “I looked into your mind. I saw her there, heard her speak.”

Arondir nodded, his eyes bright with tears. “Even from beyond this world, she continues to offer consolation,” he observed distantly. “You carry the same light in you, Mellon-nin…”

Elrond did not answer, though a faint smile crossed his lips. He turned then, and Arondir followed his gaze, watching as Brid and Vorohil approached them, their hands intertwined in a gesture of affection.

"I see you are off then, Commander," Vorohil called cheerfully, his face bright with newfound cheer as he cast a glance over Elrond's un-Elven garb. "By the Valar!" he exclaimed. "You bear the look of a displaced Numenorean pilgrim."

The jest secured a wooden glare from Elrond and a stifled laugh from Brid. Even Arondir could not suppress a smile of merriment.

"Very amusing..." Elrond deadpanned, though even his eyes shone with a bit of laughter. "Perhaps, I shall be mistaken for a nobleman, parading around in this... finery."

"I think it quite regal and charming, my Lord," Brid countered, her eyes kind as she offered her assessment. "The colors suit you well... You look..."

"...like his brother," Arondir inserted quietly, his eyes meeting Elrond's with a knowing smile. "They were his colors; now they are yours... I have no doubt he would express deep pride in your efforts, Elrond, as both healer and lord."

A subtle wave of emotion momentarily swept over Elrond's face as his eyes glistened with unshed tears. He swallowed, with notable difficulty, before extending his hand to grasp Arondir's forearm. "My thanks, Arondir..." he murmured, his voice unsteady. "I shall miss your company dearly."

Turning, he clasped the hands of both Brid and Vorohil in farewell, before stepping back, his eyes and movements reluctant. "My journey shall be but a few days," he said quietly. "Perhaps more... Be watchful of enemy movements. The horde in Lindon ever grows."

Arondir felt his heart clench at the sight, every fiber of his ancient being demanding that he beg his Lord to stay. And yet, he knew the request would be fruitless, for Elrond could be every bit as stubborn as he was kind.

Clinging tightly to his bow until his knuckles grew white, he watched Elrond raise a hand in a final gesture of departure before turning to face the traitorous mountain pass before him. Perhaps it was a mercy that the Silvan Elf could not see the Commander's expression, for it battled to ward off a torrent of tears that even now threatened to fall.

"Be safe, Mellon-nin," Arondir whispered, refusing to move from where he stood until Elrond had long passed beyond his sight.

Coughs and cries only served to fray Durin’s already raw senses as he rushed towards the great hearth, bearing a massive iron kettle with him. The flames issued blistering blasts of air into his drawn face, causing a glistening sheen to form.

“Hurry with that hot water, my love.” Disa’s voice was strained in its calm as it reached him from the bed chambers. “Tell Narvi to send for the physicians!”

Heaving the black pot over the fire, Durin quickly wiped his brow, his troubled mind racing. Only this morning, the children had been well… Only this morning, their merry voices had filled the stone halls with laughter and song. But now…

You hold the power to heal them... The ring... Use the ring... Save your children from this end...

Durin stiffened, his eyes slowly closing as he fought to resist the alluring whispers that had plagued him since Gil Galad’s summons had arrived...

Carry it with you into battle... The ring will save your life... Power beyond mere axes and swords is within your grasp...

With each hour, it seemed as though the call of his father's ring continued to weaken his resolve and wear down his defenses.

Pouring out a measure of the boiling water, he set the steaming cups aside, his eyes instinctively drawn to an innocent scroll that lay discarded on the stone table.

Its contents troubled Durin; a message from his estranged brother, promising to usurp him should the battle in Lindon's fields go ill...

What will become of your wife if you fall? Of your children? Your brother will cast them aside... He will abandon them in the event of your death...

Durin shuddered at the whispers, for they preyed upon his fears, laying bare what he would not speak aloud.

Save your life... Use the ring... Call upon its power to protect you...

Durin's heart pounded furiously in his chest as he reminded himself of his oath to Disa... Of his father's horrific demise... Only a terrible end awaited him if he took up the ring, he knew. And yet...

You are stronger than your father... You will wield it as he could not...

Perhaps… If he remained cautious and vigilant, perhaps the power would not consume him… Perhaps, the singular act of saving his children would leave no trace of corruption…

“King Durin…”

Narvi’s unwelcome interruption of his darkest thoughts stirred up molten anger in Durin’s chest, his fists clenching.

“What is it?!” he snapped, his nerves utterly threadbare as the cries of his ailing children and the temptations of the detestable ring shattered his peace.

Narvi was taken aback by Durin’s sharpness, but quickly regained his composure. “You have a visitor, my King…” he muttered softly, his brow furrowed.

Durin’s nostrils flared with indignation. “Can’t ya see I am in no position to hold an audience?” he asked, nearly shouting. His hands shook furiously as they continued to clench into tight fists. “If my brother has sent another one of his messengers, I do not need to hear his tidings!”

“Perhaps, comfort from a dear friend then?” The voice was not Narvi’s.

Durin whirled around, and nearly lost his footing when Elrond gracefully entered the dimly lit hall, his smile warm and welcome.

“Elrond..?” He hardly dared to believe it, and yet, there stood his dearest friend, who immediately dropped to one knee. “What are ya doing here, ya mad Elf?” Without need for an answer, Durin caught Elrond in his sturdy arms, holding him fast as if his survival depended upon it.

Elrond’s grasp was equally firm, carrying with it the strength of a warrior tempered by the gentleness that he had always known. In glorious relief, Durin realized that the erosive whispers that haunted his thoughts were quickly silenced by the Elf’s presence.

"Oh, Elrond..." Durin's voice was unsteady as he pulled away to look up at his Elven friend. "I can't tell ya how glad I am... To see ya here.”

Elrond kept a steady hand on the Dwarf's shoulder as his grey eyes offered a gentle greeting. "It has already been too long, my friend," he murmured before his expression sobered. "I know you depart for Lindon very soon. I would be a poor friend indeed if I were not here to see you off."

Durin nodded slowly, his chest heaving with a deep sigh. "Aye," he mourned sadly, his regret noticeably mirrored in Elrond's eyes. "It’s good of ya, Laddie. How I wish we could part together…"

Elrond swallowed, his face forcibly serene as Durin spoke. "So do I, Durin," he admitted quietly, a flicker of disappointment and frustration touching his brow. "More than anything, I wish it..."

"We understand, Dearie," Disa appeared in the hall, sighing fretfully as her hand extended towards Elrond's shoulder. "But I fear the timing could not be poorer. The rulership of Khazah Dum is under scrutiny. And the children..."

Elrond's eyes rose to meet hers with sudden alarm. "The children?" He repeated softly, his face strained with concern. "Disa, what has happened?"

Disa's gaze faltered with emotion as she glanced at Durin and breathed a sigh. "It's the Mountain fever," she admitted gravely, her voice unsteady. "The coming of winter brought it here... Our people have suffered greatly. And now, Gerda and Gamli have taken ill... Aulë was cruel to strike them at such a time as this... I fear the wee ones are not well, Elrond."

Elrond's face was sober as he slowly straightened to his full height. A firm resolve settled in the tense clench of his jaw. "Take me to them," he murmured, with an authority that was not to be disregarded. “Please, Disa…”

The chambers were dark and quiet when he entered, following the distraught couple. Only the flicker of candlelight cast eerie shadows over the flushed faces of the little Dwarven children as they lay still as stone, their breathing ragged and dry.

Durin, who eyed Elrond with a sort of quiet desperation, laid a hand to rest against the Elf's forearm. "They are my life, Elrond..." He whispered, his voice broken with grief. "How can I leave em like this?"

Seeing the distress in his friend’s face, Elrond wasted no time in approaching Gamli's bedside, his face grave at the sight of the ailing Dwarven child. Gamli began to thrash and cry then, his little face reddened by fever and slick with sweat. He nearly screamed with nameless terror as Elrond laid a gentle hand to rest against his glistening brow.

"His skin is burning," the Elf murmured, his face drawn with concern. "The infection is spreading quickly. Fetch a cold compress, Durin." Glancing towards Gerda, who lay frighteningly still beside her brother, Elrond lifted careful fingertips to her face.

"Make it two..." he added, straightening as he unclasped his cloak and folded the delicately embroidered sleeves of his white tunic. "There are healing herbs in my satchel, Disa," he said quietly, his focus narrowing on the sick children under his care. "Bring them here."

Disa and Durin were quick to follow Elrond's pointed instructions, their hearts fluttering with growing dread as they watched the Peredhel work. His hands were trained and gentle as they offered comfort, bathing burning brows with cool water and offering the restorative teas that Disa prepared.

There was a steady calm and confidence in Elrond's actions that, despite the circumstances, managed to soothe Durin's overwhelming fear. Such steadiness had always been there, he remembered. But never had he witnessed such grace under such duress.

His friend... His Elven brother. An unexpected surge of pride washed over Durin as he watched Elrond comfort the feverish children with a soft melody, his voice quiet, but marked with power as it stilled the ailing cries and ragged gasps, replacing them with the easy breaths untouched by illness.

What had he done in Aulë's eyes to deserve friendship with a being of such great power?

The Dwarven king felt his wife's hand slip into his as they both watched their beloved Elven Healer sing the last notes of his song before he smoothed twisted blankets and straightened pillows that had gone askew.

The shadows of the darkened room seemed to fall away then. Even the candles at the bedside flickered brightly with a new, rejuvenated light. A great calm had settled over the very place where panic had reigned only moments before. “Incredible!” Durin whispered reverently, his frantic heartbeat slowing for the first time in far too long.

When the Elf turned at last to face them, Durin and Disa’s joined hearts leapt in tandem, for Elrond's eyes shone of silver starlight, and his youthful face radiated with ethereal beauty. A soft smile graced his lips, and he breathed a quiet sigh.

"The danger has passed," he assured his friends with weary satisfaction. "This sickness will no longer trouble them. Perhaps we should... Take leave and allow them to rest."

Durin noted that Disa's eyes were bright with tears as she stepped forward, embracing the Elf as heartily as her born height would allow. "Oh, Dearie..." she whispered thickly, clinging to him as if he were a lifeline in the raging storm. "I don't know how to thank ya... Truly."

Elrond smiled, lowering himself to one knee as he faced her. "There is no need for thanks, Disa," he assured her as he reached to clasp her hand with caring sincerity. "After all you both have endured, it is but a small reprieve. I wish I could do more..."

Durin grinned widely, tears brightening his own eyes as he clapped the Elf's shoulder with unspoken fondness. "Ya've done more than we could ever ask, Laddie," he assured Elrond, his tone lightened by newfound relief. "Yar gift... I've never seen the likes of it."

Glancing at Disa with a hint of light amusement, he nodded knowingly. "I always knew he was special, didn't I?" he asked, his eyebrow raised in anticipation. Elrond laughed gently, and Disa's tearful expression softened with a smile.

"Aye, ya did, my love," she affirmed warmly. "Though I imagine, ya were hardly the first to recognize it." Turning to Elrond, she offered a tender squeeze of his hand. "My husband understands well that yar skill and power are also prized by yar own people, Dearie."

A strangely pained look crossed Elrond's face for a moment, like a cloud blotting out the sun. He hid it quickly, though Durin did not fail to notice the hint of pain that now lay in the starlit eyes.

"Of course..." was the only answer the Peredhel managed to provide, his voice strained. "You need not explain, Disa." Durin's eyes narrowed, his brow visibly furrowing. He sensed that Disa's words had unearthed an old wound, though the Elf had done little to explain himself.

A fearful chill settled over the Dwarf as he pondered Elrond's timely arrival, his faltering words, the sadness in his eyes... Why was Elrond here, rather than at the High King's side in Lindon? Why had he come alone, completely unprotected? Upon further inspection, the Elf seemed pale and weary, his head bowed as if in silent defeat.

Had his people abandoned him, as Durin had feared they would?

Determined to extend comfort to his dear friend, Durin patted the burdened shoulder. "Ya've had a hard journey, Elrond," he murmured, attempting to mask the conflict in his tone. "Come and warm yerself by the fire. Perhaps some Dwarven ale to dispel the chill in yar bones?"

Elrond smiled again, his eyes glimmering with amusement. "I could hardly refuse such an offer," he admitted, slowly straightening. "It's been too long since I..."

Upon reaching his full height, Elrond's face very suddenly lost color. For a moment, he swayed precariously before stumbling to his knees, much to the horror of Durin and Disa. The Dwarven King grabbed hold of the Elf's hand, which now trembled with obvious strain, and held it fiercely.

"Elrond!" he breathed anxiously, glancing towards Disa, who shared his worry. "What's the matter? Are ya ill, Laddie?" He felt the tremor of Elrond's cold fingers in his, and his heart sank with dread. "Easy now..."

"I am alright, Durin," Elrond assured him weakly, his free hand settling on an anxious Disa's shoulder. "Perfectly well... The act of healing... It gives and takes. I am merely weakened by it. Not ill. Do not be alarmed."

Durin doubtfully helped Elrond to stand, glancing in Disa's direction once more. This time, the face of his love held an expression of understanding, though her worry did not lessen. Surely a stone singer such as herself would understand the degree of power that Elrond wielded, and the toll it had inevitably taken on his body.

"Ya're as white as the ores, Dearie," she observed, refusing to release his unsteady hand as she examined his ashen countenance. "Come to the fire and rest yerself. That's quite enough for one night."

There was a hint of color in Elrond's face by the time the bread and salted pork Disa set before him had been eaten. Durin noted with no small sense of relief that, despite the elf's momentary collapse, he appeared to be quite hale and hearty, his willowy frame noticeably more robust than he remembered.

The dark curls, once shorn and tidily curried, lay loosely beneath broad shoulders. The finely adorned brains that furrowed each side heralded the warrior that Elrond had since become.

The noble head remained erect with newborn confidence, and starlit eyes continued to shine, long after the last echoes of his healing melody had faded into the furthest crevices of the Mountain.

"Despite yar insistence on worrying me," Durin muttered with a wry smile. "Ya look well, Elrond. This rather rugged way of life seems to agree with ya, despite yar feathery shirts and soft hands..."

The rather insulting compliment brought a smile to Elrond's face, and his soft laugh reached Durin's ears like the words of a beautiful song long forgotten. "I suppose there are benefits," he cheerfully admitted with an acknowledging nod. "To my current... situation."

His utterance of the final word cast a sudden shadow over his striking features, replacing his sunny airs with an expression that appeared bitter and hardened... Durin observed the narrowing of Elrond's eyes as he stared into the flames, his trembling hands clenched firmly around a soft corner of his blue cloak. He swallowed tensely at the sight.

"Gil Galad did not summon ya to Lindon," the Dwarf guessed tentatively. "Did he?"

Elrond did not answer immediately, his eyes distant and sorrowful. The silence held only a moment before he spoke again. "The High King believes that my counsel is no longer relevant to his current military endeavors," he admitted grimly, his jaw clenched. "It would seem that my convictions have been deemed irrelevant in the face of the new era that is upon us."

Durin's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "The Elven rings..." he murmured, his voice soft. "He told me that ya were... hesitant to accept their use. Is that what has come between ya now?"

Elrond's eyes remained on the fire as he sipped the ale Disa had provided with unmoving stoicism. "All of my attempts to prove my loyalty to him have been met with silence," he breathed grimly. "There is no conclusion left for me to draw, Durin; only that my assistance is unwanted and my counsel unfavorable."

Durin sighed, remembering the fondness Gil Galad had expressed for his herald, but doubting the sincerity of it now that time had slipped by without a trace of such care.

Eyeing his dear friend, whose face remained blank as it masked immense pain, he reached out a hand to rest on the burdened shoulder. "When ya first came here," he observed pointedly. "Yar quest was to save the Elves from fading... It's why ya needed the Mithril in the first place... The rings have restored the light of yar people, Elrond, just as you had hoped... Why do ya still fear them so?"

Elrond's arms crossed slowly, his head bowed as he pondered the posed question. "What I fear," he spoke at last, "Is a world in which the art of restraint is lost. I fear an over-reliance on powers that far exceed our comprehension. And... I fear that, in our attempts to preserve the life of the Eldar, we awakened an evil far more potent than the means of resisting it."

Durin eyed the Elf for a moment before he breathed a sigh. "Now, ya sound like my father," he snorted, before downing more ale.

The intensity of Elrond's gaze did not waver as he turned to look at his Dwarven friend. "Perhaps, he was right after all..." he mused distantly. "Perhaps, in lingering, the Elves have wrought more destruction than good... I cannot imagine that Celebrimbor would have condoned the spread of such corruption, and yet... How else would your father have met such a horrific fate?"

Durin swallowed tensely, his fingertips stroking his beard in deep thought. "Celebrimbor was a friend," he agreed. "But I always feared his faith in that snake, Annatar... It seemed to narrow his focus."

"The Deceiver is cunning..." Elrond admitted, a sudden strain in his voice, as if the thought wearied him. "There are few who could stand against his power..."

Durin nodded slowly. "Few indeed..." he agreed. Both sat in silence for a long time before Durin dared to speak again. "Surely, the King would not allow the bond ya share to be broken over some blasted jewelry," he muttered. "I know the admiration that ya held for him, Laddie... Do ya still care for him, as ya used to?"

Elrond was quiet for a moment, his mind in some faraway place that Durin was not privy to. At last, he spoke, his voice conveying mixed wonderment and confusion.

“It is… difficult to explain,” he admitted, brow furrowed as he gazed towards the river below. “My memory forbids me from forgetting the kindness that was once there.” He paused, his thoughts heavy, before his words continued.

“He does not see me anymore, Durin,” he murmured with steady resignation, as if grief had long ago become acceptance. “But… My heart promises me that he once cared, even if the care has since gone cold. There is hurt to be sure, but there is also the love I have always felt for him… In my eyes, he will always be the elf who rescued an orphan child…”

Durin nodded, suddenly tearful as Elrond’s words resonated with his own deepened grief. “Aye,” he whispered breathlessly. “It was the same with my father… He lost himself to the greed, and in time, I hardly knew him. But he came back to himself before the end. Perhaps, in time, Gil Galad will come back too… As ya once knew him…”

There was a deep sadness in Elrond’s eyes as he turned to face Durin, but he offered the Dwarf a gentle smile nonetheless. “I fear there is little time left for myself and Gil Galad,” he admitted feebly. “But it warms my heart to know that you were given that small solace.” He laid a hand against his dear friend’s shoulder. “You were the pride of his heart, Durin. He loved you more than anyone...”

Durin swallowed back a rush of tears and shook his head vigorously. “The old goat could have done more to show it…” he muttered, even as his shoulders shook and his chest began to heave with suppressed sobs. “And now, he’s up and left me without a sure path… Just when I needed him most…”

The admission forced the tears he had fought to keep at bay, and he lifted a trembling hand to shield them from Elrond’s sympathetic gaze. His sturdy frame rocked with shuddering gasps and rivers of sorrow until careful hands clasped his.

Lifting his eyes, Durin’s gaze met Elrond’s as the Peredhel knelt before him with aching empathy. The grey eyes were soft, brightened by tears and pooling with endless depths of care as they searched his.

“Oh Durin…” Elrond whispered, his hands tender as they clasped the dwarf’s. “I do not pretend to know what you have endured… I should have been there, to offer an ear when your need was dire…”

Durin shook his head resolutely. “Ya had yar own grief, ya daft Elf,” he pointed out, causing Elrond to visibly stiffen.

“It’s not the same,” the Peredhel insisted with steady determination. “You bear no blame in what befell you, Durin… Your pain was entirely undeserved.”

Durin frowned faintly despite his tears. “And I suppose ya think yars is?” he demanded hotly, his eyes fiery with sudden exasperation. “Ya feel responsible for Eregion’s fall, don’t ya?”

Elrond barely managed to hide a flinch as he met Durin’s gaze. “Never mind what I feel…” he murmured, his voice strained. “I am your friend, but I am also a healer… Allow me to offer you comfort while I still can…”

The heaviness of uncertainty and the threat of permanent separation hung between them like a low-hanging blade as their minds turned to the battlefield. The thought sent a shudder through Durin as his hidden fears returned.

“It’s this blasted war!” he muttered brokenly, brushing the drying tears from his face and braided beard. “It brought us together only to pull us apart again… I don’t know what’ll happen out there, Elrond…”

Elrond’s eyes softened as he breathed a faint sigh. Eyes closing, he cupped a hand to Durin’s tear-stained face and guided the furrowed forehead to meet his.

“You shall survive this, Durin,” he whispered gently.

Durin drew a shuddering breath. “Ya don’t know that for certain,” he protested, his shoulders slumped defeatedly.

“I do.”

Elrond’s voice was quiet but firm as he raised his eyes once more. “I do… You will face darkness, Durin, but it will pass. Your life will not end on the battlefields of Lindon. Take comfort in that…”

There was unmistakable sincerity in Elrond’s face, an innocent pleading that seemed to offer truth. For a moment, looking into the earnest grey eyes, Durin almost believed Elrond’s assurances that all would be well.

The Dwarven King was aware of Elrond’s sense of foresight and wondered if such a gift had given Elrond the confidence to speak with such surety.

Durin pondered the possibility as he prepared to bid the Elf farewell after the sun had set. Yet, as he stationed himself near the doorway, a strange, unsettling feeling clung to him, one that he could not quite place.

The sinking sensation filled his stomach as he beheld the masked sorrow on his friend’s youthful face.

Stay until dawn. The words were on his lips, but he remained silent. There is so little time left…

His heart cried for him to insist that Elrond remain. Just another night. Just until dawn. But the call of his father’s ring was louder, and the fear and foreboding more insistent than Elrond’s gentle presence.

Thus, when the opportunity came, Durin said nothing.

“Namárië, Mellon-nin,” the Peredhel murmured warmly, his eyes soft with fondness and a touch of wistful longing. “Would you extend my goodbyes to Disa and the children?”

Durin nodded, his breath shaky. “Ya have my word,” he promised, his throat tight with emotion as he recognized the reluctance in Elrond’s posture. The Elf was hesitant to leave, and yet, the Dwarf kept his silence. He said nothing.

He watched, rooted to the spot as Elrond turned to go, before halting upon the threshold and turning to face him once more. “Durin…” the name seemed to escape the Elf unbidden, a mistake so unlike the flowery-tongued creature Durin knew so well.

"Durin,” Elrond repeated, this time with more composure, yet more heaviness than before. “Whatever happens… Hold to the light. Hold to the memory of brighter times… The years before this darkness… Hold to the hope that they will return. Can you promise me, Durin?”

Durin, laden by the expectation of grief in the face of separation from Elrond and plagued by the guilt of being too weak to ignore the whispers of the ring, had already allowed the tears to fall from his face. Laying a hand over his breaking heart, he nodded earnestly. “I promise…” he managed to whisper. “I swear it.”

Elrond nodded, accepting the promise with quiet solitude. “Thank you…” He murmured, his eyes hardly daring to meet those of his friend as he fought to regain composure. “I vow to do the same.” And yet, he lingered a moment more, his eyes trained towards the stone floor before they rose to meet Durin’s at last.

“We are brothers Durin, in all but blood…” he added softly. “Even when our own brothers were lost to us… You hold the same place in my heart. The days spent in your company are among the most cherished in my existence… Remember us as we were, Brother. The good times we shared...”

Durin’s tears were unceasing, and his shallow breaths hitched with an aching sorrow as he allowed the Elf’s words to wash over him like a gentle rain. “How could I forget?” he asked brokenly. “They are a piece of my heart, Brother…”

Galadriel sensed his presence before seeing it; a dark power, reaching for her mind like the tendrils of the wind caressing her hair. She stiffened sharply, seizing the sword that rested at her side.

“Galadriel…” His voice was soft, but taunting in its tone.

“You..!” she hissed sharply, her eyes narrowing as her mind met his. “You would seek to tempt me on the eve of battle? Do you truly believe your schemes hold sway over my mind?”

She sensed amusement then. Nearly a laugh in the face of her defiance. “Surely, you do not consider me so foolish…” was the quiet reply.

Her sword’s grip tightened as she moved a step nearer to the barren battlefield, cloaked in darkness. “What is it then?” she demanded, her lips pursed in a thin line as she paced restlessly. “What is it that you seek?”

A momentary pause graced the night air with silence before the answer came. “I aim to destroy the King’s finest jewel…” The Dark Lord’s voice was steady in its unshaken confidence. “To crush it before his eyes while Middle Earth watches…”

Galadriel bristled with rage at the haughty threat, brandishing her sword. “Then, you have acted more foolishly than you know!” she answered, a slow smile overtaking her defiant expression. “For upon this field of battle, your forces face the gathered peoples of Middle Earth. The rings are far from your reach. Our armies far outnumber yours! You have ordained your own demise!”

“Have I?”

A chilling silence followed. A silence that was too great. Too complete.

Raising her eyes to the battlefield, Galadriel’s keen eyes searched for enemy torches and fire. To her horror, there were none.

Only the silent blackened void of night met her gaze. Sauron and his forces had vanished from the field without a trace…

The enemy was gone…

A fire flickered aimlessly at his feet as the High King gazed into its light. Gil Galad had been ill at ease of late. Vilya had become restless, filling his dreams with terrible visions that his heart could not decipher.

The flames of Sauron seemed to fill his mind, followed by a cold darkness. There was blood on the snow drifts. Horrible whispers and screams of pain in the air... An unspoken shadow was approaching, clouding his thoughts.

Where had this darkness taken residence? With every vision, the High King tried to uncover some revelation of its origin, but was always left with none.

Galadriel, too, had spoken of an unnamed dread that the ring had cast upon her. The Dark Lord was closing in, but Lindon lay in wait for the first blow.

As the evening brought with it no sign of an attack, Círdan came to take counsel with him, for he too shared in the strange dread.

"Sauron is on the verge of striking a violent blow," he deduced. "His darkness ever grows. And yet, I find that his movements are unclear in my mind. With each passing day, he grows ever bolder. I fear the destruction that such boldness will inflict upon us."

Gil Galad considered this but shook his head decidedly. "He is still building support," he explained. "He does not wield enough power. Not yet..."

"I fear a terrible loss if we do not heed the warnings," Círdan insisted. "We acted too late when Eregion faced the threat of Sauron's hand."

The shipwright paused and observed the King, who did not answer, his brow furrowed in thought. "We lost Lord Celebrimbor, Ereinion," he pointed out grimly. "Our friend... Would you so easily risk such a heavy loss as that?"

Gil Galad frowned sternly, though Círdan detected the mist in his eyes. "Ui, Círdan," he murmured, the heat of silent fury in his voice. "The protection of our people is of the utmost importance to me. And in his dying breaths, Celebrimbor warned us that the darkness cannot be overcome by strength alone, but by the light... Perhaps, in his final moments, he gave us the very answers we seek. He knew Sauron's mind in ways we do not."

Círdan's eyes narrowed as his arms folded across his chest, gazing towards the battlefield. "Sauron wishes to bring darkness upon Middle Earth," he perceived. "His aim is not to kill the body but to mold the mind to his will. If one as mighty as Celebrimbor could bend to his design, who then can resist?"

The High King frowned. "Perhaps it is not strength and might that the Dark Lord wishes to snuff out," he quietly observed. "But rather the steadfastness to the light. We must not lose ourselves in our attempts to defeat him, Círdan..."

Saying this, he glanced at the treacherous ring that rested on his hand. "Who among us can say that they were not tempted by the power that he unwittingly put into our hands, uncorrupted as it may be?"

Círdan took in the King's words, noting the doubt and measure of guilt that were both present there. Until now, he had harbored no qualms about the use of the rings. And yet, with his dying words, Celebrimbor had warned that such power was not the path to defeating darkness...

A chilling thought suddenly roused him...

"There is one..." he breathed, the grave realization stealing the breath from his lungs. His eyes met the King's with knowing dread. "There is one among us who was not swayed by the promise of power... And he wears no ring..."

As if in answer to Círdan's thoughts, the flap of the tent was flung aside, and Galadriel entered, breathless and frantic, her face pale. "Sauron..." she gasped. "He is not here. The armies of Orcs... We watched them gathering for days on end... They are gone! All of them! We were deceived by an illusion, my King... The enemy seeks to strike a heavy blow."

Gil Galad's face paled, his movements becoming frantic as he clasped Galadriel's shoulders. "Commander..." he breathed, with false steadiness. "Did he express a hint of his intentions? Of the blow he seeks to strike?"

Galadriel's eyes remained wide with horror as she recalled the words. "The King's finest jewel..." she repeated tensely, as if caught in a trance. "He expressed a desire to crush the King's finest jewel. Those were his very words... Surely then, we must carefully guard the Rings..."

But the true implication of Sauron's threat was devastatingly clear to Gil Galad, for none save himself knew what he prized most. His face, once regal, became bloodless and distraught as he stepped back, slowly, like one dazed by a brutal blow.

"No. N-no, it cannot be..." he muttered, his hands trembling. "What have I done? No, it cannot be..." Swallowing, he glanced at Círdan, who eyed him with mixed concern and dread. "Elrond... The Sanctuary... Sauron's eye is fixed upon them, even now. And Elrond... He is alone. Isolated."

Just as Celebrimbor had been when Eregion fell...

Galadriel's face continued to pale. "Elrond..?" she whispered, hardly daring to believe such horrors. "But his letter, sent only days ago... Perhaps there is still time." In an attempt to search for answers, she opened the scroll that rested at her side.

But as her eyes absorbed the delicate script on the page, she read it with fresh and horrifying clarity, as if understanding its meaning for the first time.

"The letter..." she repeated, this time with such distress that Círdan and Gil Galad hastened to her side. "His words... It is as if he knew. This letter... It was not written to offer comfort. It was a farewell... He knew, High King... All along, he knew..."

The night was dark, the snow soft as Elrond’s steps led him through the crags and crevices of the mountain pass. An icy wind whipped at his face and hair, reddening his cheeks in a way that made his features appear more Mannish.

A shiver ran through him as the blue cloak at his throat rose and fell with the night air, its blue folds rippling like the sea it sought to emulate.

With only the wind for company, the Elven Healer felt a profound stillness in the air; a sense of waiting, oppressive and nameless as it hung in the atmosphere.

Pulling the cloak more securely around his lean shoulders, Elrond lowered his head, his steps careful and determined as they moved over uneven ground. He took no pleasure in parting from his Dwarven brother, but a gentle peace had quietly taken hold.

Foolishly, he had allowed twenty years between them to slip away, like sand from an hourglass. It was a failure that had hung between them for so long.

Perhaps, this final effort to extend comfort would serve to expunge his grievous mistake. Perhaps, it was not the failings that his friend would remember, but the quiet moments of brotherly affection and care.

Elrond’s hand clenched with hidden purpose as his stride lengthened, the understanding of what lay ahead arising unbidden in his mind. With a sharp glance upward, he braved the bitter winds for a moment to look upon Gil-Orestel, the starlight reflecting in his eyes.

“Do not allow this to break him, Father,” he pleaded quietly, his brow furrowed. “Let it pass, I beg. Let him live peaceably, to the end of his days. He is so dear to me…”

There was no answer except the cries of the wind as it tripped over leaning pines and rocks that rose like giants before him. Still, there was some measure of comfort in the silence, as his desire to protect the Dwarf fell upon Eärendil’s more capable shoulders.

The cold was a desolate thing as Elrond soldiered onwards, his steps leading him through the darkened forest, towards a familiar place. A few steps more, and it was before him; a simple clearing, surrounded by looming trees and covered in a blanket of snow.

He had been here before. Nearly every night. Every night, the dreams brought him here. The chill of darkness and despair hung like a fog in the air as the silence threatened to consume him with its vicious anticipation.

“Ûr' nî.” The words, hissed in vehement Black Speech, caused his skin to crawl as he shivered. “It is time.”

Silence whispered once more. But only for a moment. All around him, Elrond felt the surrounding evil as it approached, unseen. It pressed against him like a vice, its hot breath likened to the fires of a forge as it closed in.

Drawing his sword, Elrond squared his shoulders, taking a steadying breath as he steeled himself for the hidden horrors that awaited him. “Reveal yourself!” he shouted, his voice carrying power with it as it echoed through the night. “Come out of the shadows!”

Only then was the spell broken and the veil fell away, revealing his enemies from their unnatural concealment. All around him, hissing orcs expressed amusement at their scheme, reaching lusty hands toward him with the intent to mar and sully.

He waved them back with a flicker of his blade, and from him they shrank with hidden terror in their eyes. They outnumbered him immensely, but some inexplicable force held them back from their prey.

At last, the source of such fear revealed itself, and a dark figure slowly materialized before Elrond, the eyes burning with the familiar flames of malice. Stepping closer, he observed the Elven Healer, the faintest of smiles flickering wickedly across his lips.

"Elrond, Son of Eärendil," the dark elf mused with chilling calm, his slow steps circling the Peredhel like a vulture. "Our paths are joined at last..."

Elrond eyed the figure with careful steadiness as he dared to face the fiery gaze, unflinching. “It was inevitable…” he muttered grimly, his starlit eyes calm as they faced the fire before him. “Long ago, the pieces were set. You think I do not perceive the game you play? I know it well, Sauron…”

Chapter Text

Alone.

For so long, he had fought it, denied it, resisted it within himself, even as the world he knew fell to ruin. But now, as Elrond stood before the Dark Lord, he resigned to it, accepting the truth he had known for some time.

He was alone. Perhaps, he always had been... How fitting that he should die as he lived, passing with the shifting tides of fate; a mere flicker in an ageless sky of stars...

The age of warring powers had dawned upon the horizon, ushering in a world in which there was no place for poets or politicians, no use for discernment or restraint.

Transcendental power and strength were revered as the only true path to victory, trading the soundness of reason for limitless might.

Sensing the transition at hand, Elrond understood and acknowledged the part he was destined to play. Ever since the forging of the Rings, the need for his wisdom and counsel had begun to fade, and with it, his purpose.

For what purpose did a diplomat or healer serve in a time of warriors and kings? Gradually, his contributions had dwindled until only complete sacrifice remained.

It was all that was left for him to give, for his gentle gifts were but a whisper against the forces that fought in the battle for Middle Earth's soul. The Mannish stirrings of his heart had always longed to honor the legacy of his family with worthy deeds.

And yet, there was no honor without utility. For so long, he had resented the loss of his usefulness, of his significance among the people he called his own. And as time passed and the need for his abilities diminished, resentment had turned to acceptance.

Perhaps, there was merit in the isolation, in the fall from relevance with the dawn of the new age. Perhaps the city and the people that he had tended to would transcend his efforts, and his life was to be the final toll needed to ensure a lasting future.

His heart, deep in its wellspring of care, had grown to love the people of the Sanctuary, just as they had come to love him. Ensuring the soundness of their path was a worthy objective; his life, a small price to pay.

From youth, Elrond had searched for purpose in his existence, for a sense of fulfillment and belonging. Now, the newfound understanding of his path granted him a semblance of the peace he had always sought. It gave meaning to the betrayal, the abandonment, the loss... Every sorrow he had ever experienced would be rectified.

"I chose this..." he remembered inwardly, his starlit eyes steady as they faced the Deceiver. "I have striven and fought to be one with the Eldar... But perhaps my fate was never to live immortally as they do, but to die in their service..."

Indeed, his isolation after the fall of Eregion must have been ordained by the will of the Valar, for it would undoubtedly ease the parting blow for those he held dear in Lindon.

“There is nothing left for me here…”

He was beautiful, Annatar noted. The curled tresses were an uncommon sight among the Eldar, as were the eyes that shone of purest starlight. The boy had the regal bearing of his father, tamed by the delicate grace of his mother. So different from his kind... So foreign and imperfectly charming.

Greedily, he reached for the angular face, his cold fingers exploring the sharpened jaw with unguarded fascination.

"I had not expected to find you so... alluring, Herald..." he murmured, his eyes probing for the silver ones that hid from him. "How very changed you are..."

A dry laugh escaped Elrond as he finally raised his gaze. Cool indifference marked every feature as he flashed a mirthless smile in the face of his enemy. How the subdued rebellion of Lúthien’s grandchild utterly mesmerized the Dark Lord's fancy…

"Does such a transformation surprise you?" the striking creature asked, his voice quiet in its calculation. "You, who wear many faces and answer to many names?"

There was to be no fooling the Peredhel, he realized, for the disdain in the Commander's eyes could not be hidden beneath courtly guiles. Annatar suspected that the use of such flatteries lay long abandoned by the High King's Herald.

"I find myself intrigued, young one," he admitted quietly, his cold hand firmly grasping the tense jawline. "Along with your grace, your power ever grows. Your name breeds terror among the bravest of my forces... Tell me. How does a being of your abilities find himself alone in this forsaken land? Where are your kinsmen? Your loyal soldiers?"

He rejoiced inwardly when Elrond's gaze fell away from his touch, a clear shame burning in the pale face. "I am alone." The answer, quietly given, resounded with more meaning than the words.

Alone. Alone, while the armies of Middle Earth gathered under one banner in Lindon’s defense. Was the Elven King unaware of the power wielded by his herald? Of the asset he had so unwittingly discarded?

"Alone..." Annatar's voice was deliberate in its careful repetition. "Only a fool passes through the darkness alone... And yet, I sense that you, Elrond Peredhel, are no fool. Are you?"

It irked him that Elrond did not answer. Surely it was no accident that he was here, fearless, defenseless, utterly unattended.

Annatar's eyes fell to the purity of Elrond's garb, a design uncommon among Elven craft. And yet the embroidered crest was familiar to him. All too familiar, for it belonged to none other than the Island City.

“Aligned with Númenor, then.” The realization sent a chill through his ancient blood. “Damn it all!” The wrath of Númenor was one he had no wish to invoke upon himself.

And yet… Another thought struck. “An alliance with men, rather than with his own people?” Those whose blood Elrond shared had not bothered to clothe him against the chill. “What folly of the Eldar, to forsake the greatest of their kind?”

"An outcast, then?" Annatar guessed inquisitively. "Where is your King, Herald? Why does he not call upon your gifts to aid his cause?"

Elrond's jaw visibly clenched, and his eyes narrowed sharply as they fell to the snow beneath his feet. The cloak upon his back fluttered mournfully in the wind as if in shared despondency.

“He does not need them,” he murmured with quiet defeat. “Not when a power far more potent is within his grasp…”

Understanding washed over the Deceiver's fair countenance like a shadow. “He does not know, does he?” he breathed quietly. “Of your gifts… Your rare abilities..?”

When Elrond did not answer, a spiteful flicker tugged at Annatar’s lips. With false concern, he drew a weighty breath. "You were abandoned here to die…"

“Sauron intends to strike the Sanctuary in the Misty Mountains.” Gil Galad’s voice was grave with purpose as his finger traced the Great East Road that spread across the map before him. “Should he succeed, half of Eriador will already be his…”

Círdan crossed his arms as he listened, raising a brow when the soldier Guruthos frowned deeply. "Herald Elrond’s post?” he spluttered indignantly, his fists clenching at the table’s edges.

“Our fate is to be decided by the Peredhel?” Lifting his head, the young noble cast a disbelieving glance toward Gil Galad and Círdan both, his jaw taut with agitation. “He will doom us all to ruin…”

Círdan watched as Galadriel’s face twitched, her lips pursed as if in restraint. “Herald Elrond has doomed no one!” She chided fiercely. “He faces an enemy he cannot overcome. Not without aid.”

The shipwright sighed wearily. "No matter the speed, such a journey will last several days...” he pointed out grimly, his eyes finding the High King’s. “Is there no one who might reach him sooner?"

His heart dropped with sinking dread as Gil Galad swallowed tensely. "None..." the golden King managed to say at last. "There is no one... Which is why you, Commander Galadriel, must march with the utmost speed to the valley. You are to gather half of our finest troops and depart immediately.”

Círdan nodded slowly, noticing a dark scowl on the brow of Guruthos as Galadriel bowed. “At once High King,” she assured him. “It shall be done.”

“Galadriel!” Gil Galad’s call to her retreating form brought an abrupt halt to her footsteps. “Return him to me,” he pleaded, a quiver in his regal tone. “Return him to me alive... You must!"

A heavy silence fell upon the darkened tent as she disappeared into the night. Gentle breezes from the West tugged at the canvas and sang a mournful song until, at last, a laden sigh escaped Guruthos.

“Half of our finest troops, my liege?” he repeated with a bitterness that Círdan did not fail to detect. “You would leave our capital city so vulnerable in defense of a single Elf?”

“Lieutenant!” Gil Galad’s face grew suddenly dark as the harsh word sounded from his lips. “Remember your place! Herald Elrond has shown great resilience in his position. Hlava nin!”

“…With due respect, my King,” Guruthos interrupted, his voice low and level. “Twas Herald Elrond who led us to defeat at Eregion. His trust in the Dwarves was too implicit. Or have you forgotten that Prince Durin’s betrayal left him mad with grief?”

Cirdan’s stance tensed as he watched the color drain from Gil Galad’s face, for the rage burned beneath with white fire as his fist clenched.

“Do you dare to speak to your king in such a way, Lord Guruthos?” he demanded hotly. “Your nobility does not give you leave to assess the abilities of Commander Elrond!”

“I speak only of my concern,” Guruthos acquiesced, false humility coating his tone. “For the future and safety of our people… Much lies upon the shoulders of Elrond Peredhel. I pray to the Valar that he is up to task.”

Círdan could sense that Gil Galad wished to argue, but raised his hand in a gesture of peace. “You are dismissed, Soldier,” he muttered, coming to Gil Galad’s side. “Return to your duties.”

Drawing a labored breath, he laid a hand on the High King’s shoulder as the dark-haired Elf fled the tent. This was neither the time nor the place for such petty contrivances. Not when the life of Elrond and his people hung in the balance.

“You are trembling, Ereinion,” he murmured, turning to face him. “His words, harsh as they may be, haunt you, do they not?”

“Just so…” Gil Galad swallowed tensely, his gaze fixed on the torchlight that flickered in the night wind. “Was it not I who armored a meek scholar and sent him to war? I, who asked the impossible of my most cherished counselor?”

Círdan sensed that no comfort could ease the shame that gripped his King’s grieving heart, though he offered it all the same. He watched as Gil Galad’s eyes fell upon the map, which even now seemed to taunt them both with its harrowing distance.

“He is alone, Círdan… Utterly so. I fear to think what Sauron will do, should he reach Elrond before Galadriel does…”

Cirdan’s grip tightened on the King’s shoulder. “Elrond is perceptive," he pointed out, remembering the wisdom that resided with such irony in one so young. "He recognized the Deceiver's movements long before we did."

He felt Gil Galad's shoulders tighten beneath his hold. "And yet," the King fumed, his clenched hands shaking visibly. "He said nothing of his suspicions! Why would he conceal such knowledge from his king?"

Círdan sighed wearily. "Would his king have listened?" he challenged, though gently. "Or would his counsel have been traded for the whispers of the ring you bear?"

The fiery rage in the King's face was quickly doused with icy realization as he pondered the question. "I sensed the darkness, Círdan," he admitted, his voice uncharacteristically shaken. "I often see the shadows of what may be... How could I have not foreseen this?"

Círdan's eyes softened, though his pragmatism remained. "A veil of illusion descended upon us all," he admitted sadly. "Only Elrond perceived the deception, perhaps through his own wisdom or foresight... Perhaps, because he often sees that which we do not."

The King's dark head dipped in a slow nod. "He has always been… singular in that regard," he observed quietly. "His nature will forever mystify me. It is one of many reasons why he holds sway over my heart. To lose him... It would be a devastating blow to our cause. The very thought is difficult to bear."

Círdan turned towards the open tent flaps, watching as they swayed limply in the wind. "You have come to care for him, I think..." he guessed softly.

Gil Galad hesitated only a moment before affirming the notion. "As if he were my own..." he breathed, his voice choked. "I sought to protect him from this war. Instead, I have sent him to his death..."

“It was for the Rings that he left you, was it not?”

The question, unanswered in words, had long haunted Elrond’s thoughts like an accusation. There had been a time when his worth in Gil Galad’s eyes had meant more than any jewel. But such a time had long since faded to memory.

"Your King left you to this wilderness when your sights no longer aligned with his...” Sauron’s voice was deceivingly kind in its cadence.

“He will not come for you, Son of Eärendil. It seems you have fallen from his favor." Fair fingers reached, once again clasping his clenched jaw in their icy grasp. "And now, you are mine..."

The words crept over his skin like a growing chill as Elrond forced his rapid breaths to steady. The passage of time, the severing of ties, had only served to answer the uncertainty that had plagued youth and burdened adolescence.

He belonged to no one. The otherness that often left his spirit unsettled in days past had gradually cornered him into grim acceptance. Such duality was a wild thing, never to be tamed or rightfully understood, not even by those who claimed to admire it.

"You have no claim over me." His voice sounded dull in the night wind, even to his own ears. "There are none who do..."

Vicious pleasure broke like an unforeseen wave over the Deceiver's face as he dragged Elrond's starlit gaze to meet his with forcible violence. "There is falsehood in your words, Herald..." He murmured, flaming eyes examining him with the swiftness of fire.

"You think yourself unbound, yet your spirit remains shackled to the whispers of the night. The call of despair has grown stronger in your mind, has it not? It beckons when all others turn their eyes away... It offers you a reprieve from the sickness that festers in your soul."

Repulsion to the truth of Sauron's words caused Elrond to recoil, freeing himself from the icy touch. He had told no one of the battle within or the wounds he had buried beneath duty. Even so, this malady of the mind and fëa had left only traces of hope where once had burned a flame.

Stepping back from the closeness of the Dark Lord, he lifted his sword as if to ward off the words.

"You do not know my mind," he murmured fiercely, his chin raised. "I never let you in!"

Sauron's gaze dropped, the beginnings of a sneer forming at the corners of his lips. "An understanding of one’s mind is not necessary," he explained. "To recognize the dwindling of an Elven spirit. You've hidden it well, young one. But you could never hope to hide it from me.”

With eerie nonchalance, the Dark Lord closed the distance between them, his eyes roving between the sharpness of Elrond’s gaze and his trusted blade.

“Tell me, Peredhel…” The feigned curiosity in the silken voice caused Elrond’s blood to quicken and burn. “Was it your intent to wither and waste in the dark? Or have you sought and failed to find the cure for your damaged soul?”

What cure was there for a gradual loss of spirit, inflicted by the hand of disillusionment? For the scars of Eregion, compounded by further betrayal? There was no such cure. A bitter laugh, low and joyless, escaped Elrond’s lips as he tipped his blade.

“I am no longer the bright, Elven Prince you seek,” he murmured savagely. “He died beneath the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil!”

They were not the words the Deceiver longed to hear, and yet, they sparked a morbid pleasure in his flaming eye as he gazed upon Elrond. Cocking his head to one side, he considered the Commander, as if perceiving him anew.

“You were there when the city fell,” he remembered thoughtfully. “My Orcs followed your retreat, but found nothing. No survivors or refugees. And yet, here you are…”

A hiss went up among the beasts surrounding them as they detected the promise of blood and barbarity. Elrond could smell the stench of death upon their hands and feel the heat of their quickening breaths as they pressed closer, a lust for severed flesh in their eyes.

Sauron’s gaze, however, did not falter as he pierced the Peredhel with his cold gaze. “The others…” he muttered, his tone devoid of feeling. “Where are they?”

Elrond steadied himself, even as his heart fluttered and dropped with familiar dread. The Sanctuary… The people. His people. A protective girdle guarded them, but was it enough to withstand Sauron’s might?

Masking his inner turmoil, he tossed his tawny head in a show of defiance. “I am alone here,” he answered curtly. “Or have you already forgotten your accusations against my King?”

The Dark Lord remained unmoved. "A fledgling settlement stands no chance against the shadows of the world,” he threatened dispassionately. “There are evils in the dark that would make your tender spirit beg for release. You do not know what you face, Herald."

A wry smile flashed across Elrond's face at the words. "You call me a coward?" he asked brazenly. "You, who skirts among the shadows to shield yourself from the light? I face your might alone, and yet, my heart remains unshaken. Threats are cheap, Sauron. Mere words with no meaning..."

Dark anger settled on the fair brow for the first time, causing the Dark Lord's face to contort, ugly and spiteful in expression. Reaching out with cold hands, he batted away Elrond’s sword with unnatural force, causing it to skittle uselessly into the newly fallen snow.

"Who is this dog?" he seethed, fingers grasping a fistful of the dark curls and wrenching the Commander's head to look at him. "Who dares to condemn my efforts as cowardly? You tire of threats, you wretch?! Perhaps you would prefer a demonstration of the agony that awaits you?"

Elrond's proud gaze rose to meet his. "You forget," he murmured savagely. "Before duty demanded a warrior and a healer, I played the part of a courtier. Every tactic of the tongue is known to me. Prove to me you stand on more than words..."

He felt his body tremble as Sauron's rage blazed like a fire beneath the bellows. Still, his eyes did not shrink from the burning gaze.

"Perhaps then, you would better understand the language of pain!" The words were hissed, with the indignance of a flame touched by cool water. "It seems that in your exile, Herald, your silver tongue was lost to madness!"

No amount of readiness could have adequately prepared Elrond for the searing heat that then emanated from the Dark Lord's hands as they gripped his skull like a vice.

Not even the bitter cold of the snowy night could alleviate the invisible fire that gradually consumed his body, burning his armorless skin with relentless fury. It spread, and wreathed and consumed with smothering agony.

He could not speak, could not cry out. Only strangled gasps managed to escape him as he writhed beneath Sauron's wandering hands.

"Soon it will be over." The thought was his only comfort as he experienced every sensation of being burned alive. "Soon, I will be allowed to rest."

Every inch of his body blistered beneath the heat of the Dark Lord's touch. A pain unbearable, but he bore it, knowing the sweet release of death would claim him, along with all knowledge of the hidden valley.

It never did. Without warning, Sauron withdrew, leaving Elrond to slump into the sharp frigidity of the snowdrifts, his body trembling from head to foot.

There he lay, caught in a violent shiver between burning flesh and winter's chill as the Deceiver dropped to a knee beside him, his face calm.

"Now then..." The silken tones were a stark contrast to the fury of moments before. "Has your thirst for punishment been quenched, little Healer? Will reason yet prevail?"

Despite himself, Elrond scoffed. "Reason..." He muttered, raising himself from the ground until his eyes were level with the Dark Lord's. "One cannot reason with you... Your mind is twisted in its vile pursuits."

"Not twisted..." Sauron's voice was once again low as he slowly stood. "Rather, it has been enlightened. I have seen the ways in which Middle Earth might be healed. I need only the cooperation of its people."

Elrond struggled to his feet with graceless daring. "Or what?" He spat, his chest heaving as his breaths still came quick and shallow. "Without their compliance, will you stoop to enslavement? To torture?"

Sauron turned on him then, a bitter smile touching his lips. "It is but a small price for the procurement of perfect peace," he answered lightly, as if such cruelties were but a small inconvenience in his supreme efforts.

Elrond nodded slowly, his chest now heaving in growing rage as his nostrils flared. "Is that what you told Celebrimbor?" He asked menacingly. "While you reveled in his suffering?"

The fire returned to the ancient eyes as they hardened with the pain of the memory. "He brought it upon himself!" He roared, his movements erratic as he advanced on Elrond, who stumbled back. "He was the author of his own demise! I took no pleasure in correcting his obstinacy!"

Elrond's hand frantically reached for the curved blade that lay near his feet as he retreated from Sauron's fury. There was little he could do against one so powerful, but the coolness of steel in his hand served as a source of courage.

"Spare me with your false grief!" he fired back, his eyes bright as starlight. "He died with honor despite your attempts to subjugate him! You could not turn his heart! Nor will you turn the heart of any who stand against you!”

A strangled cry escaped the Dark Lord’s pursed lips as he advanced further. "You have not the power to prevent their demise!” Sauron’s biting growl was like poison in Elrond's ears. "I see their faces in your mind, Peredhel! How strange... I never see you in theirs..."

Behind this new taunt, Sauron flung Elrond backward with a vicious, unearthly power. As if weightless, Elrond’s body lifted and fell with a force softened only by snowdrifts as he sprawled limply, sword in hand.

From his prone position on the frozen ground, Elrond saw the Dark Lord's shadow looming ahead like smoke on the horizon as he turned to the restless Orcs at his side.

"Bring me the Elf's head" was the simple order. “The rest is yours…” It unleashed an uncontrollable madness in the Orcs, and as mindless monsters, they charged.

“Elrond!” A boisterous voice at his back startled the young Peredhel, though he did not turn. There was no need, for his brother’s voice, louder than the oncoming storm, was unmistakable.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Elros panted, his haste emphasized by winded fatigue. “Why in Eru's name are you out in this squall? Celebrían has proposed a bit of storytelling by the fire while the rain passes. Will you not join us, brother?”

Thunder rumbled overhead as Elrond swallowed, his hands clenching at his sides. “No, I…” Dimly, he sought to present Elros with a proper excuse. “I will not be joining you… Perhaps later. My studies beckon.”

“Blather it all, Elrond!” Elros did not attempt to hide his exasperation. “Your studies may wait! You know how Celebrían prefers your company to mine!”

Elrond’s eyes closed in slow indignation, and his jaw clenched. “I do not wish to see her,” he admitted softly, his voice unsteady. “Not like this…”

Saying this, he turned carefully to face Elros, his heart plummeting when his brother’s face, bright with eager anticipation, darkened with swift fury as he beheld Elrond’s scars.

“It’s nothing, truly…” Elrond hastily interjected in an attempt to quell the rising ire in his brother’s countenance. “I was… merely clumsy… at the training grounds… It’s nothing…”

Elros stepped forward with deliberate purpose, his face white with rage. “Who did this to you, brother?” he demanded, lifting a careful hand to inspect the injuries. “Was it Ringûr? Tell me…”

Even the wailing of the wind could not break the oppressive silence that followed. When Elrond did not answer, Elros turned in sharp agitation. “I’ll show him a beating!” he muttered ruthlessly, his dark locks flying wildly. “He’ll beg for mercy before I’m through!”

“Elros, please!” Elrond reached and caught his fiery twin by the arm, his eyes pleading as he drew him back. “It is no use… Can you not see? He will only sharpen his blows the next time if you interfere. Let it pass, I beg you…”

Elros turned on his brother with seething rage. “The next time?” he cried, his voice sharp. “I will not allow there to be a ‘next time,’ Elrond! You have been injured… Who is to say that another such beating will not be worse than the last? Are you mad?”

Mad? Perhaps… Reaching for his brother’s rigid shoulder, Elrond shook his head. “Do not force their hand, Elros…” he pleaded, feeling the throbbing ache of his wounds and wincing. “It is simply the way of things…”

The sweeping blaze in his brother’s eyes softened compassionately then, as he gently cradled Elrond’s bruised face in his calloused hands.

“Ai, Elrond…” He murmured, his brow coming to rest against his brother’s. “If you will not allow me to end this, then you must! He cannot be allowed to break you so. Protect yourself… Stand up and fight him!”

Elrond’s eyes widened with horror at the prospect, and he quickly drew back. He was no warrior. Certainly not one like Elros… The strengths he excelled in were not those of physicality or warfare.

He was a scholar, a student of the ancient arts, a lover of poetry and prose. He had no place defying a brute of Ringûr’s caliber.

“I… I cannot, Elros,” he stammered frantically, raising his voice above the increased patter of falling rain. “I am no master of strength or sword.” Swallowing, his eyes widened. “I am not like you…”

Elros’ hand rested reassuringly against his shoulder, his dark eyes warm with brotherly admiration. “You need only be Elrond,” he murmured with unusual softness. “For you are stronger than you realize. And you shall not fail, for I will show you the way.”

Elrond’s scholarly gaze suddenly furrowed with doubtful inquisition. “Show me the way…” he repeated, his voice gaining strength. “But how, Elros?”

“Am I not a fit warrior?” Elros boasted lightly, a smile returning to his youthful face. “I shall train you, Elrond… Teach you the ways of fighting so that you may fight for yourself.”

"I've craved the taste of raw meat!" The rough shout of the Orc tore Elrond from the memory of his brother as it approached. "He's mine!"

A squall of growls and gurgles rippled through the approaching enemy as they closed in, all salivating at the thought of the prize.

One of them reached forward with a crude sword and nicked Elrond’s shoulder, drawing a trickle of red against the white. “See how he bleeds?” the creature roared in amusement, sending a stir through the horde.

“We’ll drink his blood…”

“… devour his flesh!”

Gnarled hands reached for him from every side as they closed in. “Don’t hide, Elven Healer…” they mocked, emboldened by his isolation. “It’ll be over soon enough.”

Elrond beat them back with the threat of his sword, spilling blood and severing limbs when they dared to come too close. Throaty growls and hot breath pressed down upon him. Too many.. There were too many.

"Who am I in all this?" he reasoned, his breath choked as he struggled against the howling throng. "A mere courtier... A politician. A scholar who has no place upon the battlefield. Is this to be my end? Forgotten in this forsaken place?"

Beyond the melee, Elrond could discern the fiery eyes, ever watchful. The Dark Lord observed him with unnerving focus and sneered as if pleased.

This was what Sauron wanted… This darkness. This despair. He must fight it and search for the light. He must draw strength from the good that he continued to fight for. For the Sanctuary and its people. Perhaps, even for himself...

“He cannot be allowed to break you so!” The desperation of his brother’s words rang clearly in his mind as if they had been spoken yesterday. “Protect yourself… Stand up and fight!”

Elrond’s heart ached as he raised his sword, the sting of unshed tears burning his eyes. His throat tightened as he swallowed them down, along with the throbbing in his chest. He would not be broken. Not while he yet wore the colors of Elros, like a banner into war.

“I am not like you, brother,” he whispered, his breath hanging upon the winter air. “Nor will I ever be. But you have shown me the way. I will not fail you now.”

With new resolve, Elrond unleashed an attack with the fierceness of a man and the skill of an elf. He felt his heart settle when the smile died upon Sauron's lips and was replaced with a glint of rage.

“Bring ‘em down!” The cry arose from the Orc archers, who raised their crude bows to fire upon him. But Elrond stood in readiness, his hand raised to the dark sky.

“Vailë!” He cried out, his voice echoing through the rocky forest. “Carry away these weapons of death! I command it!”

The hiss of arrows sounded, but the force of the wind was stronger, for it turned the deadly barbs away from the Commander, scattering harmlessly at his feet. Many rounds followed, but none touched Elrond, for the wind readily obeyed him.

“Kill him!” The frenzied shout erupted and took hold among the angered monsters, for their efforts bore no fruit. “Kill the Elven Healer!”

When arrows failed to inflict harm, the charge continued, and armored bodies rushed forward to smother the starlit creature in their midst. Blades of poisoned iron scathed and scratched from every direction, hungry for flesh, lusting for blood as they clawed for their prey.

But Elrond’s determination had been reforged, and the memory of his brother lent him strength as he allowed his blade to fly. Makeshift weapons tore at his tunic and marked his chilled skin, but he took no notice. He would not easily fall. Not while he yet had strength.

Indeed, his strength was formidable, for he cut through the mindless beasts like a raging storm, the skill and strength of his sword far beyond what appeared possible.

Before he even had the chance to catch his breath, he straightened to find the company of enraged Orcs lying mangled and lifeless at his feet, their taunts and jeers now utterly silenced.

It was a small victory, one that would, no doubt, be short-lived. But it was a victory nonetheless, for Elrond realized that he had resisted the call of despair. Courage restored, he turned to face Sauron once more.

A weapon flashed in the moonlight.

A dark hand caught him by the hair, and sudden agony shot through him as a dagger pressed against his chest.

Sauron’s face, level with his own, was still as stone, the eyes a lifeless void as they looked upon him with icy disdain.

Slowly, cruelly, steel passed through flesh, between bone, and punctured the right cavity of his chest until the blade passed through to the other side.

The act, so sudden yet so deliberate, left Elrond to shudder upon the blade, even as the warmth of fresh blood rushed from the wound and down the face of his pure tunic.

A groan of anguish escaped him as Sauron held him there, like an animal caught in a trap. Reaching down, the Dark Lord plucked the curved sword from his limp hand and cast it away.

“You fight well, Herald Elrond.” The words were spoken grudgingly, devoid of all warmth. “Perhaps they will remember you, when they retrieve your carcass…”

Breathe. Focus.

Every breath bore the pain of another knife in his chest. With a wheezing gasp, he forced his gaze to meet the Deceiver’s in the act of defiance.

“It will pass…” he choked, his teeth chattering with the cold sweat that now covered his body. “…as all things do.”

Sauron nodded impassively, his grip tightening on the dagger. “You are not like them, are you?” he surmised. “You are… apart from them. Is that not the reason for your exile? Does a unique mind frighten the Eldar so greatly that they must send it from their midst?"

When Elrond did not answer, the knife twisted sharply, causing him to cry out in pain. Moisture poured from his brow and into his eyes, blurring his sight as he tried to make out Sauron’s form.

“I am where my King wishes me to be…” he breathed, his voice strained from the torment, but ever resistant. “That is my duty… To serve him as he deems best!” A shiver ran through him as more blood escaped the jagged wound.

The Dark Lord tilted his head to one side, the answer leaving him dissatisfied. “Indeed,” he muttered menacingly. “Perhaps, if it were so, he would have ensured your protection. Your survival. And yet, here you are…”

Again, the blade jerked, and the clarity of Elrond’s vision slipped. He sagged limply, strung upon the sword, unable to move. “I ask you again, Peredhel… What brought you here, alone? Where are the others?”

Breathe. Focus.

Again, he lifted his eyes to meet Sauron’s.

Soon it would be over. And all knowledge of the Sanctuary would die with him.

Annatar gazed upon the work of his hand, the starlit creature, impaled by the point of his dagger. The spawn of Melian and Lúthien, the High King’s precious jewel, the child of kings and heroes, at the mercy of his hand...

He looked down upon the pale countenance, twisted by pain, and savored the sight. But then…

The gratification of the deed lost its appeal when Dark Elf eyed the glistening face of the Peredhel and saw, not the horrified fear of one facing death, but rather, the flicker of a triumphant smile.

There was defiance in the face of pain, even as his lifeblood ran like a mountain stream down the folds of his garments…

A frown furrowed the Annatar’s brow, and he gave the submerged blade another twist for good measure. Elrond gasped in agony, but the glint of victory remained in his eyes.

“You find consolation in pain, do you?” the Dark Lord spat, finding less enjoyment in the outpouring of sweat and the paling of skin when the Commander beneath his blade kept a steady gaze. “This is but a whisper of what I am capable of!”

A dull cough escaped Elrond’s lips, but the faint traces of a smile evidenced his satisfaction. “You exceed all creatures… in the art of destruction,” he muttered doggedly. “None can argue with that…”

Annatar’s features tightened, his annoyance building. “And this pleases you?” he asked incredulously, hardly able to comprehend an appetite for pain that exceeded his own.

The Peredhel drew a sharp breath, choosing to ignore the river of blood that poured from his open wound as he squared his shoulders.

“Your power is great indeed,” he reiterated. “Yet, you lack restraint. Only those who utilize power with prudence ever truly wield it. Those who do not… are merely vessels.”

“I am no mere vessel!” The words echoed through the forest as the Dark Lord’s grasp tightened. “I am the master of my power! It does not master me!”

A bitter laugh escaped the Commander, despite the rigidity of his jaw as he masked the pain. “And yet…” he murmured. “You would kill me, without gaining the knowledge you seek… Death does not frighten me as it does you… Your pride has blinded you to your true purpose…”

A growl stirred in the Dark Lord’s throat. “You believe you can resist?” he hissed, his eyes ablaze with fury. “I will learn the knowledge that you…”

“You shall learn nothing!” Elrond’s voice was sharp and commanding despite his pain. He glared at the entity before him and seethed, his teeth bared. “The valley is under my protection! You shall not find it!”

“And what protection could you offer, you little cur?” Annatar’s hands trembled as he fought the urge to strangle the boy. “You are defenseless! Helpless! There is nothing…”

He stopped. Then realized.

Child of Melian, indeed… It was her protection that had guarded her people. Her girdle that had hidden Doriath from the horrors of the outside would… And now, the one who shared her blood had cast the same spell.

“The blood of the Maiar…” he guessed. “It has awakened in your veins… Has it not?” When Elrond did not answer, he nodded curtly. “Very well then. There are… ways to discover what remains unseen in the natural world…”

The beauty of the snowy night was rare to the eyes of Vorohil. Yet, even its glory could not surpass that of his mortal companion as she glided beside him with a comforting, familiar tread.

Her dark hair shone like the wings of a raven beneath the pale moonlight, and he longed to caress its velvety softness, though his stoic mind forbade such gestures.

Her eyes, sweet in expression, shone even through the darkness of night and drew him to her as if they held a bewitching spell. She seemed to sense the longing in him and feel it within her heart as well, for her tone remained soft and intimate as she spoke.

“I have never marveled so intensely at the wonders of this world,” she admitted, her hand extending to reach for his. Her delicate fingers were small and warm as they intertwined with his more calloused ones.

“Ever since I arrived here, my spirit knows a joy… a peace I did not believe was possible. This place… it has been a haven for my heart.”

Vorohil’s heart skipped in boldness as he drew a gentle breath. “Perhaps,” he suggested quietly, his eyes upon her. “It is not only the place, but the people who have stirred your thoughts, my lady?

Bríd’s face erupted into a smile then. Oh, how lovely she appeared in the warm lantern light. “Perhaps…” She repeated, though there was no question in her voice. I never considered that such happiness could be mine. And yet, here you are…”

Vorohil’s eyes shone as he lifted a careful hand to lightly brush her fair skin. “I have seen much in years past, Bríd,” he explained. “Many wonders and sights that have spoken to my soul. But none have moved me so profoundly as the radiance of your spirit, nor the love that my heart holds for you.”

He lost himself in her eyes once more as the throbbing in his chest threatened to resound through the still night. How he longed to express such affection, to she her the unspoken words of his love.

As he moved closer and felt the warmth of her breath mingling with his, she paused.

“Consider, dear Vorohil,” her voice was reluctant in its interruption. “Such bliss will not last forever… How could it? I am a mere mortal, and you… You are destined for lifetimes of such happiness. Not just a fleeting fancy…”

Her words, though a silent dread that hung between them, did not weaken the strength of his longing, nor did they bring hesitation. Instead, he took her delicate hands in his and gazed upon her, his admiration for her clear.

“It is the fleeting nature of your mortality,” he countered. “That makes the time between us all the more precious. Not something to fear, but rather to cherish, while it yet remains…”

The shine of tears glistened in Bríd’s eyes as her hold on his hands strengthened. “Would your love yet remain?” she asked, her voice unsteady with feeling. “Even if I should grey and wither as med do? Would your love endure, even then?”

“It would.” The words left him without pause. “For though your beauty is not unknown to me, it is the goodness of your heart that has captured my soul. You are kind, my beloved Brid, in a world where kindness rarely blooms.”

Her face reflected his desire, though a faint note of doubt creased her brow. Drawing closer, her voice dropped to a hushed whisper.

“Are you certain?” she breathed, her eyes moving from his gaze to his lips.

He bowed slowly to meet her. “Never more certain, my Lady,” he answered, his hand coming to rest upon her flushed face. “Never more deeply in love…”

His lips met hers with gentle softness that soon deepened into passion as they lingered, their spirits one.

Unbeknownst to them, Arondir watched from a short distance away, his heart heavy at the memory that the sight invoked.

Bronwyn… His Bronwyn. His love. The bleakness of winter and the growing shadow brought with them a keen sense of loss and longing for her. Perhaps, when Commander Elrond returned, there would be time enough to share his sorrows, for the young Elf seemed to understand in ways others did not.

He worried for Elrond. A deep sorrow had hung over the young Lord when he had departed from the Sanctuary. With unease in his heart, the Silvan Elf moved on with his careful watch of the valley, praying to the Valar that Elrond would safely return to them.

The world around Elrond shifted and darkened, as the natural life surrounding him fell away and new shadows arose. But it was the Dark Lord who transformed most acutely, for the horror of his true form was revealed.

Angry flames, armored by plates of shadow and darkness, engulfed the being, towering and mighty in both stature and bearing as it gazed down upon him and struck terror in his heart.

This was no longer the fair elf, but a snarling creature of the dark he faced, its eyes, forged in flames, bearing the malice of countless centuries as they threatened to incinerate him by the mere focus of their gaze.

“The reaches of your power may guard your people, young Peredhel.” The voice was terribly loud, as if it thundered within his own mind.

“But it holds no influence in the unseen world. I will find this place… Find your people… And I will slaughter them all before your eyes. Show me where they hide…”

The blade embedded in his right side turned cruelly, causing Elrond to cry out as he fought the current of Sauron’s words in his mind. “Get out of my head!” he shouted, his voice strange against the resounding silence of the world enveloping him. “I never… let you in!”

“You will, Son of Eärendil,” Sauron answered with resounding hatred. “You will!” He remained before Elrond, a being of unspeakable dread, waiting for his prey to weaken and submit.

A faint frown creased Elrond’s brow. His eyes narrowed. The Dark Lord bore down upon him, terrible as a demon, and yet… He did not press, did not come close, as if the act left him wary or afraid.

“Surely, he knows I am no threat…” The thought was nearly humorous, given the circumstances. “He could smite me with a single touch of his hand. Surely…”

But there was fear in the ancient eyes. A fear more encompassing than the hatred. Glancing cautiously at the blade that protruded from his side, Elrond’s eyes traveled to his bloodied hand, and his heart leaped, for he understood.

In the growing darkness of the veiled world, the light of his fëa seemed to shimmer and glow in an outward display that defied the oppressive shadows.

It was the manifestation of a light he did not know dwelt within him. It was the light of Eärendil, of his dear mother, of the singing blood that coursed through his veins whenever he sought to heal.

And it was the brightness of this light that caused Sauron to shrink, for it was a light he could not look upon without pain or revulsion. The realization stirred within Elrond’s heart like a whirlwind as he summoned what remained of courage and strength.

He saw the fear in the Dark Lord’s eye. He knew what he must do, remembering the words of one who had already fallen.

“It is not strength that overcomes darkness, but light.”

Lifting his chin to face the shroud of shadow and flame before him, Elrond inwardly braced himself, his fists clenched.

“This is my land!” he exclaimed, his spirit humming with gifts of his line as they radiated from within. “These are my people! I call upon the light of my father’s star and the power of Melian and Lúthien. You are not welcome here, nor will you ever be! You have no place here!”

“For in its presence, all darkness must flee.”

Reaching out, he extended a hand toward the darkness, which instantaneously diminished and cowered beneath the refulgence of his inner light.

“Álë sir! Go from here!” There was a thunderous force within his words that he had never experienced before, and it reverberated through the night like a torrent. “My people are under my protection! I, Elrond, son of Eärendil, command you to leave this place!”

A stillness settled over the darkened grove as the silver light of the half-crested moon cast its illuminating glow over the fallen snow, which reverently cradled the unmoving body of the Sanctuary’s Lord.

Flecks of Peredhil blood lay scattered about him like shards of glass, broken upon stone. The grey eyes, once shining with starlight, had dimmed to darkness and were sightless to the unequalled beauty of the night.

Even such horror amid such beauty could not deter the gentle creatures of the forest, who were inexplicably drawn to the presence of the Elven Healer. A delicate songbird came to rest upon the still shoulder, its wayward music filling the darkness.

A timid stag emerged from the shadows and stationed itself nearby, as if in protection of the valley's Lord. The minuscule sounds of mice seemed to reverberate against the silence of the forest as they gathered closely at his still feet.

Despite the terrible bloodshed, the Valar seemed to have taken pity on the Half-Elven in the form of these protective companions, as if the possibility of his passing from the world without the comfort of fellowship was too horrific to allow.

For a moment, Middle Earth seemed to still and recognize the distorted nature of the violence wielded by the Dark Lord, as innocent blood lay spilled upon the fallen snow.

The hour of dawn arrived, but the light of day remained hidden, as if unwilling to rise. When it did, its colors showed a vibrant red, both a bitter reminder of the needless bloodshed and a plea for justice to those who understood.

And from the shadow of the trees, Annatar watched and waited, his spirit both unsettled and awed by the child of starlight. As the world awakened, he listened, his eyes lingering upon the still form lying in the snow.

“Lord Sauron,” A clumsy Orc appeared at his side, watching the fallen elf with perplexity. “Shall we fetch the body?”

Not bothering to turn, the Dark Lord slowly shook his head. “No…” he murmured, his eyes never leaving the dismal sight. “Leave him where he lies… We must be patient…”

The simple beast did not understand, but shrugged and obeyed, disappearing to join the others as they hid in the shadows. But Sauron remained where he was, ever vigilant.

“A new day dawns, Elven Healer,” he murmured, his eyes on Elrond’s pale face. “And with it, a turning of the tide. Your valley will be discovered. Your people will fall. And your king will come to understand the truth… That his last hope of salvation has slipped from within his grasp.”

Chapter Text

Despite the quietude of the winter night, Arondir could sense that something was gravely amiss.

The sun had not yet risen, and the earth was still, yet peace remained a fragile thing. With his trusted bow slung over his back, the Silvan Elf moved away from the forest and made for the Sanctuary.

His steps were swift as he passed the Great Hall and strode towards the outer defenses, hoping to gain some clarity of the dread that clung to him.

But the settlement was quiet. Nothing caught his keen ear to stir concern.

"Master Arondir!" He whirled about to face Melthorean, whose panted from recent exertion. He stopped before the archer, his chest heaving.

"Commander Elrond's steed will not settle," he choked, his eyes turning towards the stables. "The creature refuses to be calmed."

Arondir frowned and felt his heart beat painfully at the troubling tidings. "That is not uncommon for the Lord's horse, Melthorean," he countered soberly. "The steed is always unsteady in its master's absence."

Melthorean shook his head gravely. "Not like this..." he murmured. "Caurëa kicks and stamps without rest. I've never seen the likes of it from so timid a creature. Will you not examine him?"

Arondir feared there was little he could do for the animal, but chose to comply. Sure enough, they found the horse in a frenzy of violent anxiety as it thrashed and bucked in its hay-covered stall.

None could draw near enough to give it comfort. No amount of soothing or offers of food seemed to appease its growing angst.

Arondir swallowed grimly and extended a careful hand towards the dark animal, his breath gathering like a soft cloud upon the sharp morning air.

"Peace, Caurëa," he whispered, his fingers reaching for the velvety snout. "Your master will return soon..."

"How long, Arondir?" Melthorean's voice quivered as he watched, his jaw grimly set. "Until Commander Elrond returns to us? I fear there is a wrongness in the valley this morn. Can we be sure of his safety?"

Arondir stared into the wild, dark eyes of the steed and shook his head slowly. "We cannot be certain of many things, eithron," he admitted quietly. "But I, too, sense the disquiet here… The earth is still, as if it waits.”

As if in answer to his fears, far off murmurs and cries of alarm reached Arondir’s ears, drawing him from the stables into the growing light of dawn.

Melthorean followed close behind and uttered a low exclamation as their eyes were drawn upwards. “By the Valar..!” the fair-haired elf whispered. “Mana ná sina? What is this?”

Across the brightening horizon, blood seeped into the colors of the rising sun. And in his deep knowledge of the natural world, Arondir was quick to recognize the meaning of daybreak’s red hues.

He felt his heart sink at the sight and turned to Vorohil, who now came to his side. "I fear some tragedy has taken place," he murmured tensely. "The sun bleeds as it ascends... Recounting death."

Vorohil's face paled considerably, and his arm instinctively cradled Bríd, who leaned gently into his touch. "Elrond..." he breathed. "Could it be..?"

Arondir tightened his grip on the steady bow at his side. "We must search for him," he decided, turning towards the edge of the camp. "Fetch your sword, Lieutenant. And you, my Lady,” he glanced at Bríd. “Prepare the place of healing… We know not what we will find.”

Bríd’s face was etched with concern, but she quickly turned to obey, fearing a dire fate for their true healer. She exchanged a brief moment of tenderness with Vorohil before she retreated towards the Hall, their eyes full of longing and unspoken love as they reluctantly parted.

“What of the horse, Arondir?” Melthorean’s voice was tense as he reminded the Silvan Elf of the frightened creature. “What’s to be done?”

Arondir’s eyes narrowed as he stared into the distant mountain passage Elrond had taken mere days ago. “Set the creature free,” he ordered, to the other Elf’s surprise. “It will know the scent of its master…”

“Perhaps, it will lead us to Elrond,” Vorohil agreed. With a weighty sigh, he trained his gaze to follow Arondir’s. “I pray to Eru we are not too late…”

The two hastened their steps beneath the towering rocks of the Misty Mountains, for they knew that this was the path Elrond would have chosen to traverse in the direction of Khazah Dum.

Caurëa led the way, its galloping gait and sharp whinnies indicating urgency as it navigated uneven slopes and ledges of the harrowing path.

Above, the crimson sky faded into a dull grey, promising nature’s fury to come. Arondir felt the warmth leaving his body rapidly, though not from the icy winds that whipped his elven cloak. A great evil was near, so chilling that it momentarily weakened his resolve.

He could see that Vorohil sensed it too, though the Elf remained silent, opting instead to wrap his mantel more securely around frosted armor.

"Do not lose heart," Arondir reminded him steadily, though the reassurance was also directed to himself. "We will find him."

A weak nod was his companion’s only reply as they continued to follow Elrond’s determined steed through the forest of pines, watching for any sign of their beloved Commander.

Their search did not take long, for soon enough, Caurëa stilled in a quiet clearing, its head bowed low to the ground. But no amount of time would have prepared either Elf for the horror they soon faced.

Beneath the warmth of the horse’s nose, a prone figure lay still against the snow, surrounded by a spattering of blood, his pale face to the heavens.

"Commander!" Arondir's voice reflected his dread as it echoed through the jagged cliffs and trees surrounding them.

He hastened to Elrond's side and knew without seeing that Vorohil followed closely behind. The archer fell heavily to his knees beside the fallen healer and laid gentle fingers across his throat. “Commander…”

To his small relief, life yet remained in the Peredhel. But the signs were faint and the breath ragged. Even now, the gaping wound in his side continued to bleed upon fabric and snow.

Arondir shed his cloak to cover Elrond before cupping the cold face with his careful hand. "Echuio, Elrond," he begged brokenly, his eyes blurred by tears. “Wake up… Please, Mellon-nin. Please!”

Elrond’s eyes remained shut to the horrors of his injuries. He was pale; deathly so, and all warmth had fled from his flesh.

But his face, though ashen, was absurdly serene, almost ethereal, beneath the nicks and bruises doled out by murderous Orcs. It was peaceful. Gracefully divine… And the sight made Arondir long to bitterly weep.

“Not like this, Elrond…” he pleaded, his fingers coursed through the dark curls that now lay dormant against the cold ground. “Not yet… Open your eyes. You must!”

"Will he survive?" Vorohil wanted to know, his voice utterly helpless. Arondir could not meet the other elf's gaze. “Arondir?”

"I have seen Elves recover from such wounds," the Silvan Elf reassured the lieutenant, though there was more worry than hope in his tone.

Indeed, the gaping wound was cruel in its placement. Time spent with Bronwyn informed him that it might never truly heal.

Vorohil rose from his knees, his eyes widening. "But Elrond is no common elf…" he murmured slowly, his voice breaking. "He will die..."

“Arondir..?”

The voice could hardly be distinguished from the howl of the wind through the pines, but Arondir heard it, his eyes darting to the face of his Commander.

“My Lord…” The words were breathed rather than spoken as he leaned closer. “Be at ease. We sensed that you had come to harm.”

He swallowed forlornly as he glanced again at the jagged wound before lifting his gaze to meet Elrond’s. “You are gravely injured, my Lord…”

But the wound did not appear to be the Commander’s primary concern. He glanced about with a sort of frantic anticipation, clumsily attempting to raise himself from the snow as he ignored Arondir’s protests.

“No… No, you cannot be here…” Elrond managed to whisper, his voice rough with agony. “Leave this place! He will find you! He will see! He will…”

An aching moan escaped him as his voice died. Once again, the pain consumed him, and Arondir was forced to catch him as his eyes rolled back and his body became lax once more.

Vorohil looked on with grim dismay. “Arondir…” he murmured, his voice hushed and uneven. “His body is failing, even now. We are losing him…”

Arondir secured the grey cloak around the injured Peredhel before slipping his arms beneath the limp shoulders and knees and lifting him easily from the stained snow.

"Not without a fight," he breathed. "I will not allow this darkness to take him from us. Quickly Lieutenant. Guide the horse. We must flee this evil place!”

With every passing day, the unease in Pelargir grew. Every word and glance, laden with unspoken rebellion, caused Theo’s skin to crawl until he could keep his peace no longer.

“He does not listen to reason!” he seethed in agitation as he paced before the roaring hearth. “You and I both know the power of the Ents… To disrespect them as he does… It's a mistake!”

“And a grave one at that…” The Lowman, Hagan, frowned faintly as he spoke, his eyes thoughtful. “Kemen is a fool. But he is also a coward. Perhaps, with a bit of… persuasion, he might be worked on…”

The boy scoffed and shook his head decidedly. “It's only a matter of time,” he muttered. “Before he gets us all killed in punishment for broken promises. Perhaps, this settlement would thrive under a different ruler…”

He huffed in annoyance when Hagan’s eyes disagreed. “What are you suggesting?” the other asked with heightened intensity. “Be careful, Theo… I have heard whispers that Kemen murdered a man in cold blood… Would you sully yourself and stoop to his crimes?”

Theo squirmed under the Lowman’s harsh gaze, his hand reaching absently for the chain that hung at his neck.

“I am not like him…” he assured Hagan with no small touch of annoyance. “I wish only to avoid a war with the Ents… We struggle to survive as it stands. Perhaps, you have a better plan?”

But there was no answer from his companion.

Rather, a strange silence crept over the warm cabin like the morning frost over the fields, until Theo raised his eyes once more and was startled to find Hagan eyeing him oddly.

“What have you got there?” the Lowman demanded quietly, his gaze upon the bright chain about Theo’s neck. "Is that… A ring?”

The ring. A sudden surge of panic coursed through Theo’s veins as he shoved the glimmer of gold beneath rumpled homespun. He had told no one of the strange gift he had received. Not even Arondir…

“Merely a bit of jewelry…” he stammered, his palms strangely moist despite the bitterness of winter. “I found it in the forest…”

“Let me see it…” Hagan’s voice was low, but forceful as he stepped forward, causing Theo to retreat sharply. “Surely an Orc foot soldier would not carry such a treasure… I only wish to look at it, Theo. You need not shy away…”

Theo’s eyes narrowed as he backed slowly towards the thatched door that creaked in the cold wind. “It’s… Nothing of consequence…” he assured Hagan, though his voice was noticeably unsteady. “A trifling spoil of the battle…”

Hagan did not accept the lie, and nor did his eyes stray from the Ring. Despite himself, however, he finally relented with a sigh. “Very well…” he murmured, so wistfully that it made Theo’s skin crawl. “It hardly matters anyway…”

“Quite right…” Theo agreed, his voice still uneven as he groped for the handle of the door behind him. “It does not.”

An eerie silence hung between them for a moment before the boy retreated fully from the cabin, his hand clutching the chain that adorned his throat as if it were comparable to the very air he breathed.

Hagan’s eyes followed him from the shelter of the cabin. He felt them upon his back as he shuffled through the light snow. The Lowman had discovered the secret… He had seen the golden ring.

“He will steal it from you. And he will keep the power for himself.”

Theo swallowed, his grip around the object so tight that his hand shook and his knuckles whitened. He had seen the look in his friend’s eyes… An insatiable longing, one that he himself had grown far too accustomed to…

“He will not take it from me. The ring is my right to wield…”

There was a sharp ringing in Elrond's ears as the horrors of the unseen world vanished around him.

The flaming entity that had towered before him had strangely vanished. Now, only silence hung in the air like mist. Nothing moved nor breathed…

Was this another nightmare? An illusion? How had he survived such malice?

Barely, he realized, for a downward glance told him that the whiteness of fallen snow now ran red with rivers of blood. His blood.

His body sank with his mind at the sight. More dead than alive, he collapsed to the cold ground, begging distantly for the end. For peace.

It never came.

Darkness and delicate touch of feathery snowflakes against his skin were his only ties to the living world as he felt himself swaying limply in strong arms…

“Stay with us, Commander…” Vorohil? Why was he here, in the forest?

“Does he still breathe?” Arondir's voice, close to his ear…

There was a pause before his lieutenant answered. “He does…” he murmured gravely. “With much difficulty…”

Vorohil and Arondir… Why were they here? Would Sauron discover them? Elrond shivered as he felt the dark presence nearby.

“Leave me…” he whispered weakly. “He sees you…” Did the blade still protrude from his chest? Every breath was like molten fire to the lungs.

There was no answer. None except the furious pounding of a fist upon a door. “Bríd, my love!” Vorohil was audibly distraught. “Help him, please!”

Bríd too… Elrond's heart sank, for he knew that Sauron would find them all. He would slaughter them before his eyes, just as he swore.

“He will see!” He faintly insisted, hardly able to hear his own words. “He said…”

“Shh… Don't speak, Mellon-nin.” Once again, Arondir’s voice sought to soothe, even as Elrond floundered between wakefulness and oblivion. “You are safe.”

“He is coming, Arondir!” How strangely jagged his voice sounded. A surge of fiery pain blossomed in his chest, and he cried out, clinging to a sliver of consciousness.

Determined to warn the Silvan Elf, he planted his hands at his sides and forced himself upright, though the motion proved to be a grave mistake.

“He is… He is here… I must…” Pain followed. Scorching, excruciating pain. Unable to control himself, he gasped in agony, falling back against what could only be the softness of his own bed.

“Keep him steady, Arondir.” Bríd was frantic yet stern in her tone. “The sutures are nearly complete…”

“At ease, Commander.” The words held a firmer cadence as Arondir’s warm hands guided his head back to the soft cushions. “The loss of blood has left you ill. Allow us to care for you, hm?”

Whether in obedience or against his will, Elrond could do little to resist as his body screamed in torment. A pitiful moan escaped him, and he closed his eyes, lying still beneath the coolness of the sheets.

“We can't face him…” The words were soft as they escaped, though he had not intended to say them aloud. But suffering seemed to loosen his tongue.

“We are alone here… They won’t come.”

Not even Durin, his dearest friend, his brother, had come when the need was dire. Why would they?

“Sleep, my Lord,” Arondir's hand seemed to move across his slick brow. “Grant yourself peace…”

He did not wish to. Not when the shadows of Sauron crept ever closer to the borders of his city.

But his strength had withered, silencing his will. He slept then, deeply and distantly, faraway from the fears that gripped his heart.

A nightingale's song filled his mind, so soft and rich it might have been his mother's… How he longed to see her…

In the comfort of darkness and music, a gentle voice reached him, close and familiar as it had been in the forests of Pelargir.

“Rest, child.” He sank into the words as a stone sinks to the sea floor. “Save your strength, for you will face much. Do not let the dark one steal your song.”

The comfort was inviting, gentle. So familiar. They were his mother's words, her plea for him to guard his heart from the darkness.

“Mother?” Perhaps she was here with him, even now. “Don't leave me here to die. Not alone…”

“Peace, Master Elrond… It is but a dream.” It was not Elwing’s voice, but Bríd's, that now beckoned him to wakefulness. “Open your eyes, my Lord.”

Hesitantly, he obeyed.

The healing ward was quiet and empty around him, and the light of the hearth cast warmth that managed to dispel the chill in his bare shoulders.

From where he lay, he beheld the soft light against the window panes and listened as little birds sang prettily on the sill outside. Morning had broken.

The act of keeping his eyes from closing proved difficult as weakness clung to him, and the heat of the fire exacerbated drowsiness. Even the quiet crackle of the flames seemed to lull his senses.

Feebly, he raised a hand, as though reaching, before frailty caused it to fall at his side. “How am I here?” The sluggishness of his own voice vaguely frightened him. “How is it possible..?”

“You were rescued.” The answer was simple enough from the healer woman, who came into view and knelt beside his cot near the fire. She studied him for a moment before her delicate hand came to rest against his cool face.

“It is believed that you were ambushed by Orcs when you returned from Khazah Dum,” she softly explained. “But perhaps, you have a more detailed recounting. Do you remember, my Lord?”

The question caused Elrond’s clouded mind to clear with jarring clarity as the events of the night returned to him, along with their horrifying implications.

“It was him…” he muttered thickly, attempting to rise, but forced to lie back when the warmth of Bríd’s hand pressed authoritatively against his bandaged chest. “It was Sauron! He is here! In this valley! Arondir… Vorohil…”

Bríd shook her head in reassurance, though her concern visibly increased. “Both are unharmed…” she whispered gently, though a short swallow betrayed her anxiety. “Even now, they seek to rally your warriors. Such violence against you cannot go unanswered…”

Elrond stared at her in transfixed terror before he drew a short breath. “Bríd,” he murmured, dread hanging upon his every word. “Were they followed?”

Even in the pleasant glow of the hearth’s blaze, Bríd’s face whitened, and her tentative smile disappeared. Glancing towards the door, she drew back, alarmed that she had no answer.

“There would have been tracks,” she admitted at last, shadows of the fire exaggerating the tenseness of her jawline. “Your steed was the reason they found you… Vorohil spoke of sensing evil. They returned in haste.”

But the damage had already been done. Even in unconsciousness, Elrond had sensed Sauron’s presence, watching, waiting… Like a vulture circling its prey…

Elrond groaned grimly and shut his eyes. “It cannot be…” he mumbled after a long silence. “I thought that…” His eyes opened once more and moved towards the fire’s blaze as he shook his head. “Never mind what I thought…”

Bríd watched him compassionately and leaned closer, her hand coming to rest on his chilled forearm.

“Vorohil and Arondir shall know at once, my Lord,” she promised, though her eyes remained troubled. “For now, you should rest. Sleep, if you can.”

There was a strange tightness in her tone that caused Elrond to faintly frown. She turned to go, but he caught her hand and held her back, detecting the tears that brightened her eyes.

“Bríd…” he whispered earnestly, carefully easing himself into a more upright position. “What troubles you?”

She appeared startled by the question, but hastily feigned ignorance. “I am as well as can be expected…” she admitted vaguely, her eyes darting anywhere but his face. “These are dark times for us all…”

Pensively, Elrond pursed his lips and nodded, though her attempts to elude him proved to be a failure. “You fear for the city…” he deducted, wincing slightly as he attempted to straighten his posture. “Not without reason...”

Bríd’s expression became vulnerable. Hastily, she brushed away a tear. “Sauron’s forces killed my kin…” she admitted bitterly. “I know well the power of his hand. How are we to face him, vulnerable as we are? It is impossible.”

“Not impossible, my Lady,” he reassured her with a serene sorrow in his eyes. “As long as I live and breathe, I will ensure that this city stands. I will not abandon it to Sauron’s designs…”

Bríd shook her head vigorously, terror sparking in her eyes. “That is foolishness, Elrond!” she chided. “Have you forgotten your wound? The blade ravaged your flesh and impaled your lung… It is only a matter of time until…”

She paused, another tear trickling down her distraught face. “There is little more I can do for you…” she admitted, her voice trembling. “I am no master of healing… I do not share your gift…”

She paused thoughtfully before hope rekindled in her eyes. “Your gift, Elrond!” she ventured quizzically. “Perhaps you might heal yourself..?”

Elrond’s eyes narrowed at the suggestion until, at last, he shook his head. “I’m afraid not, my Lady…” he admitted. “The gift is for others, not for myself…”

“That hardly seems fair.” Her words were mournfully spoken as she took his hand. Seeing her care, he lifted his eyes and offered her an encouraging smile.

“No, it does not…” he agreed as lightly as he could manage. “But it is my duty. With his power, Sauron seeks to redefine this world, but… I believe that the preservation of goodness is the greater task. If that is to be my purpose in all this, I accept it wholeheartedly… No matter the cost.”

Bríd nodded, a saddened smile touching her lips as she squeezed his chilled hand. “Valar bless you, my Lord,” she whispered fervently. “Your vision guides us all. If you are so set on accompanying your warriors into battle…”

“Something for the pain might be wise…” he finished for her, feeling a sharp twinge in his right side even as he spoke. “That is all. You have done well.”

Her movements were methodical as she moved about the healing ward, fetching vials and herbs in plentitude from the neighboring shelves.

“I prepared this draught yestereve,” she informed him, extending a delicate bottle towards him. “A rather strong concoction… Bitter, but potent in its effects. It will dull feeling for some time. Keep it with you, Commander…”

Elrond hummed his ascent, weighing the small vial in his trembling hands. “You are too kind, my Lady,” he murmured faintly and uncorked the lid, before hurriedly downing a bit of its contents. His face twisted at the horrible taste.

Once the bitterness had subsided, however, his eyes grew thoughtful and distant as he immersed himself in strategy.

Sauron would no doubt follow the path of his rescuers to the Sanctuary, regardless of Melian’s girdle.

It was only a matter of time before the blade would fall…

Bríd had gone to inform the others of Sauron’s approach by the time Elrond attempted to rise from his cot near the hearth to dress.

A wave of sickening pain flooded his senses from the chest downwards, and he stumbled to lean against the cupboard close by, mopping his glistening brow as he caught his breath.

This is hopeless, he reasoned bitterly, frowning at the trembling of his own hands. How am I to carry on when I am already dying?

Dying. The word struck him in a manner it never had before. He had always envisioned his end as a peaceful passing, a gilded voyage to the beloved shores of Valinor, where he would be greeted by healing and song.

But this… This was the death of the exiled; a gradual silencing of a once cherished voice. Alone, abandoned, and forgotten, like the ages long past.

Swallowing doggedly, he raised an unsteady hand and brushed away the stinging tears that now threatened to escape his eyes. “Why do you weep, you fool?” he chastised himself, shuffling clumsily towards the chair upon which his newly mended tunic hung.

“Your tears will not deliver your people from Sauron’s hand! Control yourself… Think of your duty.” Was this duty? To pass beyond the veil, never knowing if the High King’s love was true?

Had he been wrong to believe he was cared for? Or had there once been affection and favor where now, there was none? Somehow, that was worse…

No matter. Elrond resolved once again to do his part and amend the failures that Gil Galad so clearly held against him. Perhaps he would be forgiven then, even if he did not survive to see it.

“I sense that you mourn, even before the battle is begun…”

That voice. Sauron’s voice. It was clear as crystal in his mind. Defiantly, he resisted, but to no avail.

“You astonish me, Herald,” the Deceiver admitted coyly, his tone soft. “You are more cunning than I initially believed.”

Hearing the words, Elrond was surprised by the unusual sense of calm that settled over his spirit. As if the awe that had once arrested him in the Dark Lord’s presence had now vanished…

“Will you march on the city?” he demanded, his tone hardened in its directness.

Sauron did not answer immediately, as if debating whether or not to flaunt his position. “Why do you bother asking?” he quietly scoffed at long last. “You know the answer.”

Elrond’s fist clenched, and his jaw tensed. “You seem intent on hesitancy…” he observed, a dull smile flashing mirthlessly across his face. “Your forces could smite ours with little effort, and yet you tarry. Why?”

“I have learned much since Eregion’s fall, Son of Eärendil,” the Deceiver boasted after a meditative pause. “Celebrimbor’s attempt to withhold the Rings from me… It ignited hope in him, an optimism he clung to until death.”

Elrond felt his heart clench at the mention of the name, inwardly resolving with renewed vigor to safeguard what remained of the Elven Smith’s legacy.

The Dark Lord, even from afar, seemed to sense the shift in the young Lord’s demeanor.

“In your eyes, his hope in the face of death is a symbol…” Sauron observed. “A reason to resist. And that, Herald, was my failing, for I did not show restraint. It was a misjudgment I will not make again…”

Elrond shook his head in disgust at the poisonous words. “Do not pretend to fathom the proper use of restraint,” he spat indignantly. “Celebrimbor would never have accepted the call of despair…”

A faith laugh rustled like a whispering chill. “In time, he would have,” the Dark Lord assured him. “As will you… You know it is not the strength of armies, but hope that carries the day… Without hope, a war is as good as lost.”

“You mean to extinguish our hope?” Elrond’s clenched fist trembled at his side. “A lofty endeavor indeed… It will not serve you well.”

“On the contrary, Peredhel,” Sauron spoke in clear disdain. “Your King has forgotten you. Your people are shaken by fear, and their leader… He is dying. Your time is ending, Commander. I defy you to find hope when you are so utterly beset by despair.”

The words brought tears once more to Elrond’s eyes, for there was stinging truth to them. For so long the light of hope had dwindled in his fëa, and now…

Now darkness closed in like a cage, crushing him from every side as he fought to survive. Perhaps there was no hope for him. Perhaps there never had been.

Yet something of his father’s perseverance and his mother’s spirit stirred within him, and he recalled their deeds. Their wish had been for peace in Middle Earth, the betterment of a future that was not their own.

“My hope is in a world I will never see,” he answered truthfully. “For a people that will not be mine to lead. They will outlast time’s greatest test. I know this, even if I cannot witness it with my own eyes…”

“Your hope is futile,” Sauron’s voice was bitter and sullen, as if affronted by the notion. “In time, you see how little your deeds are truly worth. You will welcome the cell of your own despair, and your brilliance will crumble in its isolation. “

A darkness fell upon the healing ward, silent and deep as all else faded. Only the faintest light lingered before Elrond, expanding though it held no warmth.

“Wisest among your kind, yet they silence you like a fool. How long until your heart accepts what your mind already knows? They are ashamed of you, Peredhel, for you are unlike them…”

Before him, Elrond saw shadows, forging ahead, stepping towards the cold light. They were familiar to him, and he longed to call to them, but dreams of the past reminded him they would not hear.

“They do not listen, Herald. They do not see. You tread a lonely path among your people. Your leaders have traded your counsel for the power of the Rings. They look upon you and see only the ravings of human error.”

Galadriel, Círdan, the High King himself… Their backs were to him as they moved towards the brighter horizon, glittering jewels upon their hands.

Again, he longed to call out to them, and again, he swallowed his words.

“Cease your illusions!” he muttered, attempting to pull his eyes away from the vision. “Your lies cannot sway me!” And yet, they held some truth…

“I sense the genius of your mind, Son of Eärendil.” There was strange sincerity in Sauron’s words. “Why squander such a gift in fruitless servitude? Surrender the city, and I will spare lives that will otherwise be lost.”

Breath. Focus.

“Is not your duty to your people’s survival? Do you not long for peace?”

Elrond swallowed and shook his head. “Peace, not slavery,” he protested. “To surrender is to accept a fate worse than death. I will not allow my people to suffer such an end as that.”

“Then you shall walk the path of despair…” The threat was made with chilling calm. “Let the fall of your city be not a symbol, but a warning to the Eldar of the darkness that can corrupt even the most valiant of souls…”

All was quiet then.

Exhausted from the strain of ósanwë, Elrond leaned heavily forward against the wooden table and scrubbed his burning eyes with his fingertips.

“How am I to face this? It is too much… I am but a scholar, not a warrior…”

"Commander?" The relief he felt at the sound of Arondir's voice was so dizzying that he stumbled and would have fallen had not the Silvan Elf rushed forward to support him.

"My Lord!" Arondir's voice was sharp with fright in his ear as he helped Elrond to slump into a nearby chair. "Tiro! The color has fled from your face... You should not be standing, Mellon-nin."

"I am alright," Elrond assured him weakly. He lifted a hand to his sore chest and drew a careful breath. "Merely tired. Don’t trouble yourself..."

He felt Arondir's worried gaze upon him and shivered when warm fingers came to rest against his brow.

"Your skin is like ice, my Lord," his friend murmured seriously, before forcing a cup of tea into Elrond's unsteady hands. "Drink this... It will warm you..."

Elrond drank in listless silence while Arondir left his side to fetch a warm cloak before returning to drape it across his slumped shoulders.

"Leave the cares of battle to others, Commander," the Silvan Elf encouraged as he knelt before him. "The city is well fortified and its people are prepared."

How could anyone prepare to face the wrath of Sauron?

"I can't." Elrond dragged his gaze to meet Arondir's and shook his head. "For months, he has tormented my thoughts... I am the object of his intent..."

A parched cough overtook him then. It tore through his lungs and ignited fierce pain at the sight of the wound. Fighting to control his breath, he closed his eyes, hand over his injury.

"It's me he wants..." He managed to whisper at last. "He would not have left me alive otherwise."

Arondir stared at him in fixed horror. "Alive?" He muttered, bewildered. "My Lord, you were at the point of death when we discovered you... It's a wonder you survived at all!"

Was it? The Dark Lord had been there as Elrond lay bleeding in the snow. All the while, he had lurked in the shadows, unseen. It would have been nothing at all for him to deal a final blow.

"I thought he would kill me…” the Peredhel admitted, with some indignation. “Yet here I am, alive. I fear his intentions are far more sinister than death.”

Arondir frowned faintly at the revelation and slowly stood. “You knew…” he guessed, his voice low in sudden anger. “Didn’t you? All along, you believed you would never return from Khazah Dum and said nothing! Do not deny it!”

In days past, perhaps, Elrond would have felt remorse for the concealment, especially from one whom he deemed to be the dearest of friends.

And yet, there was no regret in the actions he had taken. Ensuring the future of his people was the only contribution he was still able to make in this war.

“Yes,” he answered quietly, his eyes unafraid to meet Arondir’s. “Sacrifices must be made to ensure the future of this city. It is where my purpose lies!”

His words, however, were met only by a faint scoff as Arondir shook his head.

"Is there no thought for those who care for you, my Lord?" There was hurt in the Silvan Elf's face as he spoke the words. "We hide no hurts here. Yet, you did not tell me... Gladly, I would have borne this with you."

Elrond eyed his friend before he gingerly stood, his hand coming to rest on Arondir’s shoulder.. "It was not your burden to bear," he assured him quietly. “We all carry our own cares. And for some, they cannot be shared..."

He paused contemplatively, debating whether it was wise to share his own cares with the Silvan Elf.

"In my eyes, many things have lost their color,” he finally admitted. “But this place. These people. They feed the flame that still burns inside me. Is it wrong to protect what is still precious to me?"

Arondir considered the words, then sighed wearily. "Not wrong, Commander," he agreed, his frown softening. "Only misguided, that you should do so alone."

"Perhaps..." The Peredhel admitted with a rueful smile. "But many here have only just rebuilt their lives. Many have those who depend on them, including yourself, Arondir. Think of Theo. The boy needs you alive."

The mention of Theo softened Arondir’s sternness completely. "And what of your people, Commander?" he asked gently. The question was innocent enough in its inquiry. "Is there no one who waits for you?"

Elrond’s eyes wandered vacantly toward the window. "Only in Valinor..." He admitted. "No kin remain to me here. And I am not so naive as to overestimate my worth among those who yet live…”

Arondir’s eyes were downcast and thoughtful as he reached out and took the cold hands of his Lord. In the silence, his mind moved beyond Elrond’s sight until at last he earnestly raised his head.

“The High King loved you when he left you, Mellon-nin,” he said at last. “I saw it in his eyes. And the Lady Galadriel… She cares for you beyond words.”

The words struck Elrond with startling clarity, though he found them difficult to accept. Straightening his shoulders, he forced a tight upturning of his lips to appease the deep concern in Arondir’s eyes and freed his hands.

“They are kind, Mellon-nin,” he agreed, even as his heart sank. “Far too forgiving of a foolish elf like me… I fear that, in my stubbornness, I brought this separation from their company upon myself.”

Perhaps all remaining doubt in the rings will die with you, and your fears will be forgotten. Such a fleeting legacy to leave behind…

“They have always proven precise in their foresight… Always right…” His throat tightened, and his vision blurred. “But the call of conviction blinds me to what they so clearly see.”

Will the High King mourn his wayward Herald? Will Galadriel weep for one she once considered a friend?

The answers did not come as readily as they should have. For isolation had taught Elrond the truth of his worth in their eyes, and the eyes of all Elvendom.

You will always be lesser. Unpredictable. Unlike them.

Haunted by his reflections, he offered Arondir a feeble smile, his shoulders hunching in a resigned shrug.

“As you see, Mellon-nin,” he murmured sheepishly. “I am not a wise herald, but a stubborn fool who cannot ignore the warnings of his heart…”

Arondir’s face was the picture of compassion as he looked into Elrond’s and, for the first time, seemed to understand the hurt that had worn a spirit threadbare.

Drawing back slightly, he drew in a sharp breath. “Surely…” he ventured tentatively. “They would not ask you to abandon the voice of your soul, my Lord? Not for the rings… You are too vital to their cause…”

Elrond breathed a shallow sigh. The chill of the winter air sent a shiver through his body, but he ignored it, his eyes drifting to a map spread nearby. How daunting the distance from Lindon seemed to be...

“I am not all you believe me to be,” he confessed at last, his head bowed in shame. “Among my people, I am no prince…” A bitter laugh escaped him. “I am not even a lord… This command was granted by necessity, not through my own merits…”

“Commander…”

But Elrond would not yield to Arondir’s protests. “You think I am beloved, but it is not so,” he confessed grimly, his voice choked and unsteady. “In times of peace, they welcomed my counsel, but… The hardness of war has a way of changing even the most accepting of hearts.”

So long as you were needed, you held a place among them. Now, no need remains. And they have exiled you.

Long ago, he had resigned to this truth, though his loyalty never wavered. His king had abandoned him, perhaps with fair reason.

But acceptance did not lessen the wound that cut far deeper than the chasm in his chest.

“They deem it best that I am apart from them,” he explained, ashamed of the anguish that surged in his heart. "So you see, Mellon-nin.. Your Commander is but a castaway, not a lord of great deeds. He stands alone.”

“And I stand with him…”

Arondir’s eyes, much like Elrond’s, were bright with tears. Stepping forward, he allowed his hand to settle on Elrond’s cool shoulder and brought his brow to rest against the Commander’s in an attempt to comfort.

“You think I seek a prince?” he asked, his voice a balm to the wounded spirit. “Nay, I serve the Commander who brought me hope on the fields of Eregion, who saved my life more often than I can recall, who has become a friend and the inspiration for my courage…”

It was not the first time Arondir’s steadfast loyalty moved Elrond as it did now. More than ever, he longed for the friendship that the Silvan Elf offered and resolved inwardly to guard him unreservedly, should the battle go ill.

“You are too kind, Mellon-nin…” he murmured gratefully, inwardly cursing the urge to weep. “I have not forgotten the trust you placed in me when all others expressed doubt… Nor will I ever.”

He paused, suppressing his mannish emotions with characteristic stubbornness, and swallowed the tears that threatened to fall.

“With your aid,” he suggested, a quiet earnestness now in his tone. “Perhaps I can redeem this exile and rectify my choices as we stand against the darkness.”

Arondir’s expression tensed with concern as he remembered the bandages that striped Elrond’s chest. “Elrond…” he fretted nervously. “You are too wounded to fight. Rest instead.”

Elrond’s resolve remained unchanged. “I will not be swayed, Arondir,” he said evenly, his countenance calm. “My place is on the battlefield…”

Arondir tilted his head to one side, his eyes deepening in their distress. “And I will not allow it,” he countered. “I made a promise to the High King, one I intend to fulfill. Out there… You will die.”

Elrond quickly looked away. “I do not expect to survive regardless, Mellon-nin,” he admitted softly, swallowing to ease the tension in his throat. “You've seen the wound. There is little that can be done to save me now…”

“Don't say such things!” But the sharpness in the Silvan Elf's voice informed him that Arondir was already aware of the severity of his condition. “I cannot bear it! Not again…”

The words caused Elrond’s heart to ache for the Elf before him, for death and loss had robbed him of many precious moments already.

“Forgive me…” He whispered. “My words offer little hope… If we can resist Sauron’s forces until reinforcements arrive, there is yet a chance of salvation. Even for me…”

He did not believe it, but a renewed spark in Arondir’s eyes was worth the lie.

Seeing the dogged determination of his Lord, Arondir could only nod, his assent a relief to Elrond’s heart.

“I will not stop you, Commander…” he relented gravely. “How could I? I seek only to guard the one who has given me strength beyond the darkest grief. Allow me this, I beg. Do not turn away my offer of protection.”

Elrond smiled and, in a show of gratitude, clasped the other’s forearm. “Never, Arondir…” he whispered. “Never…”

The threat of Sauron loomed like a shadow, yet he was no longer alone in facing it. Together with his trusted friend at his side and his beloved people at his back, he would face the unthinkable, regardless of the outcome.

“Gather our people in the square,” Elrond ordered quietly, traces of a brave smile still gracing his face. “When all is in readiness, we ride to battle.”

An honorable end, even for the exiled.