Elrohir fought as if the hounds of Morgoth were nipping at his heels. His silver blade cut a bloody swath through the screeching, howling creatures that seemed to appear out of the very walls of the cave. The smell of sweat and blood filled him, causing his stomach to turn. But it mattered not. His thoughts were for only one person, who lay in a crumpled heap in the far corner.

When he finally broke through the madness of the battle, Elrohir immediately rushed forward, not even bothering to see if he was being followed by any stray Orcs. And there he found her.

She lay on her bare back, the remains of her traveling dress in a tattered pile a few feet away from her. Her beautiful golden tresses were matted with dirt. Blood was smeared over her bruised, shivering body.

Choking on a sob, Elrohir flung himself down beside her, fighting fiercely within himself to remain calm. A tear slid down his face when he gently touched her cheek and she moaned fearfully, flinching away from his hand.

Elrohir closed his eyes, trying to block out the horrifying sight before him. She should not look like this. Not her. Never her. She should be safe and warm in Imladris. A part of his mind desperately attempted to believe this was all a horrible nightmare and he would soon awake, safe in her arms as she stroked his hair comfortingly. He prayed none of this was real.

Behind him, he heard his brother hurrying in his direction. Elrohir heard Elladan come to an abrupt halt beside him and heard him let out an anguished, tortured cry.

“Nana!”

--

Hot tears poured down Elrohir’s face as he shot up from his bed, that single word ringing in his ears. Breathing heavily, he fought to free himself from the light blanket that had twisted itself around his slim form. He stumbled out of his sweat-soaked bed and quickly splashed water from a nearby basin onto his face.

The cool liquid felt soothing on his flushed and heated skin. Sighing with relief, Elrohir dried his face with a smooth towel, taking away the evidence of his tormented tears. He then quietly left his dark room by stepping out onto his balcony. A slight breeze immediately ruffled his already mused hair.

Imladris was sporadically lit by lanterns, but was otherwise dark. There was no moonlight to shine down on the house that night. Still, despite the darkness, the inhabitants slept in peace while the sentries watched over the valley. And from what he could see across the inner gardens, so did Imladris’s Lord. There was no light shining from Elrond’s chambers.

Elrohir could not help but envy his father. He felt as though he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in the Valar only knew how long. Still, he also felt like a monster for begrudging his father’s rest. It was no secret that he had rested little in recent days.

Three years. Three years ago, Elrohir’s nightmare had been his reality. Three years ago, he and Elladan had cut a bloody swath through the Misty Mountains in a mad search for their mother. Three years ago, Elrohir had wrapped Celebrían’s brutalized form in his cloak and carried her from the Orc den, to place her into the hands of her husband, his father, in the frantic hope he could heal her of the wounds and sorrows that plagued her.

But nay, it was not to be. Her fear had been too much for her distressed soul to endure. Within a year of her return to Imladris, Celebrían, the wife of Elrond Peredhel, the daughter of Celeborn and Galadriel, the mother of Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen Undómiel, had chosen to take the Grey Ships into the West.

And she had taken her youngest son’s heart with her.

Elrohir had felt the agony growing within him from the moment the ship had disappeared from his sight. Elladan had sensed his pain, but found there was little he could do to sooth it. Arwen, however, had not seen it, for the moment her mother had left the shores of Middle-earth, she had departed with the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien. She felt unable to bear the sight of her once beloved home and all of the memories that lay within its halls.

Elladan had earnestly beseeched him to speak with their father of his pain, but Elrohir had stoutly refused to do so. He would not place his burden upon his father, whose pain had barely been mastered. Even now, it was considered dangerous to even mention his mother in front of him. So he would live and deal with his pain himself until the time came for him to take the ship to Valinor, where he would find healing.

And so it had been so from that day forward. Both Elrohir and his brother filled their waking thoughts with the absolute destruction of the wretched Orcs that had wrought such pain in their lives, leaving them little time for anything else. But even their single-mindedness could not order about their dreams. Flashbacks were becoming commonplace for Elrohir, unless he was able to utterly exhaust himself during the day. And even if that were the case, his sleep would not be restorative, having him wake the next day still weary.

The breeze grew stronger, sweeping across his form, through the leaves of the trees. A storm was coming, Elrohir noted instinctively. He sighed. If it was violent enough, it would delay his and Elladan’s plans to meet with Aragost, the heir of the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, on an expedition against a band of Orcs that had begun to roam the countryside with impunity, attacking innocent travelers and settled farmers alike.

Closing his eyes and shaking his head, he reentered his room, closing the shutters against the wind. He hoped the storm would not be too dangerous. He wanted to leave Imladris-and the memories it invoked-as soon as at all possible. To remain would only hasten his doom.

--

Contrary to Elrohir’s belief, his father slept not. Elrond’s rest, like his son’s, proved elusive.

When he found sleep would not come to him, Elrond chose to quietly walk the dim halls of Imladris, ensuring all was in order when dawn came. It was strange, he thought. Rare was it that Elrond felt the need to roam the halls of the house. In the past when he found he could not sleep, he often secluded himself in his study and busied himself with work. Elrond had never felt the need to waste time, even during the hours of the night.

At one point, he stopped at the spot where the Shards of Narsil were displayed. Looking upon them, he discovered that someone had touched them at some point, for they were not quite in their proper place. The fact that only two pieces were slightly ajar was not the point. With meticulous care, he moved both pieces back into place.

If Celebrían were there, she would smile at him coyly and say she knew the cure for his restlessness…

Elrond froze in his task. He clenched his jaw and shook his head, dispelling the stray thought. The pain that echoed inside of his heart fought to break free of its barriers. The battle within him nearly sent him to his knees, but he managed to keep his agony bottled inside, where it had to remain. Horror soon followed in its wake.

Why had such a thought come to him, out of the shadows? He did not understand. After Celebrían had left, he’d been nearly paralyzed with his grief. She was gone from him. What mattered to him now? His beloved wife was gone. He soon began to fade, much to the dismay of those around him. Elrond believed they must have thought they would soon be putting him too on the Grey Ship bound for the Undying Lands.

After a time, Galadriel had come alone to Imladris, under the guise of wishing to visit with her grandsons. But, in truth, she had come to offer him an option other than Valinor or grief. With the combined power of Vilya, Nenya, and her own mental abilities, she would delve into his mind, his heart, to mute the memory of Celebrían. To do so would not allow him to forget her, but to allow the pain to recede into a dull ache that he was capable of enduring.

After much debate, Elrond had agreed to Galadriel’s proposal. Despite his extreme longing to join with his wife once more, in his heart he knew he still had much to do in Middle-earth. With the retreat of Celebrían’s memory into the shadows of his mind, Elrond was able to return to some semblance of a normal life. Both he and Galadriel had been bedridden for days, suffering from the performance of the procedure itself, but what had been done was now done, never to be reversed.

But to ensure that the muting remained in place, he had packed all of his wife’s things away into storage, where they could not be seen. He had also removed himself to different chambers, both out of necessity and of being unable to endure staying in the rooms they had shared, where their three children had been conceived. He had regretted doing it, mostly for the sake of his sons, both who suffered greatly due to the loss of their mother, but the circumstances had dictated it must be done.

But on this very night, Celebrían’s memory had appeared to him, as strong as it had been when she had still been in Middle-earth. Why?

He wondered at the various possibilities for a while as he crept through the house. Soon, however, he came to the entrance of the gardens. Believing the fresh air might allow him to feel more at ease, Elrond stepped outside. The wind was blowing and he could almost literally smell the moisture in the air. Rain. It smelled of rain. Making a mental note to not stay out in the gardens for too long, Elrond slowly made a trek along the familiar stone paths.

The gardens of Imladris had always been impeccably well-kept. Even before their marriage, Elrond had seen to it, as Celebrían had adored all things that grew from the soil of the earth. When she had visited Imladris for the first time, having come with her mother during the Second Age in search of Celeborn, he had escorted her through the gardens on many an occasion. She had loved them and declared them one of her favorite parts of Imladris. Gazing up at him, she had blushingly claimed their beauty rivaled that of Lórinand’s in her eyes.

Nearly groaning in frustration, Elrond moved to return indoors. Coming outside had not been wise, he thought ruefully. The outdoors only served to fuel his memories of Celebrían. He-

Elrond stopped and looked up at the building.

It seemed he was not the only one who could not sleep this night. Elrohir was awake as well.

Elrond seized upon the opportunity presented before him. He would visit with his son and discover what troubled him, as Elladan had privately expressed concern for his brother to him. Perhaps focusing on Elrohir would give him time to allow his unexpected thoughts of his wife to vanish from his conscious mind. And it gave him the opportunity to return inside before the storm began in earnest, Elrond thought, feeling the first raindrops fall on his dark head as he stepped back inside the house.

-- 

Elrohir looked up, startled, from the text in his hands when he heard a light knock on his door. After he’d come in from his balcony, he had not even attempted to return to bed for some sleep, instead choosing to read until dawn. He held no desire in him to relive the haunting images in his subconscious mind for a second time in one night. Thus, he had stepped into his outer chamber and gone directly to the shelf of books, which had been nearly hidden by several potted plants.

While he had browsed through his selection, Elrohir had absently thought it rather odd for the plants to be kept in his chambers, as he was so rarely present in Imladris. But Glorfindel had always said that one could never have too many plants at hand. And so they stayed.

In the end, the book he’d chosen had been one of the dealings of the Elves of Lindon and their interactions with Númenor during the Second Age, a subject he found rather interesting, since the royalty of Númenor descended from his own family, the children of his father’s own brother. Still, he had not totally immersed himself in the pages when he’d heard the knock at his door.

Standing up, Elrohir left the book sitting on the arm of his chair and moved forward. Much to his surprise, he found his father standing there, a hesitant smile on his face.

“Adar,” he said softly, conscious of Elladan’s sleeping presence in the room across the hall. “What are you doing awake?” Standing back, Elrohir automatically allowed Elrond entrance to his room.

“I could ask the same of you, my son,” Elrond replied lightly, glancing around his outer chamber. He easily and quickly spotted the book lying haphazardly on the chair’s arm. “I did not know that the subject of Lindon and Númenor was so enticing it could not wait until a more civilized hour.”

Elrohir, followed his father’s gaze and chuckled, sounding both amused and nervous. He had incurred his father’s curiosity by staying awake, so he must deal with the consequences. But he still had no intention of telling him of the real reason for his wakefulness.

“I find my mind filled with the planning of the meeting between the Dúnedain, Elladan, and myself. I simply could not sleep,” he lied easily, but not without guilt. Only a few years ago, he recalled, Elrohir would not have dreamt of lying to his father. How things had changed in such a short amount of time.

Apparently, Elrond had also thought his response unusual. He turned to stare at him intensely and Elrohir fought the instinct to fidget beneath his father’s dark gaze.

“It is interesting,” Elrond commented quietly, “That you would be so restless. You kept yourself quite busy during the day, hardly bothering to stop and eat. I am surprised you are able to move at all, let alone remain awake to catch up on your history.”

Elrohir winced. He hadn’t anticipated his father’s sarcastic side, rarely seen anymore, would make an appearance. Nor had Elrohir thought he would pick up on his new tendency to work at his tasks to the point of exhaustion.

He shook his head. “There is much for me to do, Adar,” he responded, his tone neutral. Doing his best to imitate a fatigued yawn, Elrohir added, “And you are correct, I have done much and Elladan and I depart early. I really should rest.

His father still eyed him with his severe gaze, but he did not deny his words. “Very well,” he said at last. “I shall then leave you to your rest. Pleasant dreams, my son.”

Elrohir nodded graciously at the words, though he inwardly scoffed at them bitterly. He sincerely doubted he would ever have a pleasant sleep again in his life. “And you Adar. And you.”

--

Elrond stood silently in the courtyard of Imladris, his eyes locked on the main entrance. Messengers had arrived but two days previous, foretelling the arrival of his two sons. Months had passed since they had been in the place of their birth and had rarely sent a word of their doings except in the most vaguest of terms.

But he was no fool. Elrond knew his their hearts well. He was well aware of the fire that engulfed their spirits, for he himself felt those scorching flames as well. They all longed for the sweet taste of revenge.

He spotted their coming from a distance and immediately straightened, deftly ignoring the knowing smiles of Erestor and Glorfindel out of the corner of his vision. Elrond watched his sons come forth on their horses. They did not race their horses into the courtyard as they had often in their younger days, grinning unrepentantly as they were scolded for their misbehavior. Instead, they marched their steeds at a leisurely but steady pace, coming ever closer. Elrond tried not to fidget with impatience.

When they finally did arrive within the walls, Elrond studied Elladan and Elrohir’s faces more closely. Their expressions were grave, showing just how much they truly did resemble him. Not present were the identical smiles they had received from their other parent.

Quickly shoving that last thought into the depths of his mind, he stepped forward to greet them as they stepped down from their horses. “Greetings, my sons.”

The twins faced him and bowed suppliantly, as was proper in view of the inhabitants of Imladris. “Greetings, Lord Peredhel of Imladris,” they chorused solemnly.

“Long has it been since you have graced these halls,” Elrond said to them, allowing some manner of playful reproach to color his voice. “It is my hope that you shall abide here for a time. Much time has passed since a father has been able to enjoy the company of his sons.”

Elrond watched as the soberness of their expressions increased slightly. Undoubtedly both had noted he had stated ‘his sons’ instead of ‘his children.’ In these present days, few dared to mention Arwen, who had closeted herself in Lothlórien with her grandparents.

The moment quickly passed when Glorfindel took the opportunity to step forward. Bowing to them, he said respectfully, “Food and drink have been prepared for you, my lords, for you must be weary of your travel rations. Come.”

Once they had all seated themselves at the table, the formalities quickly faded. As the twins heartily enjoyed the warm food, Elrond told them of the goings on of Imladris and of the occasional letters sent by their grandparents.

When they appeared to have finished, Elrond said to them, “My sons, I have spoken to you of all that has gone on here, but what of the outside world? Little have I heard of your doings throughout the wilderness. Tell me of what you have occupied yourselves with.”

Elrohir was the first to speak. “Elladan can do as you ask, Adar. I have long promised myself I would show Glorfindel of some of the things I have learned during our travels.” He turned to gaze at the blond seneschal. “The Dúnedain know more than you originally thought, my teacher. I believe we can still learn from our old brethren. Shall you and I remove ourselves to the practice fields?”

Elrond gazed at his youngest son in surprise, which was echoed in Glorfindel’s expression as well. “Do you not wish to stay to speak with-”

Elrohir waved a hand negligently, quickly setting his utensils on his plate. “There will be plenty of time for talk, Glorfindel. Elladan and I do not have to meet with the Dúnedain for at least another month or so.” A bright, cheerful smile was plastered across his handsome face when he returned his gaze to his father. “Adar, would you excuse us?”

Elrond could not help but feel slightly hurt that his son was rushing off to pursue some project when he’d been home for but an hour, but he did not show this. Instead, he slipped a pleasant, indulgent expression onto his face and nodded congenially. “Of course, go ahead. We shall be able to speak later this evening.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when Elrohir was out of seat and hurrying towards the door, a slightly confused Glorfindel in his wake.

Silence reigned between Elrond and his elder son for some time as they sat at the table, the remains of a spoiled meal around them. He soon turned to Elladan, hoping to salvage their feelings. “Your brother seems anxious,” he forced himself to comment lightly. “Have the Dúnedain learned so much in so little time that we of the Firstborn have yet to be trained in?”

Elrond noted Elladan’s pensive and worried expressions. “I am not exactly sure, Adar,” he said slowly, his dark eyes still shifted in the direction Elrohir and Glorfindel had gone. After several moments, he turned to Elrond, his expression having changed into one of hesitation.

Sensing his son wished to speak of something, the Lord of Imladris spoke quietly. “Does something trouble you, Elladan? Do you wish to speak to me of something?”

The younger Elf nodded slightly, though his air still held a troubled feel to it. “I do, Adar,” he answered, “But I do not wish to break a confidence, spoken or unspoken.” He paused for a moment, and Elrond waited patiently, though his concern grew steadily. Something was indeed wrong.

“My brother… has been much troubled these past… days. His sleep is constantly troubled, unless he is so exhausted he has no other choice but to sleep. And even then, he still does not find complete rest.” Elladan gazed into his father’s eyes solemnly, yet imploringly.

Elrond nodded, his mind working through the scant information he had been provided with. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “Your brother is merely suffering from insomnia. It is not uncommon for it to occur amongst the Peredhil.”

Elladan shook his head in denial. “Nay, Adar. At first, I thought it to be merely that. But this has been going on for months… if not longer. Something has deeply harmed my brother and it is not for I to fix it.” Again, he paused, then continued. “We have all suffered greatly, Adar. Suffering is a part of our lives. Only in Valinor can we hope to find peace. But… far away is the day before Elrohir will be able to seek the white shores of the Blessed Realm.” Elladan’s gaze turned pleading. “I beseech you, Adar, find what is tormenting him… only you can…”

It was amazing how someone’s state of mind could easily alter their appearance.

Few had ever been able to tell the sons of Elrond apart, even when they were children. Once a person had become acquainted with them, the task became simple enough, but to nearly all outsiders, it was practically impossible to distinguish the difference between them.

But Elrond himself had never had any difficulty. Perhaps it had to do with him being a twin himself. Elros and he, when they were small children, had delighted in attempting to confuse their foster father, Maglor, by switching places. So when his own sons had grown into that stage, he had already been familiar with all the tricks they could possibly play.

Now, though, even the most absent-minded could distinguish between the two.

Elladan was speaking with one of the Dúnedain that had come accompany him and his brother to the place where they would meet with Aragost. His stance was relaxed, but one had only to look at his dark eyes to see the alertness and intensity that was already guiding his movements.

Elrohir, on the other hand, said nothing. His face was pale and wan, blending into the grayness of the day, as their surroundings were still effected by the storm the night before. He concentrated on the saddle of his horse, his eyes darting neither here nor there.

Elrond closed his eyes briefly. He had failed to ascertain what troubled his younger son and the results of it were evident to all who chose to see.

His instincts as a healer and father all cried out for Elrond to put an end to this nonsense and forbid Elrohir to go. Even if he chose not to speak of what ate away at his heart, then at the very least he would be safe from the dangers that reigned outside of Imladris. In his current, distracted, state, he was a hazard to himself and to others.

But still he knew Elrohir would not stand to be left behind while his brother went forth into battle. He would not risk harm coming to his twin without him there to protect him. And so Elrond let him go. But he took no joy in their departure.

In those moments, both twins stepped forward from their separate locations and bowed to him formally. “We thank you for your hospitality, my Lord,” Elladan said, nodding respectfully. Elrond could not suppress a small smile when his eldest raised his eyes to his.

“You will always have a home and refuge here, my sons,” Elrond replied, his intense gaze softening as he widened his gaze to look upon both of his children. “May Ëarendil guide your steps and lead you home when the time is right.”

The two bowed once more before taking their places on their horses in the midst of their Dúnedain escort. As the group slowly moved out of the courtyard, Elrond watched his sons’ dark heads disappear into the distance.

Elrohir had not met his gaze the entire day, he realized with a start. Elladan had encountered no problem in locking eyes with his, in either conversation or in farewell at their departure, but his younger brother had kept his head up and eyes fixed on some far away object not see by any other.

Elrond watched the group fade into the trees, leaving the Last Homely House behind. In his heart, he knew he would not see them for a while. How much time would pass, he knew not. But when he thought of the time of their next meeting, his heart was filled with foreboding.

Something was going to happen. And for good or ill, it would shape the future.

--

If one dwelt in Imladris long enough, the passage of time was rarely noticed. The visual surroundings seldom appeared to change, always portraying the dignity and elegance often associated with the Firstborn. Indeed, the peace that saturated the valley of the Last Homely House filled one so completely that many would weep upon their departure.

One of the few events that would interrupt the strong flow of contentment would be the arrival of the messengers. Most messages came from Taur-e-Ndaedelos or the Grey Havens, but on occasion, the message-bearers would bring with them letters and notes from Lothlórien. When this happened, the Lord of Imladris would very often seclude himself in his private study for a great length of time, gravely considering the words that came from the home of his kinsmen.

Just as he did on this day. Elrond stared at the various parchments that lay before him. He had skimmed through them all quickly and found mostly updates of matters of trivial importance. Most, save one, in fact. At the top of the pile now lay a parchment bearing the penmanship of the Lady of the Golden Wood.

He stared at it warily. Relations between he and the mother of his wife had been strained in the past few years after she aided him in dimming Celebrían’s memory, and so rare was it that they corresponded. Celeborn would write often enough, enquiring after his health, but few words did Galadriel send to him, and what did come came from her husband.

What could she possibly wish to say? She knew well that Celeborn kept him appraised of Arwen’s state of mind and heart. What could she possibly have to say to him?

Shaking his dark head, mentally scolding himself for his reluctance, and firmly took hold of the message. Opening it, he held it close and read.

To Elrond, son of Eärendil, Lord of Imladris, greetings from Lothlórien.

Son-in-law, long has silence been between us. I wish I could say it was the matter of the growing darkness in the world that has kept my pen from writing a message to you, but I will not write to you lies. In truth, I have known little of what I could say to you. Oft I think too much has been said, but there are still other times I think we have stated far too little.

But there is nothing I can do to alter the past, so I find my only solace is to concentrate upon the present.

Your daughter is well, as my husband and lord has undoubtedly assured you many times. She thrives amongst the trees and elanor blossoms. Though she expresses no wish to return to Imladris at this time, I am certain her heart calls out to behold her father’s treasured presence. However, despite her silence in this matter, she has chosen to share some of her other thoughts with me.

Elrond, Arwen worries greatly for her brothers. She cannot, or will not, say anything that is specific, but she is certain that both are greatly troubled, Elrohir especially.

This alone tells me that no all is well west of the Hithaeglir. Husband of my only child, father of my grandchildren, I beseech you this: recall your sons from this mad quest to avenge their mother. Celebrían is gone from this land and though her sons are dear to her, she would have no wish for them to join her in Aman through the Halls.

Both Elladan and Elrohir suffered greatly at the loss of their mother, just as the rest of us did. Suffer they still do. I say to you, bring them home. Allow them to heal. Let not their despair and grief consume them.

Galadriel, Lady of Lothlórien, closes this letter.

Elrond knew Galadriel’s words-Arwen’s words-were correct. Much of what she had said to him he had already thought of extensively. He knew he had made a mistake in allowing his sons to depart Imladris in their state, Elrohir in particular. Elladan had warned him, pleaded with him to see that his younger son was obviously plagued, and he had seen it. But when he had attempted to confront him, to soothe his pain, Elrohir had firmly turned him away, refusing the subtle offer of comfort and rest.

His sons were fully grown, well past their majority. For the most, they did as they pleased. Both Celebrían and he had agreed that they would be allowed to make their own decisions without undue interference. They were of age and free to make their own choices.

But this was a time when parental authority had to be invoked.

But how to call them? His sons traveled extensively when they were not at home. They could be as far east as Lothlórien, or as far south as Gondor. It meant little that they mostly chose to move about with the Dúnedain Chieftains. If Elladan and Elrohir did not wish to be found, they would not be.

Elrond closed his eyes wearily. He would send messages to the Dúnedain, stating that he wished his sons to return as quickly as possible to Imladris. He would not have to send such a message to Lothlórien. From the words Galadriel had written, she and Arwen would order them home immediately if they appeared there.

To be truthful-something Elrond prided himself on being-he still did not know how to heal his sons of their sorrows. He and Galadriel had done what was necessary to keep him on this side of the Sea, but he doubted the same solution was the answer to his sons’ dilemma.

Despite his uncertainty, however, Elrond was determined to follow the course he had been urged onto. His sons were in danger and he would not let either of them from his sight until the peril had faded.

--

They crept through the trees, silently stalking their prey. None of the animals of the forest noted their passage, or if they did, they did nothing to alert anyone of what they saw.

For this Elrohir was grateful. He had no wish to enlighten the Orcs and Goblins that were in the clearing but a small distance away just yet. They would only know of his presence when he came upon them and ended their miserable lives.

He heard their grunts and smelled their fell odors. Sneering in disgust, Elrohir did one last quick glance about him. He could see Elladan moving forward with Aragost, Chieftain Arahad’s eldest son, off to his left. To his right, he saw a few of Aragost’s kin, including his younger brother, Aravir.

After a moment, Elrohir let his gaze go back to what lay in front of him. He saw the flickering glow of the fires that the Orcs and the Goblins had built. He could see their shadows moving languidly about the immediate area. He turned again in the direction of Aragost, waiting for the signal to advance.

Elrohir fought down a stab of impatience when he saw the son of the Chieftain quietly conferring with one of his men. Now was not the time for talking, a part of him raged. It was time for action.

Much to Elrohir’s relief, Aragost dealt with whatever he was speaking of quickly. He then turned back to what was before him and raised his hand slightly, indicating that they should move in.

Almost immediately, voices cried out from all over the forest, shouting the battle cry of Elendil.

The younger son of Elrond did not bother, instead choosing to dart forth into the melee. His curved blade found its mark with practiced ease. Elrohir let his instincts take control, automatically ignoring the putrid smells that soon began to assault his nostrils.

The battle was swiftly going in their favor. The Orcs and Goblins had not expected to come under attack, and thus had been caught unprepared, especially when it was revealed that the Dúnedain had two deadly Elven warriors amongst their ranks.

But Elrohir fought on, despite the growing advantage. In his mind, he saw that cave, the ragged remains of her gown, her agonized moans whenever someone touched her…

He let out a primal growl and increased the strength in his blows, his fury increasing his desire to see the horrid creatures before him suffer.

Let them die! His mind seethed. Let them suffer eternally! For her! She did not deserve what happened! She did not-

Surprisingly, it took only a pitiful moan to bring Elrohir out of his crazed thoughts. Whirling, he was horrified to see young Aravir lying on the ground, horribly bloody gashes on his leg and chest. At least a dozen of the remaining Orcs and Goblins were converging on the fallen Dúnedan.

Without heed for his own safety, Elrohir plunged towards the scene before him, not hearing the alarmed shouts of Elladan and Aragost.

He fought valiantly, but his concentration had been shattered as his mind fought two fronts, both the reality of the past and that of the present. His eyes showed him Aravir, weakly using his dagger to fend off any that came too close to him, but his mind and heart saw only her, lying defenseless on a cold, merciless stone floor of a deep, dank cave.

And as any warrior knows, when concentration is lost, the battle becomes even more deadly.

So when Elrohir found himself surrounded completely by three Orcs and four Goblins, he was not completely shocked. He held his blood-covered sword aloft, ready to attack.

But the wretched creatures had learned to use some type of strategic tactic when dealing with an Elf. So, they did the worst thing possible to Elrohir.

They charged him together as one.

He managed to kill at least three of them, perhaps four. But the others were there as well, swinging their daggers and swords at him. He felt one slice through the skin on his left side, another puncture his abdomen area.

How he did not scream out in pain, Elrohir would never know. But as consciousness began to mercifully fade, his last thought was for the safety of Aravir, even as he heard Elladan yelling his name in terror and horror.

Then there was nothing but darkness. And Elrohir welcomed it gladly.

--

When Elrohir’s body was viciously run through by a foul Orc blade, Elladan truly knew rage for the first time since the night they had found their mother. He cut a bloody swath through the remaining creatures that stood in his path, desperate to come to his twin’s aid. Horror soon coupled with his wrath when Elrohir slumped forward into the blood that covered the ground.

Vaguely, Elladan was aware he was shouting his brother’s name, as well as the fact that Aragost was following his example and hurrying forth to rescue his wounded younger brother. But he paid little attention to the Dúnedain that were beginning to draw closer to him. His only concern was for Elrohir.

When Elladan reached his side, he sank to his knees beside him, deftly attempting to ignore the disturbing similarities between the current situation and the one they had previously faced. It had only been through his brother’s strength of spirit that Elladan had not faded from grief and guilt. Now he had no one to rely on for comfort. He was-

No! It shall not be!

He quickly noted several of the Dúnedain gathering around him. “Some of you,” he demanded, barely giving them a glance, “help me. We must stop the blood flow and move him to a place where I can help him further. The rest, aid the sons of your Chieftain.”

The Men moved quickly and methodically, following Elladan’s instructions. The few that stayed with him quickly gave him their water-skins, allowing him to lightly wash the wounds that tormented his brother’s now-shivering form.

Hold on, brother, hold on.

Elladan moved ahead of them, making to where their horses had been brought. Aragost appeared out of the darkness to walk along side him.

“My brother’s wounds are not as bad as they appeared to be at first glance,” he reported. The son of the Chieftain glanced behind him. “What of your sibling?”

“They are bad,” the eldest son of Elrond answered shortly, determinedly not following the Man‘s gaze. “I fear for his life.”

Aragost paled slightly, then said, “We shall make for Bree. They may not be fond of the Dúnedain, but they will not turn away those that are in need of healing. We-”

“No,” Elladan cut him off. “My brother’s wounds are beyond the abilities of a normal healer to heal. He has other afflictions that cannot be seen. I must make for Imladris. Only my father will have the strength and knowledge to heal Elrohir.”

“But will he make it there alive? The distance…”

The Peredhel sighed, allowing some of his uncertainty show as he came to a stop before his horse. “I do not know. I do not believe he will.” He looked at Aragost. “But what else can I do but try? I will not look into my father’s eyes and tell him that he has now lost one of his children because I was too fearful to take an unavoidable risk.”

Without another word, Elladan grabbed a hunk of mane and pulled himself up onto the horse’s back. Motioning to the Men who held his brother, he commanded, “Put him up in front of me. I will hold him as I ride.”

Meanwhile, Aragost was looking around him thoughtfully. “I believe,” he said, “I can spare a few Men. They,” he gestured to those who held Elrohir, “Will accompany you back to Rivendell and see that nothing stands in your way.”

As Elladan gripped his brother’s unconscious form as tightly as he dared, he spared the Man a grateful smile. “Thank you, my friend. I am in your debt.”

Aragost did his best to return the smile, but shook his head. “My kin owe you and yours more than we can ever repay. Think of this as but a vain attempt to do so in any case. Ride, son of Elrond, ride like the wind.” With that, Aragost turned away to gather up the remains of his group.

Elladan turned also, maneuvering his horse out of the clearing. The Men escorting him followed closely, having no problem keeping up. As the animals picked up speed, Elladan looked down at Elrohir.

Beads of sweat were growing apparent, even in the dim light that lit the forest. His eyes were moving rapidly beneath his closed eyelids, and even his pale lips were beginning to form either pitiful moans or perhaps even words.

“Nana…”

The Peredhel’s heart clenched and tears sought to fill his own grey eyes. Even, perhaps especially, now, Elrohir’s thoughts went to her. And from the sheer emotion that came forth in that one word, Elladan could easily perceive that the memories going through his brother’s mind were not the most pleasant images. Elrohir’s fëa wilted more and more as the memories plagued his mind.

And that simple fact terrified the elder twin.

No, brother, Elladan silently pleaded as he continued urge his horse at an even faster pace. Do not leave these lands. Not you as well… Elladan silently implored, gritting his teeth in sympathy when Elrohir moaned as he did his best to bind the injuries. Once he had finished, he nodded to the Men, who had maneuvered themselves to different parts of Elrohir’s body. As one, the strong Men lifted the unconscious Peredhel up. Elladan would not accept the death of his twin, his other half. Frantically running through all he knew of dealing with sword wounds, he worked to stem the flow of blood while silently praying to the Star-Kindler to spare Elrohir’s life.

The youngest son of Elrond had always relived things in his dreams. His mindset was so similar to that of his father’s that it seemed a foregone conclusion. As he had grown older, Elrond had instructed Elrohir on how he could control his active mind and what he saw when he dreamed. And in the wake of what he had seen since his majority, Elrohir had found it to be an extremely useful skill.

But now, as he grew weaker and weaker of his wounds, he found also that his control over his thoughts was also slipping.

And so, he dreamed of something he longed with all of his being to forget…

He had expected darkness. He had expected silence. He had expected nothingness.

Instead, he had light. A white hot light that was bright, to be sure, but not so bright that it would harm h is eyes.

Instead, he heard noise. It was nothing specific, merely a general clamor that invaded ones ears and became a part of the surroundings.

Instead, there was… something. He could not describe it, but there was definitely something tangible about this place. He could not explain how. He only knew what he felt.

“Elrohir Peredhel.”

He whirled around, looking about for the source of the voice that rose up from the din.

“Elrohir Peredhel, why has thou fallen so far?”

He blinked in confusion.

“Speak! Why has thou forsaken kith and kin for this place? Why do you do this?”

“Who are you,” he shot back, deliberately ignoring the words he himself had no answer for. “Why do you speak? Where am I?”

For a moment, there was no reply. Silence descended. Elrohir waited.

“Elrohir.”

The voice now sounded much closer. Turning yet again, he froze in shock. Before him, in a black gown, stood his mother. And from lack of smile on her face, he knew she was most displeased.

“N-Nana,” he stuttered, unable to form a coherent sentence. What was happening? Where was he?

“Elrohir,” Celebrían said sharply, “Answer me. Why do you forsake your family? Why do you make them suffer?”

He did not answer, merely staring at her. But when his grey eyes met hers, his gaze immediately lowered, unable to face the anger and disappointment in them.

“Great was your father’s pain when I was forced to forsake Middle-earth,” she continued boldly. “Then your sister sought comfort in Lothlórien, away from Imladris. Then you and your brother deserted him for the wild. Thus his agony was tripled from what it originally was. Why do you seek to add more? What has he done to deserve such cruelty?”

“I… I do not seek to hurt him, Nana,” Elrohir replied hesitantly. “I have no wish for further pain for any of us. But… it hurts so much, Nana! You left! The world doesn’t hold meaning without you! Nana, how can we live in a world that succeeded in taking you from us? How-”

“Enough! Speak no more,” Celebrían shouted above his increasingly frantic and hysterical rants. “You speak of pain, child! Think of your Adar now! Think of his sufferings! And the sufferings of Elladan! His twin, his other half is seeking to leave the world and slip into the Halls of Waiting. Do you think he will dwell long in Middle-earth without you, even for the sake of your father, sister, and grandparents?”

A sob rose in his throat, but he did not respond. In truth, Elrohir had done his best not to think of his twin. He just could not stand to add the pain to his burdened soul. It was too much.

But his mother, normally the soul of kindness, was in no condition to be merciful.

“You have seen them, my son,” Celebrían snapped. “Your brother will fade if you do, and your father will be left without both of his sons. Arwen will be without her brothers to protect her. Without you there, she could suffer the fate I suffered. Will you be so selfish as to desert her as well?”

Elrohir closed his eyes and clenched his fists. In his mind, he recalled the horrible state he had found his mother in, and saw her replaced by a battered and broken Arwen. With a strangled moan, he sunk down to his knees.

“Nana… no more,” he whimpered.

“Go back then, my son! Return to the land of your birth! Allow your father to offer you comfort, as he has done since I left. Rest for a time, allow yourself to heal. Then, if you still feel the need, go into the wild and hunt Orcs with the Dúnedain. But be not reckless! Do not seek danger needlessly! You still have much to live for! Go back!”

Looking up at her, tears still trickling down his cheeks, Elrohir finally nodded in assent. He struggled to his feet and then asked, “But what of you, Nana? Will I ever see you again?”

Celebrían’s harsh gaze softened slightly. She did not answer immediately, but placed her hand on his cheek and gazed up at him searchingly.

“Not all paths are clear to me, Elrohir,” she murmured at last, her eyes growing distant for a brief moment. “You, Elladan, and Arwen have yet to make your choices. And I cannot predict your fates. But know this, my son, if it is right that we should meet again, then not even the Valar will stay me in our reunion.”

A small smile graced their lips, but she then pulled away from him.

“Now go, my son. They wait for you. And there is nothing more important than that. Go.”

She faded from his eyesight then, as did the white light. He then sat in darkness and silence.

The ache in his heart had not vanished by any means. Elrohir still felt his grief pulling at his senses, but no longer did it overwhelm him and make him long for death. His mother’s words had made him recall those whom he loved and cherished, and how they needed him as much he needed them. Only together could they heal.

Still his pain infested him, but he fought it. He called for his father, his brother, even for his sister. He longed to heal. He longed for love. He longed for life.