Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JRR Tolkien, various publishers including but not limited to Houghton Mifflin Co, Mariner Books, Ballantine Books, and New Line Cinemas. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Eryn Galen is Sindarin for 'Greenwood', which was the previous name of 'Mirkwood' before the Shadow started to fall on it. I have shifted Celebrían's death about through a fit of ignorance in a previous story but have stuck with it. As such, some feel that I should add a 'CAUTION: FANON' warning, so here it is.

Oodles of thanks to my wonderful beta, Kenaz!

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A Precious Find

Casting worried glances at Elrohir, Elrond led the way through the rocky terrain. It was by sheer chance that he managed to stumble across Elrohir, riding his steed hard towards the High Pass with single-minded determination. His father's presence had gone unnoticed for a quarter of an hour, before Elrond decided to cut across his path. Even then, it had taken much persuasion and a few threats before Elrond managed to turn him around back towards Imladris.

Now, riding before his sullen son, Elrond sent a prayer to the Valar for strength to know how to handle Elrohir. At his best, Elrohir was angry and withdrawn. Elladan had tried to draw him out of his shell in all imaginable ways, but had found that his formerly gentle, good-natured brother was nowhere in sight as he bore Elrohir's ill-humoured outbursts with eroding patience.

The latest turn of events were provoked by the return of a patrol bearing multiple casualties. Among them had been a good friend of the twins, Gwenophor, so badly injured that the healers had told them not to hope for him. Elrohir had fled from the Houses of Healing, making it very clear that he wanted to be alone. Knowing that he would only lash out at them, Elladan had let him go with reluctance.

That evening, a frantic Elladan sought out his father to report that Elrohir had disappeared. Both then rode out in the hope of finding Elrohir before he reached his destination. The heavy rain had erased all his tracks, so the searchers had split up: Elladan going south, while Elrond had headed for the Misty Mountains. Both places had seen reports of rife Orc activity pouring in over the past few months, and Elrond knew Elrohir was seeking out as many Orcs as possible to exact his revenge upon the foul creatures for their attack on his beloved friend.

As chance would have it, Elrond came upon Elrohir near the foot of the mountain chain. The thought of finding Elrohir only after he had attempted to hew five hundred Orcs single-handedly was not one that Elrond relished, and he was relieved beyond measure.

"We stop for the night," Elrond said. "Alarin is close to dropping from exhaustion."

Elrohir dismounted without a word and leaned against his steed, staring at the ground with a clenched jaw.

Elrond's relief started to fade, and he suppressed a sigh and broke apart some lembas. Elrohir did not react when offered the bread, and so Elrond sat down and uncorked his water-skin, turning his options over in his mind.

"Will you not sit with me?" he said, trying to break the stony silence.

Elrohir took slow, reluctant steps toward him, before sitting down, crossing his legs and staring at a rock.

"It is a beautiful night. The rains have cleared the air," Elrond said.

When Elrohir still refused to answer, Elrond decided to take the plunge. He took a deep breath and said, "You scared us, Elrohir. Your Naneth would not have liked to see you this way --"

Elrond closed his eyes as Elrohir jumped up and sprinted away. He was weary and reaching the end of his patience. It had been years since Celebrían's attack, and subsequent sailing to the West, but Elrohir had yet to move on. Ever since Celebrían had been found, he had neither spoken of it to anybody nor shed any tears. Instead, he had had taken to slaying Orcs with mindless intent that scared even Elladan, who often rode with him in his attempts to kill as many goblins as possible.

Familiar feelings of hatred ate at Elrohir as he walked away from Elrond. He knew he was hurting his father, but found it so difficult to look him in the eye, not when he had brought about his mother's attack; when he had told her the Pass was safe to use for her trip back to Lorién. How could he face his family, when the images of his mother, of her pain, kept haunting him every time he looked at them?

He paused in his step as something caught his eye. Frowning, he stared at it, trying to decide if it were worth investigating. A minute passed, and then two, but curiosity got the better of him, and he approached it. A sudden glint of gold caught the moonlight, and Elrohir doubled his pace. His heart shot to his mouth as he saw a small figure slumped faced forward in the rocky terrain, clothes shredded, hair a matted mess.

Bile rose in his throat as he bent down. While death and destruction had never been far from him in recent years, this child touched him in a way he thought no longer existed.

Reaching out, he turned over the figure, and let out a loud gasp. Dried blood was caked to the side of the boy's head, and the lips were cracked and blue from cold. A quick glance over the rest of his body revealed fingers black from frostbite, and a strip of cloth around a forearm to bind a previous injury. Then, to his greatest surprise, Elrohir noticed the boy's ears: he was one of the first-born!

"Ada!" Elrond looked up, startled to hear Elrohir calling.

Running over, he saw his son was shaking and bent over something in the rocks.

"He is only an Elfling!" Elrohir spluttered, having difficulty getting the words out.

Elrond knelt beside the child, his heart going out to the boy instantly.

"He is still alive," Elrond said. Barely.

When Elrohir continued to stare at the Elfling with fear in his eyes, Elrond addressed him again, "Elrohir, I need you to fetch my herbs and bandages."

Elrohir rose and took a few steps back, unable to tear his gaze off the small figure. Why was he so affected by the sight? He was a warrior and should be accustomed to death and injury.

He is too young to know this type of pain. Grabbing what he needed, he managed to get his emotions under control as he returned.

"It is unusual for one so young to be on his own. Scout the area for any others," Elrond said.

Elrohir did as told, cursing himself for opening his heart to the child. Had he not learnt by now what would result of his foolish emotions?

"I see nothing that suggests the presence of others," Elrohir said, returning upon completing a through search of the area.

Before Elrond could answer, the boy took in a painful breath and stirred. Eyes creaked open to reveal cerulean orbs misted over in confusion.

"Hush." The word escaped Elrohir before he knew it, and the Elfling's eyes struggled to focus in on Elrohir's face.

"I need to set his leg, Elrohir," Elrond said.

Elrohir continued to hold the Elfling's gaze, as Elrond exerted a sudden force. Teeth clenched weakly on already bleeding lips, but not a sound escaped. There was a crack, and he passed back into unconsciousness.

"We need to get him back to Imladris; his frostbite needs further attention," Elrond said.

Elrohir nodded.

"Do you want to carry him, Elrohir?"

Elrohir turned to look at Elrond, and a wealth of information flashed across his eyes: gratitude, apology, pain, hope.

"Yes, Ada," he said, bending down to pick the Elfling up and he cradled him close. He wondered at how light his bundle was. The Elfling could not have been older than twenty.

Looking back to Elrond, Elrohir said, "Will he survive?"

"As long as we get him back to Imladris in good time."

Hard determination built up in Elrohir as he glanced down again: he would not let the boy slip through their fingers.

"Hang on, tithen pen -- little one --, we will bring you back to Imladris."

Unbeknownst to him, a hopeful smile spread across Elrond's face.