A/N:  Nope, I still don’t own these characters.  Yep, Cairistiona and Calenlass Greenleaf are still betas extraordinaire.  Most of the credit for what I get right goes to them.

They were nearing the Bruinen.  Elladan closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, for the scent of those waters at the borders of his homeland never failed to lift his spirits.  His home was a balm for the deepest wounds, rest from the most profound weariness, hope against . . . he froze and his eyes flew open.  His hands acted almost of their own accord, reining his horse up sharply.  It took Elrohir a moment to realize his brother was no longer beside him.

“Elladan?” the younger Elf glanced over his shoulder, confusion in his eyes, “What’s wrong?” 

Elladan silenced him with a finger to his lips.  Locking eyes with his brother, he inhaled slowly and deliberately.  Taking the hint, Elrohir sniffed the air.  His face froze, and Elladan knew that what he had smelled his brother had also detected.  There was a foulness on the air—a stench that sullied the pure waters of the Bruinen.  Almost in unison, the brothers dismounted and looped their reins around a convenient tree branch.  Elrohir’s face had fallen into a watchful, predatory mask, and Elladan knew that the same gleam was reflected in his eyes.  Moving silently, as only Elves can, they darted to the top of a bluff.  Dark bodies dotted the bank below them.  Instantly, the peredhil dropped to conceal themselves in the underbrush and looked down on the Fords of Bruinen.

The brothers had crossed here only a month ago on their way to Fornost-Eden.  Then, the land had been silent and peaceful under the weakening grip of winter.  The sight now before them bore almost no resemblance to that quiet riverside.  Dozens of orcs dotted the near bank, though none ventured into the shallow water.  The company had clearly been there for some time.  Their filthy tents were falling into disrepair while their stinking fire pits grew ever deeper.  They had even felled some of the ancient trees that dotted the bluff, hewn them to pieces and left them to rot.  Elladan felt a rare spark of anger grow in his breast at the sight of these fell creatures, so brazen on the very doorstep of Lord Elrond’s land.

“They dare not enter the water,” Elrohir’s voice was a bare whisper in his ear, “If we can break their siege, they will not pursue us.”

Elladan almost smiled.  It would snow in the Cracks of Doom before Elrohir admitted fear in the face of orcs.  “Perhaps, but look at their archers.  Even Adar’s power cannot prevent their arrows from pursuing us.”

“So what would you have us do?  Ride around and cede this crossing to the yrch?”

Elladan shook his head.  “If I remember rightly, a patrol from Imladris will pass here in two days’ time.  If these beasts are still here at that time, they will meet a swift end.  Meanwhile, we’d best set a watch to ensure that no greater evil comes of their presence.”

Coming to an unspoken agreement, the two slipped back down the bluff, silent as shadows.

~

“What will become of Halpharn?”  It was the first time in several hours that Gilraen could summon the energy to speak.  Aragorn was nestled against her chest, lulled to sleep by Rohiridan’s steadily swaying pace.

Thorondir looked up sharply, as though startled out of some reverie.  “Nothing too dramatic,” he said at last, “He has the choice of either traveling north to settle in one of the isolated villages beyond our borders, or south to seek refuge in Gondor or Rohan.”

“But he’s only a boy.  How will he feed himself?”

“Children far younger than Halpharn have supported themselves.  He will find a station as a stable hand or an apprentice.”

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the steady clopping of hooves.  “How long until we reach Elrond’s lands?”

“We’re nearly there.  Another few minutes and we should reach the Fords of Bruinen.  Once we cross the river we’ll be under the Elven Lord’s protection.”

“Protection?” Gilraen’s eyes narrowed in confusion, “You think he’ll meet us there?”

“He doesn’t have to.  Now hush. Until we cross we’re still in dangerous territory and would do well not to draw attention to ourselves.”

Thorondir had turned to address his sister, which perhaps was why he did not immediately notice the tall, cloaked figure that materialized a mere two paces from his horse’s head.  Gilraen saw him first and let out her breath in a hiss.  Thorondir’s head snapped around, and his hand closed around Arathorn’s sword.  The newcomer made no move, though, except to raise two slim hands and lower his hood.

Gilraen breathed a sigh of relief as she recognized a son of Elrond—though she couldn’t be sure which one he was.  “My lord, we’d almost given up hope of finding you—“

He silenced her with a raised hand.  The Elf’s voice was a low hiss, “It’s not safe.”  Casting a furtive glance around them, he turned and stalked into the woods, gesturing for the riders to follow.  They did so slowly, their eyes flicking through the trees with a watchfulness that elsewhere would have been called paranoia.

Elladan or Elrohir—Gilraen still couldn’t tell which—led them back the way they came for about a hundred yards before turning off the road.  Perhaps sensing his mother’s sudden tension, Aragorn stirred and peered out inquisitively from under Gilraen’s cloak.

The Elf’s path took them down a gentle slope to a natural hollow, invisible in the trees.  Two tall horses without saddles stood tethered to a tree.  As the little company approached, a cloaked form rose from a crouch to greet them.

Thorondir dismounted and inclined his head courteously to the second Elf.  “Mae govannen, Lord Elladan.”  His voice was soft.  Gilraen stayed in the saddle; with Aragorn still half asleep in front of her, she couldn’t easily dismount.

Elladan’s guarded gaze flicked back and forth between the newcomers.  “Children of Dírhael,” Gilraen had to strain to hear him, “What brings you to this perilous road?”

Thorondir spared his sister the trouble of responding.  He kept his tone respectful, “Grief uncounted which we will not repeat here.  Suffice it to say that we travel without Lord Arandur’s leave so that my nephew may seek sanctuary in Imladris.”

The sons of Elrond seemed to notice Aragorn for the first time.  Four identical eyes darkened with anger.  Elladan turned to Gilraen.  “You bring a child—this child—along these roads with only one young Ranger to protect him?  Have you no sense?”

This was too much for Aragorn.  In under a week, he’d buried his father, seen his village burn, fled his home, and ridden for hours along these bumpy roads without sleep, and now this strange Elf was yelling at his mama.  He fought back one sniffle, then another, then cracked and let out a wail.

Gilraen pulled her son close and hurried to shush him, mindful of Elladan’s talk of danger.  The elder Elf’s eyes flashed and darted around the encampment, as though expecting enemies to spring out of the ground.  To Gilraen’s surprise, though, Elrohir’s stormy gaze softened.  He approached the mother and child slowly.  “Hush, all is well, little one,” his voice, which had been so fiery in debates, was suddenly soft and soothing, “My brother did not mean to scare you.”

Aragorn sniffed and peered at the strange being with the long dark hair.  Elrohir smiled encouragingly.  “Why don’t we take a walk, penneth.  While Elladan speaks with your naneth, I can introduce you to our horses.  Would you like that?”

Aragorn considered.  He nodded slowly.  Elrohir looked up at him.  “Very good, little one.  Only we must be very quiet.  Can you do that?”  Aragorn nodded more vigorously, perhaps offended by the implication.  Elrohir held out his arms, and to Gilraen’s shock, her son crawled into them after only a second’s hesitation.  As she dismounted, Gilraen wondered at the sight—the hot-tempered Elf gently cradling the exhausted toddler.  Aragorn’s tiny hands found the jeweled clasp of Elrohir’s cloak and promptly began playing with it.  The Elf smiled.  Shifting the boy to his hip, he walked away in the direction of the Elven horses, still murmuring softly to the child. 

Elladan watched his brother go and sighed heavily.  Turning back to Gilraen, he offered a short bow.  “I apologize, my lady, I fear the Wilds have left me short of temper.  We had hoped that you would reconsider your decision, but your sudden appearance with the child startled me.  And, I fear it is ill-timed; we keep watch on an encampment of orcs.  The enemy has surrounded the near bank of the Bruinen.  We dare not cross until reinforcements from Imladris arrive.”

Thorondir’s brow furrowed.  “How many?”

“We’ve counted almost two score orcs on this side of the Bruinen.  In another day and a half, twenty warriors from Imladris are due to pass here.  The orcs can be routed then, but not before.”

Thorondir sighed.  “We do not have two days.  Arandur may be no more than four hours behind us.”

Gilraen spoke up.  “Perhaps he can help us.  If he brings Maldir’s patrol . . .” She trailed off as her brother shot her an amused look.

His voice was gentle.  “Muinthel, if I know our brother he will be traveling alone.  Remember, we left only one horse at the safe house.  It would take time to assemble the patrol, and they would not be able to travel as quickly.  Besides which, he will most likely see this as a family issue—a simple matter of talking some sense into his wayward younger siblings.”

“Still,” Gilraen mused, “He could help protect Aragorn until the Elves arrive.  I think he would understand.”

“Gilraen, if Arandur even suspected that we had brought the child so near an orc encampment, he would gag us, tie us to our horses, and drag us straight back to the village.  And, he would be right to do so.”

The woman’s face hardened.  “The choice is mine.  He cannot compel me to stay.”

“No, but his duty to the Chieftain supersedes that concern.  He is Aragorn’s guardian and protector first, ruler of the Dúnedain second.  He will not allow us to bring the child into danger.”

Gilraen shook her head, wondering how the dynamics of her family could have shifted so completely in only a few days, with her barely aware of it.  “So, we go back; we find another crossing . . .”

Elladan was shaking his head.  “There are none within a day’s ride.  At best, Arandur would overtake us.  At worst, there may be other encampments.”

“So, what do we do?”  Elladan and Thorondir had locked eyes.  Gilraen looked back and forth between them.  “What do we do?”

Thorondir spoke at last.  “We must cross, and soon.”

~

Time was a cruel trickster.  In what seemed like no time at all, Elladan and Thorondir, with occasional contributions from Gilraen, had hammered out a plan so dangerous it made the woman’s head spin.  She barely had time to take a breath before Elladan was stalking over to his brother, murmuring a quick word in his ear.  The younger elf relinquished Aragorn, collected his pack, and slipped away to the north, silent as a shadow over the dry forest leaves.

Then, for a long time there was nothing to do.  Elladan carefully inspected the fletching on his arrows.  Thorondir checked and rechecked the horses’ tack.  Gilraen sat and pulled Aragorn close, wrapping his tiny cloak around him as if the flimsy cloth could protect him.  The minutes stretched like hours.  Elladan’s eyes darted continually around the hollow, as if he expected the very trees to rise up against them.  Thorondir sat with Arathorn’s naked sword across his knees.  Still, all of them started when Elrohir reappeared as suddenly as he’d left.  His voice was pitched to carry no farther than their clearing.

“All is ready.”

~

Gilraen shifted uneasily in her saddle.  Aragorn sat in front of her, trembling slightly.  The boy didn’t really understand what was about to happen, but Gilraen believed she had impressed on him the need to be very quiet.  Ropes wrapped securely around his waist bound the toddler to Rohiridan’s saddle as a precaution.  Gilraen gripped the reins with one sweaty hand.  Her other hand rested on the long knife strapped to the saddle.  Her bow and quiver, too, were in easy reach.  All this did little to assuage the woman’s fears; if circumstances forced her to actually use either weapon, they were probably doomed already.

To her left, Elrohir sat atop his gelding, his slim sword already drawn.  Both horse and rider were almost preternaturally still, and the Elf’s ageless gaze was intense.  The other Elven horse waited riderless on Gilraen’s other side.  Though no rein or hobble restrained the steed, the animal waited, as patient and alert as the Elves themselves.  Thorondir waited a pace behind.  Begilaith shook her head nervously, and Elrohir winced at the jingle of the harness.  Rohiridan’s ear twitched.  The gelding knew battle was coming.

Barely daring to breathe, Gilraen glanced up at the last member of their company.  Elladan perched high among the slender branches of a birch tree, his bow in hand, a flaming arrow nocked.  The Elf gripped two more identical arrows in his teeth, the small flames barely a foot from his face.  His position gave him a clear view of the orc-lined river.  The Elf sighted carefully, his sharp eyes picking out tiny cloth markers in the trees almost a half-mile away.  He drew one steadying breath.

Gilraen jumped slightly at the twang of the bowstring, causing Aragorn to stiffen in front of her.  The sound was followed almost immediately by two more twangs in quick succession.  There was a slight rustle as Elladan dropped from the tree, graceful as a falling leaf.  Moving soundlessly, the Elf swung himself onto his horse.  Another arrow, this one tipped with steel, was already on the string.  For long moments, the only sound in Gilraen’s ears was the desperate pounding of her own heart.  She swallowed against the sudden bitterness on her tongue. 

Finally, the guttural cry of an orc reached her ears.  Though the Elves gave no outward sign, their horses broke into a cautious walk almost simultaneously.  Gilraen quickly squeezed Rohiridan’s flanks, keeping the larger horse just a half pace behind the Elrondionnath.  As they neared the top of the ridge, the orcish cries grew in volume.  A booming horn split the air.  Gilraen pressed herself against her son, forcing Aragorn flat against the horse’s withers.  Her world narrowed to the short stretch of forest she could see between the gelding’s ears.  Through this narrow window, she caught sight of the valley below. 

A half mile away, three columns of black smoke rose into the air.  Elrohir had lined his firetraps with dry kindling, and stoked them with green, oily wood to release dark smoke.  They lit quickly at the northern edge of the orc encampment, sparking confusion and disorder among the fell beasts. 

Chaos spread quickly, as undisciplined sentries abandoned their posts and flocked towards the growing bonfires.  Ten feet from the first blaze, the ground suddenly dropped away, plunging three orcs into a concealed pit. 

Screams of rage rent the air, and even more orcs flooded to the northern edge, doubtless expecting a full scale assault.

Into this breach, the small company of riders sprang.  They moved in a backwards arrowhead formation, the two Elves ahead, Gilraen and Aragorn between them, and Thorondir bringing up the rear.  As orcish eyes moved north, they burst through the southern edge of the encampment.  One orc spotted them and let out a roar, only to be silenced as Elladan’s arrow buried itself in the creature’s throat.  A goblin, pale and sickly under the dim morning light, scurried into their path and fell under Elrohir’s blade.  Gilraen flattened herself against her son, trying to cover every inch of him like a living blanket—a breathing shield.  That was all any of them were in the end; man and woman, Elves and horses, serving as flesh and blood barriers to shield the tiny, precious cargo in Gilraen’s arms.

As the horses plunged to the base of the ridge, five or six orcs rallied to block their way.  The Elves veered to the right.  Rohiridan followed with little guidance from his rider.  Begilaith rushed past on their left in a blur of brown fur and green cloth.  Thorondir charged the small group, neatly decapitating the first orc and scattering the others.  The horses’ long legs ate up the ground.  Another few moments and they would reach the river . . .

A black arrow whizzed by over their heads.  “Bowmen!” Elladan cried, shooting an arrow of his own at the ragged line forming behind them.

“They’re mine!”  Thorondir wheeled his horse around and bore down on the new threat.  Gilraen heard orc screams and the clang of metal, then they reached the river, and the splash of water and clang of hooves over stone drowned out all else.  Though the Bruinen at its deepest point reached only to the horses’ knees, the spray of twelve hooves quickly soaked Gilraen.  Her breath came in ragged gasps, and she resisted the urge to squeeze her eyes shut.

Then, there was a quick rise, as Rohiridan strained to scale the far bank.  The sons of Elrond did not slow, but Gilraen pulled back on the reins, turning Rohiridan just as he reached the edge of the forest.

“Thor!” She nearly screamed the name, praying her voice would carry over the din of battle.  Amazingly, he turned.  The dozen orcs who had opposed him were all but decimated. 

Spinning Begilaith, he leaned forward, urging the sweat soaked filly into a break neck gallop. 

They crashed into the river . . . they were halfway through . . . Thorondir raised his head, a triumphant smile on his face.

It all happened so fast.  One moment Thor was thundering through the shallows, kicking up a glittering spray of foam, the next there came a distant thud, and a tremor ran through his body.  Though he made no sound, a sudden shock froze the youth’s face and he slowly tipped forward, revealing the black-shafted arrow protruding from his back.  A distant bow sang again, and another arrow buried itself in his neck, just above the shoulder, releasing a torrent of red.  Another twang, and this time Begilaith took the hit—the arrow drawing an angry red line across her flank.  The horse screamed in pain, but did not falter. 

“Thor!” she screamed in earnest this time.  Legs moving almost of their own accord, the woman squeezed Rohiridan’s flanks, urging the horse back towards the rushing river.  Aragorn screamed and buried his face in the horse’s mane, reminding Gilraen of her duty to the child before her.  Her knife clattered to the forest floor.  At the same moment, Arathorn’s sword slipped from Thorondir’s nerveless fingers and was swallowed by the river. 

Later, Gilraen was never aware of dropping the reins and drawing an arrow.  She recalled only the sharp snap of the bowstring and the bitter satisfaction of seeing her arrow disappear into the fanged maw of an orcish bowman, even as the beast was nocking a fourth arrow. 

Begilaith’s hooves pounded, and suddenly bleeding horse and dying rider were rushing up the riverbank, past Gilraen, and into the safety of the forest cover. 

The orcs clustered on the distant shoreline, never quite touching the feared waters, and screamed their fury against their escaped prey.

Begilaith raced a few yards into the forest, then slowed to a stop, trembling and panting for breath.  The sons of Elrond materialized from the gloom, their identical faces stricken.  Four strong hands gently lowered Thorondir to the ground.  Gilraen pulled Rohiridan up short and dismounted so quickly her knees buckled.  Leaving Aragorn tied to the saddle, she climbed to her feet and stumbled to where her little brother lay.

Dark blood pooled around him and over him.  Begilaith lowered her head to lip gently at his deathly pale face.  Blood ran down her side in slow rivulets to mingle with her rider’s.  The sons of Elrond stood to either side of the fallen Ranger, still and solemn as statues.  Their eyes met and a look of meaning passed between them. 

Gilraen approached on trembling legs.  Her eyes sought Elladan’s.  “Do something.”  He looked away.  She grabbed Elrohir’s collar and dragged the other Elf’s face to hers.  “Do something!”  He met her gaze, and she was shocked to see tears pooling in the ancient gray eyes.

“Gil . . .” The woman felt her fury fade, quelled by the faint voice.  She dropped to her knees at her brother’s side and felt the warm wetness immediately soak through the knees of her leggings.  Two pairs of eyes met, one clouded by pain, the other by tears.  Gilraen reached for the words—surely she should say something . . . anything . . . There were no words, so she merely took his hand in both of hers.  He tried to force a smile.  “Did . . . did we make it . . . muinthel?”  The woman nodded wordlessly, and the stiffness eased from the man’s smile.  “Gilraen,” he rasped, “Let me see him.”

Knowing what he wanted, Gilraen shifted slightly, so that Thorondir could see past her.  Just a few yards away, a tiny child sat trembling atop a great warhorse.  The dark curls were awry, the gray eyes wide and solemn in the tear-streaked face.  For long moments, Thorondir son of Dírhael gazed at his Chieftain, even as his lifeblood poured out with every beat of the great heart.  After a moment that could have spanned several eternities, the Ranger’s chest stuttered up once, twice, and then was still.

His gaze became fixed, and the expression of devotion froze, never to leave his face while the world lasted.

~

Moonlight drifted through the forests of Imladris, flowing like water as the wind ruffled the trees.  Aside from the faint whisper of leaves, all was silent in the sheltered glades surrounding the Last Homely House.  The woods were shrouded in a soft beauty that murmured of splendor long lost from Middle Earth.  It was the sort of peace one would expect in the Halls of Mandos, where departed souls awaited their final voyage.

How appropriate, Gilraen reflected.  Her silk gown whispered in the dark, but her leather slippers made no sound on the springy grass.

A week.  She could not quite believe that a full week had passed since her last tragedy along the banks of the Bruinen.  She had completed the journey to Imladris in a haze, clutching her child close at every opportunity, trying desperately not to look at the shrouded bundle strapped across Begilaith’s back.  After all she had seen and done, she was content just to flow with the tide, to put her trust in the Elven voices that murmured that all would be taken care of.

Aragorn seemed to be recovering from the ordeal.  In the aftermath of the Bruinen, he had latched onto Elrohir, toddling after the Elf on unsteady legs, holding up his tiny arms, begging to be swept up for a piggy-back ride.  Gilraen wasn’t sure which was the bigger surprise:  that her son could show such sudden affection for the fierce Elf or that Elrond’s son would respond in kind.  Though her arms ached with every second her son was not in them, she could see that Aragorn was healing, so she did not question the blessing.

Gilraen was an entirely different story.  She felt the absence of her family like a gaping wound; every new dawn brought a fresh sting like salt.  Sometimes in the night, she thought she felt her husband’s arms around her.  Walking through the stables by day, she found herself listening for her brother’s laugh.  Troubled dreams robbed her of sleep and drove her out of the house.  She wandered aimlessly among the spreading elms, looking to the swirling stars for explanation, for consolation, for a reason to go on.

She came upon a ridge overlooking the house.  It was beautiful in the moonlight—all sweeping arches and graceful pillars with soft light pouring from gabled windows and terraced balconies.  A slight breeze nipped at her dress, reminding Gilraen that spring had not yet come, even to this sheltered enclave.  She crossed her arms against the chill.

The woman nearly jumped out of her skin when a thick mantle settled over her shoulders.  Pulling away from the warm hands, she turned and found herself face to face with the master of the house.  Lord Elrond did not speak but let his hands drop.  Gilraen had to crane her neck to look into his face.  In the dim light, the peredhel’s gray eyes revealed nothing.  After a moment, the woman broke the silence.  “I did not think anyone would be here at such an hour.”

The Elven Lord’s gaze flickered slightly.  His voice was deep and melodious.  “That is understandable.  I also find this place conducive to solitude.”

Elrond’s eyes weighed on her.  Gilraen averted her gaze.  “What draws you here, my lord?” She spoke without thinking and then cringed at the personal nature of the question.

Lord Elrond, though, did not seem offended.  He walked past Gilraen and stepped to the very edge of the rocky ridge.  The lord stared up at the stars, seemingly unbothered by the sheer drop just inches beyond his feet.  Gilraen followed at a safer distance.  For a moment, she did not think he would answer.  Then Elrond nodded at the sky.  “I seek council from my father.”

Gilraen advanced one careful step, scanning the stars.  One, in particular, caught her gaze.  It far outshone the others, gleaming like a silver gem on the horizon.  Gilraen was reminded, achingly, of Arathorn’s eyes.  Half-forgotten childhood tales returned to her in fragments.  A mariner in the heavens, bearing the captured light of Two Trees upon his brow . . . “So it is true, then,” her voice was a mere whisper, but Elrond’s sharp ears caught it, “The stories they tell of Eärendil sailing through the stars.”

Lord Elrond looked back at her, his expression bemused.  “Yes, it is true.  As he is your forbearer as well as mine, I am surprised the history is not better preserved.”  His gentle tone removed all sting from his words.  Gilraen stared up at the distant orb.  Yes, the Star of Eärendil it was called, but it had another name as well.  If only she could recall what it was . . . Elrond’s voice cut through her muddled thoughts.  “I had hoped to meet you this night.  There is much we must discuss.  Will you sit?” Elrond gestured to a convenient boulder even as he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the ridge.  Gilraen slowly settled, drawing her knees up to wrap the mantle more fully around herself.

Elrond’s gaze was distant.  “Gilraen, I am prepared to honor the offer my son made.  Should you wish it, you and your child may stay here among my people until he reaches his majority.  Yet, Elladan tells me you were reluctant in coming here.  May I ask why?”

The woman stared at her knees, feeling very young and very small.  “It didn’t feel right,” she said at last, “Bringing him here to be reared among the Eldar with no others of his kind.”

“Yet the fostering of a child is an old tradition, dating back to the dawn of the friendship between Eldar and Edain in the First Age of this world.  Many of his ancestors have been raised here in Imladris, especially the Chieftains of your people until a few generations ago.”  Gilraen did not respond.  She looked away, studying the stars, wishing she could remember the other name of Eärendil.  Elrond’s voice was infinitely gentle.  “I understand your reluctance, daughter of Dírhael.  You have lost much in a very short span of time.  And it is true that we are not of your kind.  Yet, I hope you will believe me when I say that we are your kin.  I have sworn to protect the line of my brother Elros, your ancestor.  If you choose to stay, you and your son will be among family.”

A smaller star, bright in its own right, drifted towards Eärendil.  Gilraen wondered if this was Elwing Star-foam, who was said to fly out as a bird to greet her husband.  She thought of the grim morn when she ran out of the house expecting Arathorn’s return.  She thought of Thorondir’s red blood mingling with the silver foam of the Bruinen.

Finally, Elrond broke the silence once again.  “Yet, I do not want you to agree without a full understanding of the circumstances involved.  The Heir of Isildur will never be completely safe, even here.  Secrecy is ever the best defense against the Enemy we face.  If you choose to stay, your son will be raised as my son—and so he will be in all but blood.  His true father’s name—and even his own name—must be concealed from him.”

The stars were cold.  There was nothing left.  Gilraen was bereft of her husband, her family, her home. 

“Gilraen, will you stay?”

She nodded slowly, wishing she could remember the name of the star. 

“Gilraen?  What will you call your child?”

She stared at Eärendil as he slipped over the distant horizon, returning to Valinor, or so the story said. 

Gil-Estel . . .

The name of the star slipped into her mind, like a whisper pushing back the dark.  It was Eärendil who sailed to the end of the world to seek mercy for his people.  What did he find there?  What could Gilraen find here?  When everything is lost, can anything be regained?

“Hope.”  She said at last, her voice a frail murmur, nearly swallowed by the shadows.

Elrond tracked her gaze with his own.  He nodded solemnly in understanding.  “So be it.  He shall be called Estel Elrondion.”

Fin

A/N:  Yes, that’s it for this story.  I’d like to offer a huge thanks to everyone who has supported and encouraged me along the way.  I hope this ending seemed fitting to you.

I realize I’ve left a number of loose ends.  I didn’t see any way around this that didn’t leave the story feeling contrived.  Huge, life-shattering events like these can’t always be wrapped up and laid to rest in a week.  I will be returning to these characters, but at the moment, all plans are still on the story board.  I need to take a little break, write other things, and deal with RL while I wait for my muse to come back.

If you enjoyed this story or if you see ways to improve, please leave me a review.  Concrit is always welcome.

It’s been a long road.  Thanks to everyone who walked it with me.