She managed to make it safely back to her chamber
before the tears began to flow. Why did he keep doing
this to her?

It was at moments like this, after partings like
this, that she came close to despair. Why couldn't he
understand? She didn't care about crowns or kingdoms
or safety or peace. She knew what a Ranger's life was
like and had prepared herself to share it. She could
use sword and bow, heal the wounds and sicknesses of
Men and animals, tend garden and dairy and do all the
other duties that fell to the mistress of a holding.

They could have been married years ago. Father
would have been unhappy, yes, but the matter would
have been settled. He'd have had no choice but to
accept it. As it was he kept hoping, kept arguing. Oh
this was his doing, she knew it was! She'd overheard
him before, telling Aragorn he would only bring her
to misery and death, making him believe it.

The brief spurt of anger died. She knew only too
well how much it would hurt Elrond to lose her, how
could she blame him for putting up a fight? Wouldn't
she do the same in his place.

Besides, it wasn't Father who'd made Aragorn give
her back her ring all those years ago in Lorien and
tell her he had nothing to offer her to match what she
would have to give up, that they must forget each
other. That had been his own idea, his own belief. And
she'd never, for all her efforts, been able to change
his mind.

She'd lain awake all that long, miserable night
listening to the golden leaves rustling around her
chamber and remembering Aragorn's father and
grandfather and all those other Heirs of Isildur who'd
loved her so passionately as boys and forgotten her so
completely once they were Men. And it was in the dark
watches of that endless night that a terrible fear
entered her heart, fear that Aragorn had tired of her,
like all his fathers before him, but was too kind to
tell her so.

By daylight she'd known the thought for the
nonsense it was. Had seen the love and the pain in his
eyes and known that he truly believed she would be
better off without him. Aimlessly idling the long
years away in the peace and beauty of Rivendell and
Lorien.

But it was too late for that. She knew it, even if
he didn't. Neither Aragorn nor her father seemed to
understand she'd changed. She was no longer the blythe
Elf child she'd once been, and never could be again.
The Mortal side of her nature had become very strong
over fifty years of loving a Man and fitting herself
to live among his people. She was more Woman than Elf
now and she knew in her heart Aman was not for her.

Even if Aragorn died, or truly tired of her and
never wanted to see her again she would stay in Middle
Earth and grow old and die alone if she must. Like her
brothers before her she had found her true self and
there was no going back. Even though she knew it would
break her father's heart, and her mother's, and her
grandparents' too.

She wiped her eyes. If Aragorn returned she would
tell him that, and he'd finally stop being so blasted
noble and self sacrificing and let them get on with
making a life together. If he didn't return, she'd
find him again beyond the Circles of the World, as
Luthien their ancestress had found Beren. Either way,
they'd be together - and that was all that mattered.

Death was Elrond's enemy. It had taken his twin
brother, his foster parents, the friends of his
childhood and youth, and generation after generation
of his kin. Loved, nurtured, advised - then lost,
stolen from him by the Mortality of Men.

It would take his sons too - someday. But not his
daughter, not Arwen! He didn't like what he was doing
to both his daughter and the nephew-foster son who
loved her, but he had no choice.

Arwen belonged with her mother's people, the few
thin drops of Mortal blood she'd inherited from him
couldn't be allowed to change that. Aragorn would
survive, Men were accustomed to living with sorrow. If
he lived at all, which was questionable.

Elrond had done his best to persuade his Elven
peers to honor the ancient alliance with the Men of
the West, but he wasn't surprised that he'd failed.
The two Kindreds had become estranged over this last
Age. The descendants of the Fathers of Men were few
and scattered. Most Mortals in Middle Earth came from
Men who'd had no part in the ancient wars, or even
fought on the other side.

Could it be Aragorn had been right all along? Even
if he were to proclaim his lineage and show the sword
of Elendil reforged would Men follow? Might not even
Gondor turn its back on him as it had on Arvedui? Had
the time of the Dunedain passed even as had the time
of the Elves? Elrond feared it was so. When he cast his
Sight forward these days he saw only Darkness.

The clatter of hooves in Rivendell's forecourt
roused him from his reverie. Going to the balcony
overlooking the dusk shadowed yard he saw a small
troop of Rangers dismounting. Then he recognized his
nephews and niece and hurried down to them.

Gilvagor's face, so eerily like that of Elros his
distant forefather, was set in grim lines.

"Greymere's fallen." he told Elrond bluntly,
without greeting. "The Line is broken, we can hold
them back no longer."

So it had come at last. If even the stubborn
Isildurioni admitted they were overmatched the end
must be very near. "You have done all that you can,
Gilros." (1) Elrond answered. "Time for you to think of
your own people." with concern; "Aranel and the
children?"

"Safe. The household and most of the garrison
escaped through the tunnel beneath the mere." the
Captain pushed a hand through tangled, sweat dampened
hair, glanced at his cousins.

"There is an army massing in the Ettenmoors,
Uncle." Beruthiel said quietly. "Orcs, Wargs and
Trolls. I doubt Rivendell can be held."

"I am sure it cannot." he rejoined grimly. "I am
sending my people to the Havens, there is no refuge
left in Middle Earth." but for Elves there was escape.
"What of the Dunedain?"

"I have ordered the people of the North Wardenships
to regroup at Annuminas." Gilvagor said crisply.

Elrond nodded, feeling a faint trickle of relief.
"A good choice." The Kingdom of the Lake had withstood
the last Dark Tide, perhaps it could ride out this one
as well. It was their only chance. He looked from
nephews to niece and frowned, suddenly troubled.
"Surely the three of you didn't come all this way just
to bring me news any courier might have carried?"

"No indeed." Gilvagor answered briskly. "We have
come for the treasure of Elendil."

"Of course, it will no longer be safe here." Elrond
agreed, but warily, sensing something more behind the
request that he didn't like at all.

"We would not willingly allow the Star and the
Scepter to fall into the hands of the Enemy," said his
nephew, "but more importantly we have need of the arms
and banners in the treasury."

"Why?" Elrond stared at his Mortal kin with terror
in his heart. "Gilros, surely you do not mean to
fight?"

Two Men and a Woman returned his appalled stare
steadily. "What else would you have us do?" Belecthor
asked calmly.

"Take refuge in Annuminas! For once in a thousand
years take thought for your own lives!" Elrond cried.
"You said yourself the Line was broken, that the
Dunedain could no longer hold back the Enemy."

"That is so." Belecthor agreed, "and therefore we
go forth to face him in open battle."

"And we mean to hide no longer!" Gilvagor's voice
rang through the yard, drawing other Elves to listen
and watch, his eyes blazed with a silver flame. "We
will take up again the arms of our fathers and show
the banners and devices of the House of Elendil and
the Dunedain of the North."

"And you will die!" Elrond shouted back,
passionately.

Gilvagor made an impatient gesture, but Belecthor
answered almost gently: "All Men die, Uncle, it is
just a question of when and how. If this is to be the
end of the Dunedain it will be such an end as to make
the Fathers of Men proud."

"You cannot win." he said in despair. And it was
true, the might of Mordor had grown beyond the power
of Men and Elves to match. This war was lost before it
was even begun and none knew it better than the
Dunedain, long the scouts and spies of the White
Council.

All three Mortals nodded, quite calmly. "The true
battle does not lie with us." Beruthiel reminded him
quietly. "We seek but to buy time for the Ringbearer
to complete his quest."

"And if Frodo fails?" her uncle demanded harshly.
"Then Darkness will take all Middle Earth even unto
the End of Days and your blood will have been spent
for nothing! Already the Ringbearer falters and our
last hope with him!"

But Gilvagor shook his head. "Our last hope lies
beyond the Circles of the World." he said softly, but
with a conviction Elrond remembered well. "Our Father
will never abandon his Children to the Shadow. If we
fall he will raise up others to carry on the fight,
and others after them, generation upon generation
until the World is cleansed."

"Despair is the tool of the Enemy, as you of all
Men should know." Belecthor chided, and smiled as
Elrond stared at him, nonplussed. "Yes I said Man. You
were a Man before you were an Elf, Uncle, and part of
you will always belong to us. Don't forget the
teachings of your Mortal Kin, for we have our own
wisdom which is unlike that of the Elves."
***

The next evening Elrond stood at a window of his
library, watching as the last twinkling Elf lantern
disappeared over the rim of the valley. His people
were on their way to the Havens and safety, and Arwen
with them. Finally, finally she had seen where her
true path lay.

He was relieved beyond measure and yet his heart
was wrung with pity for Aragorn, his beloved
foster-son facing dreadful perils in the south, who
would now come home, if he came home, to a bitter
loss. But Aragorn too had wanted her to go, Elrond
reminded himself, had understood the futility of her
giving up her heritage for something she would
inevitably lose anyway.

Dispite his love Aragorn would have left her in the
end. His nature, the mortality of Men, would give him
no choice. And Arwen would have dragged out who knew
how many long years alone, without the consolation of
her kin, before finally passing into the dark herself.
Truly it was better this way he told himself - and
knew he lied.

But the Blessed Land would heal Arwen's grief. And
Aragorn, even if he somehow survived, would not have
to bear his for long. The Doom of Men would spare him
the endless years of loss.

Elladan and Elrohir were gone as well, but not to
the Havens. They had ridden south some weeks before
with a party of Rangers, joining their fate to that of
the Dunedain as they had decided to do many years
before. His sons and his daughter had chosen their
roads and were gone. It was high time Elrond himself
decided what he was going to do.

Turning away from the balcony he paced along the
gallery until he came face to face with Isildur,
confronting Sauron in the final desperate moments of
that earlier war, and his heart was wrung again by an
old familiar grief for another beloved nephew who had
saved them all and yet failed them in the end.

But Frodo too was failing as the Ring's power over
him grew. His Hobbit innocence and resilience of no
more avail than Isildur's strength and the divine
Maiar strain in his blood. Perhaps the Ring was too
strong for any of them.

"Forgive me, my nephew, if I have judged you to
harshly and blamed unjustly." he said softly. "And
forgive me, Frodo Baggins, for putting you to this
trial but you were our only hope."

He turned to the statue of Elemmire (2) but the
shield she cradled was empty, the blade of Elendil
gone. Elrond stared a moment, nonplussed, then told
himself his Mortal nephews, Elendil's Heirs, must have
taken his sword along with their other heirlooms. Yet
he was filled with a strange uneasiness, a dark
forboding that he shrugged aside with an effort. It
was time he too was leaving, it wouldn't take him long
to catch up with his people on the west road to the
Havens.

But even as he formulated the thought he knew his
heart had already chosen otherwise. He looked down at
Vilya, gleaming blue on his hand, and smiled crookedly.
Six thousand years and more he had lived as an Elf,
for the last three thousand as King in all but name of
the Eldar west of the mountains. But Belecthor was
right, the choice made so long ago hadn't changed the
blood in his veins. He was, and would always be, but
Half-Elven. And the half that was Man would not, could
not, abandon his kin in their last need - even if all
he could do was die beside them. Whatever the other
Elven lords decided *he* at least would stand by the
ancient alliance between Men and Elves.

He pulled the ring from his finger and holding it
tightly in his closed hand went swiftly, robes
billowing, down the stair from the gallery, across the
terrace and down the steps to the courtyard. Only to
come to an abrupt halt, staring incredulously, at a
forecourt filled with rank upon rank of armoured Elven
warriors, their tall helms and bright spearpoints
catching the starlight.

Glorfindel, eyes glinting laughter, stepped forward
and made him a bow. "We await your orders, my Lord
Elrond."

"I thought I had already given you my orders." he
managed to reply.

Fair brows arched innocently. "Forgive me, my Lord,
but I cannot remember hearing any such."

Elrond tried to look stern, failed utterly and
laughed instead. "You know me well, Glorfindel,
perhaps better than I know myself." he hesitated a
moment, tempted to go after his sons. But no, there
were those nearer at hand who could use his help and
that of a hundred or so Elven knights. "We will ride
north, to join the army of the Dunedain mustering at
Cristhoron (3). Give me a few moments to make ready."

The ranks of knights parted before him as he
crossed the courtyard to climb the steps to his
private chambers. He put Vilya carefully away in its
small casket, then pulled aside a hanging to uncover a
door unopened for many long years. Inside hanging from
pegs on the wall were armour, shield - and a sword.

He took the last down reverently with both hands,
the curved, single edged Elven blade glittered a
chilly blue-white. This was Ringil the sword of
Fingolfin, first High King of the Noldor in Exile, who
had fallen before the very gates of Angband, wounding
Morgoth with his last desperate blow. His sword had
been left lying where it fell from his dying hand, to
be found long years later by the Host of Valinor when
they beseiged the fortress.

And so it had come to Elrond who was, with his
brother Elros, Fingolfin's only living descendant and
heir. For long years it had hung unused in this hidden
closet but now they would go to war together one more
time, the last battle of the last war.
***

1. 'Gilros' is Elrond's name for Gilvagor, its
meaning, 'Star Foam' is the same as that of Elros who
Gilvagor strongly resembles.

Gilvagor is the son of Arathorn's brother Armegil and
Aragorn's heir. Belecthor and Beruthiel are brother and
sister, children of Ellian, sister to Arathorn and Armegil.

2. Elemmire was the daughter of Elendil. The shards of
his sword were brought to her by her grandson, one of
the three survivors of the Gladden Field.

3. 'Eagle Cleft' is the home and stronghold of the
Wardens of the Angle, a title currently held by
Beruthiel's elder son Ereinion.

No two ways about it, it was all his fault.

If only he hadn't found the the Ring! But if not
him it would have been some Orc, and with Sauron
practically next door in Dol Guldur he'd have had it
back before you could wink and then where would they
all be?

Bilbo sighed and massaged his eyes wearily. The
wide world was a very complicated place, everything
was connected with everything else. So that if you
changed just one little thing, like a Hobbit Burglar
with a magic ring, it might all fall apart.

Without the Ring he wouldn't have escaped the
Goblin Tunnels or been able to rescue his companions
time and time again. And without Thorin and Company
Smaug would still be brooding over the ruins of Erebor
and Dale, and the Dwarves would still be wandering
homeless, and poor Bard would have died a simple
bowman in Laketown.

So, odd as it seemed, the Ring of the Enemy had
done *some* good, at least while it was in the hands
of Bilbo Baggins! What was it Gandalf had said? Oh
yes, That he, Bilbo, had been *meant* to find the Ring
and to use it, and *meant* to pass it on to Frodo when
it became to much for him.

And it was to much for him, he'd proved that to
himself, and Frodo too, the day the Fellowship left
Rivendell. The Ring had him good and proper, no
mistaking, why he'd probably carry it straight home to
Sauron! he shuddered at the thought. No, it had to be
the boy.

And the quest would cost Frodo his life. Bilbo
hadn't been meant to hear that but he had. His nephew
was going to die and it was all his fault. His fault
for finding the Ring, his fault for adopting Frodo,
and most of all his fault for leaving the burden to
him.

"Bilbo."

The Hobbit hastily wiped his eyes and stuffed his
handkerchief back in his pocket before turning to face
Elrond.

The Master of Rivendell's face lookd more deeply
lined than usual, grim and grieving. Bilbo's heart
stopped. "Frodo?" he managed to croak.

"There has been no fresh news of the Ringbearer."
Elrond assured him quickly. "But my Mortal kin tell me
Rivendell itself is under threat from an army of Orcs
and Trolls mustering in the Ettenmoors. I have decided
to send my people to the Havens. And you, Bilbo
Baggins, must decide what you are going to do."

"Do?" the Hobbit echoed blankly.

"You cannot stay here alone." the Elf lord pointed
out reasonably, knelt down to put himself on eye
level. "We must pass through the Shire on our way to
the Havens, you can return to your own people if you
like."

Bilbo swallowed. "I don't think so. You see they'd
want to know about Frodo and the others and I wouldn't
know what to tell them."

"Then you must continue with us to the Havens.
Cirdan would welcome your company."

"That's very kind of him." said Bilbo politely,
brightened suddenly. "Why I could see the sea! I'd
like that."
***

All of Rivendell was in a tizzy the next day as its
inhabitants prepared to leave. Which in the case of
the Elves seemed to involve making farewell visits to
all their favorite places and walks rather than
packing.

"Aren't you going to take anything with you?" Bilbo
asked his friend Lindir.

The Elf smiled sadly. "Food enough for the journey
to the Havens, a change of garments and perhaps a
keepsake or two, no more. They say it is better so,
and we shall find all that we need waiting for us in
the West." his tone altered. "But that doesn't apply
to you, Bilbo! You must take your books and your notes
so you may continue your studies in Mithlond, and
anything else you think you will need or want."

Half of Rivendell ended up helping Bilbo with his
packing. The Elves in the kitchens made up packets of
his favorite things to eat, while other Elves bundled up
his clothes and pipes and walking sticks, carefully
collected and wrapped his notes, blank paper and pens,
and Elrond himself selected books from the library for
him. Having something to do seemed to cheer them all
up a little.

Still the atmosphere was very solemn as the long
procession set out that evening, crossing the bridge
and winding their way up the long path out of the
valley, Elf lanterns twinkling like stars in their
hands.

Bilbo, perched uncomfortably atop an Elven horse
rather to big for him led by Lindir and surrounded by
other Elves carrying his packages and bundles, had all
he could do to keep awake, and the soft Elvish singing
didn't help one bit! Why they'd waited til nightfall
to leave he couldn't imagine, nor how long it'd be
before he could lie down for a proper sleep.

They stopped just before dawn at an Elven resting
place off the Great Road with the swift waters of the
Bruinen chuckling somewhere beyond the trees. Bilbo's
Elven companions showed him to a bower woven of living
trees and he crawled gratefully into the heap of furs and
silken coverlets. He was just drifting off to sleep
when a soft voiced "Bilbo?" jerked him awake.

"Lady Arwen?" he asked uncertainly, peering into
the predawn dimness.

A pale oval of a face, framed in dark velvet,
nodded. "I am not going to the Havens."

"Of course you're not." Bilbo agreed promptly. "Er
- where are you going then?"

She smiled. "Where I belong." it faded. "But I
cannot just disappear, I want my father to know I am
safe. Tell him - I love him and my mother but I must
follow my heart." tears made sparkling tracks down her
cheeks.

"Indeed you must." Bilbo said firmly. "All the ages
of the world is far too long a time to live with a
broken heart."

A smile. "I agree." she leaned forward to place a
kiss on his brow. "Thank you, Bilbo."