Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

As we seek to reconstruct our history from our time back we feel the constraints of attempting to decipher a design written backwards and in a code we do not understand, and as we find more and more pieces of the puzzle it seems yet harder and harder to put them together.

And a voice whispers in the back of our minds, 'Perhaps you do not look in the right places …'

Disclaimer: JRRT's characters, just in different bodies, okie? Not mine. Please do not sue.

Notes: This is one of those 'The Fellowship in Modern Day' stories. The concentration, however, will not be so much on the Fellowship (in all probability); it will be on the people who actually understand what's going on, such as Elrond, Galadriel, Legolas, Gandalf, etc.

'Unblinded' is not a word, but as the fic progresses, I hope you will see why it is appropriate.

Warning! There is no magic in this world, except maybe the sort of thing the Istari can do. You might, however, consider this an AU of sorts; a bit of history is prescribed to Valinor and its inhabitants, and some of our modern world's history has been ignored. Also, Sauron is back in this story, and to a certain extent, so is his mentor Melkor. If you are a Tolkien purist and cannot accept this rather decidedly AU concept, turn away now. You won't enjoy this story. This is not to say that I have not tried to adhere to the books and the rest of JRRT's writing wherever possible, but you stand warned.

Another Warning! Locations on Earth (as they are supposed to correspond to Middle-Earth) have been chosen for natural landscape features and geographical locations. Nothing political will figure into this story, unless it be a blatant manipulation by the Forces of Evil. In the first chapter I will implicate the Middle East as a place where Evil is growing, but remember that Sauron lived in Legolas' home wood – Greenwood – for quite a while, and it was clearly not an evil place until he made it one. I have chosen the Middle East because certain desert features are suitable to a Mordor-type landscape, not because of its people; I have nothing against Muslims, or Jews, or Christians. I am agnostic, myself.

Well, um … the chapters will all probably be on the short side; it's easier that way, and I'll likely update often.

If you have read 'Brothers in Arms', you may recognize certain concepts from that story, but hopefully the general plot and setting is different enough that you don't think this is some kind of spinoff. :) It's not; I've worked hard to make this original. Same for 'The Patient'; some ideas were gotten there, but I'm trying very hard to not copy Scribe's work! You can find both these lovely influences here on ff.net, here:

The soft voice in the university library seemed to echo endlessly down the cavernous hall filled with shelf upon shelf of ancient and not-so-ancient texts, but if anyone else at the desk paid attention, they gave no immediate sign. Their speaker – a clean-shaven young fellow with cropped brown hair and deep grey eyes, his entire manner that of a student – remained engrossed in the book he pored through, flipping its pages reverently as he bent over the text.

"'Scuse me? You said something?" This voice, less hushed, was like a momentary din as it echoed, but the thundering waves soon dissipated.

"Ah?" The young man looked up to see the unknown face beside him gazing inquisitively. "Oh, nothing." He waved off the question. "I apologize for interrupting your work." He smiled, and it was a slightly strange smile. It seemed too old for the man's face.

"Oh no, I apologize for interrupting your reading …" said the questioner, the slightest frown crossing his face when he met the young man's eyes. He quickly averted his gaze to his own work.

They returned again to their own business, but the phrase seemed to linger unnaturally in the air. Forever and a half …

He may or may not have been surprised by the soft sighs of disappointment and relief that followed his departure.

Just outside of the library in the heart of Chicago, the 'student' looked up at the speaker to see what might have been his mirror image, had the other young man cut off his thick brown ponytail and removed the golden earring from his earlobe. "A bit of something, perhaps," he began, his speech touched by what might have been an English accent. "It would help if Men would acknowledge the Breaking as part of their world's history." He pushed up the sleeve of his dark green sweater and glanced at a watch. "I wasn't expecting you until two."

"Ah, well," the long-haired one sighed, a slight twitch of amusement coming to his mouth. "I rather didn't expect myself until two, either, but circumstances allowed it. I like the sweater, very stylish."

"Do you? I found it buried in my drawers this morning. I'd quite forgotten about it."

There was a momentary pause in their conversation, and the two young men simply gazed at one another. It did not even seem as if words needed to be exchanged. And then, the longhaired one spoke again, and strange words fell from his lips in a flowing, beautiful language. “Adar cân.” he said gravely. "I dhúath heria no caul bo ind dîn."[i]

"Gostannen siniath hin, muindor,"[ii] replied the other young man, his own voice seeming richer for the strange words on his tongue. Several passerby glanced up at the sound, curious looks on their faces, but if they comprehended what he said, they said nothing. He continued in the same language, "Elladan, this is but the calm before the storm. We will be swept up ere long, and still the people of this world remain oblivious! How can they not see?"

The one named Elladan approached the young man and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "It is the same way that they do not seem to notice our strange eyes, or the leaf-like shape of our ears." He touched the slight point, barely noticeable at a first glance, on his brother's ear. "Elrohir, they do not want to know."

"They will know soon enough, whether they wish to or not," replied Elrohir sourly, but his grey eyes, so old for such a young face, were soft and tired. "Ten thousand years we have walked this new earth, and still the Elves do not enter into their world except by lore and tale. Men have not changed much since the last days of Gondor, have they?"

"No, they have not," agreed Elladan softly, squeezing Elrohir's shoulder before he switched the subject. "Come, let us walk and breathe the fresh air."

Elrohir allowed the topic change. "'Fresh?'" he snorted, gazing at the industrial smokestacks in the distance, for they were not far from the factory district. "Perhaps your senses have dulled in your old age, brother!"

"And you have become boring, with that conventional haircut and your insistence on dress slacks," laughed his brother. "You should have gotten your ear pierced with me."

"I have tried. My earlobe was infected. There is no need to draw any more attention to our ears than is necessary, anyway."

"In this day and age, no one notices anyhow," Elladan pointed out amiably, but he sobered as he sensed a change in his brother's mood. "You wish to know what Father had to say?"

"I am afraid not," murmured Elladan, and he bowed his head slightly. "There is still no sign of Mithrandir. And the shadow over the Middle East grows." He paused. "He also sends instructions. We are to seek out Legolas."

"Legolas? Indeed?" Elrohir was plainly confused, and perhaps even amused. "Why?"

At this Elladan's mouth twitched. "I asked the same of Father, and I shall quote his answer for you: 'Because Glorfindel is still seeking Mithrandir in the dark places of the world.' Clearly what matters Father would speak to Legolas about are not for our ears at this time."

"Mm." Elrohir considered this with a slight smile on his lips. "Do we know where he is at the moment? I have heard naught of him for …" He seemed to count in his head. "78 years, I suppose, and unless you have been holding out on me, you have not heard aught of him either. Has he done one of his disappearing tricks again?"

"I suppose. Father did not seem to know where he is, either, and if Father does not know …"

"Neither does the Lady Galadriel," Elrohir finished for his twin. "Father always sends us the hard jobs …"

"Nay, Elrohir, I think we have the easy end of this stick," Elladan replied, his face strangely sober for what seemed to be the opening for a joke. "Glorfindel has quite a difficult task himself, for you know as well as I that if Olórin does not wish to be found, he will not be found. And when we do find Legolas …" he trailed off, and his face became graver yet. "It may be that he will be set to a task even harder than ours."

According to the books, the twin sons of Elrond stayed behind when their father left for Valinor, 'delaying their choice' for a time. The 'choice' being, of course, whether to be mortal or immortal. Obviously I've made them immortal. ;) For a while I considered having one of them dead, having chosen mortality in the end, but in the end I rejected the idea simply because I don't yet have a firm enough grasp of their characters to decide how the surviving twin would have reacted to such a loss.

The history of the world will become clearer as the story progresses, but suffice to say that Elladan and Elrohir never traveled to Valinor, remaining, rather, in Middle-Earth to the last of its days. Hence their remembrance of the last days of Gondor. The twins – indeed, all the immortal characters in this story – will likely be tainted by a touch, or sometimes more, of bitterness. Immortality is as much a curse as it is a blessing, after all, in a world full of sadness and impermanence.

The comment about leaflike ears? That's a Tolkien thing. *grins* Tolkien doesn't describe Elven ears as pointed, but rather 'more leaf-like in shape' than mortal ears, which suggests not a strongly pronounced difference but a subtle shaping. In fact, he seems to suggest that Elven eyes are really the defining characteristic, being piercing and having an inner light that makes them so unnerving and hard to beat in a staring contest. :) I'm playing on this idea with a lot of my writing.

I won't actually be using much Elvish in my story, as I really know nothing about forming coherent sentences. (The translations below aren't even that strict, since I really know nothing about verb forms. ~____~x;; ) So don't worry about that; I was just using Elvish here to illustrate a point. Please let me know if my Elvish is just horribly wrong, and if you can improve upon it, please let me know then, as well!

Feedback is HUGELY appreciated. No, you don't understand; REALLY appreciated! ^________________^x

[i] “Father calls,” he said gravely. “The shadow begins to be a burden on his mind."

[ii] "I feared this tiding, brother."

Two men stood on the long concrete dock at sunset, largely oblivious to the business of crewmen, cargo masters, and general insanity of the work in the minor commercial port. One of the two men, a tall, broadly built captain with a weather-beaten face and the beginnings of a full-grown gray beard, waved his hand at his docked boat, a fishing vessel freshly painted white and green. "Named 'er Chaser. She's gonna catch me a fine load."

"If she fishes as fine as she looks, than your luck is well sealed," agreed his companion, a slight, brief smile gracing his features and a vaguely English – or maybe Welsh? – accent touching his words. He was taller than the captain, but slimmer, and his face was clean-shaven, although like the captain he wore a heavy coat and a wool hat to keep out the strong, gusty winds of a seacoast in late November. "Have you her registration papers?"

"Of course, Lawrence, of course," laughed the captain, slapping the man on the back and taking a long drag on his cigarette. He breathed out smoke that was immediately whipped away by the winds and reached into his breast pocket, freeing a package of rumpled, folded yellow papers. "Wouldn't 'a bothered you if I didn't. Inspection papers are in there, too, but I thought you might like to take a look at 'er before you simply signed her off."

"Considerate of you," conceded Lawrence, taking the proffered papers and studying them with a slight frown. "Hm … they are in order … You sold the Argonaut?" He raised his eyebrows and gazed at the captain with piercing green eyes. "I admit, I am surprised, Jason. She rather suited you, going by her name, of course." He smiled again, slightly.

Captain Jason could not meet Lawrence's eyes for long, but he smiled and gazed out at the sea, puffing his cigarette. "I suppose she did, at that, but I'm not chasing any golden fleece, you know." He dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his foot. "Chaser's better for me, you'll see."

"I do not doubt it," Lawrence murmured, taking a pen from his pocket and scribbling a signature on the bottom of the papers. He slapped them into the captain's hand. "I have signed her off. Send me copies of the papers by next Monday, or I shall be forced to impound her, and that would truly be a shame. Would that I could sail out with you sometime." He turned sorrowful eyes upon the waters and simply watched the rolling waves, a distance within him that had not been there before.

"Aye," agreed Jason, replacing the papers in his pocket. "You'll have a chance yet, young man. There's many a summer before you, and I'd be honored to take you for a pleasure trip sometime."

Jason did not see the small, amused smile that lit up 'Lawrence's' features, or catch his murmured words over the wind.

"Good to see you back, Mr. Green," smiled the doorman as he tipped his hat to the approaching man. 'Mr. Green' smiled back amiably, meeting the doorman's eyes and touching his fingers to his forehead in greeting as he bowed slightly. The doorman broke their eye contact after only a moment, though, ushering him in.

The lobby of Lawrence Green's apartment complex was freezing cold in the summertime and overheated in the winter, but the man didn't seem to mind; he stopped at the mailboxes, tossed the junkmail into the trash bin and stuffed the two bills into his pocket, and made a beeline for the stairwell, completely ignoring the elevator as he always did. He jogged up the stairs to the 15^th floor without even breaking a sweat, deftly freeing his keys from his coat pocket, and slipped into his apartment, where he shed his heavy black coat, hanging it on a peg.

"Ai, Legolas," the 'man' murmured, pulling his woolen hat off his head and swiping his hand back over his long ice blond hair, pushing it away from his face and gently pointed ears. "You've been living by the sea too long." He closed his eyes for a moment, a smile gracing his lips, before he opened them again and gazed in the unnerving Elven way about his apartment.

Legolas Greenleaf, aka Lawrence Green, aka any number of other aliases over the course of the past nine thousand years, had settled on the East Coast of America about 55 years before (just after World War II) and established himself shortly afterwards in the fishing industry – first sailing his own boats, but later as a shipwright, registering boats as they came in and keeping track of their captains' success as a fisherman. He'd moved a few times, it was true, but only from necessity; after all, it began to look suspicious when after twenty years or so one's coworkers had begun to go bald and get age wrinkles, but one still looked as if one hadn't aged a day over 21 …

He'd been in Norfolk for five years now, and he liked it here; it was a relatively small town, not far from the trees or from the sea, the first two loves of Legolas' long life. On his day off he usually went for long walks in a nearby wood; at work, he spent what time he could gazing at the rolling waves. Answering the call of the Sea all those millennia ago had assuaged the Sea-longing that afflicted him, but the Telerin origins of his Sindarin blood had caught up with him; Legolas found it very hard to abide living far from the coast.

His own apartment … well, Legolas mused as he meandered his way into the kitchen, pulling his blond hair back into low ponytail to keep it out of his face, it couldn't be described as overflowing with house plants, precisely … although he did have quite a bit of greenery about. He filled a TupperWare container with water (a brilliant invention, this tough plastic stuff) and began his usual rounds, watering each of his plants and whispering encouragement to them in Sindarin, telling them to grow and be prosperous. After he finished, the small apartment was always filled with the soft song that all living things sang, and Legolas usually indulged himself by lounging on his tired brown couch and drifting off into a gentle doze.

Today, however, was not a usual day, as it turned out. He was just finishing up the balcony plants when his doorbell chimed. (Yes, chimed; it had once buzzed, but Legolas had been so aggravated by the sound that he had finally bothered to figure out how the doorbell worked and reinstalled it with a more pleasing bell.) "Coming," Legolas called absently, closing the balcony door behind him, putting down his TupperWare half-full of water on the counter, and crossing the common room soundlessly to open the door. He did so somewhat cautiously; one did not live for nine thousand years among Men without learning a little caution around strangers.

It was eerie, Legolas decided (for well nigh the thousandth time since their first meeting some sixteen thousand years before), that Elladan and Elrohir could – and did – speak in perfect unison like that. Before he could get out a word, though, the twin sons of Lord Elrond had pushed the door open fully so they could embrace him simultaneously, kissing him on either cheek. "S-suilannad!"[ii] Legolas managed, returning their embraces.

When the twins detached themselves from Legolas, he took a short moment to gaze at them, and they took that moment to gaze at him. The Silvan Elf noted that they no longer looked exactly alike; one of them (Elladan, Legolas guessed) had allowed his hair to continue to grow long – to the middle of his back, in fact – and had at some point gotten his ear pierced. Elrohir, on the other hand, had chopped off nearly all his dark brown hair into a traditional haircut for Men. But there was something more … he frowned slightly at them, struck by a sense of tiredness. He met their eyes, and they were bright and eager, but also grim.

"Well, come in," Legolas encouraged, stepping back from the door and bowing slightly. "I was not expecting company, so the apartment is something of a mess."

"Thank you," they again spoke in near unison, and crossed the threshold. "I like the decoration scheme," began Elrohir, looking over the paintings of flowered landscapes, pots and vases filled with plants, and the earthy tones of all the furniture.

"Yes, very Silvan," observed Elladan, before grinning widely at Legolas. "And you still clad yourself in green and brown, I see."

Legolas glanced down at his green sweater and brown slacks, and his mouth twitched, momentarily reminded of their old jokes about Silvan Elves and their obsession with all things tree-colored. "At least I have a sense of the aesthetically pleasing, unlike a certain pair of half-Elves I know," he replied coolly.

"Ai, who here has the blood of a Maia flowing in their veins?"[iii] demanded Elrohir, laughing.

"What has that to do with your sense of fashion?" Legolas replied smartly, but he sobered even as he spoke. "Come, sit down; I'll make tea."

"Tea?" asked Elrohir, sounding a bit amazed, even as he sat on the old brown couch. "You haven't adopted coffee, or something of the like?"

"Why should I?" Legolas inquired from the kitchen; he had several flavors of tea, including hazelnut, mocha, and mint, but he was so low on the first two he just went with the mint flavored tea. "It is not as if I need something to help me stay awake, and I prefer not to put excessive caffeine in my system for no good purpose."

"But that is not the reason to drink coffee. It just tastes good," Elladan said, sitting next to his brother.

"… Very well." Legolas barely refrained from asking if they were actually still children hidden in fully-grown bodies, forcibly reminding himself that he was, in fact, 682 years younger than they.

There was a short pause while Legolas heated the tea in the microwave (another wonderful invention, in Legolas' humble opinion) and brought it out to the twins, then sat opposite them on his armchair to their simultaneous 'thank you's. But while Elladan began to sip his tea, and Elrohir blew on the steam rising from his cup, Legolas simply looked at them. Something is wrong. Why do they take their time speaking of it?

Elrohir interrupted Legolas' dark thoughts. "So, Legolas, what have you been up to? We have heard nothing of you for nearly eighty years."

"Oh, this and that," Legolas dodged the question. "That is a rather involved question, you realize; in this age, eighty years is a long time in which much is accomplished."

Legolas felt a pang of regret again and reflected that he had indeed been gone for too long from his people. This was not the first time he had spent almost a century without contact with other Elves, but always towards the end of his self-exile he began to feel this way. It was just that the need to simply be away from all the Elven lords that reminded him of how much had been lost was sometimes overwhelming, and the desire to merely rest amongst the trees and unknowing Men became irresistible …

"Legolas?" Elladan had cocked his head slightly. "Is your head in the trees?" he smiled.

The Elf shook his head to clear it and smiled at the sons of Elrond. "I suppose it was, but seeing you both again has given rise to many memories. I've missed you, too." Legolas took a sip of his rapidly cooling tea; perhaps he'd left the thermostat too low. He often didn't notice the temperature until the plants began to lament the climate or his drinks lost their heat too fast. Yes, Legolas, that is the key; think about insignificant things to distract yourself from the matter at hand. He cleared his throat. "I did not leave an address with anyone by which to contact me."

"Oh, tracking you down was quite a trick!" Elrohir enthused. "You have hidden yourself well, 'Lawrence Green'." The short-haired half-Elf's face quirked with a slight smile, and Legolas felt a touch of color in his cheeks.

"Indeed," agreed Elladan. "You left few clues. But you have done this before and you have always returned from your mysterious absences, so we would not have so violated your privacy …"

"But we have a reason," Elrohir finished for his twin. He gazed intently at Legolas, and green eyes locked with grey ones. "You know what I speak of?"

Legolas did not look away. "I do." He allowed himself a long, deep breath and spoke of the feeling that he had barely even allowed himself to think upon. "The threat hovers on the edge of my knowledge, like a wave about to sweep over our precarious boat. It is almost as if he has …"

Legolas nodded, and Elladan again spoke. "Legolas, we cannot speak of this here. Our father wishes to talk to you on this matter. Will you come with us?"

Ah … I should have guessed. Legolas was torn between a smile and a grimace, and he settled for keeping his features schooled to stillness. "I will, although I cannot imagine why Lord Elrond would wish to speak to me on the matter. I … I am not best suited to aid him." Legolas was not afraid to admit this truth to himself. "There are others more wise than I."

"Nonetheless, he has asked after you," Elrohir replied soberly. He drained his teacup to the dregs and put it down with an air of finality, and a smile curled his lips. "Come now; surely being summoned by Lord Elrond is enough of an honor for you, you greedy Elf."

"'Greedy' Elf? Who was it that stuffed himself like a Hobbit at King Richard's table?" Legolas shot back, allowing the subject change even as he knew it was occurring; he privately appreciated it. He needed a bit of time to absorb this.

Elrohir managed to pull off an appropriately affronted look. "I know not of whom or what you speak!"

Elladan laughed and cuffed his brother on the shoulder. "That is because drank yourself under the table with the finer wine that night, brother-mine. Your memory of that incident is surely addled."

"Not I," scoffed Elrohir proudly. "Perhaps it is the two of you that need your heads examined."

"I can hold my liquor better than you, dear brother, and I shall wager I can hold it better than our friend Legolas here, as well!"

"Ah no, do not drag me into this bet," Legolas held up his hands defensively. "I cannot compete with either of you when it comes to the matter of drinking."

"I shall get more tea," Legolas interrupted smoothly, collecting the empty cups and returning to the kitchen before the jest could get out of hand.

He could not, however, shake the foreboding in his heart … that he would spend his night with two half-Elves in the local bar.

Legolas is a lot of fun for me to write, not only because I like him, but also because I feel like I have a better grasp of his personality than that of the other characters. Of course, I could just be horribly wrong in this respect. ^___^x Please feel free to let me know.

The Legolas-Elladan-Elrohir dynamic will likely figure more into the story. The age difference between the three is arbitrary – let me just say that I don't agree with the movie's age for Legolas; I think it's too old, so I've decided he was born about 600 to 700 years later than the movie portrays.

Thank you again for the reviews! Feedback is massively appreciated and adored. Thank you! :)

[i] "Indeed … many a summer ahead." (But that's a very loose translation … lit. "True … eternal summers to come.") Also, this is probably an inappropriate use of 'Thenid', as it means 'true' more in the sense of 'firmness' (If Galadriel had said 'Yet hope remains while the Fellowship is true' in Elvish, she would have used 'thenid'.)

[ii] "G-greetings!"

[iii] Thingol married Melian the Maia, and they had Luthien, and she is somehow related to Elrond, and so the twins have Maia blood in them.

Actually, he'd been having a very bad month. Which had been preceded by a rather bad year.

See, Glorfindel thought sourly as he sat in the overflowing marketplace, if I ever do you another favor, Elrond Peredhil! This is utterly ridiculous, and I have had my fill!

Of course, he did not truly mean the cruel thoughts, and he was sure, upon reflection, that he would take them back ere the next day. After all, Elrond had asked him to seek out Gandalf the White, and it was not a task to be taken lightly, or lightly to be thrown aside. However, at the moment Glorfindel was not in a particularly charitable mood, and the myriad of dark-skinned, dark-haired faces around him, speaking in a language he only half-understood, and generally making him feel as if he stuck out like a sore thumb, was not helping matters.

Perhaps 'stranded' wasn't the right word; Glorfindel had more than enough assets to travel anywhere in the world and live comfortably for several human lifetimes, and the money was only ever a phone call (although phones were, in Glorfindel's opinion, highly overrated) or a credit card (imagine, a piece of plastic worth more than gold!) away. Better instead to say that he was lost.

And again, maybe 'lost' wasn't the right word either, because Glorfindel knew exactly where he was in relation to his hotel. It would take a lot to trip up an Elf's sense of direction. But he could not, at the moment, think of a single word with which to sum up his situation. He closed his eyes and ran long, lithe fingers through the golden waves of hair and finally gave in to the growing urge to buy an apple to eat.

This was a rare and precious gift to Glorfindel, who had dedicated the past year of his eternal life to locating the White Wizard. He had, quite literally, traveled the entire world over in his search so far, but much of his work had been virtually blind; Gandalf had carefully hidden his tracks – if he left any in the first place! – and what little Glorfindel found seemed to leave him weeks and even months behind the Istar. The Elf was no longer even certain he was following the right path; today's supposed 'information' had led him to an old fortune-teller who had informed Glorfindel in no uncertain terms he would find love today, and could he please have his fee now? (Purely out of pity, Glorfindel had payed double the fee.)

It did not help that Mithrandir's power was unbarred by higher forces; there were no higher forces to so bar him. The very thought pained the golden-haired Elf, and he was forced to turn his mind away from the matter with a grimace. But still, the effect remained; the Maia called Olórin could choose any form that he so wished, when he wished it, and it made Glorfindel's business doubly hard.

It came down to this: Olórin did not want to be found. Again and again Glorfindel came up against this hard truth until he wanted to be quite un-Elven and scream. Why? Glorfindel again demanded silently as he pushed his way slowly through the crowds, taking a bite of his apple. What reason could Mithrandir have for hiding himself at such a time? He is no fool; he does not play games.

But when the Dark Lord threatened in the Third Age, even those of us counted among the Wise could not see the traitor in our midst; we could not see the nature of the threat that lay upon Mirkwood. Does he truly know how closely the danger presses? And a darker fear pressed at Glorfindel's heart; does Olórin know the depth of this evil? For he could not suppress the terrifying sense that this evil was greater than that which he had once faced alongside his eternal friend Lord Elrond …

"Ai, Mithrandir!" Glorfindel lamented under his breath, fingering his half-eaten apple and offering it to a goat, who happily took the treat. "Come back to us! We have need of your wisdom!"

The possibility that something more sinister lay behind Gandalf's disappearance never crossed his mind at that time.

It is strange, Legolas decided, to be braiding hair cut off above my mid-back. Always Legolas had kept his hair long, but he let it grow longer at some times than he did others; not long ago he had decided to cut his hair nearly to his shoulders, and even now it barely brushed the middle of his shoulder-blades.

He had not braided his hair for nearly eighty years, as in day to day life there was no need for such formalities; now, going to see Lord Elrond, he felt it only appropriate. But eighty years was no more than a blink in his 17,000 year life span, and his fingers had not yet forgotten the traditional patterns.

Quickly the locks took form; the woodland Elf deftly wove the tiny locks of hair at his ear into a growing, intertwining rope that seemed to disappear into the rest of his fair hair, and then repeated the same effortless procedure on the hair at his other ear. Finally, he swept back his hair from his eyes and drew the topmost of the locks together at the back of his head, before he began a rather more complicated braid that kept the swept-back hair pulled away from his face. He used only one tie to keep the thick and complicated braid from unraveling (incidentally, an elastic band; Legolas and Elladan had spent a good deal of the evening before discussing at length the merits of such elastic products).

He looked at himself in the airplane bathroom's mirror and nearly laughed at the irony he had almost forgotten; the Elf that looked back at him wore a modern dark blue sweater, black dress slacks, dress shoes – and the braids of a ranking warrior of the Greenwood realm.

"Yes?" Not startled at all by the approach of Elladan, Legolas turned to the half-Elf and was somewhat amused to find him with his long hair looped together much as Elrond himself arranged his hair, albeit less complicated; it was as much a signal of his rank as Legolas' braids. Does Lord Elrond take offense at Elrohir's shorn hair because he cannot fashion it in the traditional way? He wondered idly.

Legolas nodded his assent and relinquished the first-class restroom, but he could not help noting that Elladan looked rather pale as half-Elves went … "You are well, Elladan?"

Elladan grinned ruefully at Legolas. "As well as can be expected, considering the excessive drink I consumed last night." He rubbed his temple. "It is only a slight headache as Men would count it, but ai! How long has it been since I consumed so much alcohol?"

"Too long, I am sure," Legolas laughed, unable to find it within himself to properly sympathize. As an Elf heavy drink seemed to only make him drowsy, and Legolas had never suffered through a hangover. But Elladan and Elrohir had never quite shaken off that unfortunate aspect of their mortal blood. "Perhaps you should take some aspirin."

"I have. 'I cannot compete with either of you when it comes to drinking', ha!" Elladan gave Legolas a less than amused look. "You could have kept drinking long into the night, I suspect, and would still be as chipper as you were when you retrieved us in the morning for the trip to the airport!"

"Nay, Elladan, I was nearly to the point of collapse when you and Elrohir finally declared the contest at an end. Although you may not properly recall such," Legolas allowed, taking his seat next to the slumbering Elrohir. "We were all quite tipsy."

"Yes, and some of us more tipsy than others," Elladan grumbled, but he smiled as he spoke. "Are you ready to meet with our father, Legolas?"

"How can I be ready for that which I know nothing about?" Legolas replied soberly, the heavy mantle of approaching danger settling again on his shoulders. "I am afraid, Elladan."

"You do not bear that fear alone," Elladan matched Legolas' somber mood. "We all feel what is to come. But are your affairs in order, 'Lawrence'? You may not come back to Norfolk for some time."

"I expected not," Legolas murmured in acknowledgement. "Yes, all is in order; I quit my job and left the apartment plants in the care of my neighbor. The rent is now paid two years in advance; the landlord was pleasantly surprised!" He smiled slightly. "I left a message with Captain Jason, a man whose boat was under my charge. I suspect poor Jason will be worried at this sudden turn of events. We have known each other now for six years, and for me to leave suddenly without preamble will upset him."

"It does," Legolas nodded. "He is my friend, Elladan, even though he thinks himself thirty years older than me and my mentor." He gazed at his hands in his lap. "It is hard to make friends with Men who pass on so quickly, but they are a different sort of company than Elves. I would miss Men were they gone, even as I still miss Gimli and Aragorn … nay, the whole of the Fellowship."

"Which is why you must leave your friends in Norfolk," Elladan urged. "It is for all Men that we ask you to come with us."

"And it is why I have agreed to come," Legolas returned. "The shadow is darker than it ever was before; I know it just as well as you." And with that, Legolas laid his head back and closed his eyes thoughtfully, while the airline television droned on about the escalating tension in the Middle East.

The man on the screen was handsome as Men would count it; dark-haired, blue-eyed, tall, and broad-shouldered, his proportions were ideal, and his smile was generous and kind. He had even been called the most eligible bachelor in Washington, D.C., and had he wished it, he could have had a myriad of women on his arm at any moment, such was his charm.

"Sabaoth Molan, advisor to the President, had this to say regarding the continuing threat from Iraq," continued the newscaster before they cut to the handsome man's press conference.

"It is clear that the potential of a chemical or biological attack from Sadaam Hussien grows daily!" he said vehemently. "We must act quickly; we cannot give him the chance to make the first strike. The President will not allow American lives to be put at risk!"

"Them's fightin' words," laughed the newscaster in a poor attempt to lighten the mood of the news.

"Indeed they are," grumbled the man in front of the television from where he lay on his hotel bed in Rome, Italy, stroking his short silver beard. "And cruel, as well! Does he seek to provoke Iraq to attack?"

The silver-haired man could not allow this to happen. Not when he was so close to understanding what had gone wrong all those many millenia before and why the world had not slipped into eternal, peaceful slumber as it had been meant to. Not when so much was at stake; not when such a great evil was about to be unleashed into the world.

"I am sorry, Glorfindel, but your chance to find me must be delayed a little longer," murmured Olórin as he picked up his phone to make the necessary arrangements.

Author's Notes: I managed to insert the bar scene (sort of) and two (three?) new characters! Yay! :)

Glorfindel really isn't shown in his best light, here, which is why I'm looking forward to a few memories and a few more formal scenes, so we can see why Glorfindel is counted among the Wise. The events he's referencing regarding the Third Age of Middle-Earth are talked about by Gandalf and mentioned in the Appendices; Saruman was a traitor long before Gandalf was locked up in his tower, and Dol Guldur, located in the southern part of Mirkwood/Greenwood/Eryn Lasgalen, was the place where Sauron regenerated and began to regather his forces. It took the White Council (which consisted of a number of those counted 'wise') quite a while to catch on to what Sauron was up to (although they have a bit of an excuse; Saruman was kind of brushing the matter aside since he was already a traitor).

Gandalf has a lot of names. He's the White Wizard, an Istar, a Maia, Mithrandir (although that name isn't entirely appropriate any more), and Olórin. It's my understanding that Gandalf and his fellow Istari had to keep the form of old men and not directly interfere in matters pertaining to Sauron by the order of the Valar. If anyone knows any differently, please let me know.

Okay, okay, the braid thing is completely a movie fabrication, but it's one that has a lot of fanfic potential. =P Elves seem to have a sort of conceit regarding their hair (Tolkien makes a point about it several times, not the least of which is Galadriel's locks of hair for Gimli, and her refusal to give even one lock of hair to Feänor). I don't think it's too far a stretch to assume that their hair would be used to indicate roles in life, or rank to some degree. Hence Legolas' braids are a symbol of his warrior status …

And the 'drink makes Elves drowsy' thing is from The Hobbit. When the Elven keeper of the cellars gets into the fine wine, he gets tipsy and falls asleep … but he doesn't seem to suffer any severe aftereffects except affronted pride. =P

Elrond Peredhil lived in New York City, most of the time; during the summer he usually lived on the outskirts of Albany's suburbs in a large home almost disturbingly like Rivendell, albeit smaller and with a more human touch to the architecture than there had once been. It was, on the whole, not a displeasing effect last Legolas had seen it; indeed, Lord Elrond's summer home was as beautiful as the land he had once kept in Middle-Earth, if in a different way than the airy, open halls of Imladris. However, it was not to Elrond's summer home that Legolas and Elrond's sons now traveled; rather, they rode with a chauffeur sent by Lord Elrond to his penthouse.

"Father retained his good stocks from the 1880's, of course," Elrohir was explaining; he had more of a mind for finances and Wall Street matters than his brother. "They have split several times since then, with President Theodore Roosevelt's trust-busting and various company mergers; he lost a good deal of money when the Great Depression started, but he kept his funds so well diversified it did not matter much in the end."

"It is only sensible to do so," Legolas agreed, recalling his own predicament in that dark time in American history. He had not been much effected, preferring to keep his money mostly in overseas banking accounts; although the depression had been worldwide, Legolas had not been hit as hard as many Americans.

"In any case," Elrohir continued, nodding to Legolas, "Father owns and runs Faensad[i], Inc. – at least the American branch of it."

"I suspected as much," Legolas smiled. "An interesting name he chooses, not only for his company, but for himself. I do believe it was only two nights ago that I last read about Errol Payton, president of Faensad …"

"As if you have the right to speak," Elladan cracked an eye open as he spoke from where he rested, laying against the car door. "Who in their right mind would call themselves 'Lawrence'?"

Legolas opened his mouth to reply – and was chagrined to find himself without a suitable comeback. He crossed his arms and looked haughty to make up for the shortcoming, prompting a chuckle from Elrohir and a smile from Elladan. "Touché," Legolas sighed with a smile of his own.

New York City traffic was as horrendous as it was fabled to be, and it took an inordinately long time to finally arrive at the building that Elrond's penthouse was situated above. Once they did arrive, Legolas fell into step behind the twin brothers, taking in everything with sharp Elven eyes.

Of course, the immediately drawn conclusion was 'expensive'; the lobby of the building was composed mostly of white and black marble, and beautifully woven tapestries covered the walls. Plants were placed tastefully here and there among the Romanesque columns. A doorman in a red uniform greeted them, and before Legolas could offer to carry his own baggage a bellboy was hurrying to load his two suitcases (he packed light, after all) onto a bellhop and took them to the service elevator.

Even though the floor was marble, Legolas, Elladan, and Elrohir hardly made a noise as they crossed the lobby; it was impossible to be completely soundless in dress shoes on a marble floor, after all. The receptionist looked up at the three of them, but she did not speak; she merely smiled and raised her hand in greeting, and both Elrohir and Elladan half-saluted in response with roguish grins before making a beeline to the elevator.

Once in the elevator Legolas could not help but ask, "Do you live here with Lord Elrond?"

"Goodness, no!" Elladan pretended to be horribly offended by the question, but his eyes were full of mirth. "We are big 18,000-year-old peredhil, Legolas! We can fend for ourselves."

"The receptionist knows us because we visit Father frequently," Elrohir explained patiently. "We work for his company, after all, and he must be kept informed about its progress."

The penthouse was separated from the elevator lobby by a beautifully crafted mahogany door with leaves and stems carved in lovely patterns all about it. Legolas could not help but touch the work of art, tracing the circular edges. "Celebrimbor?" he asked softly.

"Aye," Elladan nodded, ringing the doorbell. "You might see his symbol etched in the lower right hand corner, but it is tiny. He wished to work mother of pearl into the leaves, but Father suggested he save such intricate work for his jewelry."

"It is exquisite," Legolas said in awe, but before he could continue to admire the master craftsman's work, the door was opened and the three of them were ushered inside.

Legolas was not surprised to find the greeter was an Elf; throughout the Ages, both in Middle-Earth and in this newer Earth, Elrond had employed only Elves in his house. In Middle-Earth it was more a matter of whom he was living with than a matter of preference, for Elrond always lived among Elves; in this Earth, he employed Elves because they knew the tragic history of the world and knew what to speak of and what not to. "Lord Elrohir, Lord Elladan – and Master Legolas, it is wonderful to see you again," smiled the Elf, placing his hand over his heart before bowing his head and lifting his open palm to all three of them in traditional greeting.

"Well met, Encirith," Elladan and Elrohir spoke in near unison as they returned the greeting; Legolas replied in the same fashion a heartbeat after them. "Please tell Father that we have come," Elrohir added urgently.

"Of course, Lord Elrohir," Encirith nodded again and quickly but gracefully made his exit.

Legolas again took the opportunity to take in his surroundings, and if he had liked the open, well-crafted, and tasteful lobby of the building, he was enthralled by Elrond's home. There was almost no room for walls for all the windows, letting the natural light of the Sun stream in as long as she was in the sky; there were even skylights in the ceilings. Even the antechamber was light and airy, and the arches between the rooms were large. The floor and walls were paneled with the same rich mahogany as the door, and some tasteful leafy borders had been carved into the wood, although by a different hand than Celebrimbor's.

"Do you like Father's architecture?" Elladan asked, obviously amused in part by Legolas' unabashed fascination.

"I do," Legolas acknowledged, not taking Elladan's bait to draw him into wordplay for the moment. "But I should not have expected any differently of Lord Elrond; this home is in keeping with all his homes since Imladris."

"And yet you still gape," Elrohir observed, "as you have at every home Father has ever owned. Are you certain there is no Noldorin blood in you?"

Legolas shot Elrohir a dirty look. "Thankfully yes, I am certain," he replied, but before he could expound upon the reasons why both the Sindarin and the Silvan races of Elves were superior to that of the Noldorin, he was called away from the conversation by a melodic voice he had not heard for nearly ninety years. "Legolas! How I have missed you!"

Legolas turned around not a moment too soon, for in an instant he found himself being embraced tightly by none other than Celebrían. "My Lady!" he gasped, embracing her no less tightly. "I have missed you as well, although I do not think I had realized how much so until this moment."

"Mother, you should be ashamed!" Elladan said from somewhere over Legolas' left shoulder, laughter in his voice.

"Why do you not hug all the young Elves that come to your home like that? Is there something you have not told us?" added Elrohir.

Celebrían laughed her light, lilting laugh and drew away from Legolas, holding him by his shoulders and gazing up at him with her mother's starlight-studded blue eyes. Legolas gazed back; Elrond's wife was still the same lovely lady that he had first met in Valinor almost 14,000 years ago, with waves of silver hair quite near the hue of Celeborn's and a pale face and a delicate frame. One might have mistaken her for frail if they did not see her eyes; they burned with an intense life that belied her figure. "I reserve my right to so embrace him," she finally declared, bringing her sharp gaze to her two sons for an instant before she again looked to Legolas. "It has been too long, Legolas Greenleaf, and I will not hear of you doing this again while a war of Men comes and goes! When we had no news of you after 1946, I was worried!"

"Forgive me, Lady," was all Legolas could think to say. "I did not mean to cause you pain."

"All is well, and it is forgiven," Celebrían replied, "but I do not speak idly. Never again! Do you understand?"

"Shameless," Celebrían said decisively, but her eyes were at once both joyful and sad when Legolas uttered those words. "My sons." She turned to Elladan and Elrohir and embraced them both and kissed them on their cheeks, and they returned the greeting before she stepped back, folding her hands in front of herself and looking at them all. "It is my turn to ask forgiveness, Legolas, for I make a poor hostess this day. Come in, all of you, and sit down if you will; I will have tea made. You still enjoy tea, I trust, Legolas?"

"I do," Legolas smiled, glancing at the twins. "Indeed, I much prefer it to coffee."

"Folly!" Elladan exclaimed. Legolas gave him his best infuriatingly pleasant and smug smile before following the Lady of the house. Elrohir looked as if he would suddenly burst into laughter at any moment.

Celebrían had just led the three of them into the dining room (painted a refreshing shade of green between the nearly floor-to-ceiling windows), however, when Lord Elrond stepped into the room, and immediately any levity that the occupants of the room may have still felt seemed to melt away. The former Lord of Imladris still wore his hair long, and at the moment in the formal loops and braids of a Lord among Elves. He wore a black business suit and tie with a white dress shirt, and his appearance was utterly immaculate. He smiled, but it was a tight smile; it seemed he meant it to be kinder, but it also seemed he could not bring himself to a more pleasant expression. "Legolas Thranduilion. It has been a long time," he said after a moment. "Mae govannen."

"Mae govannen, Hîr Elrond,[iii]" Legolas returned just as formally, half-bending at the waist as he performed the traditional motions. "You sent for me?"

"I did," Elrond nodded, and as he did so, some of the stiff formality in the room seemed to relax. "I am sorry, Legolas, to have had to seek you out; I did not wish to do so, but I had no other choice. Please come with me to my study so we may talk in private."

Private? Legolas felt a tenseness in his spine and he forced himself to relax. In the sixteen thousand years he had known Lord Elrond, he had only spoken in private with him once: the day that Elrond had assented to and instructed Legolas in the matter of joining the Company of Nine. The shadow! Has the threat reached such a level? Do I read too much into this? He felt Elrohir's hand on his shoulder and was comforted in part.

For a moment Legolas felt the sharp eyes of Celebrían upon him before she crossed the room to Elrond, and Elrond took her hands in his and they shared a gentle kiss. "Meleth, shall I have anything sent to the study? Legolas has just arrived from Norfolk; perhaps it would be restful to him to drink or eat."

"Would some tea suit you, Legolas?" Elrond asked, lifting his gaze almost reluctantly from his wife.

Legolas silently thanked Celebrían with a glance, and she smiled slightly. "It would. Thank you, Lady Celebrían."

"Think nothing of it," she replied. She slowly released her husband's hands and left the room.

"Elladan, Elrohir, I would speak with you later," Elrond continued as she departed.

"Of course," the twins answered in identical tones. "We shall return before eight tonight," Elrohir promised, and with that the twins seemed to vanish, showing their acquaintance with the layout of the home was put to good use.

"Ai, my sons," Elrond sighed softly when they had gone. "In some ways they still seem children."

"They would not be Elladan and Elrohir were they any other way," Legolas said confidently, although apprehension of the subject at hand gnawed at him. "They are my dearest friends in this world."

"Aye, and I am not surprised. You are as bad as they at times," Elrond smiled again at Legolas, but again, his smile was not as joyful as it should have been. "Please, come with me."

Elrond's study seemed to be the only place in the entire house that had doors, and these were just as beautifully hand-carved as the door at the elevator. Again it was the windows that kept the room seeming larger than it was; where there were no windows, bookshelves lined the walls. Elrond's desk was in the center of the relatively small room, and Legolas was amazed to see the papers scattered about, covering the desk and stacked upon the computer. Manuscripts and tax forms alike lay open, as if the half-Elven lord had been switching suddenly from lore-reading to filling out IRS sheets. Perhaps it was because of this mess that Elrond beckoned him to the windows where two chairs faced the outside world and the setting Sun blazed forth.

"Please forgive the clutter," he said as Legolas took a seat. "I am not usually this messy, but you caught me in the middle of working out some numbers for the accounting firm that keeps our books in order. However, that matter can wait; I can see that you are anxious to speak to me about why I sent for you.

"Legolas, it is quite simple, although I dare not speak of it anywhere but in my home. The Dark Lord Sauron has somehow risen again."

Legolas, who had been gazing intently at Lord Elrond, did not try to suppress the soft cry of lament that issued from his lips or take shame in closing his eyes for a moment. "I had feared as much, but I did not dare to think it."

"It is worse than that, though," Elrond continued, and he turned from the view from the windows to look upon the distressed wood-Elf. "There is something more at work here, I am afraid. Sauron should never have been able to return; he was utterly decimated when the Ring was destroyed by Frodo Baggins, reduced to mere shadows that whisper in the dark caves. Yet he has revisited this plane with a form, however shadowy."

"The Breaking?" Legolas asked intently. "Has it to do with that? I do not see how he could have used it to return, but then, I did not see how the Valar could possibly …" he trailed off, unable to complete the sentence for the tightening of his throat.

"Peace, Legolas," Elrond said gently, and he waited for the Silvan Elf to recover himself before he continued. "It is the only explanation I have found to be likely, but my evidence is shaky at best. I ask you to hear me out as I explain what little information my sons, Glorfindel, and I have been able to amass over the last millennia.

"We have always called that tragic time in our history that you speak of i Breithan, the Breaking, but I now suspect that there is another, more ancient name for it: i Dagor Dagorath."

The Battle of All Battles. The words were like a chill in the air, somehow, and Legolas suppressed a shiver.

"Very little was ever written about it, and then only by the greatest lore-masters of the Vanyar, those trusted by Vaire herself; no mention of the End of Days (as it is sometimes called by the writers) was made in texts on Middle-Earth that I or my sons or Glorfindel ever read," Elrond continued. "Of course, almost none of their manuscripts survived, and so few of the Vanyar would leave Valinor even when it was in ruins …" he let his voice die, and Legolas waited patiently while Elrond's eyes unfocused, seeing into a distant past, and then refocused again; Legolas too bore the pain of the Breaking and the related losses in his heart and could not criticize. "Ai, it should not have been as it was!" Elrond lamented. "But it was so, and most of the texts and their writers burned and perished." He bowed his head and drew a breath before he could continue.

"So it is that we have very little to go on. What parts of the manuscripts we – Glorfindel, Elladan, Elrohir, and myself – have found tell a very sketchy tale. They state that at in the End of Days, Melkor will again escape his imprisonment within the Void, and the Valar shall go to war with him. This war shall be the Dagor Dagorath." He paused. "A few texts make mention of the supposed outcome of the battle – that Melkor will fall and be utterly destroyed, and the Valar, victorious, shall depart from Aman and Arda both and give it unto Arda's inhabitants – the Second-born of Illúvatar, Men. One text states that the Valar shall remain in Valinor, but Valinor shall depart the plane of the world; Melkor will be thrown in the void for 'forever an a half', although I do not know what that phrase means. And one text disagrees with all the others and states that the Valar shall leave, and it will be the end of Middle-Earth altogether; the Dagor Dagorath shall be the very end of Illúvatar's Song.

"It is not like Vaire to be vague, and I think that she merely told each lore-master what the weaves of the Song sang at the moment the question was asked. However, that is where fact ends and conjecture begins.

"There is no doubt in my mind that the Breaking was the Dagor Dagorath; I believe it was meant to be the End of Days. However … I believe that the battle did not go entirely in favor of the Valar. I believe that Melkor was stronger than they anticipated, and so it was that the battle was not contained, but raged all over Valinor and Middle-Earth, reshaping the very world. I believe that, in the end, the Valar were victorious and sealed Melkor away again, but with their tasks now complete, they were no longer able to touch either Aman or Arda, and so seemed to desert us in our hour of need." Elrond's voice had begun to tremble slightly, and Legolas could not bid him rest a moment for the lump in his own throat. "And I believe, Legolas, that during Melkor's short time free again in this world, he was able to somehow lend Sauron the strength to begin again to gather himself together."

Legolas could only nod for the moment, made mute by surprise and grief and a horrible, fleeting suspicion that as horrible a thought as it was that Sauron had risen again, there was something yet darker at work than either he or Elrond guessed.

And then Celebrían appeared with the tea and remained with them, a silent support for the two quietly crying Elves reliving pains long buried.

Author's Notes: This is not the end of Legolas and Elrond's conversation; it's just a good place to stop so everyone can digest. ^^x;; Including me; this part was kind of difficult to write.

Celebrimbor was the greatest Noldorin crafter of the Second Age. He crafted the Rings of Power with the 'aid' of Annatar (Sauron in disguise) until he saw Annatar for what he was and hid the three greatest Rings – the Three that went to Galadriel, Elrond, and eventually Gandalf. He was subsequently captured by Sauron, tortured, and killed, and his body was hung in place of a standard at the forefront of Sauron's forces. So how did his handiwork appear here? Well, I figure that after a heroic death like that, despite his unintentional work for the Forces of Evil™, Celebrimbor's stay in the Halls of Mandos can't have been too long … so when Valinor was destroyed, he escaped along with Legolas, Elrond, etc.

Dagor Dagorath, lit. The Battle of Battles (or The Battle of All Battles). This is a concept that was probably only in the very back of Tolkien's mind when he wrote his M-e works; it's barely mentioned, and then only in passing. I first read about it in Unfinished Tales, in one of the footnotes, and encased all around by Christopher Tolkien's explanations for his father's works, but it sparked my imagination, I suppose. I mean, he gives almost no details (just that Melkor will escape the Void). There's so much to work with ... so you could say, I suppose, that the Breaking of this fic is my version of Dagor Dagorath.

[i] Lit. 'Radiant Place'. :) I would call it 'Radiant Company', but I can't find the word for 'company'.

[ii] "I do, Mother!" :) For my own ease I assumed a Latin verb formation pattern, and thus to form 'I do' from 'car-', 'to do', I tacked an 'o' onto the root word. Correct me, please!

[iii] "Well met, Lord Elrond."

He hurried down the cramped hallway filled with reporters begging him to please answer just one more question, one more—! But he answered no one, closing the door of his office in their faceless faces. Then, and only then, did he allow himself a smile.

It was not a pleasant smile. Anything pleasing about his perfect features fled in the face of a shadow that was unnatural and frightening; he became a monster for that moment. But the smile faded, and the terror of his appearance with it, until he was again just Sabaoth Molan, top advisor to the President of the United States.

He sat at his desk for a moment and considered what would almost certainly be the next day's headlines, which would be, in fact, the result of his own heavy influence: President signs order allowing use of Nuclear Weapons in response to chemical or biological attack. Such fear those words instigated! He could nearly smell it on the breath and bodies of the reporters that had swarmed him only minutes before. Fear had ruled them! Something to be proud of, that …

The phone rang. It was not his office phone; rather, it was his private cell phone. Bah, ruining his daydream! He dug into his breast-pocket for the small black annoyance and snapped it open. "What!?"

The voice at the other end was thin and strangely pitched, and it spoke in a language unknown, but whatever it said, it made Sabaoth smile broadly. And he responded in turn, and in the same speech, and the room was filled with a fell dread at the sound, and the very light seemed to dim.

His laugh as he snapped the phone shut, just as ugly and frightening as his smile, was almost a relief after the speech; but what events he had set in motion none could guess save one, and he did not yet even have a whiff of the treachery in the air.

Elrond recovered himself fully a short time before Legolas; when Celebrían saw they were ready again to carry on, she squeezed their hands, so carefully taken before, and left silently, without inquiry or even a curious look; she had some part of her mother's gift to perceive their minds, and saw it was not a matter to question.

"I had known," Legolas said slowly as Celebrían shut the door behind her, "that there was battle between the Valar and a terrible evil; how could anyone not? But I did not know its significance … indeed, I think it a miracle that so much of the world survived i Breithan."

"Do not speak ill of Eru's works," Elrond admonished Legolas, but the words held no anger, and for a while longer they sat in sorrowful silence.

"I am afraid that I have lost my appetite," Legolas finally broke the silence as he gazed at the tea Celebrían had so kindly sent.

Elrond smiled at Legolas sadly. "Celebrían will forgive you, Legolas. It is not a memory easily awakened."

The Silvan Elf nodded slowly and absently before he lifted his gaze to Elrond again, a new resolve in his grey eyes as he put his grief behind him yet again. "This cannot be all that you wished to speak of."

"No indeed, it is not," The half-Elf shook his head slightly and held Legolas' gaze. "What I have told you is naught but despair, but there is still hope. Just as the influence of Evil does not fail in its entirety with the death of its master, neither does the influence of Good evaporate when its keepers … depart.

"Legolas … the line of Beren, of my brother Elros, of Isildur … of Aragorn … has not yet failed."

It was as if time itself stopped breathing for a moment, Legolas was so baffled and caught unawares by the statement. "Yet … how can that be, Lord Elrond? It has been fourteen millennia since Aragorn passed beyond the realm of Ea, and eleven thousand years since the fall of his line from power in Gondor! Not even Elladan and Elrohir could find his faithful descendants," Legolas heard himself protesting. "And then so many perished, even in Arda …"

"I do not know how this is," Elrond replied patiently as Legolas fell silent again. "It is only by lucky chance that we have wind of this. Lady Galadriel has seen it in the Mirror."

The Mirror! Of course. He was not certain why, but hearing the source of the news of this impossibility filled Legolas with a numb relief. "I do not know what to think," he murmured. "What do we make of this? That it is some sort of relic of the Valar's influence? It is a miracle to be sure." He broke off. "Do we know more, by the power of Lady Galadriel's Mirror or some other source?"

"There was much that Lady Galadriel saw that neither she nor I could make heads or tails of when she spoke of it," Elrond replied, his brow somewhat furrowed in thought and severity. "And what little we do know is almost upsettingly tantalizing, nothing more. What Lady Galadriel saw specifically regarding Aragorn's line is a man. A Professor, to be more specific, of medical science, although she did not know where he taught. His family name she knew, although she did not explain to me by what means; Evanston." Elrond smiled again, but the smile was enigmatic; sad, amused, and ironic all at once. "An amusing perversion, is it not? It is nearly the English equivalent of the Westernesse for Undómiel."

It was Legolas' turn to be patient while the half-Elf swallowed his undimmed grief for the loss of his daughter to the mortal fate, but it did not take long for Elrond to recover; it seemed he had become used to accepting the pain when it was pushed to the forefront. Legolas too mourned her loss, but not to the great extent that her father did. "But that is trivial," Elrond continued with a soft sigh. "What has intrigued the Lady Galadriel (beyond the knowledge that the line of Aragorn continues, even) is the strong resemblance in spirit to Estel that she sensed." His gaze sharpened, and Legolas met it. "It is, to use her words, 'a variation on the Song's theme'."

Legolas was tensing again, and it was as much from anticipation as it was from apprehension. Although Legolas had always had limited contact with Men, it was Aragorn's people, the Dunedaín – and even more so, Aragorn himself – who had brought Legolas to have a certain fascination with the lives of the Second-born, and a hesitant admiration for their spirit and desire to change the world, so different from the preserving efforts of the Elves. Aragorn was the first mortal that Legolas could truly have called a friend, and while this friendship did not reach the level of closeness he had shared with Gimli, it had nonetheless been precious to the Elf in a way beyond words. It was the death of Aragorn that had driven Legolas into the waiting arms of the Sea; only Gimli, had he been unwilling to accompany Legolas, could have held him back. The passing of King Elessar had sapped the last joys of remaining in Middle-Earth while the Sea called.

This suggestion that Aragorn was returned in some form or another was almost too much for him, who had borne the loss of so many of closest friends to mortality, and others still to more tragic ends. It was not the first time Legolas had heard of Lady Galadriel suggesting these 'variations' in the theme of the Second-born, a race doomed to travel beyond the circles of Eä after their appointed time in Illúvatar's world. It was not, she insisted, that she was suggesting that humans reincarnated; rather, similar patterns were spun out as the Song continued to be sung, and thus similar fates were assigned, and similar personalities assumed … but to Legolas, it was the same. "Then the Lady Galadriel is suggesting that this Professor Evanston is somehow possessed of Aragorn's spirit?"

"Or one very similar to it, yes," Elrond nodded, but his face was stern. "I feared this would happen. Listen well, Legolas! Professor Evanston and Aragorn son of Arathorn are not the same person. Do not confuse them in your mind before you even meet him."

An important point, Legolas thought soberly even as another part of him cried with joy, I am to meet him, and whether he has Aragorn's spirit or not, he is of the same line! And another more rational thought occurred to him: How can I meet him if we do not even know where he is? Suddenly Legolas felt as if the conversation were moving beyond his ability to grasp, and he took a moment to assemble his thoughts before replying. "I understand," he said slowly, calmly, "And I shall take care I do not confuse the two. But why do you say 'before you even meet him'? Am I going to meet him?"

Elrond leveled his gaze at Legolas. "I had hoped you would find him, Legolas Thranduilion," he replied evenly.

"Yes," Elrond nodded once, curtly. "Will you take on this task? It is no small matter, although I have done some preliminary searching; there are many Evanston's in the world, beyond my own imagining! But there are fewer teaching, and fewer yet in the study of medical science."

Again Legolas felt the questions weigh upon him. "Why do you ask this of me? And why do we seek him out? He is no lost King sung about in our tales."

"It cannot be a mere coincidence that a man with a spirit so similar to that of the Elfstone has been born in a time such as this," Elrond responded as if he had anticipated the question. "It cannot be mere coincidence that the line of Aragorn has again been revealed by the Mirror at this late hour. Mayhap he has some part to play in this old threat made new. And your part in the last war with the Dark Lord is nothing to scoff at; nor is your friendship with Estel in his time of greatest need something easily forgotten. I do not doubt you could again be such a support." He paused. "If you do not wish to take on this task, I can send my sons to it."

"Nay," Legolas replied quickly. "Nay, I will do it, although the task is vastly beyond me, I think; it is too large for any individual. There is so much to look for, and so many to sift through … but I am just overwhelmed at the moment, and I hope you will forgive me. It is not every day that one is informed that a Dark Lord has risen and the kin of a friend carries on after fifteen thousand years."

"I would not ask you to do this if I did not think you capable," Elrond said gently. "Please, do not rush into this, and do not feel pressured. And do not speak of Aragorn's line beyond this home! Long has Sauron hated the Elves, but ever since Isildur has he feared the Faithful line of Numenor; he must not hear of this."

"I will not speak of it," Legolas swore, "and I feel no obligation, Lord Elrond, save to my conscience; only amazement and horror and grief in equal parts. But what of these variations, Lord Elrond? Does only the shadow of Aragorn's spirit walk this Earth, or do others 'return' in this dark time? And Olórin: where is he? Surely he knows of this threat."

But at these questions, Elrond's face became grim, and he looked out of the windows as the Sun finally slipped below the horizon. "To both of these questions I am afraid I must answer that I do not know." He lowered his gaze to his hands, neatly folded in his lap. "Nothing was seen in the Mirror of other souls, and there has been no sign of Olórin for just over a decade; even Glorfindel, who has been seeking him for the past year, has found nothing but rumors and whispers."

Legolas' heart sank. "Grim news," he responded more to the latter half of Elrond's pronouncement than the former. "It cannot bode well."

"Not to my mind, and perhaps not to yours, but mayhap he has some Maian business that our attempts to seek him out only hinder," Elrond suggested, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. "Never underestimate Gandalf; he has the most uncanny way of surprising those who do."

Legolas smiled suddenly as well, and his smile was more genuine. "You tell this to one who knows it better than any other. But I hope you are right, Lord Elrond," he continued, unknowingly speaking Glorfindel's hidden thoughts across the world. "I cannot bear to think anything else."

Olórin was, at the moment, not in any immediate danger; his body, that of a fifty-year-old man with a short, silvery beard, neatly clipped hair, and perhaps a slightly overlarge nose, was dozing in his seat in a Boeing 747 as it flew across the Atlantic, but his mind drifted and did not rest.

The threat was growing, and quickly now; on the world stage things grew more grim, and Sauron claimed his hold upon the Middle East more firmly even as he began to stretch his hand out over the United States … and now Britain followed closely behind, drawn in by the terror of what had come to pass and what now drew near. He desires nothing less than complete domination; he cannot have it entirely by force, nor entirely by guile, and so he shall have it by fear. The very thought made the Maia burn with a slow but heartfelt anger.

He flew to Washington, D.C., the very den of the lion; the window of time in which he could act before the lion fully awoke was limited. He would have to be careful; he would have to be fast.

Glorfindel awoke in his hotel in Bangladesh to the sound of someone knocking twice on his door and then walking away down the hall. Instantly fully conscious, he sprang to his feet nimbly and quickly struggled into a white t-shirt. He opened the door to his room to a thin FedEx envelope. He slowly and curiously picked the item up, examining it for a return address as he pushed the door shut behind him with his shoulders; there was none.

Now suspicious, he slowly slit the thin envelope open and shook out the single sheet of paper within. On it a message was handwritten in the beautiful and flowing script of Tengwar; the symbols were formed neatly but distinctly in a somewhat spidery hand.

I know you have been searching for me for some time now, and I regret that I have been forced so long to put off our meeting. Indeed, I had intended it be tonight. However, unexpected business has come up, and I am forced again to postpone our reunion.

Do not fear for me, but rather look to yourself and all your kind; the one whom we all fight against does not look kindly upon you, as you have had a hand in his defeat twice now. I leave you now with this advice: Look not to the East, for that is what Evil wishes you to do.

In his dark dreams he saw the object of his eternal affections, the item he had craved above all else, as it fell into the Sea, lost forever. He did not remember the countless years of pacing the beaches, wasting away until finally some primal part of him drove him to eat; he did not remember aught but the Silmaril and its beauty.

In his red dreams he remembered the flames, the destruction … a second destroying of the Trees, the light blotted out above him, the Valar again returned; the sensation numbing, his wraithlike mind shaken of total fixation as his starved rational mind begged him to survive, survive, survive, desert the Sea and the treasure it held and flee again to the trees, the safety of the trees … but it was safe nowhere, and the destruction raged all about him.

It was that sense of evil and the pure hatred that it conjured that finally drove him from his jewel-crazed shell; the very sense of Morgoth's touch upon Arda made him cling again to sensation and senses, and when he looked upon himself with new eyes, even he did not know how he could have survived, or indeed if he merely deluded himself, and was in fact a Feä without a body that only thought he had a body.

The world was changed beyond recognition. He was lost; he was hurt by loss. He fled the changes and the world at large; he hid in the trees. He slept. He awoke and saw the world had changed again, and again he slumbered.

But when he awoke again, it was to a new thrum, a new danger; and an old terror.

Elrond and Legolas spent the better part of the next hour poring over the list of about one hundred 'Evanston's that were involved in the study and teaching of medical science and drinking Celebrían's tea – a time during which Legolas grew more optimistic, much to Elrond's hidden delight. It was a slightly younger Legolas that Encirith escorted to the guest room before dinner; some of the weariness that had come to rest on his shoulders since the last time he and Elrond had seen one another had lifted, and his eyes were brighter.

"I had forgotten, Lord Elrond, my own words in Gondor ere the War of the Ring had ended," Legolas had said as they put aside the lists for after supper. "Never shall Lúthien's line fail.[i] I have lost too much faith, I think."

"Do not be too hard on yourself, Legolas," Elrond then replied kindly. "It has seemed for a long time that there was nothing to have faith in. But we are proven wrong, and I am grateful."

When Legolas had gone Elrond took a moment to consider the tax sheets spread across his desk and wondered if he should perhaps slip a few minutes of work in, as there was nothing more he could do at the moment regarding Legolas or, indeed, what he had taken to calling in his mind The Return. He decided against it, however, in favor of returning the tea set to his wife (which, he admitted to himself, was really nothing more than an excuse to be with his wife again; no matter how much time passed, it seemed to him he would never be able to make up for those 500 years apart at the end of the Third Age of Arda).

He found her in the kitchen, overseeing the making of supper – an endeavor she was aided in by two hired cooks. Here Celebrían seemed always to be in her element; she enjoyed cooking and creating recipes and testing them out on Elrond (something he did not mind at all, as her concoctions were always delicious), but she also commanded here. The kitchen was indeed her domain, but not by bigotry – merely choice.

"The soup needs a little more … hm. Rosemary will do nicely. Yes, thank you – no, allow me. … Much better! Elrond, do not think to sneak into my kitchen, for I know you are back there!"

Elrond had not thought to 'sneak' into 'her' kitchen at all, so he merely put the tray carrying the tea set on the counter and waited for Celebrían to finish whatever she was working on.

A few minutes later she turned from the cooks and came to him. "Is there something you need, my Lord?" she asked primly, but the slight arch of her eyebrow gave away her mirth.

From a myriad of reactions, Elrond chose to merely be amused. "Nay, Lady; I only wish to speak with you," he said.

Her mirth faded. "Is it about Legolas? He seemed tight when we spoke; drawn into himself. He was heavy of heart and mind, and only part of it was anticipation of your meeting with him." She paused for a moment. "How did he take the news? I suspect he will do what you ask of him, but all the matters you spoke of with him are hard to accept and harder to process."

Elrond kept no secrets from his wife. "He will be all right, I think," he said, stepping forward to enfold her into his arms. "He has agreed to search for the heir." They both knew who 'the heir' was.

Celebrían nodded against his cheek. "That is well; it will help occupy him, and give him a goal. I think all the Eldar need them, to keep from drawing inwards and separating ourselves from this transient world too much."

"So we do, and so it shall," Elrond agreed, "And it will be of great help to us, as well! I only hope I have not set him on this task too late."

"An idle concern. Do not trouble yourself with it," Celebrían advised as she pulled away, planting a gentle kiss upon his lips and grasping his hands in hers tightly. "There is nothing more you can do regarding the matter, and if a mistake has been made, we can only hope for the best."

Once upon a time, Elrond reflected sadly, she might have said we should pray to the Valar for their aid. Ai … I must banish such thoughts!

But Celebrían had perceived his mind, and she smiled sadly. "I think we mourn too much for the past and do not look ahead enough," she said, touching his face solemnly. "We have lost much, but not all."

Celebrían opened her mouth to speak again, but instead her eyes were drawn to the doorway; Elrond followed her gaze and saw Airelond as he rounded the corner almost sheepishly. "Forgive me, my Lord, I do not mean to interrupt."

"Nay. Speak on," Elrond answered, and was grateful when Celebrían did not release his hands. He relished every moment of closeness with her.

"The phone for you, Lord Elrond," replied Airelond, gesturing vaguely to the hallway where a phone was kept. "The secure line. It is Lord Glorfindel."

"Very well," Elrond sighed. "Thank you, Airelond." The Elf smiled slightly, bowed, and departed, and Elrond turned to Celebrían. "I fear we must be again parted, dear Lady – at least until supper," he pronounced dramatically, taking her hand and bending over it, planting upon it a gentle kiss. Glorfindel would have been proud.

Celebrían, however, swatted at him. "Elrond, you have the strangest turns at times! And you wonder where Elladan and Elrohir get their mischievous streak!" she cried, but a smile lit her face. "Go to the phone, unless you wish to drive our long-distance bills into the heavens!"

"As you wish," Elrond smiled, more serious now as he left the kitchen, lingering perhaps a moment too long to gaze at the smile on her face. Ai, but he did live for that smile …

The phone was not far away. "Yes, Glorfindel?" Elrond said tersely as he picked up the receiver.

This was, needless to say, not precisely what Elrond had expected to first hear from the Elven Lord. He blinked. "Glorfindel, is aught wrong?"

"No, not precisely," Glorfindel replied, and he seemed to feel no need to elaborate further. Elrond thought he could hear the golden-haired Elf breathing heavily through his nostrils – a sure sign of utter rage.

"Then what, pray tell, has driven you to call?" Elrond inquired, utilizing his considerable patience (honed by thousands of years of coping with his sons) and keeping his voice as calm and even as possible. This could turn out to be a very long conversation indeed, if Glorfindel insisted on playing the Elven game of answering the question – and only the question. It was a game occasionally played by Legolas when he wished to be obstinate, and his sons when they desired to be irksome.

Elrond blinked again, but this time he had to refrain from giving a great shout of joy. "That is wonderful!" he cried. "We have been waiting far too long for this! Why are you not celebrating?"

"He knew all along!" snapped Glorfindel. "He has been avoiding me on purpose all this time! How could he have sent a letter but if he knew precisely where to find me? He has the courtesy to explain himself now, but why could he not have simply left a letter when I began this wild goose chase and been done with it!?" His voice was imposing and snappish.

Elrond could imagine what his long-time friend looked like just then, and he was so euphoric at the good news that it very nearly made him snicker in a way most unbecoming to a half-Elven Lord. "I daresay we may never know," Elrond finally said when he felt he had sufficient control over his voice. "But come now, what did Olórin have to say in this letter?"

Glorfindel let out a sullen, heartfelt sigh, and Elrond knew it meant the Lord had given up on making Elrond understand his righteous indignation. "He travels on business related to matters of great concern to us all," he said, his voice becoming serious, "but he would not elaborate further. He claims that if all goes well, we may expect him among us within the week. But do not shout for joy just yet! He leaves us a warning as well, and I shall quote it for you: 'Look not to the East, for that is what Evil wishes you to do.' I do believe he means the Middle East, for that is whence the shadow comes, but … where then would Olórin have us look?"

"Perhaps to ourselves, here in America," Elrond suggested with an annoyed tone. "Men fight Men as they have since Morgoth corrupted some of their first ancestors, but now they do it so efficiently that even Melkor must shudder – or perhaps laugh in delight! But in the current affairs of America and Iraq, both sides fight for fear of the other. We cannot merely look upon the descendants of the Haradrim."

"Indeed," agreed Glorfindel. "The source of the world's troubles does not lie in the Middle East alone, just as it did not lie merely in Mordor so long ago. But I hesitate to speak of this at length over the phone, and in a public place; who knows who may be listening?"

"Aye," Elrond nodded although Glorfindel could not see him, "and such a bill we would rack up, besides!" He smiled at the snort of laughter this comment drew from the Elven Lord. "Ah well, the matter of the search for Olórin is settled for the moment. Come visit for a while, Glorfindel, and we may discuss this in more detail."

"Very well, Lord Elrond." There was a pregnant pause. "But when 'Greyhem' comes to call, my friend, I may not be held responsible for my actions!"

Elrond did not even try to suppress the laughter that rose in his throat. "Then I shall see that you and Gandalf are kept well clear of each other! I prefer you both alive and well."

"You spoil everything," Glorfindel said pettily, but humor touched his tone; however, his tone again became serious a moment later. "He says we should not worry for him, but I do, Elrond. I pray that he comes through this endeavor of his safely."

"As do I," Elrond agreed softly. "Farewell, Glorfindel; call when you are back in New York City."

"I shall. Farewell, Elrond; may the light of your father's ship shine brightly tonight, bearing our hope."

Elrond smiled, but he did not reply as he hung the phone on its hook; he walked thoughtfully into the sitting room to gaze out the large windows and into the sky. Few stars were ever visible in New York City, where the lights never went out; it was the greatest frustration Elrond suffered in his day-to-day life. But the few visible stars were already in the early night sky.

Venus, Men called it now; it was the brightest star in the sky, appearing first in the evening and disappearing last in the morn. They called it a planet. But the Eldar called it Gil-Estel, and Eärendil; they knew its brightness was the inner flame of a Silmaril bound to the brow of Elrond's father.

Ai, Father … how I miss you at times. But I think, perhaps, you serve the greatest purpose sailing the fair skies, for you bring all the Eldar hope, which we sorely need!

The world was not the same as it had been before, so long ago now, so very long ago … Men were weak, so very weak – beyond belief. And as for the Elves … they lived on, but under the guise of Manhood; the very fringes of society was their home, if indeed they remained in society at all. The Valar seemed to have withdrawn in the most permanent manner.

So little he could see, and yet so much it told. The world was ripe for the taking. Manipulation and cunning words could destroy all or tip everything in their favor. Nothing was beyond their grasp. Nothing significant stood in their way. Men knew nothing of their own past; they forgot much in favor of speculation and lies. Elves knew, but their strength was broken, their legacy reduced to legend and myth and fiction.

Maglor's opinion of Men had never been too terribly high, for they had the propensity to be easily swayed by Morgoth's sweetest words. But now they had destroyed all that was beautiful; they built monsters and called them machines; they lived in houses far from nature, and indeed, worked to separate themselves from it! Maglor shared always his father's love for craft, but this was far too much for his taste.

Even the languages of Men had gone foul! Nothing so sweet as even the Sindarin tongue was spoken; the language shared in the land he now wandered was harsh and dissonant, syllables grating upon one another like stone upon stones. And the other languages, more rare, were not much better.

Women displayed themselves like objects of glory or ridicule; they had no modesty, and nothing seemed to encourage them to regain it. Maglor boggled at the first woman he saw, wearing a strange outfit (admittedly, all the clothing in this time was strange!) that revealed her knees and dipped obscenely low upon her breast, but the Men around him seemed to not even notice. Maglor would soon come to discover that she was dressed in a relatively conservative fashion; many women left so little to the imagination that Maglor found himself blushing to the tips of his ears.

But for all the strange changes, none concerned him more than the apparent disappearance of all the Elves. Perhaps they had, in the end, all or come to the Undying Lands? Ai, sweet Valar! The Undying Lands … could he even come to live there? Would the Valar ever suffer him the grace to return to Valimar?

Nay, nay; it was not to return to Valimar that he had awoken! The threat that now lay over all Arda – that was his concern. But Men knew nothing of it – that was easy enough to see.

Author's Notes: If you're wondering what language Maglor thinks is so ugly-sounding, it's English. :) English is difficult to learn and not the most beautiful of languages on Earth; compared to Elvish, I imagine it sounds guttural and harsh, and somewhat abrupt. English doesn't flow too terribly well.

[i] "But nobler is [Aragorn's] spirit than the understanding of Sauron; for is he not of the children of Lúthien? Never shall that line fail, though the years may lengthen beyond count." – Legolas Greenleaf, The Return of the King; The Last Debate

"Ah … Washington, D.C.," mused a low voice in the crowds. At once the most important and the most ridiculous single city in all the Western hemisphere – and on occasion, in all the world itself.

Olórin shook his head slowly and began to mount the steps of the Capitol building, approaching the gathering crowd at the top of the stairs. It was, unsurprisingly, a press conference; Colin Powell stood atop a makeshift podium, two advisors flanking him as he spoke at length regarding the proof positive of Iraq's failure to comply with the UN stance on chemical and biological weapons; the tight, huddled group of reporters held their notepads close and their cameramen shivered in the chill air.

As Olórin approached, a man who had been standing like a statue at the fringes of the group very suddenly began to approach Olórin, an intent look on his face. "Sir, I'm sorry, this is a restricted area at the moment. Only members of the press are allowed – oh." He cut off as Olórin presented the man with a card that certified his association with Reuters. "You're awfully late, sir."

"I know," Olórin replied with a pleasant smile. Too late in too many respects, I fear! "You must check me for weapons, I assume?"

The man patted Olórin down briskly, looking uncomfortable about it as men sometimes did. "You're clear," he said, nodding once, waving him up the stairs. Olórin nodded and hurried to join the crowd, re-buttoning his thick down coat as he did so.

He arrived just as the questions were being asked – just as he had meant to; he raised his hand to join the others, but unlike the young men and women eagerly milling about him, he did not call out as Mr. Powell selected questions to answer.

"I cannot say at this time … No, I'm sorry – Next question, please! Yes, you sir, the elderly gentleman in the back!"

Olorin smiled slightly and raised his chin. "Mr. J. Greyhem, sir. I have a question for Mr. Molan."

Mr. Powell raised an eyebrow slightly, but turned towards Sabaoth Molan and waved him towards the podium. Sabaoth approached slowly and warily, his usually brusque pace slowed to a crawl, as he stared at 'J. Greyhem' openly; his dark eyes were full of malice, hatred, and perhaps even tinged by fear. "Yes, Mr. Greyhem?" he fairly spat.

Olorin's slight smile faded, and an anticipating calm settled over the entire crowd as Greyhem's eyes met with Sabaoth's, stilling even the ever-restless press members. The air crackled with tension, and their very gazes seemed to do battle. "What," Olorin asked in a shockingly booming voice, "will you gain from all this, Mr. Molan? What is your hidden agenda in provoking the President to war?"

There were murmurings in the crowd, and Sabaoth narrowed his eyes. "Mr. Greyhem, that question is out of place here!" he snapped.

"Then you do not deny that you have something to gain?" Olorin replied, lifting one bushy eyebrow over his intense features.

"Of course not!" sputtered Sabaoth, but before he could continue in his undignified refute, he was pushed aside gently by Mr. Powell. "Next question!" he called – but he did not care, or indeed even seem to notice, when Mr. J. Greyhem slipped away from the crowd, his normally cheerful face drawn with severity.

This was not a feeling Galadriel was unfamiliar with; over the millennia she had survived, many things had frustrated her. Her half-cousins had frustrated her in Valinor before she had crossed the Sea for the first time to come to Middle-Earth; they appalled and sickened her ere their departure for Arda with their wanton killing and destruction, and they continued to frustrate her by aggravating the relationship of the Noldorin and Sindarin Elves. She had been frustrated over and over in her attempts to make a name for herself among Elves and arise to power; when she finally obtained renown and power, the Enemy frustrated and angered her. And in the subsequent Ages of this new Earth, she had been repeatedly frustrated by the nearly-endless discrimination against women (although this tended to come and go in cycles, over all).

These millennia of frustration had provided Galadriel with millennia of experience at suppressing any outward and visible signs of frustration. She handled all situations with a grace and poise that even fellow Elves envied, although perhaps they should not have been surprised; she was, to the best of her knowledge, the oldest living being on Earth – save the remaining Maiar, a few reclusive Vanyar, and perhaps a few fell beasts that still hid in the world.

Not that she looked it. Like all the Eldar, Galadriel was blessed with near-eternal youth, and the years did not weigh heavily on her, save a laugh line or two and a slight furrow between her brows that bespoke the thoughtful look she wore when schooled serenity was not called for, and the wisdom of the Ages in her intense eyes. Her golden hair, said by the Elves to have captured the beauty of the light of the Two Trees and said by Men to be brighter than a summer's day, was trimmed to just below her shoulders, enabling her to lift it all up into a manageable bun at the back of her head. All in all, she looked to be a radiant woman in her early thirties; she had been called by The London Times the 'Sexiest Woman Over Thirty' twice in recent years. Galadriel didn't much care to think of herself in terms of 'sexiness', as it spoke to her of the sexual degradation women (and indeed men!) suffered in these times. It reminded her, vaguely, of the late days of the Roman Empire, when corruption and depravity were almost a mark of pride ere the Empire's fall.

But all this was beside the point. At the moment, standing in the hallway of the London offices of Faensad, Inc., Galadriel was wearing (with a telling amount of willpower) her look of schooled serenity. The woman before her asked the question again, as if all the world would rise or fall depending upon Galadriel's answer. "Madam! The silk, or the crushed velvet?"

Ai! I appreciate aestheticism as much as any Elf, but must I be bothered with this matter? I hired this woman because I trust her judgment – I do not need her to come running to me every time she is unsure the fabric texture of the draperies will present the right mood at a dinner party!

But Galadriel did not say any of these things; they did not even show on her face. She gazed first at the square of sky blue silk in the lady's left hand and then at the slightly darker velvet in her right. "What speaks to you, Miss Halle?" she asked with infinite patience. "Both are lovely; I care not."

Miss Halle seemed to be at a loss. "But Ms. Elmesson, it truly depends upon the mood you wish to establish!" she protested passionately. "The silk is a lighter fabric and will give a sense of freedom, but the crushed velvet will add gravitas to the room."

And I do believe that at the moment I could cheerfully impale dear Celeborn upon his sword for his chosen last name. It was a subtle and strange reference to Celeborn's grandfather Elmo; 'Elmograndson', of course, would never do, so Celeborn had shortened and converted the name to 'Elmesson'. Galadriel did not share his penchant for such inside jokes (a penchant shared with their son-in-law Elrond), but she did not protest the matter, deeming it unimportant. "Very well, then; use the silk, please," Galadriel conceded to Miss Halle's dependent nature.

"All right!" The woman nodded ecstatically, and Galadriel inwardly sighed with relief at the thought that she could now return to more pressing matters, but just as she graced Miss Halle with an ethereal smile of goodwill and began to turn away, Miss Halle continued, "Now, here are some silverware designs for you to pick from—"

Enough! This was not the most frustrating conversation Galadriel had ever suffered through, but it was rapidly approaching the point at which it would become the most inane. "Miss Halle," Galadriel began pleasantly, "Must you—"

Galadriel looked up sharply to see Mithfen approaching from down the hall with a grace and rapidity that only an Elf could obtain. Her HR coordinator (for that was what he was) gazed back at her with amused, confused eyes, but his tone was laced with subtle urgency; something had frightened him. "Come to my office, if you will; there is something I must show you."

Galadriel politely excused herself from Miss Halle's presence, pointing her down the hall to a subordinate better suited to deal with such matters as silverware designs, and followed Mithfen. "I thank you," she murmured.

Mithfen's smile, although tight, was mischievous as only a Nandorin smile could be. "I suspected you might be grateful, my Lady; for all her skill, Miss Halle can be rather insufferable, in my experience." And well-experienced he was in the matter, as he was the one consigned to settling a payment plan with her. "But that is not why I called you – at least not entirely!" Here his expression became troubled, and in but a moment Galadriel perceived how confused and frightened he was; he lowered his voice and whispered in Sindarin, "Lady Galadriel, a strange Elf was seen wandering around outside this building; he was clothed poorly, and his appearance was ragged and grey. He spoke in Sindarin, but his dialect was such as has not been heard in Ea since before the Breaking! He was causing something of a scene, for he somehow knew that Elves work here, and he shouted his demand that one come out! I finally came to him and escorted him to my office, and he was somewhat placated, but I thought I should come to you regarding this matter."

Galadriel digested this information. An Elf that spoke only the old, un-evolved form of Sindarin, and who had apparently suffered some misfortune, was in Mithfen's office; it was clear why he had chosen to speak in Sindarin. However, she knew Mithfen was holding something back. "You thought wisely," she said at length. "Speak on."

They had come to Mithfen's closed office door; he hesitated, then turned shamefaced to her. "Some of the Men think it strange I took this vagabond into the building rather than call for a bobby, and I must go comfort them that something is being done about this bizarre incident. But I think this member of our kindred must have suffered some grievous injury to the head, for he claims to be someone he cannot possibly be." He inclined his head with polite deference, and the troubled look did not leave his eyes as he strode down the hall to speak to the employees.

Galadriel paused for a moment to consider this information before she twisted the doorknob and slipped soundlessly into the office – and was confronted with a being from the past; an Elf she had not seen since the War of Wrath. Millennia of trained emotions and facial expressions could not hide the shock in her face for one eternal and horrified instant, and even when her face had assumed a neutral look, the surprise was in her eyes. "Maglor!" she said sharply – more sharply than she had intended.

The Elf's head rose and dark, tired eyes met her own bright ones, and the sitting Elf, clad in ragged trousers and an overlarge shirt, rose instantly to his feet, his eyes wide and amazed. He was painfully thin and his unevenly cut hair had lost its shine; his right hand was an unnatural color and hung useless at his side. "Artanis?" he gasped softly, using Galadriel's first given name – the one given her by her father. "Heltha-ha nîn adaro gwador-iell?[i]"

Galadriel gazed at Maglor intensely, and for a moment, for the first time in many a year, she found herself completely at a loss as to what to say. "Heltha-im he,[ii]" she finally replied.

In a moment she found herself unexpectedly enfolded in Maglor's arms, his thin arms grasping her tight. "Ai, Artanis!" he cried softly, gripping her blouse with dirty fingers. "Im nauthin anim edlenn an uir![iii]"

There was naught Galadriel could say to that, for she too had thought him lost to the world; questions flooded her as an apparent impossibility was made flesh before her eyes. And so she found herself in a momentary quandary before she finally grasped the long-lost Elf's shoulders and pushed him away, suddenly disgusted that a son of Feanor would dare to hug her. "Maglor, be calm!" she said in Sindarin, speaking quietly but sharply. "There is much I must ask you, but this is neither the time nor the place."

Maglor raised his eyebrows slightly. Unlike the rest of him, Maglor's eyes still burned with a shocking intensity; he met her gaze squarely, and for an instant she saw Feanor in his face. "What place is it of yours to order me so, younger cousin? And what has happened that you dress like the degraded women of the Secondborn?"

Galadriel felt an urge to look down at her conservative business suit, but she resisted with characteristic ease. "You would do well to not speak so," she rebuked him, still keeping her voice low as she finally closed the office door behind herself. "And you should not be so arrogant, son of Feanor! What do you know of the passing of the Ages? Little, I judge, by your inability to speak their languages. I do know what has come to pass, and you should at least acknowledge that I am better prepared to help you than you are yourself."

There was a moment's pause while Galadriel held a contest of wills with her half-cousin, their eyes locked in silent battle. But it was Maglor who looked away first. "You are right," he conceded softly, and when he again looked at her, there was a hunger there she had not seen before. "I know not even how much time has passed, or why you have not yet crossed the Sea with our people to live again in the Undying Lands!" He broke off, and Galadriel took the moment to nurse the pang of pain his words inadvertently caused; he did not know the fate of Valinor! "I know only that the Silmaril is lost to me forever; alas!" He buried his face in his left hand; it seemed he could put his right hand to no use. "Ah …" he scrubbed his face once and lowered his hand to gaze again at Galadriel. "I cannot think on it. It is too painful and draws me again to the Sea, and I will not go! Not when such a pressing matter hangs over Ea!"

Maglor's gaze focused strongly upon her, his chin lifted slightly. "You do not know of it? Can you not sense it?" he demanded. "This evil?"

"We all sense it," Galadriel replied evenly, "and again I say to you, be calm! We cannot discuss that matter here; who knows what ears may be around."

"Then take me to where we may speak of it," Maglor continued urgently, and Galadriel perceived again a hunger, and a slight desperation in him as well as a strong desire – though for what, she did not yet know. "I would tell you what I sense in more detail, for your calm tells me that perhaps you do not realize the depth of what you face!"

Galadriel looked hard at him. "I shall have you taken to such a place, but I cannot yet come with you; there is much I must do here. I will have you sent to my house, with a message. Do not speak to anyone – and do not open your mouth to argue with me, Maglor, for my patience is already run thin, and I have the advantage of experience over you! I say again, do not speak to anyone, save it be my husband, who will greet you there; you are blessed in that he stayed home to oversee construction of a stable. Treat Celeborn with respect, cousin; of all your brothers, I always thought you the most level-headed. Do not prove me wrong."

to be continued

[i] "[Can] it be my father's brother-daughter?" ('Father's brother-daughter' is supposed to be the equivalent of 'niece'.)

[ii] "I am she."

[iii] "I thought myself lost for eternity!" Except the word I used for 'lost' actually means 'exiled'. Ah, well. ^^x;;

"Aai!" Maglor gripped smooth, slippery seat he was on, every muscle in his body clenching simultaneously as he let out a rather undignified cry in Sindarin. "Devilry of the Secondborn! When did they learn the arts of Power!?"

"Lord Maglor, please! Hush!" Mithfen grasped Maglor's shoulders firmly, shaking him. "You cannot tell me you saw no ú-roch-rinc[i] coming to Faensad!"

"Ú-roch-rinc?" Maglor turned wild eyes on Mithfen. "That is what you call these things?"

The two Elves were in a chauffeured car provided by Galadriel; unsure just how much Maglor knew about the modern world, Galadriel had insisted that someone go with the ancient Elf to her home. Mithfen was pinned with the job because he had already had contact with Maglor. The driver of the car glanced in the rearview mirror at Maglor's panicked voice, raising a skeptical eyebrow; Mithfen essayed a reassuring smile and explained that his friend was foreign and only startled, unused to London traffic.

It took Mithfen, one of the youngest Elves living (having been born in the most secretive years of the Nandor Elves, late in the Fourth Age), a bit of effort to wrap his mind around the idea that this bedraggled Elf was in fact Maglor, the second son of Fëanor. That he was long-lost was of no doubt, but to think that this Elf was the Maglor – a possessor of a Silmaril, a Kinslayer, the greatest Elven bard that had ever lived – was somehow beyond his mind's grasp. It was hard enough to believe that the Lady Galadriel was the legendary Lady of the Wood, but at least she looked and acted as such!

Maglor was not comforted by the word 'machine' – in fact, he seemed to become more tense. "Machinations? Morgoth's tool!"

"Nay, Lord Maglor," Mithfen shook his head. "Do you truly believe that the Lady Galadriel would deliver you to the tools of the Forsaken One?"

Maglor began to relax again, slightly, but as if in a gesture to prove he was still in control of the conversation, he did not acknowledge Mithfen's question. "This monster moves with speed unnatural," he observed flatly.

"So you say, and we have not even reached the countryside," Mithfen murmured. They were, at best, traveling at 35 kilometers per hour in this London traffic; he grimaced to think what Maglor would think of the car on the country roads! "Please, my lord, be calm! It will be easier if you are."

Celeborn stood silently outside of the manor that was his and Galadriel's home, features grim as he gazed into the distance, toward the road. Ai, Ilúvatar! Maglor Fëanorion … He clenched his fist at his side and drew a deep breath again, quelling the best he could the anger and anguish that quickened his heart and threatened to choke him.

"Forgive me, Celeborn, my love, for I know it is a hard thing I ask you to now do," Galadriel had said when she called, her lovely voice full of ancient sadness (it was full of such sadness too often these days!). "But for all his sins, I cannot in good conscience desert Maglor to whatever fate may await him; he cannot survive long in his condition. No longer does his lust for the Silmaril draw out the years of his life! He will die of starvation and pain."

Celeborn had ridden out the initial tide of anger and overcome, and he saw the wisdom of Galadriel's words. Elves had slain Elves for too long, in self-defense or no, and he resolved he would not be party to an Elf's death; he would not sink to the level of the sons of Fëanor, who had so wantonly killed Celeborn's second cousin, Dior, and Nimloth, Celeborn's kinswoman. All due to their lust for the Simarils and their foul vow! Curse those jewels – curse the misery they caused ever and anon! It only confirmed in Celeborn's mind that the beauty of Eä was not meant to be 'captured' by the works of Men and Elves, but rather admired and perhaps imitated – nothing more.

He could see the car now, in the distance. He steeled himself again even as he recalled the last time he had seen Maglor. The second son of Fëanor's armor had been stained red with the blood of Celeborn's kin in Doriath, and he slew Elf after Elf without mercy, demanding that the Silmaril be brought to him and his brothers; Celeborn himself had barely escaped with the yet-young daughter of Dior, Elwing, in his arms, and the Nauglamír containing the Silmaril of Beren in his hand. So many lost that day so very long ago! And though what he sought was denied to him that day, Maglor did, in the end, receive his heart's desire – and he cast it away, for the Silmaril would not suffer his bloodstained hands to bear it. His fate was well-deserved.

But though the memory of the Elves was long, and their grudges held even longer, Celeborn knew it was foolishness to turn Maglor away. Who knew but that he had a part to play in these darkening days? It could not be merely coincidence that a dead Elf – or perhaps a long-lost one – again walked on Earth at such a time as this.

So lost in his thoughts was he that Celeborn was surprised to find that the chauffeured car had already arrived. He stepped forward; the door of the car opened, and Mithfen stepped out. "My Lord Celeborn," said the Nandorin Elf, placing his hand on his heart in the traditional greeting; he then turned again to the car and coaxed the unseen occupant in Sindarin, "Come out, my Lord; all is well. See! We have stopped, and you must come out ere you can be free of this contraption." In this manner Mithfen managed to get Maglor to step hesitantly from the car ere he climbed back into it himself and was driven off.

Celeborn's tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and for a moment there was nothing he could say as he gazed into the bloody, hungry, grief-stricken, fearful eyes of Maglor son of Fëanor. Maglor returned the steady gaze, and thus they remained for an unmeasured time, until Maglor closed his eyes slowly. "Lord Celeborn of Doriath," said he; his voice, always beautiful and full of song, now sang of sadness and hurt and long-hidden anger. He half-bowed. "I was instructed by Lady Artanis to treat you with respect, but I would do naught else regardless of her words."

Would you? Celeborn thought, but he did not say it. Would you respect me? Where was your respect ere the Silmaril was beyond your grasp? "You are not well," he said, "and you are unkempt. Come in, and I will see to it you are cared for."

"But you do not welcome me," Maglor observed shrewdly, noting Celeborn's lack of greeting.

Celeborn considered his reply for a moment. "That is true," he admitted. "I do not. But you know why." He met the eyes of the Fëanorian and held his gaze. "It is the same reason I wish you would not call me 'Celeborn of Doriath'. You mock me; you mock how you and your brothers raped my homeland."

A fire kindled in Maglor's gaze. "Do not hold yourself fully blameless," Maglor replied coolly, "For I lost two of my brothers that day to your people."

"Because we desperately fought in self-defense," Celeborn answered before he drew a breath to calm himself. "Nay, Maglor; I will ever hold you and your brothers responsible for the destruction of Doriath. But that is long behind us now." He bowed his head. "And although I do not love you, these times are too dangerous for me to let my grudge affect my judgment. Come with me, Maglor; I will see to it that you are fed and provided with a bath and clothing." With that, he turned towards the house.

It really was amazing what a bath and a new set of clothes could do for an Elf's psyche.

Everything was still horribly foreign. The place where Artanis had been (a 'corporate building'?) was sterile and there were strange sounds from inside the walls and down the halls and everyone kept strange glowing, humming boxes on their tables with hundreds of thin pieces of parchment littered everywhere and the lights were operated by some kind of power called 'electricity' in the ugly language of the people in this strange land.

Artanis and Celeborn's home, however, was a little better; the architecture was much more beautiful and spacious, and the strange lights at least resembled the candles he was used to. There were still strange, soft sounds of humming and whirring coming from the walls and rooms he couldn't see, though. A young Elven woman (well, Maglor allowed, all Elves were young when compared to himself) had shown him how to work the 'taps' in the bath, which turned out to be an amazing, much-improved form of indoor plumbing; Maglor spent perhaps a little too long soaking in the water, scrubbing his hair, and realizing just how long it had been since he'd been sane. If he could really consider himself sane now.

While confusion occupied the better part of his mind now, guilt, anger, sadness, and the never-ending lust for the Silmaril of the Sea continued to fight for control. If Maglor just closed his eyes, he could see it … beautiful and shining with the light of the Two Trees and the glory of Ulmo's waters, searing by its sheer majesty … but he just as quickly opened his eyes. His pining had nearly killed him already, and there were more important things on his mind, such as the darkness that had called him back from the brink of fading away entirely.

And why have I not yet learned my lesson? A part of Maglor demanded fiercely as he gazed down at his right hand; it was useless, the tendons and muscles within burned to destruction by the Silmaril, which would not suffer his bloody hands to hold it. I am no better than Morgoth himself, for why else would the Silmaril act towards me with the same disdain?

From this sprang the guilt. Three Kinslayings … three times for the Simarils had Maglor raised a sword against his fellow Elves. It was thus fitting, it seemed to him, that his sword-hand was the one burned. He understood Celeborn's disdain for him, even as he resented it; he was ashamed, but he could not bring himself to admit that shame. Truly I am Fëanor's son!

But why was Celeborn even here to display such disdain? What had happened? Maglor sunk under the water to wash the last traces of the fragranced soap from his hair (it had a very strange glasslike container … clear but still flexible) and pondered the question. Why had they – and apparently many other Elves – remained in Middle-Earth while Men destroyed it and turned it into this strange, whirring, racing place? Our time on Arda ended long ago.

Maglor rose out of the bath and took the provided towel, made of a soft, absorbent material (he resolved to take a closer look at the looped threads another time) off the hook, drying himself quickly as he crossed into the adjacent room. Clothes had been laid out on the bed; they were of the same strange nature as all clothes of this era, but clean – and as Maglor discovered, struggling into them and discovering the wonders of the zipper, very comfortable, if overly long in the pants leg and sleeve. Celeborn's clothing. Maglor bowed his head and fiddled with the evenly-stitched material, so precise and impersonal like so many of the strange things he had seen these past few days (weeks? It seemed time had no meaning for him), and wondered.

Maglor looked up and saw Celeborn, tall and silver as his name, his eyes tired with years unnumbered and filled with a fresh grief – a pain unearthed by me; it was my family that caused him such grief. Ai, the Silmaril! It was necessary for the Silmaril … but ... "Yes, Lord Celeborn?" Maglor bowed his head respectfully.

But Celeborn held up his hand. "Please … 'Celeborn' will do." He rolled his left shoulder as if sore and beckoned to Maglor. "Come with me to the kitchens; we will share lunch, and I will attempt to explain to you the goings-on since your …" he trailed off, hesitating; then finished, "Since your disappearance."

When Maglor came upon the table set with a goodly amount of food for two people, he realized abruptly just how hungry he was. He had barely spoken the blessing over the food before he began to dish chicken and vegetables and bread with cheese onto his plate and eat.

He almost didn't notice when Celeborn failed to ask Elbereth's blessing. Almost.

It was some time before either spoke, for neither had much of anything to say to one another, such was Maglor's hunger and their shared enmity. But eventually Celeborn spoke. "Do you remember the War of Wrath?"

Maglor looked up at Celeborn and swallowed; his mind locking sharply on the ancient memories. "Aye. I remember all ere the Valar returned to Valinor, until … until my brother and I reclaimed our birthright, the Silmarils." The Silmaril! Ai, such beauty, such pain! I want it …

"Then you know nothing of the subsequent Ages?" Celeborn's voice cut into his fantasy, dragging Maglor unwilling back to the world around him.

"I was not even aware of time's passage," Maglor murmured. "There was nothing for me but my father's jewel, which I so carelessly tossed into the Sea."

"Then there is much I must tell you." The Elf of Doriath sounded resigned. "You have been walking in dreams for near twenty millennia."

Twenty … thousand … years? "Why do you still remain on Arda!?" Maglor demanded. "The pardon for the Exiles has stood for twenty thousand years and still Artanis remains? And you with her? And what of all our kin, Noldor or Sindar or no? I had no choice, or nearly none, for as you say I have been walking in dreams, but surely this world so perverted by the Secondborn does not hold you in such thrall that you would desert the chance to come again to the Undying Lands!"

Celeborn sat silent through his outburst, not speaking until Maglor had said his piece. "Peace, Maglor," he said calmly, his voice tinged with sadness. "We have returned to Valinor; a full pardon was given my wife and she was granted entrance into the very heart of the Undying Lands, and there with nearly all our Elven kin we dwelt happily for some four thousand years. But we were forced to depart again."

"'Forced' …?" Maglor echoed, confused and horrified. "Why … what atrocity was committed that would cause the Valar to—"

"Melkor escaped his prison," Celeborn interrupted, his voice now steely with suppressed emotion. "All went ill, and Valinor was ransacked; Valimar was laid low and destroyed. Though Morgoth was again returned to the Void, all the world was changed by the battle." Celeborn's eyes met Maglor's, and the Sindarin Elf's eyes were piercing; they pinned Maglor where he sat with such force as to remind Maglor of Artanis' gaze. "The Valar have departed this realm, Maglor Fëanorian, and the Undying Lands with them – what is left of them! For Dagor Dagorath – what should have been the End of Days – has come to pass, and still the world remains."

For a long moment Maglor was silent, his mind unable to even begin to grasp the information suddenly thrust upon him. The Battle of All Battles? The Valar are … gone? He remembered that Celeborn had not asked the blessing of Elbereth over his meal; he remembered the flames and destruction of his dreams and the blotting of the light from the sky. It is true, then. It is true! Ai, Ilúvatar, what has come to pass? "We are deserted," he gasped. "Ai, we are left to – to this!" He raised his distressed gaze to Celeborn. "Then Morgoth destroyed Valinor. Did all escape? Would—" he cut off, clenching his teeth. "Would the Teleri suffer those of the Noldor who remained to board their boats?"

"Do you truly believe bloodlines were of any concern when Morgoth himself was laying waste to our homes?" Celeborn countered. His expression was hurt but otherwise unreadable; his eyes were cloaked. "We fought as Eldar – the Firstborn, united as we were meant to be. But it was as hopeless as it was in the First Age, for Melkor is still numbered among the Valar, evil though he is! We sought to flee even as the true Valar countered his attack, and then the battle truly raged; Valinor's very shape was changed, and Morgoth ruined everything he touched. There was nothing left for us; we lost so many! And Manwë himself bid us go. But there were those that would not desert the Undying Lands even then, and they were lost to us. But all who wished to depart found a place on the boats of the Teleri and a few Sindarin boats, and Ulmo sent us out over the waters with a favorable wind and a calm sea. We did not encounter trouble until the barrier between the worlds was broken and the prophesy of Dagor Dagorath fulfilled in full, although we did not recognize it, for little was written about the End of Days. We knew only that our world had been broken and changed."

But Maglor was lost. "'Barrier between the worlds'?" he inquired. "Mean you the storms of Ulmo and the many obstacles to cross to Valinor?"

Celeborn raised an eyebrow slightly, and then he laughed, although the laugh was somewhat bitter. "Ai, I had forgotten how very little you know! It was in the Second Age that Men violated a ban placed upon them by the Valar, and by Eru's will they were given the power to again reshape the world; they removed Valinor from Arda proper, and created a barrier that none could cross save those given the grace of the Valar. Those not granted such grace would only sail continue to sail West until they again found themselves in the East. One might say the Valar made the world round."

Maglor gritted his teeth. Men … always Arda is violated by Men! "Always the Secondborn fall!" he cried. "To what purpose did Ilúvatar create them?"

"And you have the right to speak thus, Kinslayer?" Celeborn replied coldly. "Or even I, who has killed fellow Elves as well, and Men besides? Eru's purpose is his own, even now; even as we feel abandoned to an uncaring fate with no refuge from the weariness of this world. Would you question it? Would you curse and thus curse yourself again, you who lost everything for the lust of a jewel and an oath made in rash anger!?"

Maglor froze, stricken; he closed his eyes and drew a shaking breath. It was for Father … for his memory … for his precious jewels! No, it was folly … Oh Varda! To have been able to live in peace all my days, singing and composing in the peaceful joy of Valinor! Why could it not be so? "Forgive me … I forgot myself," Maglor finally said, feeling the inadequacy of the words like a weight in his stomach.

"Nay; there is nothing to forgive," Celeborn replied softly. "I too have raised my voice in anger, and for less." He paused, and silence filled the room but for the strange humming of the house. "There is still much I have not told you."

"Please continue," Maglor nodded, still not looking up. He closed his eyes, bearing now not only the pain of his own decisions but also the pain of loss that all the Elves of this Age seemed to carry.

Celeborn drew a breath. "Very well. I had said we encountered no difficulties in our departure from Valinor until the barrier was broken. You see, Morgoth crossed from Aman to Arda, and the Valar followed him, and again their battle reshaped the land as it had in the War of Wrath. And Ulmo prevented us from coming to Arda while the Valar still made war there by putting a thick fog upon the water that confounded the navigators. It was protection, although it did not seem it at the time.

"What happened I do not know, but it was strange; for Morgoth certainly departed the world, but there was no sense of victory. And then the Valar were gone. They gave no reason; indeed, we did not see them again! They had abandoned this world. But Ulmo's fog lifted, and finally we came upon the shores of Arda, but they were strange to us, so changed were they! Much was ruined; many had been lost." Here Celeborn paused, but he spoke again after only a moment. "Many. More than we knew. For when we lost Valinor we lost too the Halls of Mandos."

Maglor started visibly. But that means we may not see the dead again except in death! No! "Father!" he choked. "Brothers!" We should have lived again together someday, despite our sins …

Celeborn's voice was gentle, but Maglor could not bring himself to raise his eyes. "Would you rather I tell you more later? This is hard to absorb all at once; indeed, it is still a burden hard to bear after ten thousand years."

"I … I would hear more, but I do not know if I could bear it." Maglor rose and bowed his head again. "May I go to the room provided for a while?"

Maglor nodded, turned, and nearly fled to the bedroom where he had changed clothes, and he sat upon the bed. There Maglor son of Fëanor, greatest of all the Elven bards in Ages known and unknown, lifted his voice in a lament that filled the house and manor, and those that heard it claimed that it was so beautiful and sad that had the Valar but been able to hear his cry, they would have come themselves to comfort him.

Author's Notes: Maglor is an intriguing character, and as I write about him I like him more and more. He seems almost schizophrenic from the outside, proud and upset by turns, but from his own point of view his emotions and reactions are realistic and sensible given the circumstances. I derive the idea that he has a softer side and is somewhat 'wishy-washy' from the fact that he tried to dissuade Maedhros from taking the Silmarils from the Valar by force, but he caved after Maedhros argued with him. Maglor really seemed to look up to Maedhros … but that's a story for another day!

Celeborn is a whole other story unto himself. I completely made up the idea that he was present at Doriath when the sons of Fëanor attacked. We don't know where he was for sure, but he is called a 'prince of Doriath' in a passage of The Silmarillion regarding the sack of Doriath. Why shouldn't he be present when the sons of Fëanor came for the Silmaril? Anyway, that's why he's royally pissed at Maglor. Why does Celeborn soften up a bit when telling Maglor about everything that has come to pass? Probably because 1) he's sympathetic – he remembers how painful the whole experience was, after all, and 2) Maglor shows humility after Celeborn rebukes him.

[i] ú-roch-rinc – 'car'. Lit. 'no-horse-move'. The Elves would have had to make up words in Sindarin for the newfangled technology, after all! :)

"Foul, a thousand times foul!" Sabaoth snarled, his face contorted with rage. "Olórin! How did he—" he clenched his fist and fell silent, seething at his ornate desk.

It made a twisted sense. If anyone saw through his disguise, it would be … him. But it was too soon, ah, far too soon!

No. All will be well. There is a limit to his power. But the untwisted strength of the Maia was something unmeasured; never had Olórin walked the world, openly displaying his Power. And Power he did indeed have! But I too have Power. There is still hope. If it is of a measure!

I should crush him now, pluck his wings as Curunír did ere the War of the Ring. But I must do it more thoroughly, that they may not grow back! Was it possible? Could he truly match the strength of an Istar blessed by the Valar – curse them, curse them! – and overcome—?

Was there even a choice, in the end? Sabaoth rubbed his brow in thought. When had Olórin seen through his guise? How much had he spoken of with the Elves? If the Elves knew, then what? Did it change anything? Did it change everything? Ah, I do not see! He felt blind and his words felt aimless now, thrown out to no purpose.

The phone on his desk beeped and with a silent snarl Sabaoth snatched it up. "What?"

"Sabaoth, this is Colin," said the voice on the other end. "We need to discuss PR."

Instantly Sabaoth melted into his usual self-confident guise. "Whatever for? We seem to have done all right thus far."

"Turn your television to channel four, Sab," suggested the Secretary, and with a frown Sabaoth obeyed – and was confronted with his own stormy face, snapping at an innocent member of the press named Mr. J. Greyhem. "That's been playing all day."

"Ah." There was nothing more to say on the matter, at least not on the phone. Curse you, Olórin! "Shall I come up?" It was much easier to assuage people in person, when one's tongue could smooth out the problems and one's eyes could draw the listener into the curtains. But damage had been done that could not be undone; his tongue had been curbed; he would not be in the public eye again, at least for some time.

Sabaoth laid the phone back in the cradle with deceptive calm, then cursed again in the Black Tongue. Ah, Olórin, you have taken my rook, you have put my king in check, and all with but a simple question! But this game is not over, and it is now my turn. And you, my friend, have lost the advantage of surprise!

"I cannot believe this!" Glorfindel lifted his outstretched palm towards the television and looked appropriately affronted. "Molan. He leaves me behind to issue a challenge to Sabaoth Molan."

"Nay, there is more to it," Elrond reasoned from the doorway. "You see how Molan has fueled the fire of fear between Iraq and America. The media played nothing but this footage for a day, Glorfindel – and thus Molan has since been appropriately silenced, his motives put in question."

Glorfindel shook his head, ejecting the tape of the day-old newscast and sighing. He had arrived at Elrond's home late the night before, and promptly been ushered off to bed. Now it was morning and breakfast approached quickly, and the house was coming to life, but before they sat to eat Elrond had bid Glorfindel see the bit of footage in which Olórin's voice could be heard.

"So they have," agreed the golden-haired Elf after a short silence, "but … surely he had a grander plan. A greater reason." He paused, thoughtful. "It is not hard to sway the media to an anti-war stance. Therefore, is it not strange that as long as Molan has spoken, the newsmen have stood by him? They ask him no challenging questions, for they are a business, in the end, of entertainment, and fear is entertaining to the masses! But even more so is controversy, and yet they stir up none …" he lifted his bright gaze to Elrond. "See you what I strike at? What is it that makes Molan somehow special?"

Elrond had drawn his long brown hair back into a low ponytail, and he now ran his fingers through the loose hairs. "There is no telling, but you make a good point." He looked up. "Ah, Legolas."

Glorfindel followed Lord Elrond's gaze to the Elf now coming down the stairs, whose flaxen hair was also pulled into a low ponytail. If the Wood-Elf had just woken up, there was no sign – he was already dressed and alert, fully awake upon the moment of awakening just as Elves always were. His gaze alighted on Elrond and he bowed with a manner that suggested casual ease, no longer stiff and formal as he had been but two days before. "Good morning, Lord Elrond –" he began to straighten, his head coming up, then suddenly bent again. "Lord Glorfindel."

"Good morning," Glorfindel rose to his feet gracefully as he greeted the younger Elf. "It has been some years since we last met! How fares you?"

Legolas had straightened and a smile flickered across his features. "As well as may be expected in these times, Lord Glorfindel. And you?"

Legolas did not smile easily, for he was a naturally reserved Elf save in the presence of Elladan and Elrohir – perhaps the only immortals in all the world who were nearly of an age with Legolas. Something was up. Glorfindel shot a suspicious look at Elrond, but if the former Lord of Imladris noticed, he gave no sign. "I am well," he said cautiously.

"That is good," Legolas then said, his mouth twitching again. "I had feared your anger with Olórin would drive you to homicide."

Glorfindel blanched. "Has Lord Elrond been telling tales again?" he inquired, drawing a chuckle from Elrond as the Lord made an inconspicuous, elegant exit.

Legolas bowed slightly again, his eyes still dancing with amusement. "Nay, I do not believe they were merely tales! But well enough; I should not make fun at your expense, my Lord."

Glorfindel sniffed. "No, you should not, young Elfling!" he said, but his voice gave away his mirth. "But I shall forgive you."

"You are too kind." Legolas' Silvan heritage was beginning to show; nothing could stop the laughter in his eyes.

"Indeed I am. But exceptions must be made for Elves that see Balrogs and do not run in fear," the Elf said.

Glorfindel meant it as a jest, but Legolas' face fell slightly. "Even if they drop their bows in fear?" he asked, his inner laughter subdued if still present.

"Even then." Glorfindel stepped forward and clapped Legolas on the shoulder. "We cannot all be Balrog slayers, and as I said, there is something to an Elf that does not simply desert his post and run at the very sight! But this is long past history, and he who was subject to the Balrog in your time is alive and well and frustrating this old Balrog slayer no end!" He laughed and was pleased to see Legolas chuckle as well.

"I should have spoken of this with you some fourteen thousand years ago," Legolas grinned, "for it was a part of me never fully healed! I oft wondered what you might have done had our places been traded."

Glorfindel frowned slightly at the mention of it. "I do not know, Legolas, and it is not well for us to live second-guessing life. But suppose I had indeed come with the Fellowship, and suppose I had slain the Balrog; what then? Suppose you had slain the Balrog! Would Gandalf the Grey have become Gandalf the White? Everything happens for a purpose, Legolas, for we live, in the end, by Ilúvatar's Song."

"It should be," Glorfindel said firmly. "Now come! I have not tasted good Celebrían's cooking in a year, and I will not have my breakfast delayed by you!"

Over the course of the past several days Legolas had become very good … at lying. Not that he hadn't been rather expert at it before; hiding one's identity as a sixteen thousand year old Elf in a world of Men required such abilities. Nevertheless, Legolas could truly say that he had never lied so often over the phone since the contraption had been invented.

"Hello, Mrs. Evanston? My name is Lawrence Green and I'm with the alumni department of the University of Virginia. We were wondering if Professor Evanston would like to make a contribution to his alma ma—oh. I'm very sorry, ma'am. My condolences. Goodbye."

Legolas dropped the phone into the cradle and bowed his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose less out of any sort of real tiredness and more out of mental exhaustion. There were exactly 113 Professor Evanston's teaching medical science at various universities scattered across the United States and Great Britain. Of those 113 professors, 57 were men. Legolas had called 51, usually pretending to be a solicitor from their alma maters, and he was halfway relieved to find he could cross the great majority of them off his list of possible descendants of Aragorn. Seven had retired; ten had started in new professions, and another seventeen were teaching a new subject. One had become a state senator. One had actually been an Elf (Noldorin, living in Salt Lake City); he had wished Legolas good luck and the aid of Eru. Legolas smiled slightly at the memory. And in addition, Legolas had managed to solicit about 800 dollars for various universities.

Eleven Evanston's, however, had died. It was a horribly awkward thing to call the listed number and have the line picked up by the family left behind. Those calls were the ones that exhausted Legolas and broke his heart.

The remaining four that he had already reached he had listed as 'possibles' – Evanston's that fit the profile Galadriel had given. He still had six calls to make, however, before it would be time to drive/fly/otherwise meet in person the Evanston's that still fit the profile. He still wasn't entirely sure how he could be absolutely certain which Evanston was the right one, but he was sure he'd have a better chance at guessing if he was able to meet with them face-to-face. Elrond had promised to pay the plane fares to reach their locations despite protest from Legolas; after all, paying for plane tickets and hotel rooms would hardly put a dent in several sizable bank accounts. (Admittedly, it would put an even smaller one in Elrond's accounts.)

Legolas took a few minutes to recover from discovering Jeremy Evanston had died of heart problems a month ago before he again picked up the phone in his room in Elrond's home. He dialed the next number on the list and listened to the phone ring at the other end – a rather shrill, annoying sound – before someone picked it up.

Like all Elves, Legolas was both gifted and cursed with a perfect memory. Old memories did not fade, and new memories merely added another layer to the endless cycle that was immortal life. To Men it might have been strange to remember everything from the moment the memory portion of the mind began to operate to the present day with perfect clarity, but Elves were designed to handle such a large portion of memories. It was the sadness of memory that weighed heavily on their shoulders, and the land that should have lifted such sadness – Valinor – was lost to them.

"Ah, yes sir, my name is Lawrence Green and I work for the alumni association of the University of Colorado. Is this—" Legolas checked the list again – "Professor Allen Evanston?"

"It is," said the man at the other end, his tone wary. "No, I don't want to go to the 15^th anniversary '88 class reunion."

Legolas drew a deep breath and bit off his relieved, exhilarated laughter. This was Aragorn's descendant! The language was different, the accent distinctly American, but as the Elf compared in his mind the sound of Aragorn's suspicious tone to Allen's, he felt no doubt that something had carried on. Even Eldarion, after all, had been able to match that tone. He almost failed to deliver the rest of his sales pitch as he hurriedly dug through the sheets of information, looking for the young man's address. "That is quite a shame, Professor. The celebrations will certainly be the worse for your absence."

"I'm sure you'll get along fine without me," Allen said in a wearily amused voice, terrifyingly similar to a wearily amused Aragorn when the twins took a joke too far. "Is that all?"

Found it! Legolas triumphantly held up the address of Allen Evanston. "Yes, Professor Evanston. Sorry to bother you."

Legolas hung up the phone and leapt to his feet, giving a shout of joy that echoed throughout the penthouse before coming out of his room and vaulting the entire set of switchback stairs, leaping over the railing and landing with characteristic silence in sock-clad feet.

He landed, however, directly in front of Glorfindel, who blinked serenely at him. "Legolas?"

"Lord Glorfindel!" Legolas clutched the paper in his hand as if it were life itself – which to him, it was. "I have found him!"

"Aragorn's heir! In Chicago," he waved the paper, barely noticing how Glorfindel's eyes widened and a relieved smile flickered across his face. "Where is Lord Elrond? I must go to Chicago immediately!"

"What's this? Legolas Thranduilion going to Chicago without any navigators?" Legolas looked over his shoulder to see the sons of Elrond striding towards him, feet moving in perfect unison. "You can't get around Chicago without a native's help," Elrohir said, slinging an arm over Legolas' shoulder.

"And two natives are even better," Elladan added, also slinging his arm over Legolas' shoulder, but from the other side.

"Neither of you are natives of Chicago," Legolas pointed out amiably. "How can you be natives of a city that isn't even a tenth of your age?"

"Ah, but at least we've lived there within the last fifty years," Elladan replied.

"Actually, we've lived there all of the last fifty years," Elrohir said. "At least, in between business trips."

Glorfindel watched this whole exchange with an amused glint in his eyes before he finally interjected, "Lord Elrond has not returned from his office yet. Perhaps you would like to call him?"

Legolas considered this with bent posture, weighed down by a half-Elf on either shoulder. "If he shall return soon, I suppose I can wait," he said finally. "I need to pack and say farewell to Celebrían …"

"Whatever are you going to Chicago for, then, Legolas?" Elrohir asked innocently, prompting Glorfindel to laugh and Legolas to attempt to throw off the greater weight of the twins combined.

"Did you not hear a word I said besides 'Chicago'? I have found Aragorn's descendant!" Legolas said with somewhat falsified indignity. He was gratified to feel the slight stiffening of the twins' bodies and see the large grins that broke out on their faces.

"Father said you would be able to find him," Elrohir confided as the joking mood was replaced with something equally happy, but more subdued; he hugged the Silvan Elf firmly and smiled again. "Good work, Legolas!"

"It was mostly your father's efforts that allowed me to find him," Legolas said modestly, but Elladan shook his head.

"You may not realize it, Legolas, but although Aragorn was as a brother to us, you were his one of his greatest friends. In the last years of his life there was nothing he would keep from you – of that I am certain," the half-Elf said firmly. "And if Aragorn's descendant is anything like Aragorn himself, he will be grateful to know you." He paused. "Nay; it is Eru's will that he know you as his friend."

"Well said, Elladan, son of Elrond," said a strong, deep voice behind the little cluster of Elves. The Elves turned as one to face the speaker.

"My lords, Lord Olórin," presented Encirith, bowing formally and slipping away.

Author's Notes: Bainpeth, being the wonderful individual she is, actually made a picture of Legolas in modern-day clothes! Thanks to Orli Bloom and Bainpeth (and her mad PhotoSuite Skillz) for this picture: http://legolas.virtue.nu/UnblindedCUT.jpg Thank you, Bainpeth!

Elrond kept, to the best of his ability, very strict business hours. He left for the office building at eight-forty-five in the morning and made a point of being home by six-fifteen in the evening. This was not to say that if his work took longer that day he did not do it; occasionally he would return to the office building to finish whatever had to be done. But he was always home for dinner at six-thirty. It was the most important part of Elrond's day – a chance to be with his wife and sometimes the rest of what remained of his family, and his friends when they were present.

So it was that Elrond was a touch frustrated when his desk phone rang at five-fifty-five. He picked it up warily after a moment of debate; perhaps it was the vendor calling to inform him the silicon shipment would be late or early, and he couldn't afford to miss a phone call like that. Let this be quick! "This is Errol Payton."

Elrond recognized the voice immediately. "Lady Galadriel," he replied respectfully. "Isn't it rather late in Britain?"

Elrond corresponded with Galadriel nearly every day – usually by e-mail, but not always. The difference between time zones was something of an obstacle to using the phone. They had much to talk about; they were the joint heads of the two branches of Faensad, Inc. – the British branch and the American branch. And of course, there were the more … Elvish matters to consider. Usually it was these matters, concerning the Rise of Sauron, the Mirror, and other matters not known to Men, that drove Galadriel or Elrond to actually call one another.

"Indeed," Galadriel agreed to Elrond's statement. "I had considered calling you in the morning, but Celeborn agrees that we should not let this matter wait." She paused for a moment. "Elrond, Maglor has resurfaced."

Elrond blinked, attempting to digest the information. "Maglor Fëanorion?" he asked after a moment.

"Yes," Galadriel confirmed, her voice still smooth and rich, but touched by worry. "He arrived at our office building this morning; I had him sent to our home. It seems that his lust for the Silmarils has sustained his life for many thousands of years."

Elrond nodded as though Galadriel could see the motion. "I see," he said, his brow furrowing. "Hm. Now that does stir old memories."

It was an understatement of massive proportions. Maglor Feanorian was amongst Elrond's earliest memories of Middle-Earth. With a soft sigh, Elrond shut his eyes, and the image of a dark-haired Elf with intense eyes and a melodious voice flashed in his mind's eye, asking if he wanted anything to eat, please, eat something …

"Yes, it does," Galadriel said softly, her voice filled with motherly sympathy. "Will you be all right?"

"I suppose I shall have to be," Elrond answered simply. "I cannot say that I am not surprised; nor can I say I am pleased." Actually, he was relatively horrified, in a way muted by shock. The Elf who drove my mother to leave us … who killed all the Elves of Sirion … who took my brother and I from our home. He closed his eyes again, saddened by the memory of the slaughter – what he had seen of it – and the reminder of his brother, gone to the mortal fate.

"Of course not," replied his mother-in-law, her unearthly gentleness in her voice again. "It is the same response as had Celeborn, and I as well. But I do not doubt there is some hidden purpose in this."

"Yes …" Elrond agreed. "That is quite probable." Although the Valar were long out of reach, Elrond, like many Elves, did not doubt that Ilúvatar still touched the world. Perhaps Elrond did not see Eru's purpose in this, but it could not be coincidence. Such a legendary and influential figure so long fallen from Elven history, resurfacing in a time of such imminent danger? It was tantamount to the miraculous arrival of the several Free Peoples of Middle-Earth in Imladris ere the forming of the Fellowship. "I thank you for calling with this news. It may take me a while to digest."

"Take your time," Galadriel suggested evenly. "I am still somewhat in disbelief, and I have seen him with my own eyes." She paused again, respectfully allowing him another moment to think on the matter, before adding, "On another matter I am also concerned, Elrond; the entire world is again on the brink of war with Iraq, but they do not know what they are against. Iraq is strengthened by the Shadow; I fear for its people."

"I know," Elrond agreed, relieved a bit by the change in subject; he would have time to think about Adar Maglor's return in time. "And yet, there is so little we know. I cannot speak of this here, though."

"Yes, I had guessed," came the reply. "I bring this up because I would like to propose that we meet in person. There is much to discuss, and I would feel better if we did so face to face."

Elrond smiled slightly. Phones were useful in their own right, and they were preferable by far to the messengers that had to be sent back and forth in Arda, but they were still no substitute for meeting one another in person. "I would like that," he agreed – and just then, the phone beeped in his ear. "Ai. Galadriel, someone is on the second line."

"Then we will talk again soon," Galadriel said smoothly. "Farewell, Lord Elrond."

"Farewell," Elrond replied, waiting just a moment more before pressing the button for the second line and putting all matters of the Shadow and Maglor from his mind. He would dwell on that later. "This is Errol Payton."

"Elladan?" Elrond had had long practice telling apart his son's voices; it was more of a tonal difference than anything else. He glanced up at the clock; it was now six-oh-five. "I will be home shortly. Was there something you needed?"

Elrond raised his eyebrows at this news. "Oh, dear," he murmured, mostly to himself; he had meant to be home for the arrival. "Has Lord Glorfindel seen him yet?" he asked, almost dreading the answer.

"He was there when Olórin walked through the door," Elladan answered cheerfully.

"Elrohir and I successfully restrained him," Elladan said. "Did you really think we'd let dear Glorfie strangle Olórin alive?" he chuckled, using the long-forgotten nickname Elladan and Elrohir had given Glorfindel in their youth. "Although for a bit there we thought Mithrandir would burst into flames just from the glares he received from Glorfindel."

"Very nearly." Now he heard Elrohir's voice; he must have been listening in. "Glorfindel did not actually try to strangle Olórin, but it did look as if it were a near thing."

"Yes, they are separated and Mithrandir is alive," confirmed Elrohir. His voice sobered. "There is much Olórin wishes to talk to you about, and the Lady Galadriel as well. He is well pleased to find Legolas is already here as well, and he wishes us all to meet together."

Ilúvatar's will binds us all together. Elrond actually smiled slightly as Elrohir's words echoed Galadriel's. "I think that would be a grand idea," he replied. "But let me at least come home! It is already six-ten, and I will be back in only a quarter of an hour!"

But as he spoke, the phone was again handed off, and in a moment Elrond heard Legolas exclaim, "Lord Elrond! I have found Aragorn's descendant! Professor Allen Evanston, in Chicago … I would have waited to tell you, but I heard Elladan was calling you."

Elrond smiled serenely; he had felt this an inevitable conclusion, and thus was not too surprised, but it was still good for his heart to hear Legolas' words. "That is wonderful news," he agreed. "Tell me more when I—"

"Lord Elrond." Now it was Olórin's voice, his tone full of amusement and yet deadly serious. "How are you today?"

"In a bit of a hurry to get home," Elrond answered honestly, switching gears smoothly. "But it is good to hear your voice again! How fares you, Lord Olórin?"

"Quite well, quite well. Although Lord Glorfindel seemed less than happy to see me," he added. Elrond could practically hear the twinkle in his eye. "I did send my apologies. It simply wasn't feasible for me to send him any sort of correspondence until my search had come to an end."

"Search?" Elrond stood and began to pack his things into his briefcase, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder.

"Indeed. But I will explain further when you return," Olórin replied. "Oh. One more thing." Elrond could imagine the Maia raising one crooked finger. "I would like this young man Evanston to join us in a meeting."

"Yes, Elrohir told me of the meeting you proposed," Elrond nodded. "But what purpose would it serve for Evanston to be present? There is nothing that he will understand. Even now I debate what sort of message to send him with Legolas; he will have to have good reason to depart his home and come to New York."

"You do not have time for such ponderings," Olórin's voice became deathly serious; all amusement left his tone. "You must send Legolas Thranduilion on his way as swiftly as possible. For we are not the only ones who search for Aragorn's lost heir."

Elrond felt his heart grow heavy within him at the urgency in the Istar's tone. "I understand," he nodded slowly, "and I will be home soon. There we will discuss this further!"

"Yes," agreed Olórin. And then he laughed. "And we shall enjoy the good Lady Celebrían's cooking, for I can smell it even now!"

"Ai, do not torture me so with such news! I am already quite late," Elrond sighed, chuckling as well. "Farewell, Olórin – I will see you soon."

"Farewell, Elrond Peredhil," answered the Maia. "As always, may a star shine upon the hour of our meeting."

"Indeed! And may it bring hope as we have never known it," Elrond agreed before replacing the phone in its cradle and rushing out the door of his office – in a manner befitting the Lord of Imladris, of course.

Author's Notes: Another short chapter. This was meant to tie everything together a bit, and I hate how it turned out. Ugh. Too short, and too much subject-switching. *sighs* It'll have to do for now.

Oh, and if you're curious, you can assume all conversations took place in Sindarin.

"Ah, Chicago. Home sweet home," sighed Elladan, spreading his arms wide and throwing his head back as he, Elrohir, and Legolas stepped off the plane from New York City. "How I have missed you and your industrial smoke."

This drew the expected and desired snicker from Legolas, but Elrohir was not so amused. "Something is wrong," he murmured, completely ignoring his twin; Elladan let his arms drop to his sides as he listened. "I do not know what, but … the sense of the shadow is stronger here. Can you feel it?"

Legolas, who had already looked drawn and concerned in Elladan's opinion, nodded slowly at Elrohir's words. "I can," he admitted, becoming contemplative as they made their way in the press of the crowds to the baggage claim. But more alarming was when Legolas lowered his voice and murmured, "Heltha-ha i thiad o Yrch. Im al-isto i athrad sen heltha-ha."[i]

It was not a matter often discussed amongst the threesome (what times they were together), Elladan reflected, but Legolas' sense of the shadow and imminent threat was more acute than that of his half-Elven companions; it was, perhaps, one of the few weaknesses of the blood of Men in the twins' veins. However, the weakness worked both ways; Legolas was not as strong as Elrond's sons, nor as quick to adapt to the ever-changing modern world. In any case, when Legolas spoke of the sense of Orcs, the twins heeded him without question, despite the bizarre quality of the statement; Orcs had been wiped off the Earth long ago. "That is strange, but I do not doubt you," Elrohir replied softly, also choosing to speak in Sindarin. "Do you think that the Dark Lord has somehow managed to begin anew an army of those wretches?"

"It is possible," Elladan conceded worriedly, his brow wrinkled in consideration. Orcs were the product of the earliest Elven thralls of Morgoth, whom he had mutilated and tortured until they became the horrid, bent creatures that had beset Middle-Earth. Was Sauron strong enough now to perhaps capture a few Elves and begin building Orcs again? Or had some escaped notice all these thousands of years? So much is unknown! Elladan thought, frustrated, as he located and dragged his handbag off the baggage ramp.

Legolas shuddered slightly as he bent over to retrieve his suitcase from the revolving baggage claim. "I hope I am mistaken," he gave a heartfelt sigh. "Their destruction was one of the few blessings of the Breaking."

Elladan concurred on that matter, but he did not say so. "We should take precautions as if you are not," he counseled even as a wicked thought sprang to his mind. He allowed a slow, nasty smile to spread across his face until Legolas raised his eyebrows at him, almost daring him to speak what was on his mind. "And I think we have a few weapons you might want to consider carrying, Legolas."

It was Elrohir's cue, and he sprang upon the moment like a grasshopper in the spring. "Archery will only take you so far, my dear Mirkwood archer, and guns have improved considerably since the American Revolution."

"And the American Civil War," Elladan put in, throwing an arm over Legolas' shoulder to steer him to the waiting chaperoned car and noting with some delight that the Silvan Elf was beginning to give him the Look – a stern, royal stare that dared the twins to continue in this vein.

But of course we must take you up on that offer, Elladan thought sweetly as Elrohir continued, "Or even since World War I. You'd be amazed how precisely you can place a bullet even half a mile away, with a sniper rifle. Much better range than your bow—"

That was the breaking point; Legolas shot Elrohir a glare that could have cowed a Ringwraith when such things roamed the Earth. "I have not been blind these last fifty years," he informed the twins crisply, flicking his gaze to Elladan as if to remind the half-Elf that he, too, was part of the conversation. "I am quite up-to-date on the matter of firearms." And with that, he climbed into the back seat of the provided car.

He did not seem to feel as if any elaboration was necessary. Elladan climbed in after Legolas and Elrohir joined them; the latter son of Elrond directed the driver to the twins' apartment and they were off. "And what do you mean by up-to-date?" Elladan finally prompted.

Legolas ignored him for a moment in favor of searching his suitcase for something unspecified. He resurfaced empty-handed. "Just that," he finally replied.

"Oh, come now," Elrohir shook his head as he buckled his seat belt. "Can you shoot a gun? Well, I know you can shoot one, but are you any good with the modern version?"

Legolas just smiled a smile that promised a swift death to any enemy that crossed him. Truly the Elf had good reason to be wired; he would, with any luck, be seeing Aragorn's descendant that very evening. Elladan envied him, but the twins' meeting with their great-grandnephew to the nth degree would have to be delayed a bit – if only to prevent for the poor fellow the possible intimidation of meeting three very strange strangers at once.

Elladan grinned back. "I hope you brought a concealed weapon permit with you from your home, my friend."

"Of course," Legolas answered with the air of superiority that he was so good at conjuring. "One cannot face a Dark Lord without a weapon or two at his constant disposal, after all."

But Elrohir's face was drawn again, and Elladan knew his own features were a mirror image of his brother. "The threat seems to grow with each step we take," Elrohir murmured. "I pray only that we are not too late."

Allen Evanston trudged up the steps to his apartment and yawned. Grading student essays was not precisely conducive to clear thought; reading any large number of them at once seemed to have a numbing effect on his brain. After spending the last two hours of his workday doing just that (his assistant, a graduate student, had called in sick today), he wanted to eat a pint of ice cream, watch the news, and go to sleep. And he planned to do just that.

It was not that Allen hated his job – quite the opposite. He found his students to be on the whole very engaging and intelligent, a joy to teach, and the subject material had been his passion for years. There was something to be said for the natural remedies and herb usage of 250 years ago, and the pseudo-science of placebos, superstitions, and myth had played a great role in the world of medicine for many hundreds of years – even thousands. He loved teaching these things. And of late, the research team he had been working with had been making great progress. Just the other day he had received a report from one of his co-workers entailing the discovery of a few very ancient carvings in the French dig site depicting the use of some sort of healing herb that had not been seen depicted before. There is some sort of writing underneath the carving, but what it could mean is currently beyond us, the report had said. Carbon-dating puts the artifact at about 15,000 years of age. Which meant that herbal remedies had seen its start far, far earlier than Allen had ever dared imagine. He was planning to fly out to the site during the upcoming Christmas break and take a look.

It was just days like this – when the weather was windy, chilly, and a bit rainy, the classes were dull and the news slow, and the grades were due – that exhausted Allen.

He put the key in the lock to his small apartment – Allen made a goodly amount of money, but when one was a bachelor living alone there didn't seem a point to buying a large home – jiggled it just so, and opened the door.

He knew something was wrong the moment Huan, his dog, failed to greet him at the door. Huan was a relatively elderly mutt with a deep sense of dignity and routine. He always greeted Allen at his door with a bark, licking his hand gratefully, before trotting off to lay beside Allen's favorite chair until Allen either joined him or took him on his walk. But today, when Allen stepped into the front foyer, there was no Huan. Instead, there was frantic barking.

Huan was not a stupid dog, but neither was he cowardly; wherever he was, there was the threat that caused him to make so much noise. However, Huan's definition of a 'threat' ran from an armed robber to a trapped squirrel. Since the door remained locked and all seemed in order, the second seemed far more likely than the first. Allen sighed, somewhat amused, and trekked into the kitchen where Huan growled and barked, his hackles raised.

Allen froze when he found himself on the wrong end of a semi-automatic handgun. It rested in the hand of an average-built man in a neatly pressed black suit and sunglasses; Allen searched his face, but it was amazingly nondescript. "Good evening, Mr. Evanston," said the man calmly. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

Allen said nothing, surprised and unsure how to approach the situation. He felt panic surge up within himself, but he sternly pushed the rush of fear down. This was no time to lose his head. How did he get in here? Got to call the police. Don't try and fight him, it'll only cause trouble.. "What do you want?" he asked slowly, raising his hands. Huan continued to growl.

The man ignored the question. "Are you Elessar Telcontar's Heir?" he asked in the same cool, indifferent tone.

"Who?" Allen asked automatically, utterly confused. Elessar Telcontar? Is that Italian? "I don't know what you're talking about," he said more slowly when the questioner's eyebrows drew together in a slight frown behind his sunglasses.

Huan barked again. Allen patted his head and murmured, "Shh, Huan." But Huan continued to snarl low in his throat.

"You know not?" the man asked in that same toneless calm. "Then it does not matter." He hefted his gun as if to fire.

Several things happened at once, then. Allen's mind went into overdrive, managing to cram several hundred thoughts into the space of a second. I can't believe I'm going to die this can't be real! was predominant; he threw himself the ground and shouted for help. Huan sprang from the floor and sunk his plenty-sharp teeth into the man's hand. And the man dropped dead.

Allen blinked as his attacker slumped to the ground next to him, the side of his head ruined; he had the sickening thought that if the man's brain was no longer in his cranium, it had to be spread all over the kitchen floor. He shuddered instinctively; Huan whimpered softly, a keening noise, and released his grip on the man's hand.

Allen felt his eyes widen as the dead man's body seemed to waft away like so much smoke, leaving only a thin slip of paper with symbols scrawled across it. What … what was …

He didn't even realize he'd spoken aloud until he heard a disgusted noise and looked up to see yet another intruder – this one a tall, slim man with youthful features and his long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. He held a Browning handgun; a silencer had been screwed onto the end. "The new Orc," he said softly in answer before crossing the linoleum floor and crouching in front of Allen while Allen sat up. Huan started barking as soon as the stranger got too close; the man looked at Allen's dog and smiled slightly. "Be calm, friend," he murmured, scratching the dog's ears – and Huan fell silent, his tail wagging. "Are you all right?" the man asked Allen.

The Twilight Zone. I'm in the goddamned Twilight Zone! Nearly getting shot, men talking to dogs and bodies evaporating into thin air? What had happened to his life? "I don't know," Allen answered, placing a hand over his chest and willing his heart to stop beating quite so fast. "What the hell was that? And who on earth are you?"

The man gazed at Allen with deep green eyes that seemed somehow … inhuman. Unnerving. Somewhat uncomfortable, Allen looked away. "That was an attempt on your life, Allen Evanston," said the man evenly. "And I am … a friend." The man picked up the piece of paper that had been left behind by the man with long fingers and frowned at it. "There will be more men like that one," he continued, slipping the paper into his pocket. "The one who wants to kill you will not give up easily."

"Why would anyone want to kill me?" Allen asked, bewildered. "I never … I'm just a college professor! Who could I have pissed off so badly?"

"It isn't your profession, Dr. Evanston," the man said, catching Allen's eyes again. "It is your birthright and bloodline. This hatred extends millennia before you were even born."

Are you Elessar Telcontar's heir? The words came back to Allen. "Who is Elessar Telcontar?" Allen demanded.

The man raised his eyebrows delicately before shaking his head. "I will explain later. For now, we must get you out of your home. More of these men will come."

"Because I saved your life, and I could have put a bullet in your head five minutes ago but have not," the man's mouth quirked in a slight smile. "There are many explanations due you, but I would rather wait until you are out of danger." He offered his hand. Allen hesitated just a moment before taking it; the man helped him to his feet. "For now, please call me Lawrence. My real name will only cause you to have more questions, and we don't have time for that." Another half-smile. "I would like to take you to New York City, to a safehouse. Is that all right with you?"

"I … sure," Allen shook his head slightly and put his hand to temple. Too fast … "I need time to process this. What should I pack? How long will I be gone?"

"There is no need and no time for packing. I can and will buy anything you need."

"Huan?" Lawrence's gaze sharpened. "Your dog?" He scratched the dog's ears again, and Huan licked his other hand obligingly. "That is an … unusual name."

"Yeah, I suppose. He got the name from the family that owned his mother. I bought him as a puppy," Allen heard himself explain. "Why are we even talking about this? Can he come? Shouldn't I call the university?"

"You can call them later. Yes, Huan can and should come along." Lawrence was already walking out of the kitchen. "Come. Quickly."

Allen was beginning to feel Lawrence's urgency; he followed his rescuer without question. Huan faithfully followed them both, but as they approached the turn into the foyer, Huan suddenly barked fiercely again.

Lawrence seemed to sense the danger at the same time as the dog. "Get down!" he hissed, lifting the Browning again, just as three more men alarmingly identical to the first rounded the corner.

Allen didn't even have time to properly react. Three bullets later, all three men had their heads spattered across the wall and floor before they and their remains faded into slips of paper, just as the first man had.

Lawrence actually laughed. "I suppose it must seem so!" he exclaimed. "Now, come with me! I will take you someplace safe, and then I will explain, and you will think you truly have entered an entirely new world!"

Elladan and Elrohir were loitering in an alleyway about a block from Allen's apartment when Elrohir's cell phone rang. "Hello? Ah, Legolas." Elrohir beckoned his brother over to listen. "Already? Oh. Oh … No, we're coming. We will meet you in front of the apartment complex. Goodbye."

"I think that the Dark Lord may have inadvertently helped our cause," Elladan said as Elrohir hung up the phone.

"Thank Ilúvatar," Elrohir sighed, heading for the apartment building at a brisk walk. "If Allen is anything like his ancestor, he would have been stubborn to the end without an outside force to aid us."

"Indeed," Elladan agreed with less humor than usual, following his brother. "Yes … we are very blessed. Now, let us take advantage of that blessing before it turns on us!"

That quickly, the brothers moved as one, twisting so they were back to back; their hands came up in defensive postures. The first one to come within attacking range was kicked in the face by Elladan; Elrohir took the next one down with a mean left hook that caused the attacker to stumble into the man next to him. A knife flashed in the hand of a fourth man, but Elladan was too quick for him; he grasped the man by the wrist and twisted his arm, slamming his leg into the back of the man's knees so the buckled, sending him crashing to the ground with a cry of pain, his grip on the knife lost. Elrohir swept the weapon up from the ground and spun to meet the knife of the fifth attacker; they grappled for a moment while Elladan took one long stride past Elrohir to take on the two whom Elrohir had knocked to the ground earlier.

After a moment or two of straining with the man in a battle of pure strength, Elrohir finally twisted his knife so as to catch his attacker's blade on the hilt; at the same time he twisted around, coming within the man's defenses and driving the heel of his hand up into the man's jaw. The man grunted, thrown off-balance, and Elrohir pressed his advantage, taking the man's wrist while shoving him backwards bodily until both Elrohir and the man crashed to the ground, Elrohir laying upon the man's chest. The man's head cracked against the pavement, hard, and his entire body relaxed as he fell unconscious. Elrohir snatched the knife from the man's hand.

Meanwhile Elladan eyed the two that Elrohir had temporarily taken out at the beginning of the fight. They charged as one; Elladan sidestepped and stuck out his arm, slamming the crook of his elbow into the throat of one of the men. He collapsed, gasping for air, his throat sorely abused. The other turned on a dime and kicked fiercely, and Elladan took a step back, hopping and bending to avoid the foot coming towards his chest, then leaning back to stay clear of swinging fists. Finally he ducked his head, coming in below one wild punch, and slammed his own fist into the man's gut. Winded, the man bent over Elladan's shoulder, and Elladan flipped him onto his back as he straightened.

He turned to face Elrohir, who was holding two knives, one in each hand, and looking confused. "What was that?"

"A poorly executed attack?" Elladan cocked his head. "But this is strange. Do they not feel like … Orcs?"

Elrohir looked down at one of the unconscious, black-suited men, and nodded slowly. "These are not Men," he said flatly. "They are evil."

Elladan and Elrohir looked up as one to see Legolas approaching; beside him a large brown-black dog loped, and a dark-haired Man with square features and dark, intelligent eyes and a sturdy build followed. "Orcs of a new sort," Legolas said simply as he came to a halt before the twins. "Allen Evanston, these are my friends; they will help us keep you safe."

There was a moment of awkward silence while the bewildered-looking Allen blinked at the twins and the twins gazed back at him. "Estel's heir," Elrohir finally breathed.

"What is this about my being an heir?" Allen's voice was filled with tired exasperation. "I don't understand anything …"

"We don't have time," Legolas said with an air of repetition. "I will explain later." He looked at Elladan and Elrohir. "We must get him on a plane back to New York as quickly as possible."

Elladan was the first of the twins to shake off his moment of awe at seeing his great-great-great-etcetera grand-nephew. "Yes, quickly," he nodded, before smiling at Allen. "Do not worry. We want only the best for you."

Elladan snickered at that, but before he could retort, one of the Orc-men groaned and began to roll over. "Ah, our time is up. Let us go!" And with that, the foursome and the dog hastened out of the alleyway, Allen's safety foremost on their minds.

Author's Notes: Legolas is caught off-guard by the name 'Huan' because Huan was the great hound of the Valar in the First Age. He died defending Allen's great-great-great …. great-great grandfather, Beren. Yes, I love irony. How the dog ended up with such a name may or may not be seen.

[i] "It is the feel of Orcs. I know not how this can be." Legolas hasn't quite shaken off his Silvan Elvish, though; yrch is the plural form of 'orc' in Silvan, not Sindarin.

An hour later found Allen, Legolas, Elladan, and Elrohir on a plane to New York City. As promised, Legolas purchased Allen's plane ticket, a book for him to read (not that Allen had any interest in reading by that point), a shaving kit and a toothbrush; he explained that he would buy the man a wardrobe in New York. Huan was on the plane wherever pets were kept on such flights; Legolas had taken great care to assure Huan's welfare.

Allen, already exhausted from his day and the ordeal he had come home to, fell asleep promptly in the first-class seat. Privately, Legolas was a bit relieved; he needed to speak with Elrohir and Elladan.

"What is that?" Elladan inquired as Legolas held out the slip of paper with the scrawled symbols.

"It appeared when I killed one of those strange Orc-men," Legolas explained patiently. "The body dissolved and left only this slip of paper."

Elrohir took the slip from Legolas' fingers and examined it. "The writing is in kanji," he murmured, tracing the symbols. "This one means 'life' … the others are 'blood', 'death', and 'obedience'."

"On the contrary …" Elrohir thumbed the paper again. "I have not studied it as thoroughly as I ought, perhaps, but I wonder if there isn't a certain power in the writing. In Eastern countries such as China it is believed that blessed papers such as these, with protective writing on them, can act as a spiritual barrier against evil. However, if one altered the words from a protection to a life-giving 'spell', they would be considered to give life." He frowned. "I never believed in the power of such things, but if someone such as the Dark Lord were to somehow obtain hold of them … with the power he possesses, would he be capable of producing pseudo-life, perhaps?"

Legolas grimaced slightly. "It is well you have not studied this art too carefully, for it seems far too often that those who study the dark arts fall headlong into them. It is the sorcery of the Dark Lord, to be certain."

Elladan took the paper from his brother, then. "We should give this to Father so he can study it as well," he observed, slipping the paper into his pocket. "I'll take it off your hands, Legolas – you have enough on your plate as it is." He glanced at the slumbering Allen and smiled slightly.

He gazed in abject amazement at the gigantic contraptions, built entirely out of 'metal', that were actually flying through thin air and landing gracefully (if noisily) upon the black 'pavement' of the 'runways'. "How do they do it?" he asked softly of Celeborn. "Something that large could not possibly fly without flapping its wings, and this 'metal' it is made of is so heavy … it makes no sense!"

Celeborn shrugged, a barely perceptible movement of his shoulders. "That is something you should ask the mechanics of this age. I know not how they manage it … but I assure you, airplanes are trustworthy as a flight method."

Maglor made no reply, still impressed and somewhat doubtful. "There must be sorcery involved," he said instead.

"Nay, Maglor." Celeborn actually laughed softly. "The Men of this age have lost all knowledge of Power, and few seek out the arts of Morgoth or his servant the Dark Lord Sauron. No; these machines fly entirely by the understanding of the laws of the universe as Ilúvatar set them."

It was still difficult to believe. After all, if something like this could fly by rules that Ilúvatar himself had set in place, why had the Elves not developed this ability? They were much greater scholars than the Secondborn had ever been. How could Men have possibly surpassed Elves in this realm …?

Maglor glanced to his left to see Artanis standing there, dressed impeccably in a dark gray business suit, half her beautiful golden hair that Maglor's father had so worshipped flowing over her shoulders to the middle of her back. Her chin was held high, her gaze even and directed to the window, beyond which where the airplanes landed and took off. Every inch of her was flawless as ever.

"Galadriel." Celeborn moved past Maglor to take Artanis' hand. "All is prepared?"

Inwardly, Maglor felt a subtle distaste. That Artanis had chosen a name given to her by one of the Sindarin – by one related to the stubborn King Elwë, no less! – left a foul taste in his mouth. It was like a sign that she had truly left behind her Noldorin origins, and it burned him slightly. You and I, Artanis, we are nearly the last of our breed of Elves, and yet you choose the name of a Twilight Elf … but he held his peace. The twinge of anger that name caused within him paled in comparison to the crushing sadness of the loss of Valinor and the chance to ever again see his family alive and well; it paled in comparison to the yearning for the Silmaril, and the confusion this altered world caused within him. Everything was changed … absolutely everything … and Maglor found himself mourning how things had once been, bloodstained as they were.

"We will be able to board the plane in a quarter hour," Artanis replied to her husband, bringing Maglor back to the present. Her gaze shifted to Maglor, and her burning eyes held his for a long moment. "How fares you, cousin?" she asked finally.

"You burn with jealousy," she observed shrewdly, "and distaste. Am I to be led to understand that you are displeased with the arrangements?"

Artanis had always played a mean game of chess; her strategy was always subtle, but cunning, and so it was now. But Maglor, although always more blunt than his half-cousin, was hardly an easy opponent. "You put so much trust in these contraptions of Men, Artanis."

"And well I should. Not all Men are traitors, Maglor." She smiled slightly, a compassionate smile. "Today, no Man would even know what to betray, and whom to betray to. They have left that knowledge behind them, and so embraced life." Now her smile seemed to be at a private joke. "They do not seek to kill us, and their mechanics are not evil." But this is not about the plane, is it, Maglor? Her eyes asked.

Celeborn knew what was happening, too; his gaze was shrewd as his wife's. Maglor caved; it does not matter what she calls herself, and if she says the 'plane' is safe, than it is! "I understand," he murmured.

Artanis shook her head slightly and sadly. "We are going to Lord Elrond's home," she pointed out. "Are you ready for that?"

Celeborn had told Maglor this several hours before, so he had taken some time to process that. The last time he had seen young Elrond – nay, not so young! – the half-Elf had been approaching Elven adulthood, a sapling of a mere 60 years. Maglor bit his lip to think of it; he remembered coaxing stubborn mouths open, enticing twins to eating with the smell of freshly roasted venison; he remembered frustration and guilt and sickness. I drove their parents away from them! Forgive me, Elrond, Elros … forgive me, twin sons of Elwing! "I cannot say I am ready," Maglor finally answered unsteadily. "I do not know what to expect, nor what Elrond thinks of me now, with the weight of time between us …" It is as if only yesterday you were a child in my arms. Ai, Elrond, Elros, the wrongs I have done you … He cleared his throat. "Tell me, whatever became of the other halfling, Elros? You have not mentioned him in all this time."

Artanis' gaze saddened again, and before she spoke Maglor knew the answer. "He is long dead, Maglor Feanorian. He chose, in the end, the path of mortality, by his right as a son of Eärendil the Mariner."

"Ah …" Maglor closed his eyes against the pain of knowledge. Elrond must have been consumed with grief. He was always the more compassionate of the two. He remembered, briefly, a very young Elrond crying in sympathy when his brother fell and skinned his knee; Elros would never have cried had their positions been reversed. Nay, he would have comforted with dry eyes. "Why would he choose the fate of the Secondborn?" he murmured.

Artanis narrowed her gaze, and Maglor burned with shame. "Why this contempt for Men, Maglor? What have they done to cause your distaste?"

"Look about you and tell me they are not distasteful," Maglor retorted in the midst of his shame. "Look what they have done to the natural beauty of the world! Look upon their past – their own history books that chronicle their battles amongst themselves over such petty matters as land!"

"Land?" Celeborn's voice rose, and Maglor looked upon the Sindarin Lord to see boiling anger well contained by the Elf Lord's naturally calm demeanor. "Look upon your own past, Maglor Fëanorian, and do not speak so vainly! How many times must you speak thus before you remember your own slaughters over something even more petty than land? What has your precious Silmaril gained you, you foolish Elf?"

Maglor blinked, taken aback, and cursed himself. Ai, you fool, you fool! Again you curse yourself with silly words! No sin of the Unfaithful Houses of Men can match your own folly. Never speak thus again! "I am a fool," he acknowledged aloud. "Forgive me; forgive me my damned tongue!"

Celeborn's anger subsided somewhat. "You are forgiven," he murmured. But Artanis looked upon him with pity, and Maglor chafed under her gaze.

"Maglor, we cannot pretend to understand the minds of Men; nay, not even the minds of the half-Elves, a realm apart from any other! But when Elros chose his fate, he laid the path for the greatest of Men to rise in the time of greatest need. Ilúvatar's purpose, Maglor! You must not forget that there is a plan greater than ours."

"Lord Celeborn? Lady Galadriel?" An aide with bright eyes and a Nandorin accent spoke up. "Your plane is ready."

Ilúvatar's plan … ai, I cannot see even a glimpse of it! But I know this: my own plans fall only into ruin.

"Allen?" A serene, intent face framed by golden hair and set with bright green eyes was near his own. "Please wake up. I must speak with you before the flight is over."

Plane. First-class seat … Lawrence. Men in Black … Allen sat up, beginning to remember that he was in the middle of a strange adventure resembling The Matrix. "Agent Smith here or something?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He'd had dreams less strange than the reality he'd walked into.

He hadn't really meant for the question to be heard, but Lawrence laughed anyway. "No … and I am not 'Morpheus'. Did you need a drink of water? Is there anything I can get you?"

"No, I'm okay." Allen was just about all the way awake now. "You don't look like Morpheus, anyway. So … what's up?"

Lawrence settled back into his own seat opposite Allen; his gaze was concerned and considering. "There is quite a bit we need to discuss with you. There is much more to what is happening to you then just those men in your apartment."

Allen was pretty sure he could take just about anything at this point. Men disappearing into slips of paper, attacking him out of the blue and for no immediately apparent reason? And that was just the beginning? "Bring it on," he said simply, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Nothing could surprise me now."

Lawrence raised one eyebrow delicately. "Oh no?" he smiled wryly. "You think this resembles The Matrix." He paused; his gaze was inscrutable. "What would you think, then, if I told you that you have walked into a fantasy?"

Lawrence shook his head, his eyes never leaving Allen. "I do not know how best to say this. Here …" he rose gracefully out of his plush seat and bowed. "Allen Evanston, my name is Legolas Thranduilion, an Elf of the land once known as Greenwood the Great. And you are the descendant of Elessar Telcontar, the Elfstone, the King of Gondor, and one of my dearest friends – a Man who walked this world some 14,000 years ago. It is for this reason that those strange Men seek your death – you are a potential threat to the mission of their master, the Dark Lord Sauron. To protect you from this, I and my companions wish to take you to one of the greatest Lords still walking this Earth – Lord Elrond Peredhil, the half-Elf." He rose from his bow. "Those are the bones of the matter."

Allen blinked. Twice. And when he found his voice, all he could say was, "Forget The Matrix. I've walked into The Lord of the Rings!"

Author's Notes: The Orc-Men? I'm stealing some ideas from Eastern mysticism and the Japanese comic book X/1999: Their Destiny was Foreordained, which makes use of enemies much the same as these – complete with the glasses and nice suits. Congratulations to Ambariel for catching this reference (at least sort of)! When I came up with the idea I actually wasn't thinking about the Matrix at all – I was thinking of the strange evaporating men in X/1999.

Lawrence – no, Legolas – laughed, a melodic, inhuman – yes, inhuman was the word for it – sound full of the joy of nature and life. "Indeed! So you are familiar with that trilogy?"

"'Familiar, no … I read the books when I was in college," Allen reflected dazedly. This really was too weird. This was going beyond weird, into the bizarre. This belonged on Ripley's Believe it or Not.

I saw men dissolve into nothing before my eyes. This can't be more unbelievable than that. But somehow it was. The Lord of the Rings was a fantasy novel. Allen had spent his entire life believing it was nothing more and nothing less than a good yarn, and now he was talking to a guy claiming to be Legolas Green-something-or-other (Greenleaf. Yes, that's it), the Elven part of the Fellowship. Elves were immortal, weren't they? That part of the book was fuzzy. He did remember Aragorn, though. And Frodo, the Hobbit, and his friend Sam, and Gandalf … and the name Elrond was vaguely familiar, too ...

Oh, right, and he couldn't forget that supposedly he was the descendant of Aragorn … the guy who became the King …

Lawrence had sobered for the most part and had sat back down in his chair, but his bright eyes still danced with amusement. "Mr. Tolkien was impressively accurate with his recording. One can only assume that he did indeed find the Red Book … or perhaps it was given to him. In any case, he was a master translator of not only Elvish, but Westron, and The Lord of the Rings is clearly drawn mainly from Samwise Gamgee's account. He was such a cheerful fellow – a lot more bright than anyone gave him credit for."

Allen listened in silent amazement. Either this man – if man he was! – was pulling a horrible prank on him (not likely, since those men in black had definitely been shot and had definitely disappeared before Allen's eyes), was crazy and believed he was Legolas Greenleaf, or … he really was Legolas Greenleaf. Allen thought back to reading the book and tried to remember what he'd thought Legolas would look like. Tall and thin. Probably laughing a lot because nothing ever seemed to bother him too much. Pointy ears because Elves had to have pointy ears, they were Elves—

Oh my god what the hell is that?? Allen jumped as his eyes came to settle unconsciously on Lawrence's ear … which looked almost exactly like a normal human ear, except the gentle slope at the top of the ear came to a very distinct point. He hadn't noticed before because it was so natural-looking on Lawrence, and so … well, subtle. And Lawrence's ears weren't very noticeable against his blond hair. "You … you have …" Allen began, trying to articulate himself like the professor he was. Saying 'pointy ears' just didn't seem dignified … and he wasn't sure if it would be insulting. Were they real?

"Pointy ears?" Okay, so it wasn't insulting. Lawrence laughed again, but it was more subdued – almost a chuckle. "I can see you don't quite believe your eyes, Mr. Evanston. Would you like to touch them to tell if they're real?"

Allen stared at him. "You're really an Elf?" He couldn't keep the incredulous tone from his voice.

There was a moment of silence as they gazed at one another, and Allen was the first to look away, eyes wide with amazement. "You must be," he said with open wonder. "You must …"

Legolas – yes, definitely Legolas – now seemed concerned. "It may take you a while to digest things. I understand, but it is still absolutely necessary we move you quickly to Lord Elrond's home."

'A while' wasn't a sufficient statement for how long this was going to take to sink in. Allen felt as if he could wait several lifetimes before he fully believed that he was talking to a living, breathing Elf who had walked with fictional characters (non-fictional characters?) 14,000 years ago on a trip he had read about in a fantasy book.

Of course, if Legolas had already lived for 14,000 years, then 'a while' could very well be several human lifetimes to him. "This is just a little … well, really overwhelming," Allen said after a bit. "Fourteen thousand years … that's a lot of time …"

"That makes you unbelievably old …" Allen rubbed his temple. An Elf! Really! "You're telling me that The Lord of the Rings really took place 14,000 years ago?"

"And I'm the descendant of Aragorn … Strider. The guy who became the King of Gondel …"

"Gondor," Legolas corrected Allen, his accent rolling the entire word in a completely different manner than Allen's American tongue did. "And yes."

Allen blinked, trying to recall more of the books. "You made friends with the Dwarf. Gimli."

He wasn't sure why it caught him off-guard, on reflection, but he was surprised to see Legolas' eyes become distant and sad. "Yes, I did. He was a good friend. I nearly followed him into death from the grief of his passing."

"And what about Aragorn?" Allen couldn't help asking when Legolas' pensive features softened a bit.

Legolas' smile was still sad, but there was a touch of amusement there. "He too was a good friend of mine, if not as close as Gimli. But he had a much greater responsibility on his shoulders than either I or the Dwarf, and as such we were not able to strike as tight a bond." The amusement in his smile grew. "His son was a fascinating individual."

If Allen hadn't been convinced before, he was now; Legolas was, after all, definitely an Elf (or something not human, at least), and his recollections were so vivid, and his entire face came to life … it was too good to be faked. Now to try and digest this … "So we're going to see Elrond. Who lives in New York City."

Allen's recollections of the character Elrond in The Lord of the Rings was dim. He remembered Elrond being a pretty cheery fellow in The Hobbit, though (something he had read so long ago it didn't bear thinking about). "He's an Elf, right? I've forgotten."

"It's been a long time since I read the books," Allen defended himself. "I'm not a huge fan of fantasy novels. Er … you know what I mean."

The Elf nodded. "Yes, I know," he agreed with a slight quirk of his lips. "Lord Elrond is a half-Elf. He's your many-times-great-granduncle."

Now that was almost as weird as thinking he was related to the (non?)fictional character Aragorn. "You really believe you can trace my bloodlines back to Middle-Earth, don't you?" Allen said, disbelieving.

Legolas shook his head. "Nay, Allen. I am certain I can." His bright eyes harbored no doubts.

Allen then shook his head as well, but the gesture was one of confusion rather than denial. "This is all a little hard to swallow. I mean, I believe you're an … an Elf … but … just give me a little time, all right?"

Again the Elf nodded graciously, patting Allen's hand gently. "I expected nothing else, and I thank you for your patience and confidence in my friends and I."

Allen laughed mirthlessly. "Hey, some really unexplainable things have happened to me. I gotta believe something, right?"

"I suppose," Legolas allowed, "But you could have believed many things instead of what I have told you."

"You're the one that saved me," Allen pointed out, shaking his head and trying to decide if this was still a dream. He'd probably wake up in a few minutes to Lawrence shaking his shoulder and offering a more rational explanation. Rubbing his eyes, he asked, "So, who are your companions?"

"They cannot wait to get to know you better," Legolas replied. "But I can see that you have reached your capacity for today. It is best you get some rest, Allen."

Allen wanted to argue, but the truth of the matter was he was already tired again. "Will the world be back to normal when I wake up again?" he asked dryly as he closed his eyes.

Legolas' tone was disappointed and understanding at once. "I'm afraid not. It will probably only be stranger."

"I was afraid you'd say that," Allen muttered just as he slipped back into a light doze.

It was strange, Elrond Peredhil reflected, that even when the world was approaching the brink of destruction, life continued onwards as usual.

He was wrestling with the tax files on the computer in his study when Celebrían rapped her knuckles on the doorpost and called his name gently. He looked up, and as always she was a vision of beauty. "Yes, Celebrían?"

She smiled and came into the study, walking around him and putting her arms around his shoulders. "I love you," she said, her head against his.

"And I, you," Elrond murmured, turning his head slightly so as to see her face from the corner of his eye. "I fear I will never understand those who claim Galadriel is the most beautiful Elf roaming the Earth, when the child she begat is clearly more lovely."

Celebrían chuckled. "Mm, you're biased, love," she observed, managing at once to agree and disagree with Elrond's assessment. After all, she would never insult her own mother. "What are you working on?"

"Tax forms. Assuring everything is in order for the financial quarter. Damn the IRS to the Void," Elrond grumbled. While it was true that the grunt work was done by Elrond's employees, Elrond took it upon himself to verify the numbers. It never hurt to be thorough.

His wife radiated sympathy, even as she reached out to the keyboard with one hand, pressing the Page Down button and scanning the numbers. "At a glance, all seems well," she observed.

"Yes …" Elrond agreed, allowing a soft sigh to escape him. Of course it was not the numbers that were bothering him so much. On the back of his mind was Evanston, and now also the meeting with Galadriel, Celeborn, and …

Elrond was torn between the desire to sigh again and laugh; how well Celebrían knew him! "I have long thought him dead," Elrond responded evenly. "Lady Galadriel's news was quite a shock."

Celebrían made a sympathetic noise and squeezed her arms around him gently. "I know, my love, I know. Would that I could take away the pain his memory brings you."

Elrond closed his eyes and basked in his wife's softly radiant presence. He had chosen the fate of the Elves, and thus was granted their eternal memory; he recalled with perfect clarity the bloody day his mother had thrown herself into the Sea, recalled the twisting anguish in his heart. He remembered his brother's arms wrapping around him as they both cried in vain to her, the roars and cries of battle at their backs; the stench of blood was heavy in the air. The ocean crashed mercilessly, and Mother was gone, lost to the twin brothers forever …

A heavy hand fell upon his shoulder. "What, now, is this? The twin sons of the Mariner?" The voice was cold and angry, and Elrond trembled with fear and clutched Elros' clothes. "Where is the Silmaril?"

"Brother, brother! They are but children; they cannot know of what you speak." The second voice was gentler, more kind; it flowed with natural grace as though he sang his words. Elros dared to turn, and Elrond turned with him; the pair of Elves they faced were tall, bloodstained, and fell in grief and anger. One had no right hand, and he drew his sword with his left; he held it high. The other's sword was sheathed; his hands were crossed.

"Certainly they know! They are the sons of the leader of this village! If they will not tell then I will kill them. There will be no sorry goose chase this time, Maglor!"

Elrond caught his cry of fear upon his teeth, and Elros' fists tightened against Elrond's back.

"Look at them and have pity, Maedhros! They are but children. They will tell you nothing if they are afraid," reasoned Maglor.

His calm voice had effect upon his angry brother; Maedhros lowered his voice and his sword. "Very well," he said between clenched teeth. "Then they will come with us. And they will tell us of the Silmaril before the moon's light shines full!"

Elrond dredged himself up from the memories and drew a pained breath. "Ai, Celebrían, that Elves killed Elves for a jewel … but of the seven brothers Fëanorion, Maglor was perhaps the best-hearted. He was no cruel captor; it was he that released my brother and I. And I am told that he alone of all the brothers attempted to renounce their accursed Oath." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Nonetheless, I find it hard at times to forgive him for driving Mother into the Sea."

Celebrían nodded; Elrond felt it rather than saw it. "And yet, my love, she did not die, but passed into the arms of your father, and together they brought down the wrath of the Valar upon fell Morgoth." She kissed her husband's cheek ere she continued. "Had she not brought the Silmaril of the Sky to him, they might still today be wandering the Sea. Ilúvatar's purpose reigns supreme always, dear Elrond. Remember that, and may it help you overcome your grief."

Elrond was first tempted to be in a foul mood; he was surprised at himself, for he did not consider himself one to wallow in self-pity. He fought down the urge, and he knew his wife was right. He smiled slightly. "Ah, Celebrían, you earn the title 'Wise'," he said softly.

Galadriel's daughter hugged him gently again, and she straightened. "Does that help you, Elrond?"

"It does." It was not a magic pill, for Elrond still did not look forward to seeing the ancient, long-lost Elf, but no longer did he dread it as he had. "Thank you for speaking with me."

"I consider it my duty to help keep you in line. Allowing one's husband to be angry with a houseguest throughout his stay can hardly be considered good practice," Celebrían replied with a gracious smile. "I hope you can now concentrate on your tax files. I saw an error in the second row."

"Ai! Thank you," Elrond acknowledged her as he turned back to the computer to fix the mistake.

Author's Notes: For anyone concerned that my story will now be a retelling of The Lord of the Rings, only taking place in the modern day, let me assure you this will not happen. Tolkien told the story well, and I certainly have no wish to retell it! The original is always the best, I say.

There is an interesting story about Elrond and Elros getting their names from when they were found directly following the captivity with Maglor and Maedhros, but it was an earlier version of their history, when the sack of Sirion took place before the twin brothers' third birthday. In this version I have chosen to set their ages at 6 or so, as in the 'final' version of the battle. But as with many Tolkien dates, this is open to interpretation.

Allen had long since reached 'smile and nod' territory when Legolas and his two companions (his distant cousins and many-times-great granduncles, apparently) finally escorted him into the home of Lord Elrond Half-Elven.

The two Elves ('No, no, Allen, we are half Elven,' the short-haired one had patiently corrected him) that he was supposedly related to were dark-haired and grey-eyed like himself, but they were tall and thin as Legolas was – if a bit more broad-shouldered, and more natural-looking when they walked. (Legolas' gait seemed to be effortlessly silent. It was disturbing to watch.)

"Legolas has told us you study the history of medication," said the short-haired one as they stood in the elevator – Elohir, or Elrohir, or something like that. Allen found it slightly difficult to roll their foreign names along his tongue as the three others did.

Allen jumped slightly at the statement, having been again lost in thought as he tried to accept what was happening, and had to pause a moment to think. It seemed as if his job was a lifetime away, even though he had been at the college that very morning. What time was it, anyway? One in the morning? They had crossed two time zones, after all … "Ah, yes … yes, that's what I teach."

"Mm. Is it an interesting field?" inquired Elrohir. "If there is anything you wish to know about it, our father will know. Elrond was a master healer, and I daresay he hasn't lost his touch, even with all the new inventions Men are coming up with every day." Elrohir sounded as if he were impressed not only with his father (who happened to be the illustrious Lord Elrond they were meeting; Allen was still goggling a little at this), but also with Men.

Allen only just remembered that Elrohir had begun with a question. "Yes, it's very interesting," he said, taking comfort in the familiarity of the subject. "I'm part of an effort on a French site – we've discovered signs of a very advanced civilization—"

"Gondor?" asked the long-haired one then (Elladen? No, Elladan), his grey gaze sharp with interest. "You have found Gondor?"

Allen was confounded for a moment. "How would we find Gondor? It's not even—" He cut off before he said 'real'. After all, it was real, wasn't it? It had existed … and his many-times-great-grandfather Aragorn had ruled it … "It's … I don't know," he finished, now wondering. Had they found Gondor? Perhaps they had …

"I have long suspected Gondor would be located in what is now called France," Legolas confided. "Geographically, it would have to be in the mainlands of Europe."

I am standing, Allen thought, between three walking historical encyclopedias, and all I can think is that I cannot believe it.

By the time the elevator doors had opened, Evanston looked utterly confounded. Every question caught him off-guard; he was constantly lost in thought, and he seemed to have even forgotten to blink.

Elrohir had suspected this would happen, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Evanston would have no choice but to swallow everything whole or choke upon it and go mad; regardless, he had to be here. There was no place safer.

It was Airelond that answered the door; upon seeing the three Elves and their human companion, he smiled and bowed them in. "I will go inform Lord Elrond of your arrival," he said, leaving the hall; Elrohir turned to Evanston and took his coat from him, hanging it on the rack along with his own.

"He was an Elf, too, right?" Allen asked, nodding after the housekeeper. "Is everyone here an Elf?"

"Yes, and yes," Elrohir replied. "You are the first human to know about the existence of Elves in some ten thousand years." He was vaguely amused when Evanston gaped for a moment at the thought.

And so he did, sweeping around the corner in amazingly regal fashion considering it was the dead of night. His hair was still done formally, and his clothes were neat. "Legolas, my sons," he greeted simply, before his gaze fell on Evanston. "Mr. Allen Evanston. Welcome to my home." He smiled benevolently.

Elrohir's gaze flicked back to Allen when the man swallowed. "Thank you," he said uncertainly, stepping forward and offering his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister … Lord Elrond?"

Elrohir felt guilty when the urge to laugh came to him; his brother was biting his lip, eyes bright with amusement. The shorter-haired son of Elrond felt that it was in his father's credit that his smile did not change as he returned Allen's handshake firmly. "You may call me Elrond, or Mr. Payton if it makes you feel more comfortable," he replied, "And the pleasure is all mine. Please, come with me; we have much to discuss." Gently he guided Evanston towards the dining room; with a small gesture he indicated that Legolas, Elladan, and Elrohir should not follow.

"Well," said Elladan after a brief moment, switching back to Sindarin in the absence of Allen, "We will just have to hope that Father doesn't scare him too much."

"I have full trust in Lord Elrond," Legolas said smoothly. "If anyone will be able to put Allen at ease, it will be him."

Elrohir just smiled. "Perhaps we should all get some sleep, then, since there is nothing more to do here."

Glorfindel was pouring himself coffee. "That's good to hear," he replied, offering a small smile to the Maia. "Would you like some?" He held up the coffee pot.

"Yes, thank you," Olórin said, seating himself at the kitchen table. Glorfindel nodded and retrieved a second mug, bringing it to the table and setting it before the older 'man'. "I am most grateful."

"Certainly. The taste is addicting," Glorfindel replied, sitting across from Olórin and sipping his own drink. He looked over the mug at the Maia. "Everyone must think I was in a murderous rage regarding you. Elladan and Elrohir, the young things, think it funny to tell everyone I sprang at your throat. And you are not helping," he added when Olórin smiled.

"Come, now, Glorfindel," he said gently. "You are an even-keeled Elf; no one thinks that you truly saw red."

"I was more irritated than I should have been," Glorfindel admitted then. "Your decision was wise, but I was not pleased to think you had purposely led me on a goose chase."

"I only pointed you in the wrong direction when you came too close to finding me," Olorin replied, sipping his coffee. "You are discreet, but should someone else be following the clues without your knowledge, I did not want to be found accidentally. And it set back the Enemy, at least briefly. Although I am afraid we have lost the advantage of surprise." He shook his head.

Glorfindel sighed, running his fingers through his golden hair. "It is the toughest chess game played." He looked up at Olórin. "What of the other Istari? Know you their fate?"

"Saruman was reduced to nothing when Wormtongue laid a knife into his back," Olórin murmured. "He was a traitor to the Valar and yet was not on Melkor's side, and so his soul is lost, somewhere. I know not where. Radagast …" he shook his head. "He may yet roam this world. I have not seen him since before the Breaking. And the Blue Wizards who went East are said to have turned to the dark arts of Power – I do not know if they survived the Breaking either. Regardless, they cannot help us now."

"So none turned back or have contacted you. A shame," Glorfindel answered. He looked at the clock. "Three in the morning! And here we sit drinking coffee. Old fogies like ourselves should be sleeping."

"Indeed," laughed Olórin, draining the last of his cup. "I suppose we should." He stood up. "Tomorrow, my old friend, you must be a support to dear Elrond. Maglor will come."

Glorfindel nodded, finishing his coffee. "I know. I will," he replied. "Thank you."

Evanston was relieved to find that all his nervousness had been misplaced. Lord Elrond Peredhil was not the stern, overbearing half-Elf he had imagined, but a kind, fatherly figure, patient and careful.

"… and so it was that my father aided the Valar in their victory over Morgoth," Elrond said, finishing yet another tale of Middle-Earth. "That was the end of the First Age."

Allen smiled. Elrond was like a storybook, full of fascinating tales of valor and strength. "That's only the First Age?" he asked softly. "You said there were two more?"

"Three," Elrond replied evenly, holding up three fingers for emphasis," But I know little about the Fourth Age. For tales of that, you must turn to my sons."

Allen rubbed his eyes. It was still hard to believe that all these wild tales were actual history. "It's all so … the tales have such mythic proportions," he said finally.

"They do," Elrond agreed. "For a scholar such as yourself, they must be hard to swallow. I do not expect you to fully believe any of this, or to even comprehend it as such – I am merely requesting that you treat it as the truth until you can accept it."

The Man nodded slightly. "… I've seen some things that science can't explain," he said. "Men that disappeared into slips of paper, and people with pointed ears and eyes that are … not human." He gazed at Elrond. "I know I should accept it. I just don't know if I can within the next year, much less by tomorrow."

"Faith," Elrond said, "is hard to have." He sat back in his chair again. "Would you like more coffee, or would you like to go to bed? We can continue this in the morning."

"I would prefer to sleep, if that's all right," Allen replied gratefully. He hesitated for a moment before continuing, "Elrond … thank you for the history lesson." He smiled down at himself, standing up. "Whether I believe it or not, I'm grateful to be less … lost."

Elrond's smile was a gentle one, like a father to a son. "You are handling this admirably." He began to leave the room. "Follow me to one of the guestrooms."

The doorbell rang as Allen was following Elrond up the stairs; he looked down to see the Elf that had greeted himself at the door answering the door again. "Yes, sir—?"

But the Elf was cut off when a joyful bark rang through the house, and there was an audible 'oof!' as Huan – it could be no other dog – bounded free of the bellhop's hold on the leash and dashed up the stairs to tackle Allen. He licked Allen's hands and whined his happiness, then moved on to Elrond, who was blinking at the large dog.

"Uh, my dog, Huan," Allen said apologetically as Huan sniffed Elrond suspiciously, decided he wasn't a threat, and trotted down the stairs to Allen's side again. "He had to come late because of the arrangements for the flight. Is it all right if he stays?"

Elrond blinked at the name of the dog, and then laughed. "Yes, certainly," he said. "I think it would break his heart to be separated from you for long." He shook his head, leading the way again, and Allen thought he heard the half-Elf murmur, "Huan … ah, how Celeborn would laugh to hear that name."

Celebrían was the first to arise the next morning. She kissed her sleeping husband's cheek, wrapped her robe around her nightgown, and took herself to the bath, where she enjoyed a shower (a genius invention, to be sure). She wrapped her wet hair in a towel and chose a blue dress that zippered up the back and fell to her toes – simple, but elegant, and easy to wear. Her hair would dry with time.

Today there would be many guests and important matters discussed. It was best to start the day well – with a good, hearty breakfast.

Maglor was relatively sure that he was now immune to any strangeness of the world of Men. Nothing would impress him as much as the flying metal birds called 'airplanes' – not even the moving stairs, or the boxes that carried people straight up and down on metal-twined ropes. Ropes!

The things the Secondborn invented! But Maglor had worn out his suspicion, and instead found himself fascinated. Not even the Noldor had imagined these things, not in their wildest thoughts! He could do naught but shake his head and watch in amazement.

So it was that he was almost relieved to see the hand-carved door of Elrond's home. He touched the patterns there lightly. "My nephew?" he asked softly of Artanis. "Is this the work of Celebrimbor?"

"It is," replied the Lady, a shadow passing over her face. "He lives on even now, in the countryside of France – it is across one of the seven seas of this world," she continued before Maglor could ask. She slipped one hand to cover the other, and then Celeborn's hand slid between them, taking her covered hand in his. Maglor looked away.

And as he did so, the door was opened by an Elf Maglor did not know. The Elf bid them come inside, and as Maglor stepped clear of the door and made room for Artanis and Celeborn, he looked up to see Elrond Peredhil, son of Eärendil the Mariner.

If time stretched or passed, Maglor did not know it, as he gazed upon a face he had known best when it was much younger. His arms were crossed before him; he wore a sweater and slacks in the style of many Men in this age, and his hair was grown out long in the style of the Elves. His features were grim and silent. But there could be no doubt; this was the younger half of the twins born to Elwing and Eärendil, even though the half-Elf's eyes held even more grief and pain than they once had.

Never had Maglor imagined such a meeting, and all the words he had thought to say fled him. He could only watch in silence as his guilt rose up to choke him, cutting off his air and voice.

"Lady Galadriel, Lord Celeborn," Elrond greeted the couple formally, before his gaze swung back to Maglor. "My Lord Maglor."

Elrond did not know quite what to say when he gazed upon the Elf that haunted his earliest memories of Middle-Earth. Everything about him was different. Maglor wore a button-down shirt and black slacks that were too long in the leg, but beyond that, his very countenance was changed. It was as if his pride had been shattered; only grief and hunger haunted those dark eyes. One hand was a ruined, reddened mess – the hand that had held the coveted Silmaril, no doubt. Elrond shook his head ever so slightly and closed his eyes briefly, before again focusing on Maglor.

He drew a deep breath and let his hands fall to his sides from where they were crossed in front of him. "There is much I would say to you, but not while we stand here in the foyer. Please, Airelond, take their coats." He smiled diplomatically. "You are just in time for breakfast. Please, join us." He led the way to the dining room.

Celebrían cheerfully greeted her parents as they entered the dining room, hugging them both, and Legolas, Elladan, Elrohir, Glorfindel, and Olórin greeted them as befitted their respective stations. There was a bit of hesitation, however, when Maglor followed them in. He stared at them all before inclining his head slightly and politely, and stepping back, just behind Celeborn's shoulder. There was silence.

It was Olórin who broke the uncomfortable moment. "Come now, come now. We mustn't let this breakfast go to waste," he chuckled, taking his seat. "There will be time for serious talk after the meal." He took a bun from a bowl and broke it open, releasing a bit of steam. "How delicious!"

And although the tension did not relax entirely, it was reduced; there were chuckles and laughter, and everyone chose their places at the table.

"He sleeps still," Elrond answered smoothly. "I thought it would be best if he had some time to himself, regardless, and so I ask that you give him room once he wakes."

At these words, Legolas nodded his agreement. "As always, your course is wise," he replied.

"How are you, Mother, Father?" Celebrían asked, encouraging small talk with grace. "Try the sausage, and tell me what you think, Father. I was attempting your recipe."

While Celebrían discussed breakfast and business with her parents, Elladan and Elrohir asked after Glorfindel's travels for the last year. But Olórin, sitting directly across from Maglor, watched the ancient Elf with even more ancient eyes as he ate and stole glances at Elrond and his sons, as if taken aback at the thought that the son of Eärendil had offspring.

"He had a daughter as well, you know, and she was said to be nearly as beautiful as Luthien herself," Olórin said at length. "But she chose the path of Men, so that she could live out her life at the side of the man she loved – Aragorn son of Arathorn, the descendant of Elrond's brother Elros."

Maglor looked up sharply at Olórin. "How do you know what I think of?" he asked, before his eyes widened. "Nay; I withdraw the question." He shook his head slightly. "You are Olórin, one of the great Maiar! Long has it been since I have seen you. It was in the Undying Lands, before all went amiss and Morgoth attacked us! Why do you walk on Ea – how did you escape the fate of the Valar?"

"That, Maglor, is a question that not even I can answer," Olórin replied, the slightest bit of bemusement in his tone. "It is a miracle, not unlike your own survival over the ages." He took a bite of his eggs. "These are delicious. Celebrían truly takes after her father over the hearth."

"She is the child of Artanis, no doubt, with that gaze, but I can hardly imagine Lord Celeborn cooking," Maglor muttered softly, stealing a glance at the Elven lord. He turned his eyes back to Olórin. "When did he learn that?"

"Perhaps, Lord Maglor, when he was fleeing Doriath after you and your brothers sacked it," Olórin said seriously, and Maglor flinched. The Istar softened slightly. "Forgive me, that was cruel."

"It is nothing less than I deserve," Maglor replied stiffly, putting down his fork. His plate was still half-full. "Indeed I left my mark upon this world, and it is one of misery. May Ilúvatar forgive me." He glanced again at Elrond. "Ai, Wise One, I do not know how to speak to him! What wrong I have done him, and all for a jewel, which I still covet in my heart of hearts. What can I hope to say to him?"

"Speak the truth to him," Olórin advised gently. "Certainly he deserves no less."

As breakfast was ending, Elrond went to Maglor and drew him aside, to a more private room. He beckoned the older Elf to a seat, and then sat himself. And for several minutes there was an uncomfortable silence.

Again and again Elrond searched himself for a way to speak to Maglor. He did not want to be merely diplomatic; there was no time for distance or coolness. The Enemy would move quickly the moment he had a chance. They had to present a united front; he had to resolve the matter of their tangled past quickly. And yet, it was much easier said than done, as the saying went; Elrond found himself locked between resentment, anger, and gratitude when he thought of Maglor, and how the Fëanorion had been party to the destruction of his hometown and the desertion of his mother, and yet had cared for him and his brother in the end.

So he was surprised when Maglor spoke first. His voice was stiff with pride and perhaps fear as he said, "Forgive me, Elrond, the wrongs I have done you and your family. I cannot take them back, but nonetheless I ask … please forgive me."

Elrond felt his heart soften slightly at the words; he could not hold a grudge quite as deeply as his father-in-law. "That grief has still not left me in full," he replied. "Ever and anon I will live with that memory. But while I cannot forget that, I shall forgive you as best as I can hope to." He met Maglor's gaze and held his eyes. "There was little that I understood when you took us, my brother and I, and I hated you then. But I too must ask that you forgive that hatred, Lord Maglor, and I thank you for saving our young lives."

Maglor's jaw clenched slightly, and he looked away after a moment. "Certainly, it was the least I could do after I ripped your home from you," he replied bitterly. "Curse the Silmarils!" And then, as if he had cursed Ilúvatar Himself, Maglor covered his mouth and closed his eyes. "Nay … I did not mean that." He drew a ragged breath. "Ah, Elrond, do not call me 'Lord'." With that he stood, bowed in the Elven way, and left the room.

It took him a few moments to remember where he was. The night before seemed like a dream now; the sunlight streamed in the large windows of the room cheerily and reflected off the many buildings of New York City as if they were giant prisms. He yawned, rubbed his eyes, and stretched, before sitting up and checking his watch, which he had left on the nightstand. It was 8:43. Almost six hours of sleep, he calculated, and all of them restful. Which was surprising; his sleep on the plane had been fitful, memories of nearly being killed haunting him. It was as if the penthouse was a safe haven – almost as though something was protecting his dreams. He chuckled softly at the thought; it wouldn't have been out of the range of the other bizarre happenings in the last 24 hours.

He rubbed his eyes again and looked at the end of the bed, where he clothes from the day before sat. He wished he had a change of clothes briefly, reaching over to pick them up – he would ask about a shower later – and realized that they had been washed. He blinked, rubbing the material under his thumb. Who would have …? He made a mental note to ask about that as well and pulled the shirt and pants on over the undershirt and boxers he had worn to bed.

So it was that Allen was caught unawares when the door to his room opened, and in trotted Huan, back to his usual dignified self now that he was back with his owner and there was nothing threatening about. He licked Allen's hand and sat at his feet, while an Elven woman with silver hair – so help him, her hair was actually silver! – followed the dog in, carrying a tray. "Good morning, Mr. Evanston," she said, her smile soft and motherly. "How do you fare this lovely day?"

Her smile widened slightly. "Please call me Celebrían," she said. "I am Elrond's wife, and the keeper of his home. And I am well." She put down the tray on the nightstand; it was laden with coffee, two cinnamon rolls, and two sausages. "I thought perhaps I would bring up breakfast so that I could meet you, Mr. Evanston." She laughed gently, and Allen couldn't help thinking it was one of the loveliest sounds he had ever heard. "My husband says you are the spitting image of your forebear Aragorn Elessar. Alas, I do not know; I had long departed to the Undying Lands when he was born."

Allen's mind whirled for a moment with the tales Elrond had told him the night before, and he reached for the coffee to take a sip. It was already prepared with two scoops of sugar, just the way he liked it. "Ah, well, I don't know about that, Miss Celebrían," he replied after a moment. "And please, call me Allen." He paused. "Is Aragorn Elessar the same person as Elessar Telcontar? And the Elf-Stone? I have heard this ancestor of mine called by so many names I can hardly keep them straight," he laughed a little, as if it would help stave off his confusion.

Celebrían's smile was almost pitying. "I have no doubt you have heard many times that this must be hard for you," she said gently, "And so it must be. Yes, Aragorn son of Arathorn was known by many names, and those are but a few of them! And you shall hear many tales of him in good time, I am sure." She stood, then, and smoothed the simple, elegant blue dress she wore down her thighs. "There will be more guests arriving, and they too will be Elves, and today we will hold a counsel about the threat that hangs over us now – the threat that came to your home yesterday." Her gaze, so gentle and warm before, became sharper. "You must be there."

Allen stood as well, intending to escort her to the door; Huan jumped to his feet, wagging his tail slowly, and gazed up at Allen resolutely, as if promising his master that he would do whatever Allen wanted him to. "I don't really understand why I have to be there," Allen confessed. "I have nothing to contribute."

"You can tell us what you saw at your home," Celebrían answered, "And you can listen, and try to understand. I have no great gift of foresight, but when I look upon you, I know that you are meant for great things." She reached out to him and touched his cheek. "Enjoy your breakfast, Allen, and join us when you are ready." And with that, she departed the room like a whisper, her gait as soft and smooth as Legolas'.

Allen looked down at Huan, who continued to gaze up at him faithfully. "Well," he breathed, sitting on the bed again and sipping his coffee, "I suppose I should listen to the lovely lady, right?"

The nondescript man in front of him turned his head away, but did not otherwise react. Sabaoth cursed under his breath. Ah, for the days when subjects were Orcs and there was actually some fun in scaring them. These shadows of Men reacted to nothing. "An Elf, my lord," he replied in exactly the same tone. "Elessar's heir is with the Elves."

"Curse them," Sabaoth growled. "You think then he is with 'Errol Payton'?" He sneered the false name out. It was almost as if the bastard half-Elf was mocking him with a name like that. "We cannot take his home!"

But there was probably time. The Elves were so reduced in potency it was actually hilarious, when Sabaoth considered it – they were even worse-off than they had been at the end of the Third Age. And Men would never believe in the threat of some 'Shadow' looming over the earth – no Man still believed in such things. Not even Elessar's heir would be able to convince them quickly enough.

"Keep a surveillance on the half-Elf's home," he ordered. "If Elessar's heir steps away unaided for even a second, snatch him. Kill him if necessary. We'll attack as soon as we can."

And as for me … it is possible to start wars without speaking to the masses.

Unblinded by Victoria