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Belethil  by Woman of the Dunedain

A/N: When I first started to write this fan fiction, it was suppose to be about a young Aragorn that didn't have the worries he carried when we meet him. But somehow it has progressed into an Elrond ficcy. The title, Belethil, means divine radiance in Quenya, and you'll see a reference to it later. If this is wrong, please be sure to let me know! Sections in Italics are memory-dreams that Elrond has. Much thanks, again, to Dwimordene, who provided some help with the early versions of this tale. I sincerely hope that you like it, 'cause this has been a great pleasure for me to write.

Also, this is dedicated to my close friends, who puts up with all of my insanities, Amy, Mikki, and Isa!

Elrond Peredhil watched as the mortal boy who'd come into their lives swung agilely from the top branches of a silver-barked mallorn tree; a gift from the Lady of Lórien. He was still, leaning silently against one of the great tan-colored pillars of his home. There was a brilliant smile that lit Estel's face, showing off two missing front teeth. The child had lived with them in Imladris for but five short years, and already Elrond found himself attached to the youngster. It made the lord, who was great among Elves and Men, uncomfortable; he knew that one-day he'd have to give the boy up to the Gift of Men.

His solitude was disturbed when he heard the soft scuff of Gilraen's shoes as she approached, trailing her gloved hands along the smooth walls, humming a sad tune to herself. Elrond did not bother to turn and greet her, for she knew that she was welcome. Estel's mother came to stand by him but did not speak, finding the silence comfortable. The Master of the Last Homely House shifted the slightest bit to glance at her in acknowledgment. What he saw on her face did not surprise him. Gilraen's emerald-green eyes, once alive with happiness, were now dulled. There was a strain on her youthful face, a sorrow that he could appreciate. Everything about Gilraen was soft and gray. The only enjoyment in her life was her young son.

The pair watched as Estel nimbly scaled further up his perch each time one of Elrond's ageless twin sons he played with pretended to head up after him. Elrond spared a brief moment to feel a swell of pride for the strong and honorable Elves they'd grown into.

"He is convinced that you are his father," Gilraen murmured softly, shattering the peace. The Half-elven uncrossed his arms and swung his head around, looking incredulous. His dark, wise eyes focused on her piercingly, but she did not drop her gaze.

"I know that I instructed you not to tell him who his father was, but surely you've told the child something?" Gilraen smiled sadly. "I do. Every night I tell Estel story after story about his father, of how brave Arathorn was. However, to Estel, they are nothing but stories. You are here; you are real to him. That's all that matters to Estel. He loves you." The woman fingered the end of her thick golden red braid. She had not shorn her tresses in mourning, for her husband had often told her how much he loved her long thick hair. Tears shimmered on her blonde lashes.

Elrond was stunned, but his face was closed and revealed nothing. Outside, Estel was giggling madly, entertained by the twins' mock clumsiness. They stumbled and slipped as though it was beyond them to climb a tree. Even the shaken ring-bearer had to grin at his sons' antics. He touched Vilya, spinning the Ring of Air around his finger as he thought.

Suddenly Estel's shaggy head swiveled, and he focused on them as though he'd known all along that he had an audience. He grinned again, and waved at them enthusiastically, taking both hands off the tree. Gilraen winced, for the boy was straddling the branch rather carelessly. Elrond was not worried, though. The boy could climb nearly as well as one of his own kindred.

A brief frown passed over his youthful, weary face, and the Peredhil remembered his brother Elros, who had chosen in the First Age to become mortal, taking the name Tar-Minyatur for himself and finding his place among Men. Five hundred years later, in the Second Age, his brother had died. Estel was, through many generations, his own nephew, as Isildur had been.

"Elrohir!" he called, not noticing the melodic quality of his Elvish voice, a trait possessed by all of his kind. Obediently his son stepped forward, looking up with bright gray eyes so like his mother's were.

"Yes, Father?"

"Why don't you and your brother take Estel for a ride." There was sharpness to the command hidden in a request. The Elves obeyed without question. Estel was ecstatic, for he loved horses as much as any Elf. So excited was the boy that he nearly leapt from the tree, arms spread wide as though he could fly; but Elladan quickly persuaded him to climb down. Once Estel had dropped to the ground, they raced to the stables, Elladan and Elrohir carefully restraining their natural speed, their feet making no sound as they fell.

"Do not be angry with him, Master Elrond. He is only a child," Gilraen said quickly. The Dúnadan only addressed him as 'Master Elrond' when she was worried that she had disappointed the Elf.

Without answering, Elrond gracefully pushed himself to his feet, and with a quick formal bow excused himself. Once out of Gilraen's sight, he fled as though all the demons of Hell were at his heels.

Shortly Rivendell had been established, Elrond had designed a sanctuary built under the river where he could be alone, finding solitude from those that depended on him, a weight that showed in the occasional stoop to his strong shoulders. Elrond found himself retreating here most often when his thoughts were turned to his wife, Celebrían. She'd gone across the sea after her capture by the Orcs, and he was left in Middle-earth to await his own time to escape to the Havens. It was to this sanctuary that he now ran.

'What is the use of being a powerful leader among Elves and Men, of bearing the Ring of Sapphire, if I cannot even handle this attachment to a single mortal boy?' The Peredhil wondered bitterly. Estel was not the first Chieftain of the Dúnedain to be raised in Imladris. Countless before him had spent their early years there, for their own protection.

However, their situations had been so different. With the others, Elrond had managed to remain removed, aloof. He hadn't spent enough time with them to develop any sort of attachment. Estel, however, was special. At seven years old, he'd wormed his way into a heart that had been closely guarded since TA 2509.

It was peaceful outside on the grassy banks of the river. The midnight sky was sprinkled with stars that shone down on their beloved Eldars. Elvish music drifted on the air, mingling with delighted laughter, a beautiful sound in itself. Imladris was celebrating the wedding of Lord Peredhil and the Daughter of Golden Wood. From the gathering of Elves two slipped away, a man and woman who giggled like children. Those that spotted them smiled but said nothing. The woman let out a peal of laughter as her companion tried to scoop her up into his arms. Her gray eyes glinted mischievously and she sprinted effortlessly away from him. The white robes she wore gleamed in the moonlight, causing her to appear fey.

Elrond gave chase, his longer legs eating up the distance between them. When he caught up, he lifted her into the air, spun them both twice, and tumbled to the ground, careful to taken the brunt of the landing with his shoulders. Immediately rolling her beneath his body, he tickled her mercilessly.

"Please, stop!" Celebrían giggled, writhing to get away from his tickling hands.

"What would I get in return?" Elrond asked innocently, relenting and pinning her hands above her head so that she could not tickle him back.

"Perhaps I might have a kiss, for so strong an Elf," Celebrían whispered coyly, and he laughed out loud, delighted.

"I may just take you up on that offer, Belethil," he warned playfully, one dark eyebrow raised. Then his head lowered, and Elrond captured her lips in a gentle kiss, cupping her cheek in his hand...

"Father?" Elrond jerked awake at the sound of the soft voice, snapping his mind out of Elvish dreams, where he'd gone to retreat even further. Raising his head up from his bent knees, he found himself face to face with his daughter.

"Arwen?" he whispered, head cocked to one side as he curiously observed her. She had been away for more than eight years to spend time with her grandparents in the Elven refuge of Lothlórien, but her face was as familiar to his as the halls of Imladris.

Smiling, the Evenstar hugged her father. Then she gracefully settled herself beside him on the stone bench that had been carved from the same rock that formed the cave they were in.

"What's wrong, Father?" she questioned gently, taking his hand in hers. It was no wonder that Elrond had occasionally heard Elladan affectionately call his sister Tinúviel; she was the very embodiment of beauty and caring.

Elrond stifled a sigh. He became a bit irritated; lately he had felt so tired and so...old. Arwen squeezed his hand gently, and he drew strength from her, relaxing.

"A millennia of worry and sadness, my daughter. A single young boy has unbalanced my world." He told her, a touch of pessimism in his tone. "A mortal child. He thinks that I am his father. Gilraen says that he loves me." Turning, he faced Arwen and revealed the real reason Estel's presence terrified him. "He'll die, one day. Just like my brother. Estel will leave me just as surely as your mother did..."

He broke off and twisted away, ashamed of his words. The Undómiel made a soft whispering sound of empathy, and put a comforting arm around her father's shoulders. They shook, and a muffled sob caught in Elrond's throat.

"I miss her so much." He whispered into his hands. Celebrían's beloved face filled his mind's eye, with her long golden curls framing a heart-shaped face. Gray eyes, slightly slanted, that sparkled with happiness whenever turned his way.

"So do us all, Papa." Arwen paused for a moment and sought for the words to express what she felt. "Haldir of Lórien told me that Middle-earth isn't forever. One day, when our role here has ended, we shall go across the sea, and join Mother. She isn't lost to us forever, Papa."

Drawing a deep breath, Elrond brushed away his tears. Slowly he nodded, and the familiar mask of confidence slid over his features again. Although he was embarrassed by his weakness, Elrond felt better now than he had in years. He helped his daughter to her feet, and she regretfully informed him that she would return to Lothlórien almost immediately; she'd come only because Celeborn had warned her that her father would need her. How he'd known she did not ask. Elrond nodded; his wife's father was a mystery.

Together they returned to the others. Arwen slipped beneath his arm, laying her head on his shoulder. In the distance, Peredhil spotted Estel, astride a roan Elf-horse, Elladan mounted behind him. They needed no saddle or bit to control the animal. All they needed was the animal's trust, and its love.

A/N: I hope ya'll don't expect anything spectacular or amazing. I really tried with this chapter, and I hope that it meets your expectations, but I never really meant to make Belethil anything more than a one-chapter deal. ^^ I've added Maglor in here cause I am totally curious about him now, thanks to the authoress Deborah's ficcies, When I Am Wise, Naming the Stones and As Little Might Be Thought. Aymara was kind enough to point out to me that it was mentioned by the great Tolkien that Elves don't feel the cold, but for the sake of this fic I am going to ignore this little bit of information ^_~!

Elrond gloomily decided that he hated it at Himring. His dark eyes glared moodily out at the treeless flatlands that stretched in three directions. He pined the loss of the river that had once comforted him. There was nothing here. It was unlike anything he had been accustom to; Sirion had been his home all twenty-five years of his life. It was always so cold, with the wind blowing down from the mountains. Even the stars felt father away than they should, as though they were untouchable in this prison that had become home. He shivered and hugged his knees to his chest, wishing that his hair were longer. He'd shorn it but a few days before Maglor's invasion. Hair that had once brushed the middle of his back swung loosely by his ears, a feeling he was entirely unused to.

Worst of all, there were always whispers of the Simarilli. Some of the Noldorin Elves, like Maglor and Maedhros, had the consideration to hold their conversations when he was near. But others purposely raised their voices, to be sure that Elrond heard. They loudly complained that Elrond and his brother should be killed to punish their mother, Elwing, who had flown into the sea, depriving them of their Silmaril.

"Youngling!" Maedhros called, and Elrond's head snapped around. Unlike most Elves, the eldest son of Feänor had a rough, though not unappealing voice. Elrond was always surprised to hear it, and not a little frightened. Although Maedhros had never been anything but kind to him, Elrond had seen Feänor's eldest son wielding his blade left-handed with deadly precision. The memories still tormented him.

"Maglor is searching for you, Youngling," Maedhros told him, waving his right arm in the direction of his brother's study. In place of the hand that should have been on the end of his arm there was an intricately designed silver hand, the fingers slightly curled. Shivering again and flexing the fingers of his right hand unconsciously, the young Peredhil stood, his feet finding easy purchase on the thin ledge he'd been hiding on. Grasping the stone railing in both hands, the Elf-child easily launched his thin body over and into the corridor.

Elrond was familiar enough with his windy new home to find Maglor's study without any problem. He rapped lightly on the door but did not wait to be invited in.

It was warmer in here. The young half-Elf sighed gratefully; rubbing his chilled arms a little, Elrond took a seat near the fire. Maglor did not look up from the large book he was writing in, head bowed so that his face was hidden from Elrond, who waited patiently. For several minutes there was a companionable silence broken only by the crackle of orange flames and an occasional hum from the musical son of Feänor.

"This is for you." Maglor told Elrond quietly, pushing a silver-handled scroll across his desk, still not looking up at the Elf-child, though his hand had stopped moving across the paper. He seemed almost shy.

Curious, Elrond left his place at the hearth, picked up the scroll and retreated back to his seat on the rug. Slowly he untied Maglor's gift.

At first glance he thought it to be a copy of Beren's parting song, and he was puzzled. But after reading a few lines, he quickly realized that Maglor had altered the lyrics. Tears blurred his eyes and he brushed his arm across them quickly, trying to salvage his boyish masculine pride.

Farewell sweet earth and northern sky,
forever in the sea shall lie
Thoronwen, who to Eärendil did fly
beneath the Moon, across the sky,
Elwing the White
more fair than immortal tongue can tell.
Though all to ruin fell her world,
and were dissolved and backward hurled
unmade and left a dark abyss,
and yet were it's making good, for this-
the dusk, the dawn, the sky and sea-
that star-spray for a time should be.
"Who is she, Elladan?" Estel whispered in awe, tugging on the Elf's hand to get his attention. He puffed at his bangs to get them out of his eyes, which were fixed intently on the Elf-woman standing beside the man he secretly called Father. Elladan turned and spotted his sister. Elladan opened his mouth to explain to the curious young child, then did a double take; it had been his understanding that Arwen would spend several years in Lórien with their grandmother.

"It is my sister, Estel." He grinned, waving. Mimicking the Elf he so looked up to, Estel enthusiastically waved, enchanted.

Arwen smiled, lifting a hand in greeting. Elrohir was already running to his father and sister; Elladan watched as he danced around them, looking ridiculously like an excited puppy. Usually the two would wrestle, but never in front of their father. Neither was sure if it was proper (and both suspected it wasn't.)

"Lets leave them be for now, little one," he suggested, hoisting the seven-year-old easily onto his shoulders. Giggling, Estel agreed, although he couldn't help peeking back to catch a final glimpse of the beautiful Elf-lady.

"Easy, Elrohir!" laughed Arwen, turning to follow her sibling as he danced around them. Elrond watched with raised eyebrows, a sparkle of amusement in his sable eyes. Grasping her hands, Elrohir lead Undómiel in a dance, likely one of his own making. His eyes closed and his head fell back and together they sang; Arwen laughed at the silly Elvish words that her sibling spouted. Elrond joined them, surprising even himself. Neither of his children hesitated, but simply took his hands, and together they danced.

"A vanimar, I have never seen anything so wonderful!" Gilraen called softly from above them, smiling her pleasure. The Elves halted; none of them were out of breath. Elrohir cocked his head and listened for a moment, then turned to his father. A sober look fell upon his face.

"The Rangers have arrived. I must greet them."

[The lyrics in Maglor's song are expressly Tolkien's property, and I changed them solely for this fic.

Thoronwen, if I translated right, means eagle maiden.

Star-spray is Elwing in Sindarin.

A vanimar means: o beautiful ones.]

"Hey Mom!" Estel said in excitement. The boy raced into the banquet hall, brandishing something in his hands that glittered in the fading sunlight. The guests at Rivendell looked surprised, but her residents only smiled at the exuberant child's usual enthusiasm.

He plopped his little bottom onto one of the tall chairs, completely oblivious to the volume of his piping voice as he demanded his mother's attention. Obediently Gilraen set aside her fork and folded her hands, smiling at her only son.

"Elladan taught me this before he left," Estel said with an air of great importance, obviously proud. He held up a pair of joined bronze circlets. They were thin and smooth, with years of finger marks rubbed into the metal. The way he fingered them suggested that they were more precious than mithril to him.

Elrond looked up with a scowl as if Estel's bubbly presence disrupted his meal. He missed the presence of Elladan and Elrohir; they had left more than an hour ago to ride with the Rangers against the Orcs.

Unaware, the boy clumsily separated the rings, flushing when his audience applauded and squirming when his mother pecked a kiss on his cheek.

"Elrond, do you want to see? Look!" Eager to please, the seven-year-old stood up, unaware of his hero's aggravation. Estel dragged the circlets along the stone tabletop, a beaming gap-toothed smile on his face. With a careless swing, the bronze rings collided with Elrond's silver-lipped horn goblet and sent dark wine rushing onto his rich robes.

Horrified, Estel's dark brown eyes widened, staring at the sticky stain blooming on the soft green cloth. A few Elves came to their feet, thinking Elrond was injured.

"Dú er," snapped Peredhil, wiping ineffectually at his ruined apparel. Tears flooded Estel's eyes and his bottom lip trembled.

"Gil-heru?" he quavered, using the affectionate title that he had adopted for Elrond.

"Kel!" the Elf barked, and Estel fled, crushed by Elrond's disappointment in him.

There was a heavy silence in the hall. Elrond waved away the Elf that tried to assist him as dozens of startled eyes stared at their lord for some sign or explanation.

Gilraen struggled to understand the spoken Elvish, but she had no trouble capturing the gist of what had occurred. Her green eyes flashed with a rare sign of life.

"You fool!" she hissed quietly, throwing down her embroidered napkin as she rose to her feet. Though the Dúnadan was at least a head shorter than the tall lord, he lowered his eyes in shame. "I don't understand what's going on with you, Lord Elrond, but I do know that you will not take it out on my child. Do you understand?"

She poked a finger in his chest.

He made no excuses, nor indeed did he say anything at all. Silently he swept from the hall, still radiating a sense of power despite his humiliation.

"He looks so lost," Galadriel murmured sympathetically, for her husband's ears only, but the wind caught her words and carried it to the ears of the one she spoke of. Elrond did not show any sign of having heard; his dark eyes continued to stare out at the crashing waves of the sea.

Celeborn knew how hard this was for his wife, to be so close to the water that called to her, sending her only child across to peace while she had to stay behind in Middle-earth. He put a comforting arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him, grateful for his solid presence. Their relationship was a strange one, but there was no denying the love between them.

Elladan and Elrohir bore forward the litter that had been fashioned for Celebrían, silent silver tears coursing down their cheeks, guilt written plainly on their wise faces. The twins blamed themselves for Celebrían's capture, though their family had tried to reassure them they were not responsible. Elrond stepped forward, his face betraying no emotion. However, his hands were infinitely gentle as he lifted her into his arms, tenderly cradling the woman he loved close. She sighed wordlessly, burrowing her face against his chest.

Galadriel took pity on her grandsons, and took both of their hands in a rare gesture of comfort. Arwen appeared silently, cuddling up against Celeborn's side.

"Let me go with you," whispered Elrond hoarsely, breathing in Celebrían's scent of elanor and jasmine. Círdan waited patiently to take his friend's wife to the ship.

"You cannot leave yet," she breathed, and coughed. He sent his magic into her, easing the fit. "I am sorry, my love, that I cannot stay with you."

"It is my fault. Why can I not heal you?" the lord muttered, self-disgust taking hold of him again. Gently his love raised a hand and touched his face.

"I cannot find rest here. Middle-earth is no longer my home." She soothed, and he shuddered. It was true. As much as he wanted to keep her with him, they were not meant to be together now.

"We will be together again. I will cross the sea, someday, and stand by your side again." He vowed. Celebrían laughed breathlessly.

"So you will, husband. So you will."

As the procession watched Círdan's ship fade out of sight, Elrond became aware of his children's pain. The twins were speaking amongst themselves, and he recognized the words of a binding Oath. He closed his eyes as they vowed revenge against the evil creatures that had tormented their mother. Arwen was lying on her back in the sand, staring vaguely at the clouds that drifted across the sky.

"Time is a strange thing, my son," Celeborn said gravely, resting a hand on Elrond's shoulder. The wind tossed his silver hair. "It's impossible to see what it holds in store, even for ones so old as us. But perhaps you can find comfort in it. Time will heal your scars, and Celebrían's. Time will even reunite you, if you are patient."

Peredhil drew a breath. "Then I shall just have to be patient."

Dú er- dim one

Gil-heru- star lord

Kel- go (away)

Outside the haven of Imladris, the dark foreboding storm clouds that had been gathering in the sky all day finally gave way with a rumbling thunderclap, and the rain began to pound down. Lightning flashed brilliantly, casting shadows and momentarily lighting the path before plunging everything back into a thick darkness.

Estel grimaced, sniffling; his cloak was heavy and sodden with the rain. His eyes were sore from crying, and he wanted his mother. Rebelliously the boy's stomach growled, and he thought wistfully of the delicious meal that was probably being served at this very moment. He regretted his decision to leave, but he could not stay and face Elrond's disappointment. Childish pride refused to let him turn around. Ruefully Estel waved his hand in front of his face, knowing it was there but unable to see it.

The bronze rings jangled as he trudged along. Because they'd been a gift from Elladan, Estel had been unable to force himself to leave them behind. Small fingers touched them for comfort, wishing that the twins were there to keep him company.

The road was fast being turned into mud; his feet made a sickly sucking noise with each step that he took. An incautious step sent the boy flying, and he landed painfully, twisting his shoulder under his body. More tears stung his eyes, and he bit his lip to hold them back.

Estel had not ventured outside the safety of Imladris since his mother had moved them there shortly after his second birthday, which he had no memory of. Had he known how large Middle-earth truly was, he very well may have stayed in the familiarity of Imladris despite his shame. As it was, he made his miserable way along, humming a simple Elvish tune and practicing the blocking techniques that Elrohir had taught him, imagining his wooden practice sword was in his hand, wincing at the pain in his shoulder.

When the rain picked up in intensity, running in rivulets down his cheeks, Estel ducked beneath the thick overlapping branches of an ancient evergreen, small body shaking with cold. There was reasonable shelter here, and the ground was damp but not soggy. His chin quivered a little as he curled his small body against the tree trunk between two upraised roots. Alone and chilled, he fell into an uneasy sleep, dreaming that Elrond appeared and took him home.

The morning dawned, cool and clear. Bird sang, flying back and forth through the air. A pair of fox kits poked hopeful noses out of their den, sable eyes glinting slyly. From the East came a robed figure on horseback, singing heartily and letting his pale horse pick its own way around the trenches that had been carved into the path.

"The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can-“

His song was interrupted when something sneezed. Surprised, his eyes went to the side of the road, where he'd heard the sound.

"What is this?" muttered the man, chewing on the end of his pipe. He clicked to his mount, and she obediently halted, lowering her head to crop the dewy grass on the side of the road. Her master swung himself out of the saddle and hunkered down, removing his pointed hat so that he could crawl under the barricading branches of a tall fir. A small, dark-haired figure was revealed, sleeping fitfully and shaking with cold.

Concerned, the bearded man shuffled closer and touched a hand to the young one's forehead. It was hot to the touch. Gandalf rocked back on his haunches, brushing the needles above his head and causing water to patter down from the tree branches in the rain's aftermath.

Gathering the boy into his arms as best that he could, Galdalf awkwardly left the cover of the tree and stood. Looking down at the flushed face, he realized with a start that this was Isildur's heir! A frown formed on his weathered face, and he puffed angrily on his unlit pipe. He would have words with Elrond, that was certain.

The Maia whistled softly between his teeth, and his horse trotted back from where she had wandered, reins dangling in the wet grass. As gently as he could Mithrandir lifted his charge up and set him in front of the saddle. Estel muttered but did not wake. When Gandalf gained his own seat, the child leaned back into his warmth, shivering uncontrollably. Moved with pity, the wizard yanked a dry cloak from his saddle bag and wrapped it around Estel. His horse started forward again when he nudged it with his heels while thinking of all the things he was wanted to tell a certain Elf lord.

Hidden, observing unnoticed as was his wont, Elrond watched his wife with pleasure. She was graceful and beautiful, more so than other Elves in his biased eyes. The sun glinted off of her silver-threaded hair, and the sound of her delighted laughter floated to his ears.

"Were I not their mother, I do not think that I could tell them apart!" Celebrian commented dryly to her companion, and the Elf nodded in agreement. The twins toddled along, never more than a few steps apart. Both had their father's long black hair, plaited into dozens of tiny braids. Their mischievous gray eyes were steely mirrors of Celeborn and his daughter. It was easier to tell them apart by their actions than by their looks. Elrohir was the first born, but he followed his brother. He was the quieter one, given to moments of silence in some realm that only he and his twin could understand. Elladan lead them, often being the one to discover something new. The younger twin found trouble, and the pair delighted in causing it.

"Quit lurking up there, husband!" Celebrian called breezily, which made Peredhil smile. Her companion was perplexed, until her lord landed cat-like beside her, eliciting a squeak of surprise.

"You know all of my secrets, Belethil,"Elrond complained, though the light in his eyes betrayed the indignation in his voice. Herding the boys away from the bowl of fruit they attempted to raid, she blew him a kiss.

"Would you have it any other way?" she wanted to know.

"Never," he responded, swooping down to catch an Elf-child under each arm. They laughed happily; neither had spoken yet, though they gurgled and babbled to one another in their own secret language. Growling playfully, Elrond blew a raspberry on Elladan's stomach. Elrohir squealed and pointed to his own tummy, demanding that he not be left out. Celebrian took the toddler into her arms and tickled him.

"Atar,"Elrohir said plainly, pointing to Elrond. Elladan looked up at his with curious gray eyes.

"Atar?"he questioned, looking to his brother for confirmation. Wisely the tyke nodded. Over their heads, Elrond and Celebrian were staring at one another, laughing incredulously.

[Atar = father

The lyrics in Gandalf's song are probably very familiar to you, and obviously not something that I created, so don't go around saying I did. Aight?]

A/N: Please be as brutal as possible with this chapter. I am not sure what to think of it, but I hope that it is at least up to my normal standards. Constructive criticism is desperately desired. There will be only about one more chapter following this. Hope I haven't disappointed anyone!

Elrond paced around the room, frustration etched clearly on his ageless face. Two hours of combing the forests, for nothing. Wasted time, time they couldn't afford to lose. What if Estel was hurt? The lord knew that his young charge was more adept at survival and navigating than most mortals twice his age, but in that sort of weather anything could have happened. His only consolation was that he could feel Olórin approaching; perhaps his Maian friend could shed some light on the situation.

Unfortunately for him, at that moment a much less appreciated person was bearing down on him.

"Where is he?" Gilraen demanded. Instead of falling to pieces, as they had all expected, she was showing more emotion than she had in more than two years. She'd taken up the position of authority Gilraen had been born to fill, directing his Elves in their search.

Elrond avoided her eyes. He knew that there would be condemning disappointment written in the emerald depths. "We haven't found him yet."

"You promised to find my child." Her voice was loud and accusing. An unwilling smile tugged at the corner of his mouth; this was the stubborn-to-her-soul woman that he remembered. If only Arathorn had lived. Things would have been so different.

"And find him I shall, madam. However, my power does not extend outside the borders of Imladris. The task is that much harder because of this." He told her, deliberately adding an edge of scorn to his tone. Elrond was delighted when she straightened her shoulders, tossing her braided hair back over her shoulder haughtily. Hundreds of years of practice enabled him to keep cool control of his features.

"I thought that Elves were suppose to be - connected to the forests, or some rubbish. Can't you go out and find a trail or something?" she snapped peevishly. Her cheeks were flushed with color, and Elrond wondered if she realized that unconsciously, she was enjoying crossing words with him.

"We are not hounds, to pick up a scent," he returned coolly, laughing inside. "The rain washed away any tracks that Estel may have left behind. Finding him will take time."

"Time!" Gilraen muttered incredulously, rubbing the bridge of her nose. Throwing up her hands, she gave up on him. "He asks for time!" She walked away muttering.

When she was gone, Elrond made determinedly for the door, intent on going out once more to search for the missing Estel. However, the swift motion brought exhaustion born of three days without sleep crashing down on him. So much was involved in the running of his home that the Elf oftentimes simply forgot to sleep, relying on his natural Elvish resilience to keep him alert. Coupled with his distress over the disappearance of Estel, Elrond was so weary that he knew there was no way he could go traipsing around the mountains like this.

Promising himself that it would only be for a few minutes, Peredhil took a seat on the window seat, staring out at the banks of the Bruinen before letting his mind slip gratefully into the strange realm of dreams that only Elves graced.

"Elrond Peredhil, this is a most embarrassing activity. Sleeping on the job is for mortals." Mithrandir's voice was as crisp as an Ivanneth morning. Startled from his rest, Elrond's eyes widened and tried to focus. After a moment, he recognized the grey mass as the wizard, who was watching him with amusement from the doorway.

"I need your help-" the Elf started, skipping the pleasantries and going straight to him main concern, which was Estel. He did not realize that he'd been asleep for more than twelve hours, and that the sun was on the opposite horizon.

"I found the child hours ago. He is sleeping comfortably, with a few bruises and a fever. It would be wise for you to see to him, before we talk." The look in Gandalf's eye promised that he would be doing the talking. Elrond would be doing the wincing.

Not showing any emotion, despite the great relief that flooded him at his friend's words, Elrond dismissed himself. Within minutes he stood outside Estel's chambers, suddenly unwilling to enter. What if Estel did not forgive him?

Shaking his head, he pushed aside the ridiculous fear and strode in. Lying in the middle of his wide bed, looking pale and vulnerable, was Estel. A swell of tenderness rose in Elrond, closely followed by a fierce desire to protect. Because there was no one there, he allowed his composure to slip a little, and the love he felt for the slight child showed on his face. Careful not to disturb him, Elrond took a seat on the bed and, taking a deep breath to call on his healing powers, laid a hand gently on Estel's forehead.

For one impossible moment, he was swamped with the same choking terror he'd felt when he had tried to heal Celebrían. It felt as though his magic would not pass through his palm and into the boy beneath it. He gagged, fighting to control his sudden desire to retch. This could not happen to him again!

Then it was over. Vilya pushed subtly, and his power transferred into Estel.

The first time that Elrond saw the woman who would one day be his wife, she looked like a beggar.

Celebrían, daughter of the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien, was a mess. Mud was smeared in her silver hair, dulling its natural glow. The dress she wore hung limply around her thin figure, one shoulder ripped irreparably. It too was caked with drying muck. The smile on her face said that she was obviously very proud. An impish look in her gray eyes was accented by an adorable smear of dirt across the tip of a pert little nose.

Galadriel did not share her child's pride. Her countenance was as cool as always, but Elrond could feel her frustration. The century old Elfling giggled openly before her mother, obviously unaffected by the commanding air that made so many wary of her.

"Celebrían!" scolded The White Lady, taking hold of her hand and leading her away, presumably to clean her up.

"Mother! He was asking for it, I swear! Erelas cheated-" Celebrían's protested in her defense, though she allowed herself to be dragged away without resistance. Glancing back over her shoulder, she winked at the son of Eärendil a moment before she was pulled out of sight.

"Did I mention that she is very headstrong?" commented Celeborn dryly.

Elrond was surprised to find that the heaviness weighing down his heart had lessened. He'd taken a brief sanctuary with Galadriel in the forests of Lórien, to try and sort out the conflicting feelings that boiled beneath his skin. The Valar had given him the choice of becoming one of the First-born or a mortal. He'd chosen to become one of his mother's people, confident that his younger brother would follow his example. Never had he expected Elros to accept the Gift of Men. Soon he would join the high king Gil-galad, as he had sworn.

Since the destruction of the Simarilli and the disappearance of the foster-father he'd come to love, Elrond had been confused and afraid. But a mere glimpse of the buoyant daughter of his mentor was enough to make him forget. He could see that she was very special indeed.

[Ivanneth - month that corresponds roughly with out September ]

A/N: I realize, thanks to a bit of info from Nemis that the first time Elrond met Celebrían was in Imladris. Unfortunately, I believed that one of my previous memories had them meet in Lothlórien. For the sake of this story, assume that it was the first time he saw her, and that he first met her in Rivendell. This is the last chapter of Belethil and I hope that you’ve all enjoyed it. Thank you so much for all of your reviews and your support. It was wonderful. ^_^

“Grandmother extends her warmest wishes, and laments your long parting,” Arwen Undómiel informed her father dutifully. Standing on her tiptoes, Arwen removed the crown of flowers from her own head and set it over the silver adornment that Elrond wore. Then she stepped out from under their cover and into the rain that was gently falling. Laughing at the simple pleasure, she spread her arms wide and twirled slowly around.

“It is a shame,” Elrond agreed from beneath the sheltering roof of the gazebo cleverly hidden at the very center of the gardens. He smiled with amusement as he watched her catch raindrops on her tongue. In her moments of carefree abandon, he could see Celebrían in his daughter.

They remained there for an unmeasured time, long enough at least for the rain to cease and the bright rays of anar to disappear beyond the horizon. They might have stayed there all night, if not for Elrond’s chief advisor, who came in search of him.

“Lord Elrond, your sons have returned,” Erestor informed him, falling into step a pace behind Elrond as they left the gardens. Twirling a niphredil bloom idly between his fingers, which were thicker than other Elves because of his human heritage, Elrond said nothing for a long moment.

“Has Lady Gilraen been informed of Estel’s return as of yet?” he inquired finally. Though his lord couldn’t see it, Erestor shook his head, and then elaborated.

“No. He has managed to collect a few wounds-entirely superficial-and we thought it best you see to them first. The Dúnadan has recovered her old temper, as I am sure that you are aware.” This answer startled a laugh from Elrond. It was true enough that she had nearly returned to herself over the last thirteen years. Though her face had become worn with lines of age and worry, Gilraen’s sharp wit had not been lost.

“Send him to my study, Erestor, and I will see to him.”

Elrond heard the whisper of feet a moment before the figure of a man appeared in his doorway. He was tall, with shoulders that were muscled if not broad. There were a few days of unshaved stubble on his jaw. Long dark hair was carelessly tied back with a length of leather thong. The clothes were foreign to Elrond, covered with dirt and other stains of travel. His eyes, though, were familiar, dark and lit with an impish mischief.

“Estel?” The question came out incredulous. The answering laughter was deeper than he remembered.

“You look as though you do not know me, Father,” returned Estel, coming forward to stand beside Elrond’s chair. “Erestor told me that I had to come here, so that I could protect you from my mother’s wrath.”

This time it was Elrond who laughed, but it was more than simply humor at the words of the son of his heart. He was pleased with what he saw before him. Estel had been mature in body, but now he was mature in mind.

Not that he was finished growing, of course. Estel would experience and learn for many more years.

“Walk with me awhile, my son,” invited Elrond when he had attended to the minor cut on Estel’s face. It was time to tell the man what had been hidden from him for more that eighteen years.

Elrond led them down the narrow path which led to the mural which Estel had often studied, depicting the defeat of the Dark Lord at the hands of Isildur, son of Elendil. The human could feel a certain tension in the air, one not so much trepidation as...excitement. Sadness and pride both seemed to radiate from his father.

“What have you to tell me, Father?” Estel asked, brushing his callused fingertips gently over the broken hilt of Narsil. The shards, what remained of the sword that had cut the One Ring from the hand of Sauron, were displayed in the stone arms of a man, his name long forgotten.

“I would tell you of your true heritage,” Elrond said as he exhaled in a sigh. Estel turned his face curiously to the Elf; it had never been hidden from him that Elrond was not his true father. Until now, however, it had never matter who had truly sired him.

“Your true name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the fifteenth Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North.” Reaching into his robes, Elrond drew out a ring that sparkled in the soft glow of the newly risen moon. “Here is the ring of Barahir, the token of our kinship from afar.”

He offered the ring to Estel, who took it soberly. Elrond then gestured to the statue. “Here also are the shards of Narsil. With these you may yet do great deeds; for I foretell that the span of your life shall be greater than the measure of Men, unless evil befalls you or you fail at the test. But the test will be hard and long. The Sceptre of Annúminas I withhold, for you have yet to earn it.”

“Yes, Lord Elrond,” said the man, who had once been called Estel, in a hushed tone. He stared for a long moment at the ring that lay passively in his hand. It was in the design of two serpents with emerald eyes, one devouring and the other with a crown of golden flowers. Aragorn knew much of this ring. It had been forged in Valinor and given as a pledge to Barahir. In Dorthonion, the ring had been cut off, along with the hand of Barahir, when he was slain as proof of his death, and both the hand and the ring were recovered by none other than Beren.

“I shall bear this with the honor that you have taught me, Father,” swore Aragorn, touching his brow in a show of respect and bowing his head to Elrond. The lord removed the flowers from his head, placed there by his daughter and nearly forgotten, and settled them on Aragorn’s dark head.

“I have faith that you shall, Estel,” Elrond said, for the last time using the name of Aragorn’s childhood. “Now go, find your mother and assure her that you are well.”

Aragorn departed without uttering another word.

In the heat of laer, three Elves took time from their duties to relax on the banks of the Bruinen. The woman was a radiant creature, with hair the color of laurë that shone in the sun with the same luster as the White Lady. She played lazily with her daughter, a dark-haired youngster who greatly resembled her ancestor, Lúthien Tinúviel. Her father was similarly dark, with gray eyes that were as piercing as an eagle.

“Ada, tell me again about how you felt when you first met Nana,” requested a very young Arwen as she braided her mother’s hair with delicate little fingers. Celebrían laughed delightedly at her words.

“Arwen, sell-nîn, do you not tire of hearing it?” she asked gently, curling her toes in the grass. Elrond grinned at them, and put down the book in his hands. Sitting up, he swung his long legs around and rested his forearms on his bent knees.

“The first time that I saw your mother, I thought that Elbereth had descended into Imladris. My heart was lost, I think, even before she rode into view, for I could feel her approach with Galadriel.” Celebrían laughed gently at her husband’s words. There was a rosy blush on her alabaster cheeks, though, and he knew that his words pleased her. So he continued.

“Celeborn introduced me first, to his little girl. He was as proud as could be of her. I know how he felt,” added Elrond, reaching over to tweak Arwen’s nose. She giggled. “I did not know how I would be able to wait to have her.”

“You, my lord, are shameless,” his wife informed him, raising a silver eyebrow in his direction, with a suggestion that their daughter did not catch. He grinned with uncharacteristic wolfishness.

“Herves, you flatter me,” breathed Elrond, and rocked up to his knees so that he could kiss her. Beside them, Arwen made sounds of disgust. She allowed them the intimacy for only for a few moments; then the girl started to pull on her mother’s hand, demanding her attention.

“Mommy, play with me,” she pleaded. Celebrían laughed and conceded. Rolling her eyes at her husband, she kissed him once more, and then left, following Arwen as the girl chased after a small frog that was hopping around in the grass.

Elrond settled himself again, bracing his body with his elbows. Instead of picking his book back up, he remained motionless, only his eyes moving as he watched the two women closest to his heart examine the amphibian that they had captured. With the certainty of a father, he knew that his daughter would become great, among mortal and immortal alike.

Calling up on the power of Vilya, Elrond raised a breeze. It gently swirled and buffeted around his family, who protested loudly. He did not acknowledge them, but picked up the abandoned volume and pretended to read it.

“Elrond Peredhil, just you wait!” Celebrían warned, her delighted laughter ruining the effect…

anar – sun

niphredil – white flower

laer – summer

laurë – gold (color, not metal)

sell-nîn – my daughter

herves – wife

The Sceptre of Annúminas - a silver rod, given to Elessar (Aragorn) at his wedding. It was brought to Middle-earth by Elendil, and was a mark of royalty of Arnor.





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