The current of the river rocks him like a cradle, cool and soothing, and he thankfully gives in to the unexpected comfort. He has left behind the rage of battle, the red-hot bloodlust. He has forgotten his disbelieving horror when the ground vanished beneath him and gave way to an abyss. He doesn’t know how long he fell, one arm still helplessly chained to the howling beast, digging his hand into the shaggy, stinking fur. He hardly remembers the moment when they hit the water together, a bone-shattering crash that knocked the air from his lungs, He still doesn’t know how he came free… suddenly the warg was gone and he was alone, flowing with the swift stream, for a long time completely unaware of himself.

His mind drifts as his battered body does, idly grazing images that flash like colorful gems behind his eyes. Gandalf, stepping out of a brilliant white corona…the dim gray light in the hall of Meduseld, suddenly brightening when the hunched, blemished figure on the throne miraculously changed back to a noble warrior and king of his people… the brown, short fur of Brego under his palms and the pale, beautiful face of a woman, her hair like ripe wheat, her inquiring, seeking eyes blue like ice-crusted cornflowers.

Even now, as his soul hovers on the brink of death, he feels a short, vague pang of regret that he isn’t able to answer the urgent plea in these eyes... that it is impossible to give her what she wants from him. He is not what she needs, of that he is sure without any doubt. A cure for her frozen, bitter heart is not in his power to offer.

Suddenly he feels the bed of the river flatten beneath him. Stones, washed to rounded smoothness, graze along his back and in a distant corner of his mind he realizes that the stream has mercifully washed him onto its shore. He is not able to move and the pain is still kept at bay… by the shock, perhaps. The voice that whispers this sober conclusion into his heart sounds suspiciously like his foster-father. He would smile if only he were able to move his lips.

Ada, you thought I would be a danger to your daughter, he muses, still feeling the irritating urge to laugh, but right now I’m a danger to no one. Perhaps fate has put a rather unexpected end to your worst misgivings.

Perhaps the deep fall has shattered more than he is able to feel. Perhaps he is about to die here, his face cooled by the chill air of this March morning. For a long, weightless moment he is filled with a deep, guilty relief and is fully able to understand why men sometimes embrace their own mortality like an unexpected, redeeming gift.

He feels his breath like a slow, hesitating breeze, whispering in and out, in and out… and then a strange whimsy of remembrance carries him back to a place of time where the knowledge of his legacy and birthright was a new and shiny thing, an honor instead of a burden, making his heart nearly burst with fierce pride. The memory is so clear and intense that he can feel the soft grass under his boots again, the gentle winds of Imladris in spring, fragrant with the aroma of the first sage, of woodruff and thyme.

He recalls his own voice, raised in song… not the low, cautious tone he has learned to use over the years, but a clear, young baritone. The words burn a sweet, painful trace through his heart and make his drained, chilled body shiver even more.

Again she fled, but swift he came.
Tinúviel! Tinúviel!
He called her by her elvish name;
And there she halted listening…

From one moment to the next, the familiar, comforting scent is gone and suddenly every fiber of his being is filled with her. There is warmth and light and the faint, lingering perfume of newly blossomed niphredil. The scent surrounds her. Since he first took her in his arms, it has always been a part of her. Something touches his lips ever so slightly (warmth and light and tenderness oh Valar it is you…), and the shock makes him gasp.

Arwen.

Suddenly he is able to open his eyes and under heavy lids he sees her lovely face hovering above him. He is numb with breathless wonder and isn’t even able to call her name.

May the grace of the Valar protect you.

It is not a real embrace, but the words feel like her fingers, caressing his brow, and when the touch fades like the dreamlike scene before his eyes, agony falls upon him like an avalanche, sudden wakefulness, piercing anguish and life. He flexes his arms and legs with laborious effort and every single muscle in his body screams with pain. Somehow, he manages to drag himself onto the bank, slowly crawling over dry gravel and sharp rocks. Finally, his force of will falters and he gives in to the solace of a dark silence again.

An eternity later he breaks through the surface to clarity once more. Something – or someone? - nudges against his limp arm. Warm breath huffs over the bloody bruises on his right shoulder and makes him wince. He rolls over and comes to lie on his back, struggling for consciousness. And then there are lips on his face.. and this is not a phantom kiss, this is the rather stalwart touch of huge, warm nostrils, accompanied by a soft, urging neigh.

Brego?

How is this possible? How on earth did that horse manage to climb down into the deep-cut valley of the stream? Again – and again very unexpectedly – he feels the helpless, almost tomboyish urge to laugh.

…a horse? Love of my life, did you actually decide to send me a méara of Rohan to the rescue?

“Brego…”

He manages to prop up on one elbow and open his eyes. He takes in the sight of a broad, strong frame and a noble head before the world spins around him so violently that he decides to close them again. He feels the strong legs of Brego fold beside him and then his searching hand meets an arched neck and the elegant curve of the poll, before sliding downwards and finally closing around a thick clump of mane.

He manages to get onto the horse's back, groaning and panting and finally clinging against Brego’s whithers and neck. For once he understands how the burden of his years and experiences must feel for someone without any Numénorean blood in his veins. What if he should fall from Brego’s back again? What if the growing ache in his limbs and back causes him fail at the worst possible moment, now that the greatest danger lies at hand and his duty is an urgent, frightful call in his heart, a call to defend a whole people, caught in the trap of that ancient fortress?

Brego sets into a gentle trot, carefully seeking his way along the water, and though even the smallest of movement sends white-hot sparks of pain through his body, he feels a stubborn strength trickle into his spine. Suddenly he thinks of Frodo; little hero, completely unaware of his own courage, facing the worst of battles with nothing in his hands but a small sword he’s barely able to wield and a phial filled with light. I will not disappoint him, he silently promises his distant love while Brego carries him out of the valley, and I will not disappoint you, my Evenstar, my nightingale.

The sight of her face is a distant echo of beauty and confidence in his mind. Tinúviel, Tinúviel… And the name is a vow, an invocation and a heartfelt prayer, and no, he will not despair, for this is not the end of his road through darkness and incertitude, and the day he has been waiting for so long now may still come. He will not give up hope.

Tinúviel.