All rights and revenue for the works of Tolkien belong to…someone else. I’ve built castles in his sandbox simply for the pleasure of his world and hopefully, for the pleasure of any who choose to read this story.

This story is a late birthday present for Nilmandra. I appreciate this wonderful site, and the hard work it takes to maintain it. But most of all, I appreciate Nilmandra as a friend. Since I’m late getting this up, I declare the entire month of June as Nilmandra’s birthday.

Happy Birthday, Nilmandra.

Special thank you to Meckinock for her patience in helping me get this story straight. Any remaining mistakes are because I missed them. She did her best. Eru knows, she did her best.             

                          The Lady in the Glade

The horse nudged him on the shoulder.

Elrohir opened his eyes; his lids heavy with fatigue. The horse nudged him again. In the dark, the black stallion was but a blotch, an inky hole punched in the night. Dolroval came from the best stock bred in Imladris’s stable, but he was young and still prone--more often than Elrohir appreciated--to the escapades of a mischievous colt. As frisky as the horse might be in the daytime when he entertained himself challenging his rider to a duel of wits, he did not often wake Elrohir in the middle of the night simply to annoy him. Elrohir placed his hand on the bow lying at his side and sat up. “What is it?”

Worried, bottomless black eyes answered him.

Only that morning he had left the Dúnedain--Halbarad’s patrol—where Elrohir had spent nearly two weeks, riding the wilds in search of uninvited visitors, and ending his tour with the rangers in pursuit of a band of orcs. For over four days, the rangers and Elrohir had driven themselves and their horses to their limit. But their persistence had been rewarded; twenty foul creatures of the dark no longer set foot upon Arda, and Elrohir had left the Rangers with hopes of an uneventful journey home.

Elrohir rose silently and placed his hand on Dolroval’s neck. “Show me,” he whispered.

With a soft snort, Dolroval trotted a short distance south, weaving his way through the grove where they had stopped for the night. Swiveling his head to look back, the horse paused only long enough to make certain Elrohir followed. When Elrohir nodded, the horse melted deeper into the shadows and resumed his lead.

Elrohir followed the black shape with a swinging tail nearly to the center of the copse, where Dolroval stopped. Elrohir stepped around him and listened to the muted night sounds. Crickets and the rustling of small creatures scurrying about the leaf bed offered comforting reassurance that evil had not disrupted the usual inhabitants’ nightly rounds. However, mingled with the expected sounds, Elrohir heard soft singing close by. He reached back and patted the horse, an order for Dolroval to remain there. Elrohir moved as a part of the night’s shade along the rises and falls of the forest floor toward the lilting voice. As he drew nearer, he caught a whiff of wood smoke wafting on a gentle breeze, and the singing grew louder, but still so soft and private, it sounded barely above a hum.

He stepped upward onto a sloping hill of last autumn’s leaves and this spring’s green sprouts, careful to make no noise. Firelight flickered through the trees from a small clearing below him. As he stepped closer, he saw a lone figure sitting near the small campfire. A woman, elven by his reckoning, sat stitching something in her lap while singing a low, sweet melody that rose and fell with the work of her needle.

Remaining out of sight, Elrohir squatted and scanned the campsite for others, but there was no one to be seen nor was there any gear to suggest anyone accompanied her. Though his instinct was to trust an elf, especially a lone female, he could not dismiss the possibility someone could be lying in wait for a traveler to come to her aid.

Nothing stirred in the quiet glade but the elf-woman’s humming, and after a few minutes of silent observation, Elrohir left his perch and walked circumspectly around her camp. He encountered no one, and his senses reassured him he was alone, save the lady in the glade, who seemingly remained unaware of his presence.

When he had completed his circle, he chose a concealed vantage point, and leaned against an oak to watch the mysterious singer.  

Her presence disturbed and intrigued him. To find a woman traveling the Lone-lands had taken him by surprise. It was both unsafe and foolish. He saw no weapons, and the tiny needle she wove in and out her cloth would be of little use for defense. In fact, despite knowing she must have had a reason to be there and alone, he was annoyed…with someone. Perhaps not her, but whatever relative of hers had allowed her into such jeopardy. When she looked up to tend her fire, her benign expression, free of concern or watchfulness, told him that she was indeed a blissfully naïve maiden, a lamb set carelessly in the midst of a warg den.

Still her face captivated him. He wondered if a frown had ever marred the fine line of her brow or soft bow of her lips. She was a vision of beauty and innocence; a dangerous combination in his opinion. If he took into consideration the fall of golden hair brushing her back, she was indeed perilous. That thought made him smile.

Elrohir crossed his arms and settled against the tree. He could not simply walk into her camp in the middle of the night without frightening her. His best option under the circumstances was to stand watch over her and present himself in the morning when the light was bright and the shadows only cool instead of menacing. Then he would discover her story and determine what aid he might be to her. It would be no trouble to wait until then. None at all.

By the time the sun’s first rays touched the glade, Elrohir had seated himself at the base of the tree, though in all the long hours of his watch he had not taken his eyes off the woman. Only a few hours earlier she had finally put aside her sewing and curled upon the ground to rest. Her breathing was even and her lashes fluttered as she dreamed. A lock of hair had fallen over her cheek and for a moment, he wondered what it would be like to brush it back into the cascade of silk fanned about the small leather pack she used as a pillow.

As if sensing intimacy uninvited, she abruptly stretched and sat up. Perhaps she was not as unaware as he had judged, and if possible, she was even lovelier in the copper flush of sunrise than she had been in the glow of firelight. It was time for introductions.

Elrohir went back to where Dolroval waited and spoke into the horse’s ear. “Walk into the lady’s camp and introduce yourself. No doubt she will find you less threatening than an armed warrior.” Dolroval snorted his disapproval of the plan, but Elrohir chuckled and patted him on the flank. “Go on,” he prodded. “I’ll follow. Elleths like horses.”

With one last long-suffering look, Dolroval meandered down the rise toward the glade. Elrohir did not think he’d ever heard the horse stomp so loudly before.

Concealing himself in the shadows, Elrohir watched as Dolroval stopped at the edge of the glade to chomp on the silvery green blades of grass as if that was his only reason for being there. But the horse was watching the maiden from under his heavy lids. Sly fellow. He was flirting.

As Elrohir anticipated, the maiden left her seat by the newly tended fire and went to where Dolroval stood, nonchalantly chewing the blades of grass that protruded from his mouth in a green fringe. She ran her hands over his neck as if delighted by the silk of his coat. “Good morning, beautiful,” she said with a smile. Dolroval raised his head and from the mesmerized look in his eyes, he was as dazzled as Elrohir. “How do you come to be wandering about alone?”

Dolroval, the rogue, snuffed her cheek as if she were his best friend.

“You must have company.” She brushed his nose with the back of her hand. “A stallion as handsome as you would not be alone without someone to care for him.”

Elrohir nearly laughed aloud at the smitten glimmer in the horse’s eyes. The rowdy steed was clay in the lady’s hands.

Straightening his tunic and sweeping his hair behind his shoulder, Elrohir took a step forward and called, “Dolroval!”

The maiden swung toward the sound of his voice. As he stepped from the forest, he smiled. “There you are, you rascal,” he said. “I should have known you had found better company.”

He approached the horse, but kept a proper distance between himself and the maiden. “Good morning, mistress,” he said and bowed. “I apologize for Dolroval disturbing you, but he is young and tends to wander.” Dolroval gave him a glance that Elrohir interpreted to mean he could walk back to Imladris alone.

The maiden returned his smile. “He is no bother.” She ran her hand under his forelock. “He is a beautiful fellow. I am pleased to have company.”

“Are you without escort?” Elrohir asked, keeping his tone pleasant but casual. 

“I am alone,” she said and Elrohir heard no reservation in her reply. He could not fathom her lack of concern.

“How did a lady come to travel such dangerous lands unaccompanied?”

She looked puzzled for a moment. “I do not know. It seems I have always been here.”

“Always?” Elrohir asked. She did not look as if she had been on her own journeying in a rough land for more than a few hours. “There are no elven dwellings near here. Imladris is the closest, and we are yet many leagues from there.”

She shook her head. “I have no memory of being anywhere but here.”

That was simply not possible. Had some horror befallen her kin and her grief overshadowed her recollections?

Elrohir hated to pressure a fragile memory, but how was he to help if he had no place to begin? “And your family?” he coaxed gently. “Where are your people?”

Again she looked blank. “I have none that I recall.”

“That is no matter,” he said hoping his smile was warm and understanding. “My home is in Imladris. Perhaps, my father can aid you to find your kin. If you are willing, I will escort you to him.” He also hoped she understood he meant to protect her, that his company was safe.

“If you think your father can assist me, then I am willing. I do grow lonely here.”

Elrohir bowed. “I am Elrohir Elrondion. It would be my pleasure to see you to the safety of Imladris and into my father’s care.”

“What is your father’s craft that he might aid me?”

For a moment, Elrohir was taken aback. Perhaps he overestimated the knowledge elvenkind had of his father. “My father is a healer and one of great skill.”

She considered his offer for a moment then nodded. “Then I would be grateful.” She dipped in a curtsy to him. “My name is Ereiel.”

While Elrohir made certain the fire had been extinguished, Ereiel gathered her belongings. She rolled her blanket and tidied it to the petite leather satchel she had used for a pillow the night before. There was little else to pack.

The first night they camped just south of the road that would take them to the Last Bridge. They settled near a branch from the Hoarwell that snaked through wide sandy banks to cut a silver streak through the greening foothills. In the last of the sun’s rays, it twinkled like a swath of dew-speckled moss.

When riding in the company of rangers, Elrohir had little reason to worry about his fragrance. The rangers and their pipes destroyed any sense of smell he might have had after one day in their presence anyway. But after riding with a sweet smelling female practically in his arms all day, he began to be concerned that he was less than pleasant company.

“I am going to the stream,” he told Ereiel. “I will not be long.”

She looked up at him from where she was arranging their belongings about the campfire and smiled. “I will be fine.”

As Elrohir passed Dolroval, he pulled the horse’s head to his chest. “Keep an eye on her while I am gone.” He released his horse, took two steps, then turned back. “I can trust you alone with her, can I not?”

Dolroval snorted with disgust.

Elrohir pointed his finger. “I should hope so. Stay close to her. I need to bathe,” he said, then smiled. “Only one of us should smell like a horse.”

Dolroval lifted the corner of his lip to reveal his perfect set of large teeth.

Evening meal was simple. He carried little to eat other than the waybread Erestor had packed in his gear. Elrohir grumbled enough over the monotony of the bread, but on this night, it did not seem quite as dull when sharing it with a lovely lady by flickering firelight.

“Would you tell me about your family,” Ereiel asked. Her legs were tucked under, and she leaned against a fallen log Elrohir had dragged to the fire for her to sit on. But she had taken to the ground just as he did. For one who appeared so delicate, she had uttered no complaints about the long day of travel.

“I have a brother and a sister,” he told her.

She smiled with delight. “Where do you fall in the order?”

“I suppose,” he said, “I am the middle child, but my brother and I are twins. He preceded me by only minutes, although he is quick to remind me he is the oldest.”

Ereiel chuckled. “That is the way of older brothers.” As quickly as her smile had come, it vanished and again she took on a puzzled look.

“Older brothers can indeed be a trial, but my brother and I are close.” He stirred the dirt with a twig. “You sound as if you know the ways of older siblings. Do you have any?”

Her hands were folded in her lap and her shoulders were straight. For an instant, Elrohir felt her emptiness; the hollow place where memory should reside and knowledge should be stored. She said nothing, and turned her face to the west.

He had hoped something of her life would come back to her. The name of a sibling; any hint. He wondered if Ereiel was truly her name. He could not bear to see her discomfort, but he knew of nothing he could do to erase pain and tragedy from her heart. So, he talked—about nothing and everything: his travels, the Dúnedain, Halbarad and his son, and about his life in Imladris with his family.

“You have said little of your mother. What is she like?”

“My mother,” he finally said, “is quite beautiful and kind, but she has sailed. I have not seen her in a very long time.”

“Sailed? Will she return?”

“She has sailed west to Valinor. She will not return to Middle-earth, though we hope to join her one day.”

Ereiel nodded, but Elrohir saw no recognition of what he had said. It was if she had never heard of the Undying Lands.

He was now more puzzled than before. Even the elves who chose to remain in Middle-earth knew of Valinor, held it in reverence. What had happened to her?

                                                 ******

They made the bridge late the next afternoon. Tall white clouds spiraled high into the sky to the west, heralding the dull pewter wall following close behind. The wind gusted and brought cooler temperatures, welcome at first, then becoming worrisome. It would not be just a passing thundershower. From the looks of the slow-moving clouds, and the sound of rolling thunder, Elrohir expected the storm to descend on them with a vengeance.

There was only one place near enough for them to take cover. It was hardly large enough to warrant being called a cave, but the overhang was deep enough for Dolroval to shelter with them. If the wind did not blow from the south, they would stay dry enough.

Urging the horse to pick up his pace, he held Ereiel, her back pressed against his chest, and raced the storm to Hanging Rock.

Fat drops of rain fell as Dolroval climbed the embankment to the overhang. He weaved his way between the trees on a scant path until the ground leveled again, and the dusky gray granite came into view. Just as the first shower came, they ducked into the shelter.

A clap of thunder shook the entire mountain and lightning cut across the sky in long jagged bolts. Dolroval froze, and Ereiel whirled back around toward him.

“We will be safe here,” he reassured them both.

Even though they had escaped the worst of the rain, they were damp, and the air in the rock’s hollow was dank and smelled of moist dirt and decayed leaves. Elrohir spread out his blanket and guided Ereiel to sit. He sat down next to her and watched as the pouring rain cascaded over the opening that was not six paces away. A fine spray brushed against his face as if the rain whispered secrets to him in a language he could not interpret. It seemed there was much about his and the lady’s current circumstances he could not comprehend. Dolroval attempted to avoid the spray and pressed himself as far back as he would fit.

Ereiel shivered in the cool air, wrapping her arms around her knees and hugging them to her chest. The storm had unsettled her and left her pale and stiffly drawn into herself.

Elrohir went to Dolroval and took Ereiel’s blanket from her pack. Wrapping it around her shoulders, he settled again next to her, this time placing his arm around her and holding her against his body.

Another loud clap of thunder shook the ground. Above them, the storm unleashed the fury of its wind-driven force. Ereiel started, shivering in his arms. “Do not be afraid,” he told her. “When I was a child my mother would tell us that storms were nothing to fear. The thunder was simply Varda rearranging the furnishings in Taniquetil.”

“It must be very large furniture,” she said and rewarded Elrohir with a smile.

He drew nearer to her. “It must be,” he said his voice trailing away as his lips touched hers.

She didn’t shrink from him, as he had feared, but loosened her body until she leaned fully on him. The chill of the storm had made her lips cool, but now that she welcomed him, Elrohir had enough warmth for them both.

For the time he kissed her, time stopped and the sound of the driving rain faded. There was little to concern himself with but her taste and the joy of her in his arms. She was no longer lost; she belonged in Imladris, and if fate were kind, with him. He would help her make new memories and it would be his duty to see that they would all be of kindness and comfort.

By the time the storm had rolled on over the mountains, evening had descended on the foothills, and it was too late to travel further. Ereiel slept with her head on his shoulder, and he, with his cheek pressed against the silk of her hair.

Elrohir could not recall the last time he had been so content. For the next three days, as they traveled toward Imladris, he told her every detail he could recall about his home. He recounted childhood tales, spun yarns of twin mischief and reassured her of her eventual welcome. On the third night, he spoke of his mother. Tears welled in Ereiel’s eyes, but his were long spent, replaced by vengeance and determination. With Ereiel at his side, the force that drove his revenge softened into a resolve that he would protect those he could; no one, if within his power, would ever suffer the fate of his mother. Not even to his brother had he ever revealed the intimate thoughts he spoke of with Ereiel. She was a safe haven. In time, he hoped she would see him the same.

                                            ****** 

On the morning of the fourth day from the bridge, Ereiel asked to rest for a short while. Elrohir found a small meadow nestled between the first peaks of the Misty Mountains and the last mounds of the foothills. A clear stream meandered its way through the burst of blue and yellow spring flowers sprinkled within the green growth.

“I know I have slowed you from returning home,” she said. “You have been patient, and I am grateful.”

“The company is such that I feel no urgency,” he said. “But I will admit to longing for a hot bath and good food.”

“And a soft bed,” she added with a smile.

He ran his fingers over her face. “I would gladly sleep on hard ground until the end of all things if you were at my side.”

Ereiel stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. Her kiss was warm and sweeter than any honey he had ever tasted. He could indeed linger here with her for eternity.

“You have much to do, Elrohir,” she said. “I think a soft bed will be of some comfort from time to time.”

“The most important task I have at the moment is to see you to my father. He will be our most valuable counsel and aid to you.”

“I am but a small event in your life, dear one. Your duty is at your brother’s side in dark places and during dark times. Our time is precious and will be forever cherished. I will wait for you.”

“My brother is capable without me, but I am bound to the protection of our folk. I would not forsake a warrior’s duty, but that does not mean I would forsake happiness with a beautiful maiden. There is room enough in my life to have both.”

“There is room enough in your heart for many wondrous things,” she said. “Keep me in one small corner, and I will be content.”

“You hold all of my heart,” he said. “I will offer up only a corner for demands that intrude on my time with you.”

Her smile was sad, but so full of love, Elrohir drew her to him and kissed her again.

While Elrohir took Dolroval to the stream to drink and for him to refill their water skins, Ereiel remained behind in the glade, picking flowers. When he looked back, she was plaiting them into a chain, the kind of delicate necklace he had seen Arwen make many times from the supple stems of wildflowers and their bright blooms. He could not wait to talk to Arwen. She would know what to do, what another female would need to make her feel at home. In fact, he could not wait to share his joy with all of Imladris.

When he had completed filling the skins and Dolroval had taken his fill, they walked back to the field. Ereiel’s pack was gone but the flower chain lay in its place. Elrohir picked it up and turned it in his hands.

A wind came up and the horse’s mane fluttered. He stared intently back the way they had come.

“Where is she?” Elrohir asked.

Dolroval turned his head toward Elrohir and in the horse’s eyes, Elrohir saw a blankness, a lack of comprehension he had never observed in this horse.

His bow was strung and an arrow nocked before he had reached the spot where he had last seen Ereiel. He searched the ground for any sign of which way she had gone. There was nothing out of place, not a single bent blade or tilted flower. It was broad daylight, and he sensed no evil creatures, but he knew there were more subtle dangers to be found in Middle-earth than Sauron’s minions.

The woods nearby were clear of dense underbrush, and he could see well into them. Nothing moved but a bird here and there as they flitted from limb to limb. He ran back to the road and motioned Dolroval to him. Together they retraced their path, looking for signs of Ereiel’s passing. He called her name over and over. He searched in circles, frantic, and without seeing any hint of a trail until the sun slipped low into the western horizon.

He was only a short distance to the Loudwater. He spurred Dolroval toward Imladris. As fearful as he was of leaving Ereiel, he had to have help. Once he crossed the Bruinen, there would be guards, warriors who could return with him to search and warriors with whom he could send his plea for help to Imladris. The more warriors searching, the better Ereiel’s chances were that she would be found quickly.

Dolroval ran, his muscles straining. Within sight of the shallows, two riders splashed through the river, coming toward him. Elrohir urged Dolroval on. He knew these two riders, one dark haired and the other as golden as the midday sun.

Elladan grasped Elrohir’s shoulders. “We were coming to look for you. I have been uneasy since our patrol fought a band of orcs not more than four leagues from here less than a week ago.”

The news of orcs nearby slammed into Elrohir’s chest. “Were they all destroyed?”

“Yes, none survived. But when you didn’t return as expected we set out this evening in search.”

Glorfindel nudged Asfaloth closer. “What is it, Elrohir?”

“I need help,” he said. “I found a young elf-woman wandering alone and without memory in the Lone-lands. She was with me until this morning. She simply disappeared. I fear she has been injured.” His voice grew more frantic with each sentence. “I could not find her. There was no trail, nothing to track. It is dark. I need help.”

Elladan glanced at Glorfindel.

“Then we have no time to spare,” Glorfindel said. “Show us where you last saw her.”

The three rode back to the meadow and Elrohir took his brother and Glorfindel to the place he had last seen Ereiel.

“We will search on foot,” Glorfindel said, scanning the field and nearby woods. The trees were blackened silhouettes, their tops barely discernible against the night sky. “The moon provides little light but we can cover the immediate area until daybreak. Stay within shouting distance to one another, and we will meet here an hour before dawn.”

Elrohir had taken a few steps toward the woods when Elladan caught him. “Tell me her name,” he said to his brother.

“Ereiel,” Elrohir said.

Elladan gripped Elrohir’s shoulder and squeezed. “We will find her.”

Even in the dim light, Elrohir could see and feel his brother’s concern, not only for the missing elf-woman, but for him. Their connection was strong and such intense emotions as Elrohir felt would not be missed by his brother. He should have explained, told Elladan what Ereiel meant to him, but he could not. Not then. Not when his hold on his fears was too tenuous to speak. But Elladan knew; of this Elrohir was certain.

“Thank you,” Elrohir whispered. “We must hurry.”

At the hour before dawn, the three met in the glade, still with no sign of Ereiel. Elrohir’s fear choked him and filled him with dread. She would not have left him willingly. In his mind he saw glimpses of her body, lying broken at the bottom of a rocky ravine or the terror in her eyes as she was dragged away by sinister forces she could not fend off. The least of his fears was the thought of her alone and lost, wandering in search of him. At least in that daydream she was whole and unharmed, and it ended with her in his arms.

Glorfindel handed him a pouch of dried fruit and nuts. “We will rest for a moment,” he told Elrohir in a tone that commanded, not suggested he take a break. Elrohir took the pouch, but the dried mixture turned to paste in his mouth when he tried to swallow it. He felt sick. This was not the first time he taken part in a frantic search, and the memory of that long ago, gut-wrenching hunt haunted him in a way he thought he had learned to master. His mother’s cries resurfaced, echoing in a vicious memory that would never completely leave him, only hide until it found its way back to torment him. 

The sun crested the eastern slopes of the mountains for a bright clear morning. Glorfindel divided the area into thirds with the order to meet back at the meadow by mid-afternoon. They agreed that if Ereiel were found, the rescuer would leave a sign at the stump near the stream and take her without delay to Imladris.

The sun beat down on Elrohir’s head like a hot heavy hand pressing him further into despair. There was not a crag or crevice he had not investigated between the meadow where he last saw her and what he judged to be a reasonable distance she could have traveled. Yet even if she had walked without pause, she could not have gone even as far as he now searched. Elrohir urged Dolroval to circle to the southwest where he would search the unlikely places she might have taken shelter.

Exhausted and confused, Elrohir returned to the meadow at mid-afternoon. Glorfindel and Elladan waited, sheltering from the late afternoon sun under a young maple.

Any sign?” Elladan asked.

Elrohir slid from Dolroval. He shook his head. “Nothing. I do not understand. She could not have gone far on foot.”

“I returned to the site of the battle,” Elladan said. “I neither saw nor felt anything that made me feel she had been there. The rocks and trees spoke only of the foul creatures and the elves' victory over then.”

“Elohir,” Glorfindel said, “when you and Ereiel traveled past the battle site, did you not notice a fight had recently taken place there? You had to pass through the southern fringes on the road.”

Frustration surged. This was not what Elrohir wanted; a lecture on a warrior’s ability to sense his surroundings. “No,” he said. “I noticed nothing. The land between Hanging Rock and the site was quiet. Nothing was amiss.”

“If I have calculated your position and ours correctly, the battle should have already taken place by the time you passed. You were traveling toward us. I do not question your ability to discern your surroundings,” Glorfindel said in answer to Elrohir’s annoyance at his question, “but I find it odd that you passed through so fresh a battleground and noted nothing. It would not be like you to be so distracted or careless.”

Elrohir’s jaw tightened. “I missed it.” He threw his hands into the air. “What does this have to do with Ereiel? The battle was over. There were no more orcs.”

“I do not know if there is a connection between the battle and Ereiel, but my mind keeps trying to draw one,” Glorfindel said. “Perhaps it is only my own fears speaking.” He pushed off the tree and wiped his hands on his thighs. “Elrohir, there is no better tracker in all of Imladris than you. Elladan and I are also skilled in the hunt.” He put his hand on Elrohir’s shoulder. “We see no sign of her, and we do not sense her presence. She is not here.”

“Then where?” Elrohir demanded. “Where is she? She could not have simply disappeared.”

“I have no answer for you,” Glorfindel replied, squeezing Elrohir’s shoulder. “I only know she is not here now.”

“Then I will continue to search until I find her,” Elrohir said, shaking off Glorfindel’s hand. He had turned to go back to Dolroval when Elladan caught his sleeve.

“Wait, Elrohir,” Elladan said. “We have covered this area as thoroughly as we can. Come home and let us speak to Father about this. Perhaps he will have some idea what we should do now. It is useless to continue to search the same ground over and over.”

“I cannot give up,” Elrohir said. “Would you? Would you stop searching if I were missing, or Arwen, or Father, or anyone else we love?”

“No,” Elladan said, “I would not. But I would want what help I could get. Whether it would be Father’s advice or bringing more warriors, I would do what was needed to find you.”

“You would leave knowing I was still lost somewhere, alone and possibly injured?”

Elladan sighed and put both hands on Elrohir’s shoulders. He gave him a slight shake. “No,” he said with resignation. “I would not leave you. But I would know when to summon aid.”

Elrohir grasped the front of Elladan’s tunic in his hands and jerked him forward. “I would not leave you. Not ever. Not for any reason.” He released Elladan with a snap. “You and Glorfindel return to Imladris. I will keep searching.”

Glorfindel grasped Elrohir by the back of his neck. “You are coming with us,” he said in a kind but firm voice that harkened in Elrohir’s memory to when he was a young warrior, eager and headstrong. But he was no longer that inexperienced novice. He knew the horrors that could befall a person in the instance between one blink and another.

“I cannot.”

“She is not here,” Glorfindel said while applying gentle pressure to bring Elrohir closer.

“She is,” Elrohir said allowing himself to be pulled toward Glorfindel. Glorfindel spoke with such certainty, Elrohir began to doubt his own sanity.

Strong arms wrapped around Elrohir and held him. “She is not here,” Glorfindel whispered into Elrohir’s ear.

                                           ******

At sunrise, a day later, they waded through the shallows of the Bruinen. Elrohir felt his father’s mind touched his as soon as he set foot on home soil. It was a simple brush of strength and comfort, but it was enough to nearly loosen the thin hold he had struggled to maintain since Ereiel had disappeared. He had not rested in so long he had forgotten the bliss of sleep or what it felt like to not be on the verge of crumbling to dust. At times, the memories of Ereiel were so strong, he could smell her fragrance. Then at others, honeysuckle mingled with the perfume of his mother’s roses, and he confused whom he mourned.

When finally, late that evening, Elrohir stumbled, exhausted, dirty and bereft of hope into his father’s arms, he could no longer think or remember anything but defeat and pain.

Elladan assured him he would speak to their father about Ereiel. With little fight left in him, Elrohir agreed, simply following the directions he was given. He bathed and drank the potion Elrond offered to help him sleep. But he could not eat. Erestor tried three times to entice him with favorite foods, but when Elrohir declined the last offering, Erestor brought out his most persuasive weapon: Arwen. Elrohir thanked her, kissed her on the cheek, and excused himself to go to his bed without touching the bowl of soup she carried. His father’s remedy had been potent, and his grief undiminished.

The sun had already reached its peak and had begun the slow burn of setting when Elrohir woke.

Arwen smiled at him. “I suppose I should wish you a good afternoon since morning has been long spent.”

Elrohir sat up and dragged his hand through his hair. “Father could put out an ornery horse with his potions.”

“Or you.” She went to the table in front of the window and poured a cup of tea from a pot wrapped in a quilted cover. She handed it to him. “It is probably not as hot as you would like, but perhaps it will be warm enough.”

Elrohir took a sip and indeed, it was only tepid, but the sweetness of honey and the faint flavor of mint went down with ease.

Arwen leaned over and kissed him soundly on the top of his head. “I will tell Father that you are awake. He wishes to see you.”

Elrohir swung his legs off the bed. “I wish to talk to him as well.” He studied his sister for a moment. She had the look of concern on her face that had once belonged to their mother. “Did Elladan tell you?”

She nodded, but said nothing more.

“I have to go back to look for her.”

“Then come and speak with Father. He is waiting for you in his study.” Arwen spoke with the cautiousness of someone instructed to not discuss this with him.

Elrohir arrived in the study to find his family and Glorfindel gathered.

Elrond stood and embraced Elrohir, then pointed to an empty chair. “Sit, Elrohir.” He turned to Elladan. “Please ask someone to bring some fresh tea and something light for your brother to eat.”

Elladan went out into the corridor.

“What more can you tell me of Ereiel?” Elrond asked.

Elrohir told the story from the time he left the rangers, and his first sighting of Ereiel, to his meeting with Elladan and Glorfindel. When he had finished, he took the cup of hot tea Elladan offered him, but he only glanced at the tray of toast and berries on the table next to him.

“If you had traveled alone and made the time you normally would,” Elrond said, “it is possible you would have ridden into the orcs before your brother and Glorfindel arrived with their warriors. You could have ridden into an ambush a lone elf could not have defended himself against.”

Elrohir wrinkled his brow. The orc topic kept returning. “I do not understand. What has that to do with Ereiel?”

“I am perplexed as to how you did not see nor sense a fresh battle site,” Elrond said. “I do not think it speaks of distraction.”

“Then what?” Elrohir asked. “What significance does the battle have in Ereiel’s disappearance?”

Elrond picked up a small leather bound book of an era long past. Its cover was well preserved but its gilded borders had frayed and its corners were creased by age and handling. Elrohir could smell the old parchment and ink of a book that had been long stored for survival against the decay of time. He did not recall ever seeing the volume.

“I recalled a story,” Elrond said. “An old one I have not thought of in many years. Often we think of such tales as children’s stories, the kind told around campfires and usually nothing more than fanciful yarns meant for entertainment. Sometimes such parables are meant to impart a teaching.”

“What story?” Elrohir asked.

“When Hollin fell, the people fled, some going north in attempt to escape Sauron’s army. It was a terrible time. Not everyone survived their flight. There are stories of elves meeting their doom, of being slaughtered by the enemy, entire families laid to waste.”

“There are not still elves from Eregion roaming the Lone-lands,” Elrohir said.

“Perhaps not,” Elrond said. “At least not those we would expect. There is more to the tale.”

“Then tell me, Father. Time is not a friend to Ereiel, and if there is a chance I can find her, then I do not wish to delay returning to the search.”

“It has been many years since I have heard stories of the Graces.”

“Who are they?”

“In times of great need, legend has it that travelers receive aid from mysterious elves that appear for the time of danger, then pass without word.”

Elrohir jumped to his feet. “Ereiel was not one of the houseless. She is real, as real as you or I.” He tossed his hands upward. “I had no great need.”

“You would have met the orcs,” Glorfindel said.

Elrohir whirled toward him. “What makes you so certain I would have gone blindly into their midst?”

“I cannot say,” Glorfindel told him. “But it is possible there are those who watch over us who thought it possible you might come to harm and took care to see you did not. How else can you explain that you were not even aware a battle had taken place?”

“Why me?” Elrohir stalked to the open doors of the balcony. The shade of the trees crept long across the stone floor. “I am no one important.”

“I am your father,” Elrond said, “perhaps not the best person to be objective about your worth, but I would say your task here is not done.”

The blood rushed to Elrohir’s head and his fists clenched. “I am not the one who matters in the fight against evil. I am but a simple person, a person who has allowed a defenseless elf-woman to be snatched from his grasp, and you all talk of insane stories about ghosts and tasks that I cannot possibly be slated to fulfill. Do you not understand that an elf-woman is alone and in danger; that I have failed to see her safely here? Do you not see that I have already failed in my task?”

Elrond rose and went to Elrohir. “I see you think you have failed.” He placed his hand on Elrohir’s arm. “I see that you feel her loss deeply and personally, but I do not believe she will be found, not here, not on Arda.”

Elrohir’s voice was measured and firm. “You do not believe me. You think Ereiel is a figment of my imagination, an apparition that never truly existed.”

“I believe no such thing,” Elrond answered. “I know you aided a lost elf-woman. What I do not know is who she was. Perhaps she was one of those lost after the fall of Hollin. Perhaps she came by greater design. But what I do believe is that you will not find her. She had a task, and she has completed it. Whether she was one of the Travelers’s Graces or not is of little matter. What is important is that you are home and safe. For that, I am grateful.”

“As you have noted, you are my father and not an unbiased judge of my value. This is not about me. It is about Ereiel and her safety. We stand here talking about higher purposes, but what higher purpose is there than saving another from destruction? She is in danger.”

“This is about you,” Elrond said. “My foresight tells me that you still have a role to play on Arda, and it has been safeguarded. There are dark times ahead. We must all be prepared to do our part.”

Dark times. I am but a small event in your life, dear one. Your duty is at your brother’s side in dark places and during dark times.

Elrohir looked at Elladan. His brother’s gaze was intense and concerned. Their eyes met and Elrohir saw the depths of his brother’s fëa, the understanding and connection the two of them shared. They were as separate as any other two siblings, but closer than he would ever be with another. Elrohir would not see his brother face darkness without him. Then there was the matter of another, one who was also like a brother, a foster brother already set to walk dark paths. He looked at Arwen. Her back was straight, and her hands clasped in her lap. When he looked at her, he felt ashamed of believing no one else understood how he felt.

When he returned to his father, Elrond put his hand on Elrohir’s cheek. “I cannot lessen the pain for you, Elrohir, or your feelings of failure. But I would ask that you be grateful for the grace shown you and to us, those who love you.”

“I trust your wisdom,” Elrohir said, searching his father’s face. “Can you tell me with certainty that she is not to be found?”

Elrond moved to gaze out across the valley. His senses extended to the borders of Imladris and how far beyond, Elrohir did not know. There were many things about his father he was not privy to, but the one thing he did know, he did trust, was that Elrond was gifted and honorable. If his father thought there was a chance Ereiel was still lost, he would not hesitate to search for her himself.

“She is not here,” Elrond whispered. “There are many times in life when we question the way things are, the way things happen, but the one thing we can trust is that a greater power is always with us and moving in our lives.”

“Who was she?”

“I do not know,” Elrond said, “but I feel the greater design in this.”

“You,” Elladan said, “would not be the first of our kin to lose his heart to a hopeless cause.”

Elrohir stared back with wide eyes.

Elladan came to him. “I want to believe you will see her again.”

“She said she would wait,” Elrohir said his voice so soft it whispered like silk in a breeze.

“Then she will,” Elrond said.

Elrohir dragged his hand over his face. “I feel such a fool. If this is true, I have become attached to a ghost.”

Elrond smiled. “Caring for someone hardly makes you a fool. There are times when the veil between the realms is thin, and it is said the spirit world is freer to walk in our world. Perhaps this is such a time. The time was right and the need great. Whether the Graces took you under their wings, or the Valar have spared you, I do not care; you are safe and home. But little is by chance. We all search for meaning, Elrohir.”

“I suppose this means I cannot find a real elleth and someone took pity on me.”

“Not pity,” Arwen said. “But continued life here and encouragement. Waiting is difficult, but in the end, the rewards will be worthwhile.”

She should know. Elrohir smiled at his sister. “Then I will hold onto the hope that I will see Ereiel again. In the end, she might find me too tedious to endure more than a few days in my presence anyway, but if there is a chance she will grant me the honor of her presence, I will wait.”

“Perhaps you push your luck in thinking she will be able to withstand you for even a few days,” Elladan said with a smile.

“Thank you, brother,” Elrohir said. “You do know how to make me feel better.”

Elladan clapped him on the shoulder. “Think nothing of it. I know you better than anyone, and I would not have you surprised to find you are a pain.”

“Elladan,” Elrond drawled.

Elladan raised on brow. “I am only trying to help.”

“Then be silent,” Glorfindel said.

Elladan raised one hand in surrender.

                                         ******

Elrohir ran his hand along Dolroval’s neck. “We did see her, did we not, friend?”

Dolroval snorted.

Elrohir slid down the plank wall of Dolroval’s stall and sat on the clean hay. Dolroval poked his nose into his chest to be rubbed.

Scratching with both hands under the horse’s chin, Elrohir sighed. “I cannot get past the feeling she is still out there, alone and frightened. I want to believe she is safe, but doubt is an insidious monster that steals into even the stoutest resolve.”

“Perhaps you doubt yourself,” Gandalf said from over the door of the stall. Gray sleeves draped over the top of the door where leaned.

“Mithrandir,” Elrohir said jumping to his feet. “I did not know you were here.”

Gandalf opened the door and slipped into the stall. He motioned to Elrohir to sit. He folded his lanky frame onto the hay bed next to Elrohir. “I only arrived an hour or so ago.”

“And Father told you about Ereiel,” Elrohir said.

Gandalf nodded. “I felt a pull here some days ago, the magic of something happening.” He smiled. “And being the curious sort, I came to investigate.”

“What do you find?”

“A disheartened friend who wonders why he should deserve grace.”

Elrohir stared at the hay bunched around Dolroval’s hooves. The horse turned his demand for attention to the wizard. Gandalf patted the proffered nose.

“I cannot see it,” Elrohir said.

“Why is that?”

“I know my family loves me, and I am important to them, but I cannot see why I would be singled out when so many are lost.”

“Your mother,” Gandalf said.

“She was needed far more I am. Her wisdom exceeded any heights I will ever attain. Yet, she was not aided when in great need.”

“You and your brother brought her to safety. I would say she was not forsaken.”

“But to what end? She was nearly destroyed and had no hope except to sail.”

“Ah,” Gandalf crooned. “Hope. That is all we have to hang our cares on at times. All things happen for a reason and all hope is just.”

“Perhaps,” Elrohir said.

Gandalf placed his hand on Elrohir’s arm. “There is no perhaps. Hope is a gift, one of the many we are granted. Every single person fighting for the good in this world is essential for hope. Some will be lost.” After a moment, Gandalf smiled. “You have indeed been singled out, and we must ask ourselves why.”

“Why?” Elrohir searched the bottomless eyes of the old wizard. Within those depths he saw agelessness and wisdom gained from a long life and vast travels, but much of the wizard’s insight had been bought at a high price. The costs were likely to climb in the coming days of shadow and the war the elves expected. But there was also a light shining out from the wizard’s darkest memories. And in an instant, Elrohir felt a surge of hope in his chest. He wanted answers to his immediate questions, but if there were none, hope, true hope, could sustain him. It would have to suffice when there was nothing else substantial on which to rely.

Gandalf drew his hand back and leaned against the stall, his face hidden by a fine mist of unruly hair and Dolroval’s shadow. He took from the pocket of his ash-gray robe an old well used pipe and fingered it with familiarity. “Why do you think?”

Elrohir sighed. “You and my father have been friends far too long.”

“Indeed?”

“For every question I ask, you reply with a question.” Elrohir screwed his mouth into a slanted grin. “Can you not simply give me an answer?”

“It’s not for me to say what this experience has meant to you. Only you can decide.”

Elrohir sucked in a deep breath, feeling its weight settle in his chest. “I do not know. My foresight is sadly lacking.” He leaned toward Gandalf. “And what of Ereiel? Who was she?”

Gandalf merely smiled.

“You know, do you not?”

“I know many things, young Elrondion, but I have not met the lady.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the best one I can offer.” He rummaged about the folds of his robe and withdrew his hand. In it was the wreath of flowers Ereiel had made. “I found this,” Gandalf said and placed it in Elrohir’s hands. “I thought perhaps you would like to keep it.”

Elrohir held the delicate plaited stems in his hands. The flowers had wilted little for such a long time since their picking. They seemed to be drying while preserving their original shape and hues. “I forgot it,” he said, then looked up to see the wizard’s kind eyes watching him. “Thank you.”

Elrohir laid the wreath across his knees and ran the tip of his finger over the blossom of a frilly blue flower. “I think I can answer my own question.”

Gandalf raised a brow in anticipation.

Elrohir smiled. “Grace.”