They rode in silence for the next four hours. Once they reached the fort at Osgiliath, they changed mounts and rode across the half-finished bridge.

Aragorn had wanted to stop for nuncheon and visit with his men, encourage them on the progress they had made with repairs to the fortress, thank them for their part in the battles of the Pelennor and the Black Gate, and exhort them to greater deeds. However, Legolas' agitation was too great. They were mounted and furnished with supplies in less than an hour.

By the time they reached the Emyn Arnen, it was night. Both men knew this land well, so neither had any qualms about riding through the forest in the dark. Finally, Aragorn reined in his horse and dismounted. Legolas continued on. Aragorn signaled and Legolas pulled up, quickly looking about for signs of danger.

"It is very late, my friend. I think it is time we rested."

Legolas' tortured eyes looked at him for a moment before he comprehended Aragorn's meaning.

Aragorn said nothing further. He had known Legolas to be reticent for long periods of time. He remembered when Mithrandir fell; the Elf had not spoken for days. So Aragorn kept quiet, waiting. He unsaddled his horse, cobbled it, then went to gather firewood. He did not look back, hoping Legolas heeded his advice and stopped for the night. 'Ai,' he smiled, 'this Elf can be as stubborn as Gimli, when he puts his mind to it!'

When he returned to the camp, he found his friend sitting on a log, still as Bilbo's stone trolls. He started the fire and put a kettle on. Then he brought out the repast the cook from Osgiliath had made for them. They ate in silence.

Aragorn, beginning to lose his patience as he waited for the Elf to calm, was startled by Legolas' voice, low and bitter.

"Have you ever felt deceived by those you love, Aragorn? Have you ever felt betrayed by those you trust?"

Aragorn had to bite his lip to keep a sour laugh from escaping. Until he was twelve, he had thought himself an Elf, never even considering why his ears were so short. His hair and his eyes were the same colour as many of the other Elves who lived in Imladris.

One day a man had come, a Ranger his mother said, to speak with Gilraen. Estel still remembered the touch of the man's hand upon his shoulder. "Arathorn's son has grown strong and tall. He has the look of his father about him." Gilraen had started, but Estel was already in full flight, down the steps and running up the path as fast as his little legs could carry him. Finally, he sat upon the edge of one of the many bridges that traversed the River Bruinen, trying to understand the man's words. 'Elrond is my father, is he not?' It did not take him long to realize that he was not of Elven ancestry. Who was this Arathorn and why had he never heard of him? His mother's guilty start had told him more than words could – told him that he had been deceived.

A touch on his arm caused him to fall forward in surprise. Strong arms caught him, prevented his fall into the icy current below. He would not look up, he told himself; he was too ashamed, too confused. But the arms that had saved him, now held him tightly to a strong chest.

"Estel, your mother looks for you," he heard Elrohir's deep voice. "Are you ready to come home?"

"Home!" Estel shouted. "It is not my home, and Elrond is not my father, and you…" he tried to push away from those arms, "You are not my brother." Tears fell profusely.

The arms tightened. "I will always be your brother. Do not ever say that again."

Estel was surprised at the hurt he heard in Elrohir's voice.

"Well?" Legolas' musical voice, so clear and light compared to Elrohir's, brought him back to Ithilien.

"I have been deceived," Aragorn said, "Long ago. But there were good reasons. I understand, now that I am grown."

Legolas took a breath, light and gentle, but Aragorn knew the Elf's hitched breath meant he was still angrier than Aragorn had ever seen him.

He kept silent. When his friend was ready to share, he would. Aragorn was of the same ilk. He kept to himself, from long years of habit – out in the wild for years on end, with no one to speak to but the occasional deer. He remembered the year that he had left Imladris.

"Your time has come, my son." Estel turned and stared at his father. "Have you studied these paintings?"

"I have," Estel said quietly. "They have been part of my studies these past ten years, ever since I learned that I am not your son."

Elrond's face fell. He had hoped the man before him had healed from the wounds of his childhood. He cursed himself for not having probed deeper, when Elrohir had told him of Estel's discovery. "When have I ever not called you my son?"

Estel's face blazed with shame, but he kept quiet.

"Secrets are sometimes meant to protect."

"I know that now," Estel said softly. "It was still a shock."

"No one deceived you, Estel. You assumed things that I did not know. Who would think that you thought yourself an Elf?"

"You called me son."

Elrond interrupted him, "And you are and always will be."

"If I am an Elf's son, then I must be an Elf. What other logic could a child have?"

Elrond's head fell forward, the light tendrils of hair falling over his face, hiding the pain he felt.

"I am deemed wise, Estel, but even the wisest can make mistakes." He paused, brow furrowed. "It was so apparent to me, your race, that I thought no further on it." He brought his face up, placed his hands upon Estel's shoulders, and looked searchingly into those clear grey eyes. "I have never deceived you, Estel. I have held things back in ignorance; I have held things back from you because you were not ready. Come here; sit with me." Elrond led him to a bench a little to the right of the shrine. "As I said, it is time."