Nethril lingered near the gates while Aragorn and Lord Elrond hastened down the path to the healer’s cottage, the fine, dark cloak of the Elf lord blowing out behind him in the wind. Half-Elven, she reminded herself dazedly; a peredhel same as his sons. How had he even known to ride for the Angle? 

The horse nickered behind her with an air of haughty impatience, if such was possible, and she turned to approach him carefully. He was fine creature, his white coat glinting in the fading sunlight, and he snorted in assent when she took hold of the reins. She smiled and ran a hand down his soft neck, damp with sweat from the hard ride. 

“See to it he’s given the best possible care,” she said to the young hostler who’d come up to take the reins. 

The boy stood only a hair’s breadth taller than her, his eyes wide with responsibility, and his brown hair fell in front of his face when he bowed. “Aye, Lady Nethril.” 

She smiled and patted the boy on the shoulder in what she hoped was a reassuring way, before she made her way down the path to the healer’s cottage. 

Twilight descended by the time she reached the cottage, and an eerie silence greeted her when she stepped inside. The main room was deserted, half-empty jars and open herb pouches scattered across a table, and she crept slowly toward the back rooms. The door to Gandalf’s room stood open, and she stopped at the threshold to see Elrond seated at the wizard’s bedside. He stretched a strong, elegant hand over Gandalf’s forehead, his head bent so that his hair fell over his face. Aragorn sat beside him, his gaze not leaving Gandalf’s motionless form, and he held Elrond’s other hand within both his own. Some invisible, heavy power filled the room, palpable to Nethril even at a distance, and she found herself unable to move as she stared at them both. She was no stranger to Elves, would even dare to count Elrond’s sons her friends, but she had never before witnessed what other Men spoke of as magic.

“They will be in there for some time,” a soft voice spoke behind her, and she turned to see Ivorwen standing behind her, relief etched in every line of her face. “Elven healing works in ways even I do not understand.” 

“Will it be enough?” Nethril asked. 

Her grandmother shrugged. “Lord Elrond has performed feats I can only call miracles. Surely I’ve told you of when my father staggered into Rivendell with his stomach ripped open by an orc blade.” 

Nethril shuddered. She had heard the tale, too many times. Inspired his daughter to be a healer and her granddaughter to never touch the art. 

Ivorwen gave her a knowing smile, as if she could hear the unspoken thought. “I’d take some rest while you can, nethben. I believe Lord Elrond will be with us for quite some time.” 

“Of course,” Nethril replied, and her heart sank as she realized the duties of hosting the great Lord of Imladris fell squarely on her shoulders. The Angle would seem so crude in comparison to Rivendell, there was little she could do about that, but with luck, she’d have enough time to make the Chieftain’s house look a bit more presentable. Faelhen could help her dust out the common room, and Adanel….

Adanel. “Oh, damn. ”

“Rest first,” Ivorwen said pointedly, but Nethril was already rushing for the door and back to the Chieftain’s house. 

Adanel’s dislike for Aragorn’s foster father was renowned, barely repressed whenever Elladan and Elrohir came to lend their swords to the Rangers. It was the one of the few sources of contention between the former acting Chieftain and her beloved grandson, dealt with primarily by avoiding the topic of Aragorn’s upbringing entirely. But there would be little chance of avoiding it now, with the two of them under the same roof. The prospect made her want to toss herself into the Loudwater. Toss them both, more like.

She found Faelhen in the kitchen, chopping turnips and humming softly to herself, but she put her knife down at the sight of Nethril’s expression. “What’s wrong?” 

“Lord Elrond of Rivendell just rode through the gates. He’ll be staying with us until Gandalf is healed.” 

“Thank the Valar. So why do you look like… ah. ” Faelhen’s face cleared in understanding. She had likely been treated to Adanel’s rants about Elrond more than anyone in the house. 

Nethril paced back and forth before the hearth briefly, before she forced herself to stop and consider their options. “What do we need, what do we need…”

“A glass of wine? An axe to the head?” 

“Don’t be pert,” Nethril snapped. “We have to prepare a room for him, first. Halbarad can move to share Aragorn’s room, or stay with our mother. There are still spare linens in the trunk there. As for Adanel…” She ran a hand over her face and looked back at Faelhen. “I want you to keep as close a watch on her as you can. Any time he’s in the house, arrange for her to be elsewhere, if you can. I don’t want them exchanging anything more than pleasantries.” 

“Easy enough,” Faelhen shrugged, but then her face clouded at a new thought. “Someone’s going to have to tell her.” 

“Oh, we’re well past that.” A sharp voice echoed through the kitchen, and Nethril and Faelhen both jumped at the sound. Adanel stood unnoticed in the doorway, arms folded tight across her chest, her face dark with anger. “Neither of you need fear. I know how to treat a guest with courtesy. And Nethril, if you feel the need to coddle someone like a child, best you get married and churn out some of your own.” 

Adanel turned on her heel and walked out into the hall, leaving silence in her wake. Nethril stared after her, dimly wondering if being clubbed over the head would be preferable to the hollow sensation that filled her now.

“Would you like that wine, Nethril?” Faelhen’s voice was soft. 

Nethril sank into a chair and groaned. 

“Yes, please.”  

***

Elrond and Aragorn did not return to the house until nearly midnight, by which point Nethril had exhausted herself readying the spare room and dusting every inch of the main hall she could reach. Elrond appeared to be leaning on Aragorn, who only nodded briefly to her in gratitude before he led the Elf lord up the stairs. She stared after them, wondering if she should be insulted by the lack of formality, and decided she was too tired to care. 

The rest of the house was silent when she descended into the kitchen, and she raided the larder for bacon and some eggs, and set about stoking the fire in the hearth. The familiar smell of bacon roasting in its own fat brought her comfort, and she took in the rays of sunlight that shone through the shutters with a brief pang. She caught these moments of peace so rarely in her new life. 

“That smells wonderful.” Lord Elrond stood in the doorway, his hands clasped beneath the sleeves of a long, richly woven blue robe belted at the waist. He had a deep, almost musical voice, and one that would have set Nethril at ease under normal circumstances. 

“Lord Elrond.” She inclined her head in a respectful bow. “I trust you slept well?” 

“Very. My apologies for not greeting you with more courtesy last night. The combination of the journey and the healing proved more draining than I expected.” 

“Think nothing of it,” Nethril said, and wished her speech did not sound quite so stilted. “I hope you’ll find the room adequate. I know it cannot compare to the halls of Rivendell, but if you need…” 

“Nethril, please.” He took a seat at the table, and smiled at her warmly. “We are kin, after a fashion, so please do not trouble yourself on my account. It gives me great joy to be among my brother’s people again.” 

“Ah.” Nethril could not think of a better response. His palms tilted upward where he rested them on the table with an openness his sons never possessed. Indeed, in some ways he appeared younger than them, his unlined face free of their single-minded intensity, and she could almost believe it if not for his clear, ancient eyes. She was struck, suddenly, by all the wonder and grief of that spanned Elrond’s memory, and she had to force herself to meet his kind, if daunting, gaze. 

“Was your brother as stubborn as the men of this house?” 

His smile widened. “Just so,” he said, and she finally forced herself to relax.  Behind her, the bacon was perilously close to burning, and she busied herself with finishing up breakfast while Elrond made himself at home. He moved about the kitchen with an unexpected ease. She watched, impressed, out of the corner of her eye as he found exactly where she kept her mother’s tea brew.

Aragorn, as usual, came down just as breakfast was served, with a profound apology to Nethril and promise to help cook supper later. His foster father gave him a knowing glance, and Nethril imagined her cousin had never cooked at all before coming to the Angle. The silence stretched between the three of them as they ate, and Nethril spared a glance at Aragorn, his face carefully composed. She suspected the presence of his foster father caused him even more discomfort than it did her. He’d confided in her many times about how badly he hoped to live up to Elrond’s expectations, and how he feared he’d be found wanting. 

“I’d like to see Brécharn today,” Aragorn finally said, and Nethril suppressed a sigh. “You said he brings tidings from Ecthelion himself?” 

“I haven’t asked how he gained an audience, but the message is clear enough. He’s seeking men to enter into his service. The armies of Gondor are lacking great captains, it seems.” 

She spoke her last words with a sarcasm that would have made Adanel proud, but Aragorn went pale and quiet. Beside him, Elrond became quite still, though his expression remained mild and amiable.

“You’ll want to talk to him yourself, of course, but I don’t think we can spare the men. We’re stretched so thin as it is, and with these wights spewing out of Cardolan…” 

“You didn’t inherit our grandmother’s foresight, did you?” Aragorn asked. 

She blinked in surprise at the odd question, before she reached for her cup of tea and closed her fingers around the clay. Any reason he had for asking could not be good.

“I should certainly hope not. Why?”  

“I’ve had the same dream for weeks now, Nethril.” Aragorn looked strangely uncomfortable, and he locked his grey eyes onto hers. “A white stone city, marble glinting in the sunlight, a banner of a tree and seven stars caught in the wind. Minas Tirith.”  

Nethril brought her cup to her lips and took a long, careful sip of tea; its bitterness a perfect match for the sinking feeling in her gut. You believe this to be a glimpse of the future?” 

“In my very bones,” he said. Her skepticism must have shown on her face, for he leaned forward, his earnestness almost palpable. She spared a glanced at Elrond, his mouth turned in a barely perceptible frown, and she quickly pulled her eyes back toward Aragorn’s.

“I was there, Nethril, clear as day. Our whole journey through Cardolan, I could not parse why, or what purpose I might serve there. If Ecthelion needs the men, perhaps this is that purpose.”

“You can’t be suggesting you go yourself,” Nethril said. “If we decide to send men, there are other captains. We pull Findroch from Swanfleet, have Goenor go with him. The man will see it as a second exile, and serve him right.” 

But Aragorn shook his head in that stubborn, infuriating way he did once he set his mind to something, and Nethril fought a sudden rise of panic. She had precious little luck persuading him to change course once he had truly made a decision, and she needed to head this off, now, before he became so entrenched it was too late.

“Aragorn, I have no doubt you will walk in the White City one day, but think about it. Nana Ivorwen never knows when her visions will come to pass. This could be years, decades in the future. We have a shortage of men now, and a threat from the west we have little measure of, unless you wish to tell me Gandalf banished every wight from Cardolan.” 

“He scared them off, at least,” Aragorn said with a mild smile. “I don’t know, Nethril. But you can’t tell me it’s a coincidence, that these dreams come just as Brécharn returns.” 

Nethril suppressed a low, frustrated growl that would win her no arguments. “We cannot plan—“ 

“I agree with your cousin, Estel.” Elrond spoke at last. “This is not a decision to undertake lightly. More pressing now is the fate of that reckless wizard currently in your grandmother’s care.”

He rose gracefully from the table and inclined his head toward Nethril’s with respect. “If you will excuse us, Lady Nethril?” 

“Of course.”

She watched Aragorn carefully as the two men departed. He did not seem to notice how agitated he’d left her, which could only be a good thing, and she drew in a deep, steadying breath to calm herself. She stared down at her eggs, untouched and growing cold on her plate, but she found she’d rather lost her appetite. If she’d known Aragorn would take Brécharn’s news in such a fashion, she’d have barred the Ranger from the Angle and sent him right back from where he came. 

Don’t be so dramatic, she chided herself, but she found she still half meant it. She could not lose her cousin to Gondor now—not when they’d only just gained him back.