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How long they had stayed shut in their room, Gilraen could only guess. It should not be more than one day and a half, however odd it felt, shorter and not so, timeless. Elves had brought a hot meal with warm greetings that first evening.

"Of course you may choose to attend supper nonetheless. Master Elrond welcomes you to his table. But we heard that your child was restive and that you had baggage yet unpacked, and how you yourself must be weary after the journey."

At this point one of the pair shifted to see into the room, her fingers making a kneading motion in the air that Gilraen presumed was in response to Aragorn's form asleep on the bed. She thanked them and accepted their tray gratefully and bracing herself invited them to stay.

"No, no, we shall be going. For company, come you without, it is easy to find. Good night!"

Gilraen returned to where she sat, but not to sleep. It is true that Aragorn had grown fussy, enough so that the Elf giving them a tour of the house cut it short. The poor dear was only hungry and tired by then; Gilraen did not see why Elves who were not even present when Aragorn became stuck trying to climb into a vase or scared himself to tears getting his limbs twisted up in drapery should allude to such things. There was not even much baggage, either, so what difference it made that she had done more stifled crying than dutiful unpacking...

Gilraen sighed, ate something, and slept. When Aragorn woke, she fed him, washed him, entertained him, and they slept some more.

Now their belongings were in order, and the richness of the light signaled another day coming to its end. Gilraen resolved to set out before anyone came to her door again, wishing not to be waited upon. She almost convinced herself the decision had naught to do with their having finished the Elves' fare and all the foodstuffs stowed away in their gear.

While she tidied herself, Aragorn emptied drawers within reach, saying 'no no no' in her voice and clicking his tongue as she does whenever he puts things in their wrongful place. He moved to the armoire next, pulling on sleeves until garments fell to the ground. She let him. Cleaning up would give her something to do later.

Venturing out of the room, she found the house darker than expected. The sun had descended below the horizon of the gully walls, casting the valley in shadow. Gilraen tried to remember directions the tour-Elf had given. The door-Elves came clearer to mind. 'For company, come you without, it is easy to find.'

She stopped amidst an unfamiliar foyer in the failing light and wondered which way they had even come from.

"You are lost."

Turning, Gilraen beheld a tall Elf, fair of face and dark haired, but with a severity to her features that set her apart. Gilraen took no pride in being unable to tell one Elf from another thus far.

"No. Yes! Excuse me, hullo, I am Gilraen."

The Elf shook her head. "Well, Telmoth has found you, Gilraen." She eyed Aragorn, eventually smiling at the boy. "You seek the kitchens."

"Telmoth? How strange!"

The Elf raised her eyes. "Is it? I was named so in honor of my deeds on the last dusk of doubtful fighting in the Great Battle, when Eärendil slew Ancalagon ere dawn, and the Host of the Valar prevailed."

Gilraen blinked. "I meant, my old nursemaid, you see, her name was Luinmoth."

Rolling eyes and shoulders, the Elf turned aside and gestured. "Yes, strange. Now follow me to the kitchens. You missed supper proper, but we will get you fed nonetheless."

As she led the way, Gilraen made note of the course. Passing outside they approached a separate building that appeared at first to be a large chamber with many arching windows. Once closer Gilraen realized that it was not one room, but several arrayed in a circle. They entered, moving easily from one orderly room to another by interconnecting doorways. Gilraen was amazed to behold an area designated for each chore of cooking. Her own kitchen and that of her mother seemed little better than a campfire in comparison.

Last they came into a room aglow with firelight from many hearths. Over the furthest hung a black pot; its contents filled the room with an aroma of cumin and clove. A son of Elrond stood there, recognizable only by his stature until he turned, for his clothes were all different --dark trousers and a tunic the color of red wine-- and his hair worn unbound. Still, his face belonged to the same grey-clad warrior.

"Gilraen, well met." He did not limp coming forth, but both hands were bare. "I would not have looked for you here at this hour."

"Do not make her feel awkward," said Telmoth, accomplishing just that. "The hours we keep are not hers. So you have cooked, is there plenty? You will see to the needs of your father's guests, yes? Good." Telmoth turned to leave, lowered her gaze to Aragorn, then added over her shoulder, "Oh Elladan, there are small spoons in that shallow drawer." To Gilraen, "Eat well, and good night!"

When the Elf had gone, Elladan stretched his neck, sighed, and beckoned to Gilraen with a relieved expression. "She can be... that way. Now please, come and be seated."

Gilraen only went to get Aragorn seated, but before she could do aught else, Elladan had put a steaming bowl before her son. Without another thought towards helping him, she sat to oversee that Aragorn not burn himself eating too fast. The table set, Elladan joined them moments later. They ate in silence. When Aragorn started on a second ladle of stew, Gilraen took the opportunity to say, "He rarely eats so much at one sitting. It must be your skill with spices."

He either missed the compliment or wanted it not. "The traveling and excitement, more likely." He went to a cabinet and returned with a dark bottle and two glasses. His expression grew pensive as he poured. "Normally, there would be some minor celebration upon our homecoming, my brother and I. Even," he gestured to his thigh, and sat again with a slight wince, "if we fare poorly." Heavy silence fell. "The Elves here, though, however they may relish merrymaking, have adopted this as a time of mourning for Arathorn Dúnedain Chieftain, on behalf of the kinship between your house and that of Elrond-- of us, we Halfelven. For myself," he grasped the goblet that had been the long target of his intense regard, "I would celebrate, in this way."

Gilraen had begun to reach for her own wine, until the word 'celebrate' passed his lips in the same breath as Arathorn's name, of his death.

Elladan went on, "If your folk have a different custom with such things, I am unfamiliar with it. So I raise my glass to your husband in honour and remembrance, and to you his widow in sympathy and welcome. During dark times my people will say: Aurë entuluva, which is 'Day shall come again'. May you find some comfort in that, may you find some peace here, and may it be enough."

Nearly spilling its contents, she grabbed the cup so quickly, Gilraen returned his gesture of raised glass, and drank. While he bowed his head, she wiped her eyes dry, and utterly forgave his small offense of interpreting Sindarin for her.

When their glasses were drained and Aragorn slept with his head upon her shoulder, Elladan cleared the table and extinguished the hearth fire. Through the nearest window, Gilraen could see one lamp aglow in the distance, and little else. Even as she fretted over the darkness, he came to her side. "I will escort you to your room."

Indeed, Elladan navigated so well through the darkened hallways that Gilraen soon lost sight of him. She waited in place, and after a moment, cleared her throat. Another moment and he returned to say, "Forgive me. They shall begin to light the sconces at night again."

Thereafter he walked slower, and rested his hand upon her shoulder in guidance. Suddenly he paused. Gilraen heard it too: a musical voice incanting. She sensed Elladan shift beside her. "I-- unless you mind, I would stop here briefly."

She shook her head that Aragorn not wake to her voice. Elladan led them then to the side, there might have been grass under her feet. They halted where a slit of firelight escaped under a door to reach across the floor.

Elladan opened the door and entered. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she made out a bedchamber of sorts. A figure lay prone upon a bed, nude save for a draping over his thighs. Candlelight reflected off of the bronze band circling his thumb. Ugly bruises riddled Elrohir's shoulders and back, some marks rimmed by red crescents where the skin had been broken.

Focused upon his son, Elrond sat on the bedside. He did some manner of work, though he held no tools; if this were a healing act of the wounded, it made the first bloodless example Gilraen had beheld. His hands moved in unpredictable but aesthetic patterns over the marred portions, sometimes pausing or seeming to apply pressure. Elrohir's expression remained untroubled as if in sleep, breathing deep and even.

Neither of them appeared to notice that the door had opened, moreover, not that Gilraen stood beside the threshold blushing, for which she felt immense gratitude. She retreated to stand back against the outside wall, enjoying the sweet smell of athelas that wafted from within, and making every effort to ignore the exchange between father and son while it lasted.

"We may go." Elladan had emerged. "Thank you."

One more traipse through near blindness, and Gilraen was back in her room. Or so Elladan assured her, and lit a lamp to prove it. He opened his mouth to speak, looked once and twice and stared wordless at the mess of the place, and then raised his eyebrow instead.

"My son. I let him, it's all right, I'll straighten up in the morning."

"Ah. Well, good night to you both then."

"Excuse me. I did not want to intrude, else I would have wished your brother well. I could not help but see his wounds. Shall he, that is--" how not to insult Elrond's ability or Elrohir's fortitude.

"He will recover, yes.

"I'm glad. Did you say already? How was he hurt?"

The reply came solemn and low. "He was trampled by a riderless horse."

"Palaber."

Elladan set the lamp beside her bed. "Good night, Gilraen."

"No," she said long after he had gone. "It is not."

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