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Inside was a whirlwind of singing and dancing. The evening had begun mild enough at Elrond's table; after supper, the household gravitated to the Hall of Fire for a night of storytelling and songs. It would be Gilraen's first visit there, since her arrival the week prior. She recalled noticing a particularly brilliant gleam in Lindir's eye, as they walked among the procession towards the Hall. Soon enough therein, she had been captivated by the tales that were told, enchanted by the talents of the elvish minstrels, whose voices depicted events terrible and splendid as if she watched the happenings unfold before her eyes.

And there had been mead served round, and wine, and ale -- then thanks to Lindir and others of similar mood, dancing followed, round and round some more.

Outside, Gilraen retched again, and staggering out of the shrubbery knelt by the fountain in the courtyard. She leaned over the stone and cleansed her mouth of its foul taste before sinking depleted and queasy to the ground, a damp hand pressed to cool her head.

"You should retire."

Gilraen's initial response surfaced in a groan, but then she replied, "And I would, but I left my son asleep in the Hall of Fire. I must return there." The illness came so suddenly that she only had time to see Aragorn still asleep upon a pillow before rushing herself outside. Once in the fresh air, there had been a deceptive moment when her stomach settled. Three steps later she was 'feeding the flies', as the men in her family would call it.

Telmoth came closer, offering Gilraen her hand. "One must be wary of the good intentions of Elves, when Elves intend to help one become good and inebriated."

Gilraen took the offered hand and stood. "I notice the plentiful beverages have not affected you adversely."

Telmoth shrugged. "And in truth, I noticed that you had partaken of little drink save water. But never mind, if you wish not to speak of it."

They walked together back to the Hall of Fire. Gilraen stopped before the entryway. "Good as the food is, I am unused to Elven fare. And this week has been full of turmoil and worrying." She looked to Telmoth. "I would not wish anyone to fret over me, or make any changes on my account."

"I think that I alone marked your hasty departure, and I will not speak of its-- outcome. All the same, a strange thing. Few have ever been ill in Rivendell," here she eyed Gilraen, "leastwise not without bodily cause."

Gilraen raised her chin. "I believe that of your hearty folk. But I am mortal."

Telmoth tossed her head. Among Elves, Gilraen had begun to recognize that as an indication of annoyance. "Elves do not ail, lady, save by injury or foul craft. I spoke indeed of the mortals who have taken residence here in times past. Few suffered any affliction."

Grown less confident, Gilraen shifted. "What of those who did?"

"We used them as fishing bait," said Telmoth unsmiling. "But not until after Master Elrond declared they had no chance of recovery."

"Hmph. That explains much." At the Elf's arched brows, Gilraen said, "Bad bait. You've all been eating tainted fish."

It took a while. Then Telmoth grinned lopsided, her eyes narrowing approvingly. "In honor of your wit, I shall make seem foolish the next Elf who still thinks it clever to say Slowborn instead of Secondborn after all these Ages. There is one now." Someone beckoned to Telmoth from the crowd. "Excuse me."

Musing on the elvish sense of humor and compliment, Gilraen went to join her son beside his pillow. He slept just as she had left him. At last, the Elves ceased their dancing, and the minstrels played their instruments soft and slowly. Some Elves sat on the floor or in chairs and others stood; but all gathered round to hear.

From her position, Gilraen could not see who began to speak. She guessed the familiar voice to be from Lindir. His light tones came subdued, the mood turned akin to the fire in the great hearth, all ethereal power of nature. In Sindarin, he wove his tale without the fluidity she would expect. As his words flickered, think wisps of smoke danced through the air. It seemed that there was a mist before her eyes. Then it was dusk in the Angle.

The rain began lightly, but soon beat upon the porch like a patter of drums. She stood against the house, barely out of the storm, heedless of its chill. Lightning turned night to day, rain to crystal, shadows alight. He waved to her as he passed on horseback, headed to the barn. Under thunder like a clapping of godly hands, she waited. Soon he came running to stand before her, drenched and shivering. She could not stop her laughter in time. His eyes, smoldering gray, twinkled with amusement betraying his feigned offense. He looked like a soggy bear, she said, shaking in its own fur. Growling he embraced her, fangs bared proudly with her gasp of surprise at the shared cold and wet. Now, he said, they would both need to undress.

All quiet in the house, all homely, all their own. Aragorn slept upon the only bed in the only bedroom. They took to the couch, and each other. Eagerly he bore her down, but with gentle hands that made sure that her head lie upon a pillow. She could not feel the calluses, though they had been there. Not a soggy bear anymore, she said, stripping him of leather and cloth, running her fingers through the coarse fur underneath, feeling the familiar hide respond to her fingertips, loosening here and hardening there. Not sodden, but still a bear, he said, and a hungry one at that. To prove it he feasted upon her, inside and out, his prey willing and delicious, always. A harper however skilled could not have kept pace with them in that hour.

The sensation was gone. The memory was stronger. Therein his scent, heady and raw as the forest after a flood, mingled with brimstone -– yet the hearth had been unlit. Things were not quite as they had been. Things would never be the same. Later he returned from their bedchamber with dry clothes. They dressed. He ate. She talked. Finished and reclined, there sat a note upon the table where his hand had rested. For her to read, he said, in case of the worst. She refused, did not want it, would not need it, could not take it. He told her to give it back to him, when he returned, and if he did returned not, to give it to Elrond Halfelven in Rivendell, a place free and fair between the mountains and the sea. Take this burden as a gift from me, he said, for the promise held more meaning than the possibility. The promise was meaningless without the possibility. So she vowed to go, to follow Eärendil's star even if she rode into darkness.

"...in Mordor, where the shadows are."

Not thunder now, or before, but applause. Gilraen sat up in a start. She blinked a moment at the pillow her head had rested upon, and quickly wiped dampness from her cheeks. Beyond her sat Elrond upon his lone seat, a harp in his hands, and his eyes evenly upon her. Clear gray reflected the firelight like lightning in the evening sky where shone rain unshed.

"Ah, but the Fall of Gil-galad is a saddening lay, is it not?" said one Elf to another as they passed by.

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