Title: A Lantern in the Dark
Author: Keiliss
Email: scrapcat21@yahoo.com
Rating: R (let's be on the safe side)
Pairing: Glorfindel/Elrond
Warning: m/m slash
Disclaimer: not mine, I just borrowed them
Beta: the wonderful Fimbrethiel
Timeline: Third Age
Summary: Midwinter, approaching evil, Orcs - and Elrohir receives a
warning in a dream.
A/N: Winter moon = the Winter Solstice


Part 1


The depths of winter had come early to the north of Middle-earth,
bringing some of the worst weather known to three generations of Men.
For weeks now, icy winds had howled ceaselessly, bringing stinging
rain, hail, and finally, the snow.

It was not the picture-pretty snow, redolent of families gathered
close around a welcoming fire, the cold locked firmly without. This
snow was companion to the dark things moving across the face of the
land, the weather a mirror to the pain and despair that were starting
once again to tighten their grip. There was a feeling shared by all of
something moving inexorably closer, trailing clouds of horror in its
wake.

Orc bands, bigger, stronger, more intelligent than ever before ranged
across the countryside; wolves, wargs, and other fell beasts harassed
settlements and the outskirts of towns. Mirkwood had become a place
almost under siege, and deep within the shadows, Dol Guldor gave off a
sense of unrelieved evil that was all but tangible.

Until recently, the snowline and the darkness had stopped briefly at a
little-known Ford across the Bruinen, leaving the passage down to the
Elven stronghold of Imladris, referred to by men as Rivendell, clear
and for the most part dry.

However, on a day when the world beyond this border had been black,
wind tossed, impassable by man or beast, Glorfindel, twice-born
warrior and master of the defenses of the valley haven, out for a late
morning stroll in company with his thoughts, found reason to bring an
end to the unseasonable warmth and dryness taken for granted by most
of the Elven inhabitants.

Making his way back to the house by way of the private garden
previously cared for and enjoyed by Celebrían, a place still offering
the feeling of stillness and mystery so like her former home in
Lórien, he had spotted a huddle of velvet and silk under a tree. On
closer inspection, this turned out to be the Lord of Imladris, lying
curled upon the ground with eyes tightly closed, brow furrowed, hands
clenched.

Experience, some of it bitter, much of it accompanied by loud words,
told the golden haired Elf the story behind the picture. He settled
down on the ground, lifting the head into his lap, and sat tidying the
soft dark hair and gently massaging and loosening the tight hands
while his aura surrounded the unconscious Elf, slowly drawing him back
to the world. Eventually, eyes the colour of storm clouds opened and
focused on his face.

"Glorfindel?"

He was obviously disoriented, and for the moment made no move to rise.
Glorfindel weighed practicality against indignity as he contemplated
picking up and carrying the noted healer, lore master and war hero
through the grounds of his home to his rooms, and regretfully decided
in favor of dignity.

It took Elrond a few minutes, lying cradled against Glorfindel, to
collect himself. When he attempted to rise, he swayed slightly, his
face pale, and had it not been for the firm arm around his shoulders,
he would have fallen again.

"Can you walk, if I take your arm and pretend we are out for a turn
around the gardens?" Glorfindel asked, knowing how important it would
be to Elrond to keep this display of apparent weakness unnoticed.

Receiving a nod in reply, he brushed his companion down quickly,
removing telltale leaves and grass, smoothing Elrond's robes with a
practiced hand before turning and heading slowly, arms linked, back to
the house.

The private rooms of the Lord of Imladris were not any great distance
away. Once inside, Glorfindel helped him to a chair, fussing with
cushions and smoothing his hair back gently from his face. Then he
stood back, crossed his strong arms over his muscular chest and
lowered dark gold eyebrows in a rather good imitation of Elrond's own
patented scowl.

"And now, you fey, unheeding creature, it ends!" he said firmly. He
received a wry smile and a graceful gesture from one long hand in
response and brushed both off impatiently.

"No," Glorfindel said deliberately. "Not again. This time is going to
be different. You are not going to smile sweetly, apologize for
worrying me, and then go your own stubborn way again. There will be
no next time. It stops! What in the name of any and all of the Valar
were you trying to do?"

Somehow, when confronted by the risks the dark-haired Elf was prepared
to brave in the use of the awesome power he controlled, Glorfindel
regularly found his habitual calm deserting him. Fear of the
consequences to the one who was the center of his life spoke far
louder than common sense or discretion at such times.

"I just wanted to hold the weather off for a little while longer, to
give the apple trees a chance to finish fruiting..."

Elrond stopped the lame and rather hesitantly offered explanation
because his seneschal had swung on his heel, and was now striding
round the room.

"Oh yes, another good reason to kill yourself," Glorfindel said
grimly. "The apples. And before that were the grapes - and then there
was the warm weather for the new foal, and then you were worried about
the river flooding - "

Tall, strongly built, his golden hair hanging in waves almost to his
waist, he came and dropped down onto his knees before the effectively
silenced dark haired Elf.

"I don't know what your true reasons are, I don't know what really
compels you to this, but one day," he said, taking one of the
beautiful, competent hands between both of his, "I am going to find
you curled up on the ground, again, and I am going to kneel down and
shake you, once again, and then I am going to find you aren't
breathing..."

"The way in to Imladris has to stay open and accessible. I don't know
why, I just know that it must, and keeping the rain and snow at bay is
the obvious way."

The explanation faded off into silence as Glorfindel, golden Elf,
warrior legend of three ages, leaned forward, resting his forehead
against Elrond's knee. The dark haired Elf put a hand under his
lover's chin and raised the unforgettable face, and looked wordlessly
at the unshed tears of frustration and fear clinging to dark gold
lashes, until Glorfindel pulled away from him almost crossly.

"You are going to kill yourself fighting nature, trying to hold back
the world, " he said helplessly, rubbing a hand across his eyes.
"Meanwhile, my troops can patrol our borders and you always know if
anything comes near to crossing them. We can be prepared for any need
that may arise - love, please, please, let the weather be. The road
can be kept open by more physical means. I seldom ask anything of
you, but you have told me yourself how hard this is becoming. Please
let it be."

Elrond wiped the last tear away himself with a fingertip. "It does get
harder and harder to stand against the flow of the world," he agreed,
smiling slightly. He moved his hand to caress Glorfindel's head,
burrowing his fingers into the bright gold hair and then letting the
heavy silk slide smoothly through them.

"Very well. For love of you, I will let the weather be. Now you," he
smiled mischievously, "will do me the courtesy of telling everyone
that they are going to be cold and wet, at your request. Is that fair?"

Glorfindel gave him a smile to light Elrond's heart and turned his
head to kiss the stroking hand. "As the price of your safety, that is
more than fair," he said.

----------------------------

Deep night, a glimmer of light from an unknown source. A room within
the expanding dwelling place referred to by many as the Last Homely
House. It was a pleasant room, disorderly in a comfortable sort of
way, a pile of clothing on a chair, a small untidy bundle of books.
Near the window stood an easel holding the beginnings of a painting.
There were wall hangings, several of which had probably been there
since childhood, cushions, drapes, a sense of home.

The sleeper in the bed opposite the window was moving slightly, head
turning from side to side. His eyes were closed, a thing unknown in
elven sleep, his shining dark hair was tumbled about his finely boned
face. He moaned softly, then stiffened, frozen as though by fear.
Suddenly, he flung an arm across his face, cried out, then lay still.

Time passed, then the sleeper sat slowly up, brushing hair from his
face. He pulled his knees up to his chin, and his eyes, the exact
shade of aged pewter, gazed sightlessly out the window. Once his
breathing had settled and he was grounded once again within his
surroundings, he rose from the bed.

Clad only in thin, pale blue sleep pants, he left the room and walked
down the hall, one hand touching the wall lightly, keeping contact
with its hard reality. Reaching the next door, he knocked softly
waiting for it to open, waiting for his almost mirror image, who
appeared, hair neatly braided for bed, wearing a warm-looking sleep
shirt and a bemused expression.

"I had a dream," Elrohir said shakily. "I have to tell Ada .We have to
go beyond the river and fetch her, keep her safe."

------------------------------

Another room in the same house. Larger, airier, with thick drapes
drawn against the night. A fire burnt low in the fire place, because
the Lord of this refuge, having a share of mortal blood in his veins,
felt the northern chill.

It was a room which had long been occupied, but only recently
redecorated, jewel colours, textures, contrasts of wood and metal and
stone speaking to a definite vision, not the haphazard accumulation of
centuries. It was the room of a personality long restrained by the
preferences of others, finally encouraged to free expression.

In the bed, two figures slowly writhed to a background of sighs and
soft whispers, performing a dance older than time, more warming than
any hearth fire. Smoke dark hair tangled with sun gold, hands, lips,
searched, caressed, pleasured under the soft, bright covers. Firmly,
needfully, the blonde urged the dark-haired Elf onto his back, drawing
him into a deep, passionate kiss. Long legs were wrapped round his
waist, both bodies started moving more urgently, in a manner more defined.

"Ada, Rohir says he has to talk to you."

The room stilled, the two figures in the bed instantly motionless. The
golden Elf finally drew back slightly to look down at his companion,
summer blue eyes meeting long-lashed storm gray. They both turned
slowly to look at the doorway, which, inexplicably, contained two
figures, alike yet unalike.

Elrond, a veteran of ill-timed interruptions by his sons, though not,
truth be told, in recent years, moved, insinuating Glorfindel off him
and to the side, then propped himself up on an elbow, taking care to
keep the covers around his body, and demanded evenly,

"Explain!"

"Rohir had a dream," Elladan said softly, gesturing towards his
brother, still clad in nothing save thin sleep pants and a fall of
dark, flowing hair. "He says it can't wait till morning."

Elrond surveyed his younger son, the only one of his three children in
whom the blood of their Maian ancestress ran clear and close to the
surface, and gestured towards the bed. The only other time Elrohir had
woken him agitated by a forewarning dream, it had revolved around a
silver flower, bloodied and trampled within a cave.

That time, Glorfindel, the twins and companies of warriors from both
Imladris and Lórien had ridden out at once, but reached the Redhorn
Pass too late to save Celebrían from horrors only Elrond himself, as
her healer, ever fully understood.

"Come," he said briefly. The twins exchanged glances, then as one
turned their pewter gaze to Glorfindel. Their father made a gesture of
annoyance at them.

"You made no objection when I told you we were lovers; in fact you
wished us well. What did you think we did in here at night - talked
about our day and played chess? Grow up. Come here, child, and tell me
your dream."

Elrohir, his brother's hand lightly supporting his arm, came over to
the bed and curled onto it as he had since he was an Elfling. Elladan
sat more sedately on the edge behind his brother, keeping his eyes
carefully averted from Glorfindel's naked chest.

Elrond took hold of one of his son's long fingered, narrow hands, so
like his own. There was, he noted with a little tug of tenderness, a
scratch along the side, and faint paint stains on the fingers.

"Talk to me," he encourage, keeping his voice soft. Behind him,
Glorfindel moved slightly, settling against him, a hand resting
lightly on his lover's waist, silently supportive.

"They are out there all alone in the snow. They are being chased, and
we need to help them," Elrohir said in a distant voice, his eyes
starting to lose focus, to look inward again. Elrond shook his hand
lightly to keep his attention.

"Who? Where?" he asked, knowing that short, simple questions would be
the easiest for his son to focus on. Elrohir shook his head hard, the
hair flying, and shivered slightly. Glorfindel pulled the top cover
loose and sat up to cover the young Elf with it, his touch firm,
completely unembarrassed by his own nakedness.

Elrohir snuggled into the blanket. "I don't know who they were," he
said softly. "There was fighting and there was blood and it was
raining. Then I saw riders fleeing through the snow, pursued by a
great shadow, and in their midst was a woman, and she was carrying a
lantern."

"A lantern?" Glorfindel looked at Elrond questioningly. "On horseback?"

"It's a metaphor," he answered distractedly. To his son, he said, "Did
you know her face, did you hear anything?" Elrohir's dreams were
mainly pictures, but at times, he heard the odd word.

"No words," he said, shaking his head. "But they were Men, Ada, not
Elves. That is all I know. That, and," he looked intently at his
father, his face vulnerable in the faint light cast by the fire and
the dim lamp beside the bed. " I think they were trying to reach the
Ford, but the snow is so thick, they may not find their way. And
should they reach it, there will be no one to guide them. We have to
go to them."

On this last, he started to rise from the bed, his mind already on
leaving the house, finding his horse, riding into the night. Elrond
took a firm grip on his wrist and pulled him back sharply.

"Elrohir, there is no one out there now," he said firmly. "I am
certain of it. This is a thing still to come, it has all the marks on
it, and when you are properly awake you will know that yourself. I
think the main message is that we must keep the pass watched and open,
and, so far as possible, the roads traversable, and the Orcs and other
dark things out there contained."

Elrohir stilled and studied his father, the only one beside his
grandmother who understood the dreams and sometimes waking visions he
had been heir to since childhood. Of the two, he far preferred his
father's common sense approach to the subject.

His grandmother used her Mirror as a tool to direct her visions.
Meanwhile, like him, Elrond saw things unbidden, knew things with a
certainty beyond knowledge. On the whole, if his father said it was
not happening yet, Elrohir was more than prepared to believe him.

"But it will happen one day," he said softly, slowly becoming aware
that he was sitting in his father's bedroom wearing sleep pants and a
blanket, and that they had burst in without knocking and interrupted a
very private and intimate moment.

"Whatever it is, it will happen." Elrond agreed, part of his mind
ranging free, trying to sense any unaccounted presence near the
valley. But all he could feel were the distant movements of Orcs, far
enough away to pose no threat.

"Nothing?" Glorfindel asked him quietly, knowing where his mind roamed
when his eyes took on that peculiar silver hue. At the quick shake of
the head, he leaned over and said to Elrohir, putting a hand lightly
on the young Elf's shoulder as he did so, "Your father will watch in
his way, I in mine. Tomorrow I will double the guard on the pass, and
tomorrow, too, I think we should start sending patrols to try and
clear back the Orc packs. Were there many close by?"

This last was addressed to Elrond, whose ability to search out
wandering followers of darkness within reach of Imladris held no awe
or discomfort for one who had spent a childhood in company with
Galadriel and her brothers, still less for one who had experienced the
other side of death.

"They are out there," Elrond confirmed, settling back against the
pillows. Glorfindel had brought many gifts to their relationship but
one of the greatest, though the Lord of Imladris preferred not to
admit it, was the way he could take charge of a situation, make
decisions. To be able to lean back and allow some one else to do so
was pure, sheer luxury. "There seem more than normal, too, but not
close. I doubt we are their intent."

"Arathorn sent word asking if we would care to ride with his Dúnedain.
They are driving back the packs that seem to have crossed the mountain
of late," Elladan volunteered. "Their numbers have increased again."

Arathorn was the rather grim, humorless leader of the northern remnant
of Men of the West, newly made chief and one to take his duties
seriously. Elrond personally found him hard to like, but tolerated him
as he had all the others of that line, the last thread that held him
to Elros, his lost twin, whose grave lay deep under the ocean in the
wreck of Númenor. He sighed and smiled wryly.

"Perhaps that would be a good course for you two. I think your brother
needs to feel he is doing something useful," he suggested. "When did
he want you to join them?"

"We would have to ride tomorrow, I think," Elladan said, considering.
"I gathered you wanted us both home for the Winter Moon celebrations,
though. You certainly complained loudly enough about our absence at
Midsummer."

"Don't disrespect your father," Glorfindel said absently, as he had
since the twins were both old enough to speak. Pewter eyes flashed his
way and he mentally cursed his tongue.

Since the first magical, unbelievable night he had bedded Elrond,
Glorfindel had tried to stay aware of the fact that, for the twins,
the comfortable relationship they had shared with their father's
seneschal all their lives had changed, become complicated.

Glorfindel was still their friend, some-time tutor, and advisor. He
was still the master of the defenses of Imladris, and a warrior
terrifying in his skill and courage. He still had their respect and
their friendship. But he was now their father's lover, and the easy
interaction that had once existed between them was, for the moment,
overlaid with conscious care for the right word, the uncontroversial
response.

Accepting that what was done was done, he continued in a brisk tone.
"I was going to ask you to take your turns patrolling, but you would
be better employed aiding the Dúúnedain to push the swine back further.
If you leave tomorrow, I don't see why you shouldn't be back before
the Winter Moon. How many Orcs can there be out there, anyway?"

Elladan had already risen, eager to get back to his room, away from
the reality of a relationship that would always leave him feeling just
a little uneasy, and about which, tonight, he had observed a little
more than he really cared to know.

Elrond, who hoped that the current discomfort would all have settled
down in another hundred years or so, had been staying clear of the
conversation, but now he sat up and put an arm around his younger son,
pulling him into a quick, rough hug while further ruffling his hair
with his free hand.

"Put it to the back of your mind, Rohir. I think the dream was urgent,
but not for tonight. You will know it when you see it. For now, do
what can be done. Go and drive back the Orcs - help keep the road open."

------------------------------

Come morning the twins rode out, after a slightly awkward apology to
their father for invading his privacy, and life in Imladris settled
into a pattern of almost unconscious watchfulness.

Glorfindel, true to his word, increased patrols and kept a strong
presence both on the King's Road, as it was still called, and at the
final approach to Imladris. The patrols reported a definite increase
in the number of Orcs encountered, but Imladris itself didn't appear
to be their target, long and bitter experience having taught them that
the Elf haven was best left well alone.

This had become especially so following the attack on the Lady of the
valley's entourage, which had brought down on the head of any Orc
unwary enough to find himself within range the full vengeance of her
people, especially her sons. Cold-eyed mirror images of death they
were, haunted by their memories of what they had found in the Orc nest
within the lower reaches of the Redhorn Pass.

Within Imladris too, Elrond, descendant of Melian the Maia, offered
protection in his own way to those under his care. No longer able to
keep back the full might of winter, due to his promise to Glorfindel,
he could, and did, still watch the borders and even beyond, looking
for any trace of the unusual, and in particular anything that would
resonate with the image from his son's dream - a woman on horseback,
bearing a lantern.

To Glorfindel's query he simply said, "A lantern would be a sign, the
uncovering of a secret, a message of hope, a weapon against the dark.
What it would actually be," he added, smiling and resting his head
against his lover's shoulder, "we will know when it occurs. That is
always the way of these things for Rohir and me."

"You knew when Celebrían fell into danger." Glorfindel said this
carefully, because Celebrían was still a subject that could bring
shadows of despair back into Elrond's eyes, but Elrond merely shook
his head and shrugged.

"The silver rose was her emblem, she was out somewhere on the road.
That was as clear as a prediction could ever be. This is less obvious."

Part Two

Two weeks after the sons of the Lord of the valley rode out to hunt
Orc with the northern remnant of the survivors of Númenor, unexpected
winter guests arrived at the crossing over the Bruinen. A party from
the traveling company usually led by Gildor Inglorion arrived, seeking
a warm hearth and the companionship of their kindred during the height
of the inclement weather.

These were those members of the company less eager for battle and
risk, for, so they said Gildor himself, plus those of warrior skill
amongst them, had joined themselves with the sons of Elrond of
Imladris and the Dúnedain of the North, in an attempt to break and
disperse a large and worrisomely well-organized Orc tribe which was
raiding the settlements of the Dúnedain more or less at will.

Lord Elrond bade them welcome, offered all the amenities of the Last
Homely House, and said quietly to Glorfindel, "It begins."

To the eyebrow raised in inquiry, he shook his head. Unlike
Galadriel, he had no mirror to aid his inborn gift, nor did he wish
for one. He believed his knowledge to be an ability guided by the
Valar, and preferred it to unfold in accordance with their will and
wisdom.

Sometimes his foresight was crystal clear and incontrovertible. More
often it was simply a matter of knowing something to be true, and
making the best use of this knowledge. Therefore he waited and kept a
small corner of his awareness engaged in watching the road to the
Ford.

------------------------------

The day before the winter solstice, the period celebrated by Men and
Hobbits as the turning of the year, a time for family and gift-giving,
friendship and joy, Imladris received the heaviest snowfall of its
existence. There were some hard stares in Glorfindel's direction, as
it was a thing now known that Lord Elrond had ceased his tampering
with the forces of nature at the Seneschal's request.

Nothing was said openly, however, and Elves found themselves, for the
first time in many long centuries, needing to form teams to clear the
paths and keep the haven running effectively. A number were recruited
to go and help in clearing the entrance to the valley, rendering the
trail and the Ford itself safe. There was some discontent over this,
till it was made clear that the instruction came from none less than
Lord Elrond himself, and that he was of the belief that this was a
matter of some urgency.

The traditions at this time of year amongst the Elves of Imladris were
something that had grown over the centuries into a sort of synthesis
between the Yule traditions of the Secondborn and their own
acknowledgment that the year had turned, spring would return and with
it the growing time would begin. The evening before the solstice
usually involved a community dinner, followed by songs and the telling
of tales around the fire, as a prelude of sorts to the festivities to
be enjoyed the following night.

Although the sense of impending darkness sat at the edge of awareness
of all the inhabitants of the valley refuge, there was also a
determination to refuse to give it power through acknowledging its
presence. And so preparations for the usual Winter Moon celebrations
went ahead apace.

------------------------------

Throughout dinner, despite maintaining an attitude of polite interest
in everything happening around him, Elrond was unusually quiet,
something which was marked by those sitting closest to him. After
intercepting some hard looks from Glorfindel, however, everyone was
very careful to refrain from asking what, if anything, was amiss.

At the end of the meal, everyone retired to the Hall of Fire, which
had been decorated in the best Imladris tradition - in other words, it
had been transformed for the evening's entertainment in a manner
owing much to many cultures, and very little to any one particular one.

The Hall was illuminated throughout by scores of tiny lanterns,
burning in a variety of soft shades behind colored glass. Streamers
festooned with little glittering, painted suns, stars and
representations of forest animals were to be found strung between and
draped from every available surface.

There were holly branches and mistletoe, as well as garlands laden
with berries, most of this greenery being studded with apples, painted
scarlet, silver or gold, which caused Glorfindel to ask Elrond if this
had been the reason for his urgency in keeping the trees free from
snow for as long as possible. This earned him the first real smile of
the evening from the dark haired Elf at his side, who remained still
and subdued, in sharp contrast to the festive mood surrounding them.

"My mother would have loved all this," Glorfindel said with a fond
smile. "She wouldn't have understood it, but she would have loved it."

"I have no idea what my mother would have thought of it," Elrond, who
had lost both parents far too young, said with a wry smile. "But I can
tell you that Maglor would have taken one horrified look and fled."

They were in the midst of laughter, their heads close together, when
Elrond suddenly stopped and went completely still. Glorfindel felt him
leave his body, leave the Hall. He sat motionless, his eyes staring
unseeingly before him, barely seeming to breath. Glorfindel put a hand
lightly on his shoulder, as Elrond had taught him to do at such times,
so that he would have a thread to follow back and waited, ready to
turn aside anyone who might at that moment attempt to approach them.

Elrond returned as he had departed, abruptly, blinking his eyes twice
and reaching up almost as a reflex to touch the hand on his shoulder
in silent thanks. He shook his head briefly, grounding himself. When
he turned to speak to Glorfindel his voice was steady, certain.

"You need to get a full force out onto the King's Road," he said
firmly. "There is a party a few hours' ride from here being pursued by
an Orc band. Unaided, they will not reach us."

Glorfindel rose at once. "Have you any idea who they are?" he asked
over his shoulder, as he put down his wine and prepared to exit the
Hall.

"Not all," was the reply. "But it is a party comprised mainly of Men,
and my sons ride amongst them; therefore, they must be Dúnedain."

"As you said," Glorfindel said softly, "it has begun."

"Not begun, my love," Elrond replied. "Whatever it is, it is upon us."

They touched twice, once the warrior's greeting, the grip of hand to
arm, and once in a manner which was all their own, a light, quick
touch of fingertips to cheek, and then Glorfindel left, going out into
the dark and the snow to call together his fighters.

------------------------------

The steep, winding path up from the valley was slippery but passable,
thanks to the efforts made at Elrond's insistence to keep the way
clear, and the company of Elves led by Glorfindel made good time.
Passing the duty guard at the top, pausing only to give them
instructions to be doubly vigilant, they turned their horses into the
wind and set out at the best speed possible for the river Ford that
marked the boundary of Imladris.

Out of the protection of the valley, the wind howled around them, and
any save Elves riding Elven-raised horses would have given up and
turned back. The snow had temporarily ceased, but in its place a light
but bitingly cold rain fell, and all about them was darkness.

The Ford itself carried an off-putting appearance, the water rose far
higher than normal, dark and angry, but Glorfindel, in answer to
expressions of concern, reassured the group. "This is Lord Elrond's
river and lies under his hand. It holds no peril for any traveling
this path on his business or with his blessing."

So saying, or more exactly shouting, in defiance of the wind, he urged
his horse into the water and led the way across and up onto the road,
or rather what could be discerned of it under its blanket of snow.

The going was slower now, in deference to the need to take care for
the horses' footing on the snow, but they maintained a steady pace and
rode on into the dark of the night. They were an hour beyond the Ford
when Celanor, riding to the fore, called back over his shoulder,
"Riders approaching, my Lord. At speed!"

Glorfindel drew his company to a halt, deploying them with hand
gestures and a few words into a state of battle readiness, and drew
his sword. Out of the dark, a small group of riders appeared bearing
down upon them.

Spotting them at the last possible moment - Men not having the
eyesight of Elves, especially not in the dark - they pulled to a halt
with some shouting and jostling. Out of the group Elladan rode,
shouting something back over his shoulder as he did so.

"Very well met, Glorfindel," he called. "I have with me a number of
the Dúnedain, and also Gildor and some few of his company. We are
pursued by Orcs---"

"This is why we are here, sent by your father's wisdom," Glorfindel
cut in. He gestured to the Elves behind him. "Do we have the numbers
for them now, do you think?"

Elladan looked and nodded briefly. "Probably," he said. "But some of
us must ride ahead. Arathorn has fallen, and his settlement is under
attack. We are taking his family to the House for safety."

Glorfindel felt something still within him for a moment. He personally
had been one of the few Elves who had liked the grim-faced, serious
Man, respecting his firmness of purpose and battle skills. He had also
spent enough time in Arathorn's company to have grown to like his
occasional dry wit and cynical assessment of his fellows. Glorfindel
turned his left hand palm down to the ground and murmured the age-old
benediction.

"Go well, my friend. Safe journey." Then he looked at the group of
riders before him, quickly assessing. There was a small group of Men,
plus ten Elves, including Elrohir and Gildor. Someone rode behind
Gildor, and Elrohir appeared to be carrying a bundle before him,
holding it with great care.

"Elladan, you will take this company," he ordered, indicating the
warriors he had brought from Imladris, "plus the Dúnedain and half
of Gildor's company and deal with the Orcs. I will ride with Elrohir
and Gildor to Imladris."

Elladan was his father's heir, trained to make decisions, lead
warriors and, more importantly, heed the advice of those better
qualified than himself. His instinct was to stay with his brother and
those in his care; his common sense and training told him that in case
of need, they would be much better off under the protection of the
Aman-born, battle-hardened warrior famous for having fought and killed
a balrog.

The danger was behind, not before, and he would personally not give
much for the chances of any ten Orcs unfortunate enough to come up
against Glorfindel of Gondolin. Elladan gave it a moment, but could
find no fault with the instruction.

"As you say," he responded with a quick nod.

Turning his horse, he rode back and passed on Glorfindel's
instructions. He had a brief exchange with one of the Men while Gildor
was dividing his fighters, but it was quickly resolved, especially as
the wind had dropped slightly and the guttural hunting calls of Orcs
could be heard in the near distance.

The two groups separated with few words, the Dúnedain speaking
brief farewells to the figure huddled behind Gildor as they rode past.
The twins offered seldom-required words of caution to one another,
accustomed as they were to ride and face threat together.

Then the larger group turned into the wind and went in search of the
Orcs, the pursuers becoming in an instant the pursued, and the smaller
group turned for the Ford and home.

------------------------------

They rode swiftly under the low, cloud-heavy sky, the little group of
warriors loosely surrounding Gildor, Elrohir and their burdens.
Elrohir had said no word in greeting to Glorfindel, but had met his
eyes and given him the sweet, wondering smile which Glorfindel
remembered as being very like his mother's. Celebrían's calm, gentle
nature had made her dear to him, even though she had been the one who,
for over two millennia, had kept him from his heart's desire.

Glorfindel rode for a time beside Gildor, whose companion turned out
to be a frightened, dark eyed mortal girl, who he managed to identify
as Arathorn's wife - now widow. Widowed at an age younger than most
were even married, she clung to Gildor, her eyes dark with shock and
fear.

Gildor himself filled Glorfindel in briefly on the events of the past
few days. He looked tired, his dark red hair was pulled back from his
face in an untidy horse's tail, and his light brown eyes were dulled
with weariness.

The standard, predictable sweep to separate and eliminate as many Orcs
as possible had failed. The quarry, showing an unusual degree of
cohesion, had circled and turned back on their hunters. Gildor's
suspicion that the source of their direction lurked within Dol Guldur
certainly rang true for Glorfindel. He, along with Elrond, Galadriel,
and Mithrandir, was in favor of mounting a large enough combined force
to go and try and clear out that nest of darkness for once and for
all.

The battle had been hard and bitter, and they had been hampered by
wind and driving rain.

'There was fighting and there was blood and it was raining'
Glorfindel remembered, spoken in a quiet, hollow voice against a
background of softly crackling hearth fire.

They had won the day in the end, more or less, but there had been grim
losses - two Elves and fifteen Men, amongst them their chief,
Arathorn, Isildur's heir, by blood right King of Gondor.

The return to the nearby Dúnedain settlement had been not a moment
too soon. Instead of turning and melting into the wild as was usual,
the Orcs had regrouped and were now involved in a bid to wipe out
every last man, woman and child in the place. The fight had been brief
and bloody, and though they had been driven back, it was understood
that they would return.

"It was decided to get those who could manage the journey to a better
fortified spot," Gildor finished. "But as for Arathorn's family,
Elrohir insisted that they were to be taken to his father." He paused,
uncertain for a moment. "I was not sure what Elrond would want," he
admitted. "But I assumed his sons would be best placed to know his
thoughts..."

"You chose right, Gildor," Glorfindel told him, preparing to ride
ahead and assure himself that the road was still clear of danger.

He thought back on the dangerous, draining attempts to keep the
entrance to Imladris free of the ravages of the harsh weather, the
greater efforts at watchfulness that had left his lover exhausted and
himself responding in fear-induced anger.

"I think Elrond has been expecting this, or something like it, for
some time now."

--------------------------

They rode across the bridge into Imladris proper in the hour before
what would have been dawn, had there not been cloud cover so thick
that daylight would almost certainly be long delayed. They had
encountered no dangers on the Road, although they had been held up on
the path down into the valley, made treacherous by rain and snow and
needing to be traversed with care.

Elves came running to take their horses as they approached the side
entrance to the House, not waiting for them to ride the distance to
the stables. Even Glorfindel, who almost always preferred to see to
his horse himself, was happy to relinquish her care and forgo the walk
back to the House. He did, however, give her nose a quick rub and
surreptitiously rest his cheek against hers briefly, whispering,

"I will come and see you are settled properly before I seek my bed, I
promise."

Elrond teased him mercilessly about his bond with his horses, but his
defense was that he had always found that a well-treated horse could
make a better, kinder friend and certainly a more sympathetic listener
than most Elves of his acquaintance

He turned back just in time to see Elrohir walk up to the girl - her
name was Gilraen, he finally remembered - and place his burden into
her arms as she stood looking in awe at the sight rising up before her
of the ancient buildings set into the side of the valley wall.

Gildor put a hand to her arm, guiding her forward, while telling his
people to go and seek out food and warmth in the Hall, from where the
faint sounds of a harp could still be heard. Imladris had a
reputation, even amongst Elves, for being the valley that never slept.

Elrohir led the way inside, where they were met almost upon entry by
Melpomaen, looking even younger than his years, and obviously newly
wakened. Melpomaen informed them that Lord Elrond was in the green
reception room and wished them to join him there. The request was
addressed to Elrohir, child of the House as he was, but encompassed
them all.

The green reception room was a small, little-used room, which may at
some point have been green although no longer, tending more towards
yellows and browns. Elrond was standing before the fire, wearing warm,
rust colored robes, his hair neatly braided, mithril circling his
brow.

He looked immediately to Glorfindel as they entered the room, eyes
meeting, the only question that mattered between them asked and
answered. "Are you unharmed?"

"Yes, my heart."

Satisfied, he turned to Gildor and said briefly, "Tell me."

Gildor told him of the fighting, of the chief of the Dúnedain's death,
of the attack on the settlement, and of Elladan and Elrohir's
decision to bring Arathorn's family to Imladris, which comment was
greeted with a simple nod. Finally, when Gildor had finished, Elrond
turned his attention to Elrohir and asked quietly,

"What do you bring me out of the darkness, heart's child?"

Elrohir turned towards the girl.

"Ada, this is Gilraen, Arathorn's widow." He went and took the sleepy
child from her arms. "This is his son. She is the woman in my dream,
and this child, this is the lantern. I know it."

Elrond took the child and set him to stand in front of the fire, then
knelt down to better study him. He was very, very young, probably no
more than two at most, but he was a sturdy boy, with a head of gently
curling dark blonde hair, a serious little face and direct, light eyes
that regarded Elrond with as much curiosity and interest as he was
receiving from the dark haired Elf.

Elrond looked up at the girl, who was standing trying not to look
over-awed by her surroundings. In the common tongue he asked her,

"What have you named him, Gilraen? It escapes my memory."

Nothing, as everyone else in that room knew, ever escaped Elrond of
Imladris' memory for any amount of time, but this would, perhaps,
begin the process of putting her at her ease.

"We named him Aragorn, my lord," Gilraen said softly, her eyes
downcast. She had seen Elves at her wedding, but had never spoken to
one before, nor been this close to one. She was a rather shy, very
frightened young girl cut adrift from her people, far from home, and
in the company of strangers.

"Aragorn," Elrond mused, touching the child's hair lightly with his
fingertips. "It is a good name," he said, rising to his feet again.
"But it is not a name for everyday use. As they have killed the
father, so they will hunt the son, given the chance, which may well be
the reason for the attack upon your home, child."

He took a turn around the room, his face thoughtful, then returned to
stand looking down once more at the boy. He glanced over at Elrohir.

"A woman carrying a lantern through the darkness," he queried
thoughtfully. "Yes, he could very well be that."

Elrond put his hands on Gilraen's shoulders, looking down at her.

"You and your son will find a safe home here," he said in a gentle
voice, "but one of the things we are going to have to do is
change his name. Dark forces are moving that I think would seek the
life of a child known to be Isildur's heir. There must be nothing that
speaks too loudly of his ancestry. Is this well with you?"

She nodded, not speaking. When he released her, she went at once to
pick up her son and hold him closely to her. She needed time to adjust
to the knowledge that, because of him, she would live in peace and
comfort while the rest of her kind dwelt in fear and lack in the wild
places of the North.

Elrond reached out and gently cupped the child's face with one strong,
elegant hand. The light eyes, neither blue nor green, surveyed him and
then, tentatively, the boy smiled.

"Child of the future, child of hope. Sent in these darkening days of
our age," Elrond whispered, his eyes taking on a silver sheen as he
saw that which others did not see. Then he smiled at Gilraen, as the
future spoke to him.

"Child of hope," he repeated, nodding. "It sits well. We will call
him Estel."

END