A/N: Don't get me wrong, I love the movies. I think the extra scenes were great. Except, of course, for The Filmamir Issues. Denethor recieving and listening to a secret message from an elven stronghold in the far north that hasn't made contact in a couple centuries when the Ring has faded into myth just makes for way too easy a target... I don't always write elves, but when I do, I make "Tralalally" references.

Pigeons were right out; they had gone so long without contacting the city that there were none that could home in upon Minas Tirith. The guardsmen had shot the first raven down well before it reached the city wall. The mortals did not bother to retrieve the tube from its leg; it had fallen into a crevasse in the mountains, the wind and rain were awful, and it was enough that the message did not reach the enemy. The next (or possibly thirtieth) bird that finally escaped stormy weather and bored, hungry, and slightly paranoid Gondorian archers landed in the wrong end of the courtyard and pecked at the closed shutters of the scullery until a cat pounced upon it and made short work of the exhausted messenger raven. When one finally alighted on an open balcony of the western side of the uppermost floor of the Tower of Ecthelion, a screaming maid came after it with a swinging broom until the bird thought better of it and decided to make a home in Mirkwood rather than stay on this thankless route.

Next, a brave young ranger volunteered to ride down to the White City. It was a greater risk to openly send one of Rivendell's own couriers so far a distance, but the Dunedain could travel nearly as quickly and silently as the elves, and less fuss would be made over a son of Numenor than one of the Firstborn. It took the man three months' hard ride to reach Gondor, but the ranger smiled as he finally looked upon Minas Tirith's shining walls. The first day he saw them. He cooled his heels outside the city for the better half of the week, signing on with a slightly more open-minded local tradesman when it became apparent that the guards on the outer gate had little love for a travel-stained stranger who spoke of elves but not of his career. He began chatting up one of the serving maids from the Tower merely as a way to discover more about how to reach Lord Denethor; if the former ranger ended up never actually visiting the uppermost level, that was just the sort of thing that slipped a ridiculously happily-married wheelwright's mind when the guardsmen always looked at him suspiciously anyway.

The seeing-stones were a terrible risk; Denethor focused so closely upon the Dark Lord's mind that it seemed impossible to draw the attention of one and not the other. The elf lord tenuously tried the mental equivalent of a light tap on the Steward's shoulder, and the psychic fire came upon him so quick and hot that Elrond wasn't sure whose attention he had gained, ever so briefly, but there was no way in the Void that he'd try that again. Denethor had gone back to ignoring him before Elrond could even attempt to phrase his request. "You have nothing to offer me, elf witch." The half-elf wasn't sure whether to take offense at the implied misunderstanding or not. Besides, gazing into his mother-in-law's mirror always gave Elrond a throbbing headache.

"Is there any other method we might use to get his attention?" Elrond asked his councilors and family.

"I could try shooting arrows from outside the walls," Elladan suggested.

His father dismissed the idea without any of the dry humor with which Elladan had made the suggestion. "I would like you to remain alive to bring his response back to me."

"Or you could get drunk, climb a tree, and sing a few local tavern ditties," Lindir needled the twins. "There's apparently a popular one down there about the Steward's lack of festivals."

"We weren't that drunk," Elrohir objected, but he, his siblings, and Erestor were at a loss for further ideas.

"Perhaps Mithrandir could convince him?" the dark-haired councilor offered without much real conviction. Picturing Estel's stories of just how well Lord Denethor had taken to the wizard as a young man, Elrond wordlessly shook his head. Erestor shrugged in hopeless sympathy.

Glorfindel smiled, mysterious as a cat. "If there's one thing I've learned in all my years about mortals, it's that one can't expect them to listen to anyone but themselves." Elrond raised an intrigued eyebrow, encouraging him to go on. "If he is convinced that it was his own idea to send to Imladris, he will come straight away himself."

"Aye, but what method have we of inciting such a notion? We can hardly send Lady Arwen riding south when that poor young soldier never returned," Lindir said.

"Leave that to me and Lady Galadriel. There are ways of contacting men's minds as they sleep, and what truths could a Dark Lord glean from a dream?" the elder elf spread his hands.

Elrond liked the plan, except for the involvement of his mother-in-law. Galadriel and Celeborn were perfectly good at psychological guerilla warfare without the extra practice. At least Galadriel would have another target, for a change of pace. Elrond wondered if the human would call her "elf witch," too. He would pay good money to see the fallout of that potential turn of events.

"Well, we couldn't reach into his mind," Glorfindel informed Elrond sometime later. "The Steward himself has fought with unpleasant dreams for so long that the mortal barely remembers them anymore, let alone heeds them."

Elrond clasped his old friend's arm in empathy. "It was a good try; a pity not all can overcome their sorrows as you have, mellon-nin."

"I did not say that we were entirely without success," Glorfindel countered. "While we were still rather muddled from the state of Denethor's conscious, his younger son provided a much more sensitive and willing listener."

The Lord of Rivendell smiled. "Perhaps we may get someone else to look after Bilbo for a few winters yet."