A/N In honor of the BOFA coming out today (at least in America), I wanted to post a little early. (Because I am a nice person and this is really short, you will get another chapter on Firday as well.) :) I actually can't go tonight, I am so disappointed, :( because I am sicker than a dog so you should be really glad you are even getting something.

We have one of the best fandoms out there and I think I have the best readers out there. If I ever had the chance to go to Middle-earth, I woud take each one of you with me. :) Thanks!

Disclaimer: not mine.

True To The End

Prologue

The night was dark and quiet, the light of the stats shinning down like beacons from a faraway place. Their brilliant light cascaded down upon the last homely house, where many of its inhabitants where sleeping.

Their lord, Elrond, however, sat at a paper strewn desk, the parchment hiding the elegantly carved wood. His elbows rested on the top and his folded hands supported his chin as he stared unseeingly down at a half-finished letter, a pained look on his ageless face. A quill rested besides the paper, next to the address, which bore King Thranduil's name.

With a heavy sigh, Elrond once again picked up the quill, dipping it into the inkwell, and rested the tip on the paper. Slowly, he scratching out a few more words to finish off a sentence with the hesitance that suggested he either wasn't sure of what to say, or that he didn't want to say it. Pausing again, the elf lord pondered what to write next, before giving up and standing with another tired sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world with it.

Moving over to the large balcony that was adjacent to his study, the dark haired elf leaned heavily on the railings, gazing up at the starts to seek their comfort and guidance. Out of his habit, his eyes sought out the star of Earendil, watching it carefully.

That letter was one of the hardest letters he had ever been forced to write in his long life, but he was a healer and sometimes that meant making impossible decisions.

Turning his back on the beauty of the night, Elrond returned to his desk and crumpled up the half finished letter, tossing it aside and into the trash bin. Setting out a fresh, blank page, he once again began to write.

Down the hall and several doors past, a faint light shone just enough to creep out of the edges and crakes of a door. Inside the room, a single candle glowed, though it flickered ever lower.

The large bed to the right of the light was occupied by Elrond's youngest and adopted son, Aragorn. He slept deeply, though if the lined look on his face was anything to go by, it was not peaceful.

Rolling over suddenly, he muttered something before stilling once again and letting out a long breath. However, it quickly became evident that the middle-aged man was trapped in the midst of a horrible nightmare that was causing him great distress.

Tossing and turning in the silky sheets, Aragorn let out a soft cry in elvish, and began to thrash, knocking his thick blankets off accidently. Shooting abruptly up with a gasp, Aragorn stared wildly around, his breath coming as swiftly as if he had just ran a mile

Shaking lightly, he drew his knees up to his chest and buried his face between them with an audible intake of calming air. After a moment, he straightened and washed a steadier hand across his sweaty skin, before running his fingers through his tangled hair to get it out of his face.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed with a sudden urgency, Aragorn only stopped to quickly throw his blankets back onto the bed before crossing to the door. He didn't even take the time to change out of his sleeping tunic and leggings. Pulling open the door he stepped into the darkness, before ducking back into his own room and grabbing the candle to guide his way.

Hurrying across the hall, the man opened the door directly across from his and stepped in, shutting the piece of wood quietly behind him. Placing the candle preciously on the bedside table, Aragorn turned to face the person lying still on the bed.

Legolas, son of Thranduil, lay there. His eyes where closed tightly and slightly sunk into his gaunt, pale face. The pallor of his skin was accented by his long, dark eyelashes and the white pillow and sheets that enfolded him. The prince's long golden hair was loose and free, pooling past his shoulders and around his head, looking ratted and unkempt. A light, blue blanket was pulled up to his chest, under which he wore an off-white sleeping tunic.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Aragorn gently pressed the palm of his hand against his best friend's chest, and waiting for the comforting reassurance of the rise and fall. It came, too weak and slow and with the horrible sense that his lungs where struggling to keep life flowing through its owner's body, but it rose. The difficult of the action didn't appear to bother Aragorn, who instead let a grin lift the corner of his lips.

"I've always said that you have the stubbornness to match that of any being on Middle-earth." The human commented to the sleeping prince, who obviously made no reply, "Just don't give up. I know you can do anything you put your mind to." Aragorn pleaded softly.

Falling silent, the ranger found himself unconsciously wrapping his fingers in the bed spread, his mind still on his dream from before. That day, that day that returned to haunt his dream, was a day that still seemed as vivid as if it had just happened…

TBC...

haha! Flash back next time! Or maybe this was a flash forward. Hmm. I don't really know. It is more like a flash forward. :)

Well, enjoy the Hobbit: BOFA for any of you who can go or have already went or are yet to go! I hope to go tommorrow if I feel better.