A/N - WARNING Ok, people. This is probably one of the angsty-est things I've written, so I'm putting a warning here now. THIS IS NOT A HAPPY FIC. Warning for: violence, disturbing images, gore, death, angst. As you can see by the title and summary, it will not be a happy ending. And, of course, it's AU. I'm not going to say enjoy, because enjoyable things will not take place, but I hope, at least, that it's a good read. Questions, comments, and corrections are welcome as always, especially when it comes to the Elven languages. I will try to update at least weekly, but it's a rather complicated and delicate thing to write, so be patient. My apologies to Elrond and the other muses. Hugs and condolences all around. FYI, the random little numbers are footnotes, for those of you who, like me, aren't fluent in Sindarin. Now to the story.

Chapter One

He felt broken, dead, lost. It was over. Everything. Everything they had strived for, all hope was lost. Hope… hope… estel. Estel. His youngest's face shimmered briefly before his eyes before unshed tears blurred the vision completely. He thought he would die of the pain and agony he felt when he realized what torments his son was experiencing at that very moment.

And the twins… where were they now? Fleeing for their lives, perhaps. But no. They would not run. They were not cowards. They would not leave Estel behind. Were they being swept back in a wave of those who were fleeing? Or already trapped in the dungeons of Barad-dur? Or… or maybe… He could not think it. Not his sons. No, not they.

It was more of a blind plea then a coherent thought.

The mangled body before him writhed once again in silent agony, striving to breathe, to fill the lungs which were slowly drowning their owner in his own blood. The Elf gurgled once, moaned, and lay still.

Elrond buried his face in his hands, regardless of the blood that they were soaked in, unable to comprehend, to understand. No. No. NO!

The messenger had arrived earlier that day, bloody, torn, and screaming his death toll to the dark afternoon sky. Glorfindel had brought him directly to Elrond, who had demanded to know why the seneschal had not taken one so grievously injured to the healers' wing immediately.

The messenger had answered his question.

"My lord," he had said in a pained rasp, a trickle of blood running down his chin from his mouth, "the Halfling has failed. Mirkwood is dark. They are… the Halfling… orch…."

Those had been his last words. Save the screams that afterward tore repeatedly from his shredded chest.

Glorfindel, Erestor, and Arwen stood nearby. The seneschal looked lost and unsure, uncomprehending, fear and disbelief readable in his eyes. It was both horrible and terrifying to see the once proud legend so blatantly vulnerable and without his usual aura of certainty and security. Erestor had, at first, been struck completely numb by shock, but that had soon given way to a cold resolution, his last line of defense, a mental barrier of resolve no one could penetrate – not this time. Arwen had not spoken since the messenger had arrived. She had grown distant, and a sharp light of desperation flickered in her eyes, as though she refused to give up the hope the rest of them had lost. She clung to this hope as she clung to life, and it burned fiercely and defiantly, refusing to die. But all of her other traits had long since worn away, leaving the little flame of hope to burn wildly, consuming what was left of her.

"What do we do?" Glorfindel asked, his voice quiet. He looked to Elrond for the guidance his lord had always provided, to see some sign of hope there, something to cling to in his eyes. But Elrond had nothing to give him.

"We wait," Elrond said softly, standing and covering the messenger with the blanket. He stared at the lifeless body, the first of many to come, but took a shuddering breath and turned to what remained of his family. "Call everyone together. I must speak with them. There is… there are things to be discussed."

"Can we perhaps go to the Havens?" Erestor asked suddenly, his voice like the crackle of old parchment. "We are so close."

"You may try," Elrond said quietly, wiping his hands methodically and mindlessly, attempting to remove the blood, "though I fear Eriador is no longer the sheltered realm it was. The Enemy will have swept down from the North. It is already a perilous journey, and I cannot be sure that Cirdan will abide long enough for you to reach him."

"You?" Arwen said, her voice cracked and dry from lack of use. "Why do you say 'you,' Adar?" A hint of sorrowful, mourning fear crept into her voice.

Elrond could hardly bear to look her in the eye. Turning to her slowly, he held out a now clean hand to her, and she took it, drawing close to him, her shoulders only faltering once.

"My daughter," he breathed, stroking her hair, "I cannot leave. I am bound – I have been bound to this fate. I cannot leave. You know this."

"Ada, please." She was begging now, clinging to the front of his robes, all attempts towards self-restraint gone. "Please. We can do nothing without you. Please come. We need you. Please." A single, unacknowledged tear ran down her cheek.

"Arwen," he whispered, "you must understand."

"Understand?" she repeated. "Understand? What am I to understand? That you are giving up? Abandoning hope of escape? I have more of a right – of a need to stay than you, Ada!"

"This has nothing to do with right," he said, "but with duty, and with things that are beyond my control."

"Then take control of what is," she hissed, anger clear in her voice. "You still have a choice-"

"My choice is to remain, Arwen," he said firmly.

She stared at him, shock and anger in her eyes. He held her at arms length, gazing back, his decision final.

"You, however…" he began when she said nothing, gentling his tone. "I will not force you to do anything you do not wish, but I strongly advise and desire that you flee to the Havens. Cirdan will be there a while still – he will not leave immediately. There is still time for you if-"

"I will not flee while my father, brothers, and the one to whom I am bound remain," she said, a cool finality in her voice.

"Arwen," Glorfindel said, his own voice pleading and desperate. He and Arwen had always been particularly close. "You cannot begin to imagine what horrors-"

"All the more reason for me to remain, Glorfindel," she snapped. "I will not flee like a coward while the rest stay. My mothers have done it before me, and I do it now."

"We are not asking you to be a coward," Erestor whispered, his tone expressionless and his eyes hollowed. "We ask you to leave behind the forsaken. We ask you – we beg you not to doom yourself to this fate. We could not bear to see you…" Erestor's voice broke. Elrond could not remember the last time that had happened – certainly not in Arwen's lifetime.

She strode calmly and automatically to him and pulled him into a warm embrace, and he held her in return, as he would hold his own daughter. He stroked her hair for several long moments, his eyes unfocused and over bright. Taking a deep breath, he pulled her away and looked hard at her, seeming to have regained his former stony resolve.

"Please, Undomiel," he whispered, touching her cheek. "Please. Do as we ask out of love for us."

Arwen gazed steadily at him, then at Glorfindel, and finally at Elrond. "My choice is to remain," she said quietly, her voice firm.

It took Elrond a moment to conquer his instincts, to refrain from ordering her to leave. He had lost three of his children. He refused to lose his last. But in her eyes, he saw her determination and her love for those who remained and were lost, and knew that nothing he said would sway her. His heart ached.

Taking Arwen gently into his arms, he guided her out of the room and towards the family wing. The others went towards the Hall of Fire, but he intended to take his daughter back to her chambers. As soon as they were inside, she turned into him and held him tightly, all firmness and resolve falling away to bare the frightened, adoring child within. The child who had lost and continued to lose everything and everyone she loved to a horrible fate.

He held her up long enough to sit on the bed and gather her to him, pressing her face into his chest and stroking her hair. Her shoulders shook as she began to cry, her hands curling into fists. He could feel her silently begging him to leave, not to stay and submit himself to the terrors that awaited them all.

How could it all have come to this? They had all known there was no hope, no chance, and yet… and yet they had believed that good would triumph over evil. What fools they had been! Had trying been a valiant attempt of heroes, or a pointless and stupid blunder of blind idiots? And here they were, as much as he would deny it: rabbits in a hole. All they could do was await death in its most gruesome and humiliating form.

Arwen's sobs slowly subsided until she hung limp in her father's arms, staring into nothingness. But before he knew what he was doing, he, too, was weeping, clutching her to him, his tears running down his face and into her hair. As much as he tried, he could not stop. He was losing everything – he had failed them. All of them. And now they would lose everything, as well.

"Ada," she whispered, her hands finding his, "Ada, le melon1."

"Le melon, iell nin. Goheno nin2," he rasped back, his voice breaking.

"You know you do not need to be forgiven," she said, her voice gentle. He marveled at its sudden steadiness.

"I know very little anymore," he whispered, tightening his embrace.

"You must know it is not your fault."

He did not reply.

"Ada, look me in the eye." She twisted around to face him, her tears now forgotten. Her gaze was harsh and her furrowed brow darkened. "It was not your fault. You cannot blame yourself. Please. Promise me."

He did look her in the eye, and he found he could not promise. "Arwen," he said gently, trying to make her understand. "Arwen, I was a leader in this. They looked to me for council, and I sent them all to their doom. We were robbed of hope because of my guidance."

"No," she whispered, her voice strong and firm. "Hope lives." He opened his mouth to retaliate, but she cut him off. "I know this, Adar. And I will live until Hope fails."

He could see in her eyes that she spoke the truth, but his reasoning rejected it. Even if Estel, their Hope, was still alive, for how much longer? For he was truly their only hope now, the only hope to regain Middle-earth from the dominion of darkness. And what a faint, bleak hope it seemed.

1 Daddy, I love you.

2 I love you, my daughter. Forgive me.