Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, except for the infants, and those two soldiers.
Once upon a time there was a place called Rivendell. The owner of this place, Lord Elrond, sat on dark green chair by the fireplace with a glass of water and a blood red book about calligraphy. He sunk his shoulders and let the air flow in and out of him like the calm sea. Suddenly a bright flash of light came and went, and he sighed and closed his book exactly when he heard the rumbles and roars. "Oh, for heaven's sake." Elrond muttered. "How can God still have an appetite?" He stood up, closed the windows, and left the room and the wine. He could hear the sound of his footsteps, the fires eating up the candles, and the wind blowing, grabbing whatever small it could find. "Appearantly, he's eating some beans." He decided to cross the main hall when he stopped and heard a group of running horses, coming in this direction. They would soon be here, in about half hour. With all the rain, little mud, and sweat. He quickly turned on his heel, and found halls no candles were lit. With just knocking on the walls, or stomping on the ground, soundwaves where used to make the room clear to him. A hand ran across the wall of wood and bricks until he could feel it took a turn for the left. He followed the wall with a little smile, and stopped after four steps. A divan as blue as the bluebells were there. This hall was dark as ink, as silent as the time between night and dawn. Though the fabric wasn't as smooth as silk, it felt good to feel it in your grasp, and to let it welcome you.
"Lord Elrond, where are you? We need your assistance." Elrond sat up without a word, and followed the sound. Two of his knights with horses came in to the main hall with the rain, mud and sweat. All of them were panting, and the knights had wrinkled foreheads.
"Yes, what is it?"
"Lord Elrond, we saw a pack of orcs attacks dwarfs a few kilometers from here. We tried to help, and most of the dwarfs escaped. The orcs are dead, sir."
"Where there many of them?"
"A handful, but manageable."
"Good work." He said with a nod. His eyes were travelling through the soldier's faces. "What more is there to tell me?" The elf closest let out a big sigh and his shoulders wouldn't stay still.
"After the battle, we looked around for any survivors." He revealed two sacks which each had an opening.
"We found these to infants by a river, screaming. We used a potion to make them sleep. I fear one of them is," the elf said before interrupting himself. He showed the sacks to his lord. The first infant was pale, and twisted and turned in his sleep. The second infant was calm and quiet. Elrond gave the first infant back, and inspected the second infant. Not a breath was heard, no beating was heard, and ice seemed warm when you felt the skin. The elf farthest away was given this dwarf.
"Bury him in the morning." The soldier nodded. Elrond took the first infant in his arms and brushed his hair away from the face. He looked at his subjects with soft, older eyes, older than before. "You two can rest. Tomorrow I will send a party to look for the survivors. Good night."
Arwen's old nursery was in still in good use. It had light yellow walls with paintings of trees, a green rug for the floor, a wooden crib, some toys and a few furnitures of soft wood. Elrond put the child down in the crib and tucked him in. He used his own sleeve to dry the face and the hair, hair as dark as a bear's coat, lighter than his own. The baby turned left and right, but didn't yell. The temporary father left the room, called a pair of guards to stand outside the room, and decided to move his bedroom to the room right next to the nursery, just like he did when Arwen was no taller than a bow.