Happy slightly belated birthday, Rish! (and a very belated happy birthday to Oberon and Elfique!)

Elladan and Elrohir were adults at the time of Arwen's birth, but I have changed that so that they are much younger. So, I guess you could say that this is AU. There's also a little gory imagery.

Enjoy, and don't forget to comment!

With the red glow of the flames flickering across his face, Erestor sat before the fire late at night, reflecting on the past, as is the way of the Elves. Rivendell for now was silent, for most of the household were asleep, including Lord Elrond's pretty little daughter Arwen, who made enough noise for three or four Elflings!

For some reason, his thoughts were straying into days long gone, and not all the memories were pleasant. He had barely reached his majority, when the first of the kinslayings had happened. The ways of the sword and dagger practiced by the younger Elves in brighter days were nothing compared to the bite of steel into real flesh. Fighting against real enemies—innocent Elves, he thought—was somewhat different to the graceful dance his masters had taught him. Yanking a blood-encrusted weapon from a dying Elf took all the glory away from it—the sickening resistance of metal embedded in sinews, wiping away all the warm red liquid that spurted up with the back of his hand.

Slaying the multitudes of Orcs that came upon them swiftly from the hills was equally as hard, for a time—but there was never that sense of shame, that guilt that whispered of murder and blood. The eyes were the worst. The surprised and agonised expressions in the eyes of innocents whose blood he spilt were not easily thought away.

That dance was still as graceful, and as deadly—and he would defend his Lord and his home in the valley of Imladris if he had to. But if his hand never grasped a sword hilt again, if his sword was never encrusted with blood and he never again heard the cries of agonised death, his gratitude would know no bounds. He thanked Ilúvatar silently for his forgiveness.

He always remembered with a grin his lessons as an adolescent elfling—how Glorfindel and he sparred with wooden swords. Every muscle in Glorfindel's tall and slender frame rippling with every swing and lunge, his long, bright hair swinging in its braid behind him. His every movement attracted the eyes of many Elf-maidens who sat and watched this intricate dance of death, and cheered whenever their golden hero disarmed his opponent, and nearly swooned whenever he flashed a smile their way.

Quiet, shy Erestor was never the object of such attentions—or so he thought—and did not resent his strikingly handsome Vanyarin friend for it. The only elleth who ever gave him any attention was his friend Vórimë, the steadfast, who ever loved him through their childhood, and through their brief betrothal.

Beleriand was hardly a safe place in which to raise a family, unless one was in Doriath or Gondolin until they fell. But he imagined that, if they had been bound to one another, had Vorimë not been killed, shot through the heart with two Telerin arrows, perhaps they might have in time had little elflings of their own. A little son with Vórimë's grey eyes and quick temper, or a daughter with Erestor's dark hair and quick wit.

"Uncle 'Restor?"

He suddenly came back to reality at the tremulous voice of a small elleth that stood hesitantly in the doorway, her eyes wide with fear.

"Arwen? Why do you come here? What are you doing up at this hour?"

"Naneth is asleep, and I can't find Ada. There is a ghost outside my window!"

"Oh no, Arwen—there are no ghosts here."

"But—but 'Dan and 'Ro told me that there are ghosts. And there's one outside, 'cause I heard it. Could you please check for me?"

For little Arwen, the word of her brothers ruled supreme; they could say nothing wrong, could do no wrong. Erestor had to suppress a smile at her childlike trust, especially since she was quite obviously terrified. Looking at her now, he wondered if his daughter, if he ever had one, would look like her. She reminded him of his lost beloved in many ways. And when Arwen was looking at him like that, with her lip quivering and her eyes threatening to spill over with frightened tears, he could not refuse her any request.

"Alright, Arwen," he said gently, standing up and going to the door. "Let us frighten away this ghost, shall we?"

Arwen nodded and went before him with her night-dress flapping a little as her small feet pattered on the floor. The sound of Erestor's long stride came in between Arwen's quick footfalls almost in rhythm until they reached her room.

"I can't go in there," she said suddenly, stopping at the door. "What if—what if the ghost tries to get me?"

"No ghost will get you, tithen pen."

"Promise?"

Erestor, with a perfectly straight face, answered, "I, Erestor, solemnly promise you that no ghost will come anywhere near you for as long as I live. And Elves live for a very long time."

Consoled by this, Arwen was at length persuaded to stand next to her bed, watching as Erestor approached her window. His fingers reached out towards the curtain to pull it aside, and she looked away, not being able to bear the thought of poor Uncle Erestor being hurt by a ghost.

Erestor whipped the curtain aside and Arwen gasped involuntarily. The 'ghost' was nothing other than the gnarled old branch of a tall tree that grew next to the building, and which knocked against the window in the harsh winter wind blowing outside.

"There, Arwen—there is no ghost there! That is just an old tree branch."

A frown creased her forehead for a moment. "But the ghost—I heard it—it was not that tree branch. . ."

The chief councillor sat on Arwen's bed and the latter crawled into his lap gratefully, laying her head against his chest. He put his arms around her protectively. "Sometimes," he said gently, "we hear things, or even see things, that are not really there."

"Even you, Uncle 'Restor?"

The face of the first living being he had ever taken life from suddenly appeared in his mind, after many long years, and he shut his eyes tightly as if to get rid of the image. "Yes, me too. Sometimes," he murmured quietly, his arms holding her closer as his body tensed at the memory. "But they are not real. Our minds play tricks on us. You hear the wind howling outside, the knocking of a branch against a window, and your mind thinks it is a ghost instead."

"Oh." She was quiet for a moment, as if she were thinking about something. "But I really did think I heard a ghost. Or maybe even two of them."

There was a low noise outside, a noise that made both Erestor and Arwen jump.

"There. . .that was the ghost!" whispered Arwen, clinging to his tunic. Erestor's heart beat rapidly inside his chest, for the sound had come so suddenly. The poor girl in his arms was quivering and nearly jumped again when it sounded once more outside.

But Erestor frowned. The noise was low, and muffled, but easily recognisable as the voice of at least one of two very naughty boys!

"Nay, that was no ghost," he said sternly.

Arwen's eyes widened. "It wasn't?"

"No. But certain brothers of yours have much explaining to do. And as for you—" He swung her up into the air and she squealed in delight. "—it is about time to go to sleep!"

He laid her gently down on the bed, covering her with warm, heavy sheets. "Good night, Uncle 'Restor," Arwen murmured, her eyelids fluttering, weighed down with sleep. He pressed a kiss to her temple.

"Good night, tithen pen."

Her eyes closed and Erestor had barely left her side before she fell asleep.

Erestor gave a sigh as he went to the window. Elladan and Elrohir should have known better than to try and scare their little sister like that! They were always up to some mischief or another. Picking up a very old-looking inkwell (who knows how it got into Arwen's room), he tossed it outside into the tree. He grinned when there was a muffled 'ouch!' from amid the leaves.

They should be going to bed soon, he thought to himself with satisfaction as he quit the room, but they will not sleep for long.

Because when he was finished with them, Lord Elrond would be up at the first light of dawn to ask his sons a few questions. He would be very interested to know why there were ghosts in his garden.

The End

Notes:

tithen pen: 'little one'.