The study was lit only by the fire in the hearth; shadows lengthened in the corners as no one cared to light the torches in decorative sconces hanging from the walls. Evening deepened through the windows, an array of red, orange and purple illumed the western sky as the sun slowly sank.

The Lord of Imladris sat alone as the world slowly grow quiet. To most aging peoples of Middle-earth, they would not have noticed the great change in the world, but Elrond did. There was a different feeling in the wind, whenever it swept through the valley. The land seemed different, as well, as if it aged and grew weary.

Elrond's desk was littered with missives from the border patrols, and he was troubled with the reports from the Trollshaws. Trolls had begun to become more active, and the patrols watched that land more closely than ever. Luckily, there had been no interference between his Elves and the Trolls; Elrond could not risk the lives of his kinsmen when such dark times were becoming more frequent.

He had his back to the desk, his mind weary and his eyes strained from reading. Instead, he looked at the heirloom hanging over the fireplace. He looked upon Hadhafang with…desire? He could not recognize the feeling he had whenever he looked at the elvish sword. His hands were more accustomed to a quill, not the hilt of a sword. But what could he do? He was a leader, a ruler who gave Elves sanction when they sought to escape from evil. And Imladris was not strong enough to openly challenge the Dark Lord; the reason for the sanctuary's survival was its secrecy from the Enemy.

What was he to do with the old sword? It had faced the forces of the Dark Lord and the Witch-king when he occupied Fornost, and many other battles in the First Age. Was it time for Elrond to finally forsake it? Would he give it to his eldest, or finally put it to rest next to Aeglos? He debated whether or not he would make his decision tonight.

There was a knock at the door of his study. "Enter," said Elrond, gently. His ancient eyes lingered on the weapon before turning to look at his guest.

Glorfindel, once a lord of Gondolin stood underneath the doorway. Although Elrond was considered ancient, Glorfindel was much older. He stood kingly, one of the last descendants of a people nearly gone from the world. Like always, he bore a golden flower on the left breast of his tunic; perhaps a reminder of the life he lost in defense of his city.

"My friend, something ails you," said Glorfindel, his voice smooth as silk. "We missed you at the evening meal, Erestor wanted to speak with you."

Elrond was silent, but his eyes flickered up from his bowed head to regard Glorfindel. His hands were folded before his chin, forefingers together and pressed against his lips. Glorfindel was perhaps his closest friend, especially after the death of Gil-galad thousands of years before.

"My lord, Elrond?" said Glorfindel quietly. He took a seat opposite of Elrond's desk and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the wood and watching Elrond closely. "What troubles you, Elrond? I have known you long enough to know when your mind is restless."

"I am worried," said Elrond slowly, and truly he was. "The rumors that had spread years past have now seem to come true…our Enemy has returned, and it seems he has grown in strength and power."

Glorfindel nodded. "I have been aware of this, for some time," he said. "But remember, Elrond, as long as we retain the three rings, then he will have opposition."

Elrond shook his head. "We are fading, Glorfindel, you know this to be true. The cry of the seagulls has befallen me, and it pains me to ignore them and focus on the matter at hand," he passed a hand over his face. He longed for the warmth of Celebrían, but that had been taken from him. "We are no longer the masters of this world, our counsel has been scorned. The world of Men is growing, both in strength and in desire. You know this to be true."

Glorfindel did, but he refused to let it trouble him. He knew that both he and Elrond were strong, but that was not enough. The minions of the Dark One were terrifying; Sauron's master had ruined his home, his life. And the Dark One's lieutenant had personally challenged him; the arrogant fool, Glorfindel had felt more fear before the Balrog than the Witch-king.

"There have been many times when we achieved victory when defeat was almost for certain," said Glorfindel. "Can we not do that again?"

Elrond shrugged. "I am not sure, my friend. Men will have to fend for themselves, now. We must look to our own borders; Greenwood and Lothlórien are threatened by Dol Guldur. We cannot aid Men so openly."

"Your sons aid the Dúnedain, do they not? And Aragorn will bring hope to Men," Glorfindel smiled. "You have taught your sons, including Aragorn, everything you know, and they have grown in wisdom and in strength of arms. Have faith, my friend, who knows what the future will bring?"

"Yes," muttered Elrond as Glorfindel rose and made his way towards the door. "Who knows, indeed?"

******

The twins watched Glorfindel depart down the corridor, heading towards the courtyards of Elrond's house. The two exchanged looks of concern; Glorfindel did not walk as proud as he usually did; his shoulders were slightly stooped and he walked in shuffling steps.

Elrohir was the first to enter his father's study, but stopped short, Elladan nearly running into him. His look of anger soon passed to that of question as Elrond had had back towards his sons, and in his hand was his old sword. He went through old techniques, Hadhafang whirling over Elrond's head and coming down in precise slashes.

"The warrior never dies," he said without looking at his sons. He examined the blade, reading the inscription along the blade.

"This blade is called Hadhafang," said Elrohir in Sindarin.

"A noble defense against the enemy throng for a noble lady," said Elladan, a faint smile as he remembered reading the inscription countless times until it was a part of his memory.

"A noble defense, indeed," said Elrond, placing the blade back to its proper place above the mantelpiece. His hand lingered on the hilt before he withdrew and looked at his sons.

"How were your days with the Dúnedain, my sons?"

Elrohir spoke. "All is well with them, father. Halbarad has kept them in order, and the lands are safe as we know it."

"There has been no incident with Orcs or any other servants of the Dark Lord," said Elladan. "And Aragorn has grown accustomed to the life of a Ranger of the North. He stands kingly amongst them, and he has earned their respect. I think he is ready to retain the title of Chieftain"

"That is good," said Elrond. "He has accepted his destiny; it took so long to convince him he was worthy of the title as Isildur's Heir."

"He is strong, father," said Elladan. "He has the signs of a descendant of Númenor."

"Then I hope he fulfills his destiny," said Elrond, "but he is not the matter of why I wanted to see you. You are familiar with our kin from Lothlórien?"

"Yes," said the twins simultaneously.

"The realm of our grandmother," said Elrohir.

Elrond smiled. "It is good to realize that your memories are not totally selective. The Marchwarden Haldir and his brother Orophin are going to be our guests for as long as they wish. I have received specific instructions from Lady Galadriel: take Haldir and Orophin to the old North-kingdoms and show them the remains of the Dúnedain, do you understand?"

The twins nodded. It had been a while since they last saw their kin from Lothlórien, but they looked forward to seeing them again. Never before had the sons of Elrond shown anybody other than Estel and Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, the remnants of the Dúnedain.

"Why, father, has grandmother requested this?" asked Elladan, always seeking answers.

"It seems that Haldir has doubt in his heart," said Elrond. Much like me, he thought. "All I can say is that the Lady wishes to prove him wrong, and will have him witness what we keep a dear secret," he looked at Elrohir. "My youngest son, may you step outside for a moment? I wish to speak to Elladan alone."

Elrohir feigned a hurt expression, but he faithfully turned on his heel and exited, closing the door of the study behind him. Once in the corridor, he turned quickly and pressed his ear against the wood. The door was not thick, and Elrond's deep voice could easily be heard.

"My son," said Elrond. He raised a finger and beckoned Elladan closer. Elladan stepped around the table and stood before his father. Elrond placed his hand on his son's shoulder. "There is a matter of inheritance in which I wish to speak to you about."

Elladan raised a hand. "Before you say this, I have a question for you. Do you long for the sword, again? I thought you laid aside your arms after the victory at the slopes of Mount Doom. Did you not swear an oath to never spill blood again?"

Elrond looked at his son. "I thought I did, Elladan, but like I said, the warrior never dies. And the matter of Hadhafang is why I wish to speak to you. I give it to you, for use against our foes. I have just come up with this decision…Glorfindel's words helped me in my decision."

"Glorfindel?"

Elrond nodded. "He is quite fond of you and Elrohir, but he sees a true warrior and leader in side of you. I have spoken to him about this many times before, but I never thought I would make the final decision," he turned and retrieved Hadhafang from its place on the mantelpiece. "And I know you are fond of Hadhafang, the sword of our family, carried by my predecessors. I give it to you as an heirloom of our family."

Elladan was shocked, though he kept a resolute face as he took the sword from his father's hands. It was light and well-balanced, and the inscription seemed to glow when he touched it. He looked at his father, and he noticed there were tears in Elrond's eyes.

"I recall when this sword was passed down to me," said Elrond. He fell silent, as if he was calling upon that memory. Then, he shook his head. "Treat it well, my son, for it is dear to me. May Hadhafang drink heartily on the blood of our enemies, no?"

Elladan nodded. Then, he turned the blade over and handed it to his father hilt-first. "Keep it in your possession a little while longer, father," he said. "I wish to tell Elrohir before I accept it. I do not want to offend him."

Elrond smiled. "I agree," he said. "You are truly becoming wise, my son." He placed Hadhafang on the desk, and he embraced his son. Elrond loved him dearly, and admitted he feared for his sons' lives when they hunted Orcs with the Dúnedain. But they were trained by Glorfindel, and they honed their skills to perfection.

"Stay safe, my son," he whispered into Elladan's ear.