Hello! I'd like to thanks those ones who are still reading. Thanks a lot!

Some characters that are mentioned in this chapter are from Tolkien's The Silmarillion.

Hope you like reading it and want to send me your comments.

Thanks again,

Sadie

CHAPTER VI – THE VISION

Your future takes precedence over your past. Focus on your future, rather than on the past.

Gary Ryan Blain

Edhellond was an elf haven located on the cold waters of Blackroot River, near the point where it was joined by the Ringlo, which was a very cold river as well. The Blackroot then emptied its waters into Cobas Haven, a small inlet on the Bay of Belfalas. Edhellond was in the land of Edain people, but it was under the control of the elves. The translation of its name, Elven Haven, was a clear indication of that fact. However, the site where Edhellond was founded was originally inhabited by fisher-folk; they fled to the White Mountains when the firstborn of Ilúvatar arrived.

The elven haven was established by elves whose conflicting origins are part of many theories. Elrohir was thinking about them now, walking through the forest, as he followed the path of the star his grandmother had shown him earlier. He was imagining the elves coming in those three big ships from Beleriand, after Morgoth's forces destroyed the havens of Brithombar and Eglarest in the First Age.

He had heard that history as soon as he arrived here with his grandparents. Those were sad times. He sighed, as he continued his walk through the evening air contemplating ages past. There was a second widely held theory—one that told of how the elves may have come at the beginning of the Second Age from the Grey Havens, where they had learned the craft of shipbuilding before seeking a place of their own.

Seeking a place of their own, he repeated to himself.

In fact nobody really knew the history of this intriguing place. What everybody knew was that, with time, the Sindarin Elves of Edhellond were soon joined by some Silvan Elves, or Wood-elves, who had come down the Anduin, leaving their forest homes because they longed for the Sea.

Elrohir did not long for the sea, nor even understand this sentiment about which many people spoke. However, he had a vague idea about how it would feel, because he longed, he desired to go back to his home, and if this feeling was similar to what made those elves risk their lives in foreign lands just to be a little closer to the place they loved, he understood them very well.

The twin closed his eyes, pulling from his pocket a small piece of paper on which his brother had sent him a message, a secret message his mother had hidden inside her letter. It was part of his punishment - although nobody liked to use that term – that he and Elladan could not communicate with each other while Elrohir was living here. His grandmother had told him this. She also told him that they could break that rule if he and Elladan started to talk with other people again. But Elrohir just shook his head, as he was sure Elladan had done in Imladris as well. They had made a vow and, even feeling terribly hurt for not being allowed to; at least, write to each other, they wouldn't break it.

No, they could not write to each other until they started speaking again. But his mother allowed this little transgression.

Elrohir read his twin's few words again.

I hate that sword. I miss you so much.

Elrohir held the paper a little tighter; he had carried it wherever he went. He also hated that sword, and there was only one other thing he hated more than that damned weapon:

Himself…

He hated himself with all his heart. He hated himself for what he had done; for making his brother suffer. But most of all he hated himself for being so stupid.

And he also missed Elladan very much. Some nights he had horrible dreams of losing his twin forever. Elladan just disappeared in a dark cloud, and he could not do a thing to make him stay. He could not reach him. He could not touch him, embrace him.

And there was nothing he wanted more than being with his brother again.

Elrohir closed his eyes, wiping his face with his sleeve. He hated to be crying again, but couldn't help it. At least no one was watching him. He had cried a lot since he arrived in Edhellond, but he never allowed anyone to see him doing it. He could not. Not even his grandparents. They would try to comfort him and he did not want to be comforted.

He did not!

He did not want to be here!

He just wanted to go home.

Elbereth, what had he done? Why was he so stupid?

Elrohir took a deep breath, trying to focus again on the path he was following. He was not sure if he had understood his grandmother's directions. But soon he could see her white dress, bright amidst the trees in the middle of the dark woods, and he finally found the right way to take. After a few steps, the clearing which Galadriel had reserved for her moments of meditation was visible. It was a small and quiet place and, at first, the twin did not even see his grandmother's mirror.

Galadriel came up as soon as she saw him. In her face there was a gentle smile, which only she seemed to have, and that, surely, had placed her on the list of the most beautiful elves, maybe the most beautiful of all. She walked in Elrohir's direction, but her smile faded slowly as she noticed the sad look on her grandson's face. The waning light of nightfall made him look even more bereft. She understood why he was so unhappy, what he was missing so much. She would love to be able to fill the family role for the young elf, if only his heart were not as firmly closed as his lips were.

"Quel undome, Astalder," the elf-lady greeted him with a smile which Elrohir tried to return, as much as his spirit allowed him to. She opened her arms to him, but he hesitated to accept the invitation. Then, realizing that the proposal would not be declined, he took a few steps, immersing himself into those lovely arms. She then brought him to one of the benches and both sat down.

Elrohir tried to ignore his grandmother's presence, the scent of her hair, her kind energy. He had to, because, in almost everything, she reminded him of his mother; but she was not. He loved his grandparents but they were no substitute for his family.

He didn't want to be here. He was feeling too lonely and sad this night. He wanted to leave for his talan and sleep as he usually did: Sleep, hoping secretly he would wake up one day and find out that everything had just been a nightmare.

Galadriel sat beside her grandson quietly for a few minutes. Although Celeborn had asked her not to spend too much time with Elrohir, in favor of what the boy needed to learn, she just could not follow her husband's advice in this. She felt that something was wrong in Elrohir's life, like a misplaced note in a song, in a very sad song. She held him a little tighter and noticed him close his eyes for a moment, finally seeming to give in a little, allowing himself to feel his grandmother's affection.

"Elrohir..." she called him by his name for the first time since he had arrived here months ago. Astalder was what everyone called him. Astalder was the nickname his grandfather gave him when he was a baby and that, even with its noble meaning, he was starting to hate. "Every pain has a purpose, my dear one," she said, and the twin closed his eyes again, this time as if he didn't want to hear the rest. This was a statement people had been repeating to him every single moment since the tragic and stupid event happened: He had to learn from all he had done and all that had happened. He already knew it by heart. Ilúvatar, he didn't want to hear it again.

"Every pain has a purpose..." Galadriel repeated, now gently pulling his chin up to make him to look at her again. "But yours, tithen-pen, does not have just a purpose, it has a reason as well, a reason that is not very clear to me," she completed, and the young elf frowned, but continued looking at her as if trying to understand what she meant. Galadriel traced her fingertips along the shadows under his sad eyes, and then looked up at one corner of the meadow.

Elrohir followed the movement attentively now, but glimpsing the object he dreaded to see, a chill ran down his spine, leaving a strange feeling in its wake, something he could not explain.

"I would like you to accompany me to the mirror" she said and the young elf shivered. "I will stand by your side and help you to interpret any image that may arise... Do you want to try?"

Elrohir shook his head rapidly in a vehement denial of what he knew he probably would be ashamed as an adult, but he could not help it. He could not help but fear with all his heart that experience. He had already heard about it, those ones who had practiced it, have compared it to the absolute discomfort of a rebirth.

Galadriel, however, only smiled, caressing again her grandson's face.

"It could clarify some things, tithen-pen. Important things ..."

At first the twin shook his head firmly in denial of his grandmother's request once more; then, confronting her silence, he pondered what those important things she spoke of might be. He looked at her again and only then he realized that, unlike other experiences people had talked about when using the mirror, the future was not what she was compelling him to see,, whatever it would be. She was looking for other information…

Elrohir gasped, feeling a strange expectation growing in his chest. Could doing this have some interpretation he'd not thought about? Could he find a way to get rid of his problems simply by looking into his grandmother's mirror? Could it be that easy?

There was no answer to that question, he knew. However, not even that expectation brought him courage enough to accept this invitation. He was so afraid. His grandmother's expression only seemed to confirm she knew that. It was very humiliating, but he couldn't help feeling this way.

Galadriel sighed then, and Elrohir thought she had given up.

She almost did, but she couldn't. There was a voice inside her compelling her to continue, a voice she could not ignore. She just held Elrohir's hand firmly, showing him her determination, but also her confidence that all would be well.

Elrohir gulped, but allowed himself to be led, even very reluctantly, closer to the mirror. Every step he took made him want to turn and run. When he was close to it, he started to feel as if his legs would fail, but he renewed his courage and continued to stand.

Finally he felt Galadriel's hand on his back, gently forcing him to take the last step that would place him in front of the mirror. When his image appeared distorted in the water, he could see the reflection of his grandmother's face behind him.

"Focus," she said. "I will be here with you."

Focus. He repeated to himself. But it was a hard command to follow when you are an elfling who doesn't know exactly what to focus on.

Elrohir took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. It was only then that it appeared. He did not know why, but he was sure that would be the first image he would see: That blessed dirty sword with its broken tip. The sword he took to the fire, he hammered mercilessly for days; the sword he had transformed into another weapon, whose brightness returned by his hand. But the image in the water was of a dark sword that took on the reflection of the sky... It was so beautiful...

It appeared in the mirror only for a moment; after that its image distorted again, transformed into a circle of flame spinning with the dark sky behind it. A moment after that it changed into a big ball of fire, a blazing star, which fell from the sky with the weight of an army, setting fire to the tall trees in its path and creating a large hole in the ground of a dark unknown wood.

Elrohir opened his eyes wide.

What was that? A star? Was it a star falling from the sky?

The elfling held his breath. He hadn't imagined how real the scenes from his grandmother's mirror could be.

But he hadn't much time to think about it. Soon the scene was dissipated into a cloud of smoke and a new image appeared: a different sword, which was placed beside another one. They were almost identical.

Before them a smith smiled, pleased with his creation. He was a tall, dark-haired elf who caressed the weapons as if they were living.

"Anglachel… Anguirel ... You came from the sky..." he sang in a voice, whose melody was unforgettable. "You were forged from the most beautiful and strong star... You will have eternal life. You will have eternal life, and your owners, you will follow."

Elrohir felt his chin fall, mesmerized by the two glorious weapons. They were as identical as he and his brother were. However, as had happened before, he didn't have long to pay attention to the details of those magnificent blades. Soon their images disappeared, leaving the young elf with a nostalgic look on his face. Even he knew he was in his current situation because of a weapon like that, but he just could not stop his open admiration for this kind of sword. And those ones in the mirror… Elbereth, they were outstanding!

For his joy, one of the blades reappeared when it was passed from the hands of that dark-haired elf to a silver-blond one, whose garments resembled those of a great leader.

No, he was not just a leader, Elrohir noticed, when the strange elf brought the sword closer to his noble face to look at it better.

He was not just a leader… He was a king…

Ilúvatar, who was he? Elrohir still had no time to think about it, before a new image came up: the same king was passing the sword to another elf's hands. Elrohir didn't understand. Glorfindel always said that a sword only had one owner, but this one was passing from hand to hand as if no one really wanted it.

Why? By the Valar, it was so beautiful. If he had a sword like that, he would never give it to anyone.

The new owner's image became clearer. He was a very tall archer who looked at the weapon as if it weighed more than a thousand bows and quivers... Elrohir looked at him intently, his fair face, the big bow in his hands. He also knew him from somewhere, but couldn't remember where.

It was then that something totally different and strange happened: all those scenes of brightness turned into darkness; for a minute or two he could not see anything, until a new image was formed, and he wished he had continued to not see a thing…

The archer… was dead, the very weapon he'd just been gazing at buried in his chest, his blood dripping from his body…

Elrohir shuddered, and his grandmother's hands squeezed his shoulders slightly.

She didn't say a word, as if she was focused on the scene as well.

Elrohir wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn't. He just kept staring the mirror. He had never seen a dead elf before. Not even in the books…

And there was too much blood…

He soon realized that the archer's body was not only bathed in blood, he was also bathed in tears… Tears of someone else…

A person who was not an elf ... He was an adan, a human being.

Elrohir felt his body freeze, watching the cry of that stranger, whose body twisted as he sobbed out words of regret. He seemed so hurt, inconsolable. They must have been friends, the young elf thought. It must be really hard to lose a friend that way. He couldn't even imagine.

The twin felt his grandmother's hold on his shoulders again as the scene faded, the water of the mirror mixed with the tears of the grieving man. He felt as if he couldn't breathe. What a heartbreaking scene! Ilúvatar, that was the most horrible image he had ever seen.

Everything was swallowed by a dense fog then. Elrohir lowered his eyes and sighed, thinking that maybe it was the last thing the mirror would show him.

But he was wrong, and soon his eyes were back gazing at the water. The image of that unfortunate adan soldier resurfaced. Elrohir shuddered as soon as he saw him. He couldn't explain, but he felt something for him, as if he was looking at a close relative, a member of his family. The adan was shouting now, brandishing his sword to the sky, crazed, delirious as if an uncontrollable pain was tearing him apart, was killing him.

Elrohir's breathing quickened; he knew something was very wrong. That poor adan was suffering again. What terrible thing could have happened? Why was that soldier so desperate again?

And when Elrohir thought he had already seen enough of suffering and pain, the adan soldier did the most unthinkable act: He set the hilt of the sword upon the ground, and cast himself upon the black point of the blade, ending his life in the cruelest way. The impact of the sword piercing his chest was so hard that the tip of the sword broke.

After everything he had seen, this image was unbearable to watch. Elrohir turned his face away with the force of it and lunged into Galadriel's embrace as if by instinct alone. It felt like his own chest was burning, as if all that pain was inside him now. His grandmother covered his head with her slender hand, stroking his hair, hugging him tightly.

"It's gone..." she said in a sweet voice. "It's over, tithen-pen..."

With some effort she brought him back to the bench they had left, leaving behind the mirror and its intricate images. They sat side by side once more. Galadriel continued to embrace her trembling grandson, and watched the boy's pale face closely. He kept his eyes closed tight, as if the image repeated itself in his mind endlessly.

Galadriel waited a little longer, worried, and then tried to call him, to pull him up from the place those distressing images were taking him. Then, realizing that her grandson could not calm down enough to rid himself of what he had seen, she laid her hand on his face, covering his eyes. She started to sing a very sweet song, a song Elrohir had never heard before. It seemed to be a song of rescue, taking him from his world of pain and anguish, leaving him hovering in another world, a world of dreams.

When he woke up, he was on a sofa in his grandparent's shelter, and he felt the first moments of peace he'd had in the endless time since he had come to Edhellond. The first thing he saw was his grandmother talking carefully with her husband.

"It's been a long time since the mirror has shown such strong scenes…" Elrohir heard Galadriel's voice whispering, but Celeborn just shook his head, placing a hand over hers. They continued talking then, but Elrohir could not listen anymore, because they were doing something that was common to them: they were having a mental conversation. Maybe they silenced their voices because they thought he was sleeping, or maybe because they didn't want him to hear them; maybe for both reasons.

Elrohir frowned. Why was he here? He couldn't remember…

He tried to rise, but the elf-lady came quickly to him, placing her hands on his shoulders and making him lie down again.

"Go back to sleep, Elrohir," she said. "This night you will stay with us."

The twin lay down again, as his grandmother compelled him to do, but his eyes remained open. He looked around himself with concern, still not understanding how he got here. Only after concentrating intently for a time did the images from the mirror come back to him suddenly. He rose again quickly, this time leaving no chance for his grandmother to stop him. He staggered a few steps and was soon supported by Celeborn, who embraced him, bringing him back to the couch.

"Calm down, Astalder," he said, making the twin sit again, although he could tell that Elrohir was not willing to go back to sleep.

Elrohir looked at Celeborn for a minute, but then his eyes moved to his grandmother, and then his gaze wandered around the entire place around him. He finally shuddered, covering his face with both hands, as if he was not able to organize the images he was seeing; as if he were unable to separate what he was really seeing from all those things he'd seen in the mirror that were torturing his mind.

Celeborn's arm covered his grandson's shoulders, and then the secure sound of the lord elf's voice filled Elrohir's senses once again.

"Everything will be all right, Astalder," he assured, slowly caressing Elrohir's arm in a simple act of kindness, but which had an undeniable power.

Elrohir relaxed a bit, feeling peace in that warm sensation coming from his grandfather; it was a comforting peace that quieted his spirit for a while. However, he was breathing fast and he felt his grandparents' concern. He looked at them alternately, not sure about what he was looking for in their faces.

"Your grandmother acted unwisely," Celeborn said. Elrohir had heard that expression before, and thinking about its meaning made him raise his eyes, surprised to hear his grandfather make such a comment. However, his grandmother did not seem offended by her husband's reproach.

"He's right, Elrohir. I should not expose the truth of the mirror to someone so young. It is not... wise..." she said with distant eyes. But there was a glow on her face which seemed to show no regret; a provocative glow that, in other circumstances, might have brought a smile to the younger twin, if he had not again begun seeing the images the mirror had shown him before.

How could those scenes have such power? Everything was so real...

"I see I need to do something to correct my lack of wisdom." The tone in Galadriel's voice made him abandon his questions for a moment. "Tell me, dear one. Do you want me to help you to understand what you saw, or would you like me just to help you to forget it?" she asked.

Elrohir kept his eyes open and fixed on her for a moment, and there were such mixed feelings in them that Galadriel almost regretted having given her grandson this choice. Maybe Celeborn was right, and it would be better if they all just forgot those images for a while.

But Elrohir continued looking at her with his darkened eyes, as if pleading for some explanation. Galadriel realized how much the young elf wanted to understand what happened. She already had her answer. She moved her eyes to her husband then, and Celeborn looked down, visibly upset with the situation.

"Once upon the time, there was a noble member of the royal house of Doriath named Thingol. In fact, this elf was the king's own kin. You know who Thingol was, don't you?" Galadriel said, beginning her story.

Elrohir nodded, the image of one of the first three elves who visited the Sacred Realm of Valinor always impressed him.

"Well, the dark-haired elf you saw was Eöl, known by many people as the Dark Elf. Do you know Eöl's history, Elrohir?" she asked, and the young elf frowned, trying to remember. "Well. Let me help you with that part. At first, Eöl lived in his homeland, but at one point of his life he felt the urge to go and live in the dark forest of Nan Elmoth, east of where he lived. Eöl was one of the most talented craftsmen, and a master blacksmith as no other. Among all he had made in his occupation, the more relevant pieces were the two swords you saw. They were special weapons because they were made with a different and very rare material. A material you cannot find anywhere here. He had forged them using the iron of a fallen star. You know what a fallen star is, don't you, Elrohir?"

The twin took a few moments to answer, because his mouth fell completely open with that information. Where was his mind when Erestor explained such an interesting fact? Soon he pressed his mouth closed, nodding in a positive response.

"Good. Well, Anglachel and Anguirel were the names of those weapons. Twin swords... Eöl gave Anglachel to Thingol as fee for the right to live in Nan Elmoth, and it is the saga of this particular sword that seems to interest us, because it was their owners you saw in the mirror," she added, looking intently at her grandson, trying to feel what the information was awakening in him. "Do you want to ask something, Elrohir? You know that your vow of silence is not necessary in case of need."

Elrohir took a deep breath, as if he was thinking about the suggestion, but then he made an emphatic negative with his head, continuing to look closely at his grandmother. He seemed interested in hearing the rest of the story.

"Well, the archer you saw receiving the sword is Beleg Cúthalion, Chief of the Marchwardens of Doriath. He was a brilliant archer throughout his existence, until Anglachel came to his hands," she explained and, realizing her grandson had frowned again, she explained. "The adan you saw was Túrin Turambar, son of Húrin Thalion and Morwen Eledhwen and a great man of his time. About him many songs were sung and there are still many legends."

Elrohir frowned again. Túrin Turambar. That name was familiar. Yes, indeed Erestor had spoken about him before. By Ilúvatar, he should have paid more attention to the old stories his mentor told him.

"Elrohir?" his grandmother called him, and the twin awoke from his reverie, in which he had been trying very hard to rescue that particular memory, but could not. Certainly he had not listened carefully enough to Erestor's stories and lessons. He offered an apologetic look to his grandmother.

"Well, it was because of this human friend that Beleg chose to wield the sword, even knowing the negative energy it carried," Galadriel added and pressed her lips when she saw her grandson pale at hearing this information. Elrohir's eyes were rounded, and he looked to his grandfather, who was still by his side, as if to make sure he had heard correctly.

"Yes, Astalder," confirmed the silver haired elf lord. "Beleg served Thingol and the king's wife Melian and was beloved by them. As the good soldier he was, he decided to ask the King's permission to quit his post and help Túrin Turambar. As Túrin was loved as a son by Thingol as well, he gave Beleg his permission to go and protect him. Moreover, he told Beleg to choose whatever he wanted in the entire king's arsenal, except the king's sword."

"Beleg chose Anglachel," Galadriel completed sadly. The story seemed to touch her. "The Queen tried to warn him about the weapon. According to Melian, the sword carried the black heart of its owner, Eöl, and would never love or stay with another person for long. There was malice in it."

Elrohir shuddered, looking to his grandfather again, who seemed quite uncomfortable with the nature of the conversation they were having. Celeborn bestowed a warning glance on his wife, who just took a deep breath, shaking her head slightly. Finally, the elf lord sighed, agreeing reluctantly to tell the rest of the story.

"It was the sword's intent, as Melian perhaps feared, to steal from Beleg Cúthalion his very life," he added, looking attentively at his grandson. Realizing that Elrohir did not really know that story, he explained: "Beleg died by the hands of his own friend, Túrin, when he was trying to help the adan after an ambush. Túrin was unconscious, and when he woke up, the darkness and the evils of torture he had suffered by the enemy made him act blindly in his own defense. He did not recognize his friend, taking Beleg's weapon and killing him with it… He killed Beleg with Anglachel," Celeborn completed, and regretted to see the twin pale alarmingly. Elrohir's eyes danced, before closing to escape what they seemed to see. The elf lord understood far better than he wished the associations his grandson was setting between that story and his own.

A silence fell over the place as Celeborn and Galadriel looked at each other. They still had much to discuss, but they felt that time had turned from ally to enemy. Elrohir was so lost again in the echoes of these sad stories and his own conclusions that he did not realize they were again speaking silently to one another, and just what was in his grandparents' quietness.

"Túrin had Anglachel in his hands too," remembered the elf lord, putting his hand on Elrohir's head, drawing the elfling's attention again to a story Celeborn now needed to see finished. Only then Elrohir remembered the last and most striking scene of his vision in the mirror and suddenly became unwilling to find out the reason of so terrible an image. He grabbed his grandfather's robe and his face paled.

Celeborn was startled, and then he sighed, taking the hand of the trembling child in his.

"What Túrin did is called suicide, pen-neth," he said. "It's an extreme act that I have only seen the Edain committing. It is different from elves who fall as prey of the pain. We… Elves, sometimes just seek a rest. But Edain, when they give up living, they do not seem to want to get rid of their bad experiences here, they seem to have a burning desire to get free of their own selves."

Elrohir shuddered again with his grandfather's explanation. He began to rub his arms as if he was feeling cold and his grandmother took one of his hands reassuringly.

"Túrin had his reasons for committing such an act," she said, ignoring another warning glance from her husband. "Read, when it's possible, Narn i Chîn Húrin, the sad story of the Children of Húrin, and you will understand, Elrohir."

"Well, what matters is that we now understand where the story of this weapon ends," Celeborn said.

"If it has indeed ended," Galadriel added, making Elrohir frown again.

"In Nargothrond, Túrin took the weapon of his friend Beleg to be re-forged by skilled blacksmiths. The adan warrior gave it a new name: Gurtang."

"The Iron of Death," Galadriel translated, receiving another look of reprimand from her husband when their grandson shuddered again. "In History there are beautiful facts and sad facts. With both we learn," she justified, holding the young elf's hand a little tighter. "The final scene we saw was the fall of Túrin," she added. "He looked for death on his own sword."

"Something that is also part of this history, is the fact that the hero was buried with his weapon," Celeborn remembered, frowning, intrigued when he felt the attention of his wife on him and realizing that Galadriel did not seem comfortable with this hypothesis. "He, his mother Morwen, even the memory of his sister, though her body could not be found, are buried under their tombstone, the Stone of the Hapless. The grave was one of the few locations in Beleriand which did not disappear after the drowning at the end of the First Age. It is an island now… Tol Morwen. And nobody has ever stepped there since then," remembered the elf.

Elrohir's eyes seemed to look inward, confused by his grandparents' tales. Although they appeared to be telling him the end of the sword's sad history, it was like they were also trading mysterious information in those lines, information he could not understand.

Celeborn finally turned to meet the bright eyes of his grandson, which looked at the elf lord again with the expression he sometimes directed to him, as if he saw in his grandfather his only anchor.

"Ai, Astalder," Celeborn said as he hugged Elrohir a little tighter. "Could we exchange of favors?" he asked, and Elrohir frowned. "You forget the oath you swore to your brother for a moment and let me hear your voice, and I will take you home tomorrow."

Elrohir's eyes widened and a smile, which would have been the first to appear on his face since he arrived, almost brightened his face, but the impression of happiness soon disappeared, and the twin squeezed both hands over his lap, as if being hit by a huge pain.

"Come on. One word and you will go to see your loved ones, including your own brother. Elladan will certainly understand why you broke the promise you made to each other," Celeborn insisted, and waited for a moment that he would never forget. Never had so few minutes looked so painful. Elrohir closed his eyes; his head was bowed, his chin almost resting upon his chest. He then exhaled, and when Celeborn judged he would hear his grandson's voice, tears began to run from the boy's eyes. Elrohir shook his head vigorously as he rose and tried to run away.

"Wait, Elrohir!" His grandmother's voice was what stopped him, and it was his great respect for her that kept the twin from leaving, even when he was already at the door. But he did not turn back; he had no courage to face his grandparents, to imagine that, in some way, he had disappointed them again. All he did was let people down. In moments like these he began to believe that he was indeed lost, beyond hope and unworthy of any help.

He then felt his grandfather's hand on his shoulder, making him turn to him. Elrohir obeyed slowly, fearing even more to read the disappointment in the elf lord's face. Celeborn bowed slightly to look at him more closely, but in the eyes of the silver-haired elf there was no disappointment. He just put a hand on the twin's chest fondly.

"Would you not break your oath with Elladan even if this could guarantee your return home?" he asked, and Elrohir clenched his fists in an anger, which appeared to be more against himself than directed at anyone else. He then shook his head vigorously, causing a mysterious smile to appear on the lips of his grandfather. "Well, if you are willing to keep your word to your brother, even after knowing what I am offering you in return, it is because your time here is over, boy, and your dignity restored. Now, we must go to your home so we can try to do the same for another person: the one who has been protecting you."