A/N: At last! Here it is! I hope to release a chapter every Sunday, although I will apologize in advance, because the next chapter will likely be later than 1 week (hectic travel schedule this week). Thanks to everyone who encouraged me to continue- I'm glad to be writing again. Please, please review!

~ Maiaron

With grey eyes narrowing against the cold dawn sun, the elf slowly raised an elbow to his ear. The only earthly noise to be heard was the velvety metallic noise of a sword being slowly withdrawn from its scabbard, in sonic harmony to the movement of his shoulders. Upon reaching his ready position, he held. The scene was one of utter stillness and poise. In the near distance, an airy, falsetto bird song could be heard, then seemingly becoming aware of the growing tension, abruptly stopped. It seemed that movement and noise had ceased for eternity.

With a sudden roar he exploded forward in a flurry of flashing steel and the fluttering leather of his doublet. Left, right, flank, arm, his blade landed everywhere upon the wooden training post. He approached the post with incredible fury and unchecked momentum, eventually colliding with it.

With a disgusted cough as his shoulder drove into the post, bent nearly double, he swallowed and gasped a breath.

As he leaned into the post, his face was obscured by deep brown hair. If one could see his mien, they would not recognize this creature as himself. His face was contorted, his eyes squeezed shut, and mouth stretched a tight as a bow string. It was clearly apparent that, although still gasping for breath after the furious attack, his mind was many miles away. Perhaps in a different place, a different time… different circumstances.

It was in this moment that a tall, silver haired elf, witness to the attack on the post, leapt forward and clapped a hand upon the bent back of the former.

"Now! Now, now, my friend! That was good, but you must not pause for so long between your attacks – you'd be ten times dead to the blades of this post's friends by now. We are here to train, are we not?"

The bent elf's eyes flicked up to the elf standing over him, narrowed. Upon landing on his friend's face, they widened, and he drew a large breath, hastily standing tall, glancing into the distance.

"My apologies, Celeborn. I became… distracted."

Moving to see the horizon where his friend looked, the silver haired elf swallowed and drew a breath before speaking.

"It is understandable, Elrond. We have seen terrible sights these last years, and too many of our kin have died. The war is over though. Use the training to regain your focus. Imladris is strong, no longer do you need to fret over this place constantly. Find your rhythm. It is here." Celeborn tapped the centre of his torso. He looked intently into the other elf's face.

Elrond closed his eyes and squared his shoulders. "Yes. You are correct, and I appreciate your candor. I will try." He looked over to his friend, banishing the terrible images of the last few decades from his mind… the deaths, the mortification of the bodies by the enemies… Despite his will, the image of Celebrimbor's body, pierced by dozens of arrows, being born upon a pike as a banner to his foes flashed into his mind. He heard the rushing of blood in his ears, and echoes of orc screams seemed to be all around him. A sudden wave of nausea washed over him, and raising his free hand to his eyes, he dropped his head into his hand.

Celeborn glanced over, and seeing the serious elf grow pale, gently took the sword from Elrond's hand, sheathing it for him.

"Perhaps that is enough for today, my friend. I was hoping that this would help you to find some release, but perhaps it is not having the effect I hoped."

Elrond nodded his assent. The sword play had had undoubtedly uncorked some unanticipated emotional reactions. Elrond was grateful for the astute and intelligent companion he had in Celeborn. The elf had been indispensable during the battles, and even now was helping Elrond to pull his doubt and his consternation away from dominating his life. Although he could not be certain, Elrond often suspected that perhaps his inclination to doubt and dwell on darkness was a human weakness. Perhaps his elvish intuition was muddled by his human blood, leaving him slightly less confident in his decisions than other elves might be. He shook his head.

"Thank you for bringing me to here, Celeborn, but I need to see to the last of the preparations for Gil-Galad's return with the wounded." He gave a slight inclination of his head, and Celeborn returned it, acknowledging Elrond's exit.

As Elrond turned to leave, his feet leading him to his study, his thoughts returned to the recent days. Sauron's army had been defeated. Crushed like an egg between Elrond's forces from Imladris, and Gil-Galad's army from the south. The battle had been won, but at a terrible cost, including the loss of Eriador – all its beauty and power, wiped out. Crumbled apart with the stones of its city and washed from the land in rivers of blood. The city was utterly decimated. Those able to travel in the days after had been directed north, to Imladris, led by Elrond, and it was here that the survivors were beginning to pick up the pieces of the wreckage of the war. Gil-Galad had stayed behind to see to the collection of the wounded, and to ensure no orcs remained there to waylay travelers. He felt a moment of anxiety, that the mighty Gil-Galad would be his guest here, in Imladris. Elrond had initially chosen this valley as a camp, looking for a safe place for his wounded to heal during the greatest heat of the wars just four years ago, in 1697.

Though relatively rustic, the beauty of the location had encouraged the healed elves that year to build several great halls and terraces, where the wounded could better recover. In the cleft of several deep mountains, and surrounded by falling water and deep, rich greenery, when they had arrived here they nearly fell into the valley as one would a deep feather bed. Blinded by pain and blood, Elrond knew the sense of peace he felt here held some significance, and so here they sojourned. By Arda, the walls had nearly sprung up from the ground of their own will then. Yes, Elrond thought, it was beautiful. Simple, yes. Rustic, yes. But the breathtaking beauty of this land was beyond question. In the four years since then, the wars had continued, and crippled men and elves who were unable to continue fighting in the wars were maintained there as their hands could still work. Artists, musicians, and the young continued along with them. The number and skill of the healers was increased as well. Though only four years had passed, Imladris was growing.

As Elrond reached his study, and laid his hands across his desk, a young flaxen haired elf jogged up. "Sir, we have received word that King Gil-Galad's company is 2 days hence. They bring with them the last of the wounded, a count of nearly 400 elves and Númenórean men."

Elrond nodded. With a hitch in his breath, he was overwhelmed by two conflicting emotions. He was greatly relieved that they were prepared. He had healers and beds enough for 700. He would be able to accommodate them all. As Gil-Galad's lieuteneant, he was as well prepared as he could be for them. However, he had been anticipating far more, and had been feeling seriously worried that he would not have facilities for all the wounded. His mouth soured at the thought that the price of their victory had been so high. Only 400 wounded meant that the casualties were greater by far than his calculations.

"Inform the healers of their imminent arrival, and of the number of wounded arriving. Tell them that if they need any more supplies to inform me, and I will see it done."

As the young elf nodded briskly and turned to leave, Elrond removed his sword belt and scabbard from his hip, and sat at last, tenting his hands upon the desk in front of him. He doubted the healers would want for anything. He drew a breath and cleared his mind. He was enveloped in silence. Silence, he mused, that would be in relatively short supply for the coming months. Fewer wounded were arriving than he had expected, but Imladris would house them. And he would be host to the last high King of the Noldor.