Chapter Nine: The Heir of Isildur

Third Age 2931 (80 years ago...)

Legolas was as content as someone who had little memory of his family or past could be. He was visiting Glorfindel in Imladris, sitting in the trees with the Balrog-Slayer and laughing as the oak the Vanyar perched on tried to playfully shake him off. Glorfindel clung to the tree with as much dignity as he could, glaring at Esgal with narrowed blue eyes. The other elf, his hood and cloth down to expose his features, looked back at him, his own violet eyes sparking with mirth.

"You're putting it up to this!" the Vanyar accused. "Tell it to stop! It won't listen to me!"

"I am doing nothing, mellon-nin," the Wood-Elf said innocently. "The tree does not like heavy warriors sitting in its boughs." His face showed nothing but blamelessness, but the Balrog-Slayer knew that the assassin was laughing inside.

"Are you calling me fat?" Glorfindel asked stiffly still clutching the branch like a new rider clung to a wild horse.

Wide, mock-hurt violet eyes looked at him. "I would never call the Great, Powerful, Mysterious, Wise, Legendary Glorfindel of Imladris fat. I am only commenting that Rivendell warriors such as yourself have a bit more brawn than humble Wood Elves."

"...I think I liked you better when you hid in the trees and refused to come down." Glorfindel muttered without malice.

He was quite happy with how much the other had changed since they had first met. It had taken years for the assassin to gain the confidence to even sit near the Balrog-Slayer, so twitchy and on edge was the young elf. Once Glorfindel got Esgal to open up, the other had been quite sociable, smiling small smiles, chattering, and teasing the Vanyar to no end. He still carried a hint of his old nervousness, and it still resurfaced from time to time, but he was much more relaxed and trusting with the Balrog-Slayer.

"Why oh why did I teach you how to joke?" the Vanyar sighed. "I get enough teasing from the twins! You'd get along well."

Like a switch being flicked, Esgal became withdrawn, looking at the ground and twirling a fallen twig between his fingers. His expression blanked out like a slate being wiped clean, revealing none of his thoughts. Glorfindel knew what he was thinking though. "I don't know..."

Glorfindel decided he had lost his battle with the tree, leaping down to the ground before it could make him descend and land in an undignified heap to the forest floor. Instantly, the shaking stopped, and the Balrog-Slayer swore the tree was feeling smug. Esgal landed beside him, settling himself on the ground and patting the tree's trunk. He avoided the other's blue eyes, focusing on the thin limbs as they curled around his hand and forearm.

"You would get along, and be great friends." Glorfindel said firmly. "Though I fear that once I introduce you, the twins will use your sneaking skills to prank all of the Hidden Valley, and we would all be doomed."

"I... would like to meet them someday." Esgal confessed with one of his small, reminiscent smiles. "But... not yet."

Glorfindel sighed, accepting defeat— for now— and not pushing the assassin, but studied the younger with a serious expression. "You still have that feeling, don't you?"

"Yes." the violet-eyed elf admitted. He and the Vanyar had had this conversation before. It all sprung from the same deep-set, unexplainable instinct that had been haunting him for the past thirty years. "I want to show myself to the other elves— I really do— but something keeps holding me back. Its not fear of rejection from the masses anymore. I no longer care what the general populace thinks, but the instinct to remain hidden is still there. Its like... if I show myself now, something terrible will happen. If the feeling weren't so strong, I would ignore it. Its similar to when the trees speak to me, but it is different as well. Its like a warning..." Esgal looked at him with young yet old eyes. "Does that make sense?"

"Perhaps the Valar intend for you to stay hidden for a little longer," Glorfindel said, thoughtful. "Right now, few people know you exist. Many in Mirkwood suspect, but few know. Maybe there is a reason. Either way, it will be your decision when you want to reveal yourself. Yours, and no one else's." The Balrog-Slayer stood, clapping his hands together once. "Never mind that now. Would you like to spar, Esgal?"

The assassin rose with hesitant grace. "I always kill, maim, injure, or knock out my opponents," he said uncomfortably. "I have not sparred in over three hundred years! What if I hurt you?"

Glorfindel did not laugh off his concern as some might have done. Instead he was thoughtful, seriously considering Esgal's worries. The Balrog-Slayer knew how deadly and dangerous his friend was. The violet-eyed elf had done nothing but kill and incapacitate his opponents for hundreds of years. He never practiced his skills with a partner. Esgal only went through the motions on his own, and fought constantly enough that practice to keep his skills sharp was not entirely necessary.

"You won't," the Balrog-Slayer said confidently. "I trust you not to, even with your... instincts." He paused, mulling over his thoughts before speaking. "...Could you teach me any of it? Your fighting style?"

Before meeting the assassin, Glorfindel would have thought that a fighting style based on evasion would be ineffective against a strong, fast warrior. However, Esgal was a master in his style, using it more in his relatively few years than many elven warriors did in their own long lifetimes. Elves learned to fight when war came about, or when the Shadow lingered. Esgal was brought up fighting from the young age of five, almost born to kill. His fighting style was a part of him, almost like an art, an intricate dance that few could learn.

"You will not be able to do many of the moves I can," Esgal said slowly. "You cannot bend and move like I do: you do not have the speed or flexibility. But I can teach you other things, like my knowledge of pressure-points and some basic dodges and retaliations for if you lose your sword in battle. If you are willing to learn them, of course."

"I am." Glorfindel stated, grinning like a child who had just received a present. "First, I'll help you to relearn how to spar. Then, I'd like to learn some of those moves."

Esgal mirrored his eager smile, the nervousness leaving his eyes. Glorfindel trusted him not to hurt him, and was curious of his knowledge, despite its assassin-like nature. Thanks to his friendship with the Vanyar, the assassin knew that not all elves were as perfect, mysterious, and Light as outsiders believed. Glorfindel had his moments of bloodthirsty rage— specifically when orcs hurt someone dear to him—, told jokes, and cursed like a human sailor when provoked. While some like the Lady of the Light were the image of what men and dwarves thought elves acted like, most elves were as diverse, mixed, and sometimes flawed as the other races. It made them more... familiar in a way.

What Legolas said was true. If not for that foreboding feeling he could not explain, he would have revealed himself to the elves long ago. Thanks to Glorfindel he no longer feared rejection from the masses because of his lack of an inner light. Because of the elf he no longer thought his skills in assassination and his ability to freeze enemies with his eyes were unnatural for an elf. Truth be told, he wanted to meet the other elves he had only watched from a distance, like Elrohir, Elladan, Elrond, Erestor, and even that elf Fael that he had saved long ago. But the dread and warning would not fade, and so he remained hidden. He decided, for now, it was better to remain a secret weapon and ally in the shadows, rather than emerge into the light.

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Legolas was in a good mood when he bade Glorfindel farewell. He had not only been able to teach the Balrog-Slayer a few of his hindering pressure-point techniques, but they had sparred without the assassin slipping up. At first, the violet-eyes elf had been tense and awkward in his movements, so afraid of hurting the other was he. Glorfindel had not pushed him as much as he could, knowing how dangerous doing so would be, instead letting Legolas gradually become comfortable with sparring, without the need to maim, knock out, or kill. The assassin had quickly remembered his old sparring lessons with Ciaran, and fighting for practice and fun became easier after that.

The assassin had won three times, and Glorfindel won once. Then again, that had been early on, and was only because Legolas had been unsure of himself. It was a relief to know that he was capable of fighting without knocking out, hurting, or killing his opponent. He had still used basic restraining moves in the spar, but no pressure points to incapacitate. For a moment, he had not been an assassin, merely a warrior sparring with his friend to test their skills and have fun. It had been nice.

Now it was time for him to go. Legolas had been in Imladris for the past week, and with no more orcs in the area, it was time for him to leave. He was and always would be a free spirit, not content with staying in one place for long. Mirkwood was the exception, of course. It truly was his home, and he would always go there to unwind or if he needed to think. Still, Legolas continued to travel around Middle-earth, making sure to visit Bilbo in Hobbiton and Glorfindel in Imladris at least once a year.

Glorfindel never changed, but the elf could see Bilbo gradually aging. He still had plenty of life left, but the fact that the little hobbit-child he had met was gone sometimes saddened Legolas, and made him recall the grief of mortality. Once again he was reminded of Ciaran, and wondered if it truly was wise to attach himself to mortals. Belladonna had already passed, two years ago now. The grief was still fresh in Legolas's mind, though it had not hindered him like the abruptness of Ciaran's passing. Belladonna had known she was dying, wasting away because of a sickness in her bones. Legolas and Bilbo had had time to prepare, but her death still hurt fiercely. Bilbo still had time left, yes, but one day he too would die, his life only a flicker of a candle in the expanse of Legolas's long immortal life...

The elf's sixth sense tingled. He snapped to attention, halting in the treetops as his head whipped to the right. He did not even need to think, bow drawn and arrow notched to the string as he raced towards the familiar, evil presences. He had been sure there were no orcs nearby. In fact, he knew there had not been any this morning. The elf closed his eyes, focusing, listening to the trees and nature around him. His sixth sense heightened, picking up each individual presence. He counted nineteen orcs, the same number of wargs and... three— no, four— humans.

Legolas headed towards the spot, pausing in the edge of the trees. He could see every detail of the scene in front of him. Only feet from the trees, three humans— two males, one female— were surrounded by the orcs and wargs. They were dirty and tired, obviously having run a long way. One male was on the ground, pale and bleeding heavily from a wound on his side. Even from his perch Legolas could see the tired, fading look in his eyes. It was obvious he was dying.

The woman— his wife?— lay next to him, eyes blank and glassy. She was young, and had been beautiful once, but years of travel had worn down her face, exposure to the elements aging her beyond her years. She already gone. Finally, there was the second man— older than the woman, younger than the dying man— standing tense in the center of the circle. Legolas recognized the cloak of a Ranger, and admired the man's courage as he glared at the orcs, clutching a bundle to his chest...

...Valar forbid was that a baby?!

A feral growl escaped the elf's lips and the closest warg flinched, looking around nervously for whatever had caused that predatory sound. Its rider cuffed it, making it still and turn back to the humans. Legolas plucked two more arrows, holding them to his bow, one each between his fingers. He sighted carefully. He did not know why the orcs were waiting until the man on the ground died to attack the Ranger and the babe he held. Perhaps they wanted something from the Ranger, or just wanted him to see the other man die. Or maybe, like savage animals, they wanted him to be afraid and begging before they killed him. It did not matter.

The man on the ground gurgled and gasped, drawing his final breath before passing. Legolas drew back and fired, all three arrows hitting their targets. The arrows were silent-killers, not whistling or making a sound as they passed through the air like deadly, taloned birds. As soon as the first three were released, three more were in their place, flying though the air and felling wargs and their riders.

The Ranger reacted first, racing towards the trees through the clear path Legolas had made for him. The wargs howled and ran after the human, a couple tripping over their dead kin as they chased him towards the forest. The Ranger was fast on his feet, dodging arrows like an elf and protecting the bundle he carried with his own body. As he passed beneath the assassin's perch, Legolas leapt down from the trees, pulling down his hood so the man could see he was an elf.

"Rivendell is north of here." he said rapidly. "Get the child there. I will hold them off. Go."

"Thank you." the man gasped and continued running, his tired body finding new strength.

Legolas spun to the left, shooting a warg that tried to run past him, turning to the right and felling another. Two more died the same way before the orcs decided converging on and slaying the archer would be to their benefit. He would be easy to take out, and then they could pursue their prey without problems. Or so they thought.

Legolas unsheathed his knives, leaping forward and plunging one blade into a warg's head, another into its rider's chest. He spun, ducking, and grabbed a spear that was stabbed at him. He jerked it free of its owner's hold, throwing it at another orc that tried to get into the woods, and striking the owner's throat with his knife. He shot another warg, letting it crush its rider beneath it, kicking another orc off its mount and smiling grimly as the beast ran headlong into a tree.

Two more Warg Riders ran at the elf, snarling and snapping rabidly. The elf watched them coolly, waiting. They swung at him with swords, and he ducked beneath their blades, lunging upright to slash both wargs down their sides as they ran past. The beasts fell, one orc trapped while the other flew free of his mount. Rapid and merciless, Legolas flew through the enemies, knives a blur as he finished off any survivors.

He went still, counting the bodies, and cursed. One orc and warg pair was missing. Taking to the trees, he ran after the Ranger and the one surviving Rider that pursued him and the child. He had seen how tired the Ranger was, and how he had had only a hunting knife for a weapon. He would not be able to outrun the Rider, and he would not last long in a fight.

Protect them, he told the trees. Protect them, please!

Its too late, they whispered, voices sad and low in grief. He is injured.

No!

Legolas's sharp eyes zeroed in on the black form of the orc, standing over the Ranger as he lay helpless on the ground. The orc was covered with odd scratches on his face and chest, but stood smirking over the fallen man. Silent as a shadow, the assassin leapt down from the trees, slamming into the orc with his knives buried into the monster's shoulder and side. The orc staggered, roaring in shock and its mount pounced at Legolas. The elf twisted smoothly out of the warg's path, stabbing it through the eye before kicking the orc's head so hard its neck snapped.

The orc had not yet fallen to the ground when the elf was at the Ranger's side, kneeling beside him. The Ranger was breathing heavily, face ashen and blood trickling from his lips. A crimson stain on his tunic over his abdomen told Legolas of his injury. The elf put pressure on the wound.

"Hold on, mellon-nin. I will get you help."

"No—" the Ranger gasped. "The b-boy—" He tried to rise, barely moving before collapsing back to the ground.

"Where is he?" Legolas asked, seeing the Ranger would only rest when he knew the baby was safe.

One hand rose shakily, pointing at a tree. The elf spotted a space beneath its roots, just big enough o fit something small. He rose and approached it, noting how the tree's limbs were curled unnaturally downward, as if they were spears ready to stab.

I would not let it near, the tree said proudly, brandishing its sharp branches. I scratched it when it came close.

Well done, my friend, Legolas said to it, relief obvious in his tone.

He knelt down and the tree roots shifted, opening up and revealing the baby sleeping inside. The child was tiny and soft-looking, with pudgy cheeks tinted a light rose color, only a few months old at the most. He was wrapped in a simple brown blanket and had dark, wavy hair. His hair had the look of locks that would be quite unruly when he was older. Legolas gently lifted the boy, trying to recall anything and everything Belladonna had ever told him about young children.

Hold him in the crook of my arm. Support his head. Make sure he cannot fall. Be careful...

Only great physical control kept the assassin from shaking. He had never held a baby before. Ever. And this one was so small and fragile looking. What if he dropped him? What if he broke him? Ciaran had never prepared him for something like this! Assassins and babies did not mix. And in this moment, the tiny babe was depending solely on an assassin. Hiding his panic, Legolas knelt beside the Ranger.

"I have him. He is safe."

The Ranger smiled gently, reaching up a trembling hand to brush back the baby's dark hair. "T-Take him to L-Lord Elrond." he gasped, shuddering and quickly withdrawing from touching the child. "H-He must take c-care of him."

The Ranger knew he was dying. So did Esgal, but he still said. "I can get you to him—"

"T-too late." the Ranger whispered, unknowingly echoing the trees. "Y-You must tell Lord E-Elrond. The child is A-Aragorn, Son of Arathorn. Give h-him this."

The Ranger reached into his pocket, pulling out a ring. He dropped it into Legolas's hand, and the elf's eyes widened in shock. Sitting in his palm was the Ring of Barahir, the heirloom that signified the Royal Line of Isildur. The assassin had learned all about the Rings of Power, Isildur, and the Prophecy in Dol Guldur. The child in his arms was the Heir to the throne of Gondor.

"K-Keep it secret." the Ranger mumbled, eyes already losing their sight. "Only t-tell Elrond... and the c-closest ones h-he trusts. The Shadow... c-cannot... f-find him..."

His eyes closed as his spirit fled, giving in to the pull of death. The elf beside him had to look away, whispering a a soft prayer in Sindarin. No matter how many battles Legolas fought in and how many deaths he witnessed, he could never get used to the sight of death. With Men, elves, and other Free Peoples, he could almost sense the departure of their spirit, leaving the body an empty husk and the elf severely shaken. Where the person's spirit resided, the elf could see a void. Legolas cradled the slumbering child in his arms, suddenly feeling very lost and alone. He looked down at the sleeping baby, and felt great worry and protectiveness rise in his heart.

You carry a great burden, Aragorn, Son of Arathorn. Your line is destined to take part in the destruction of Sauron, and the birth of a new age. How is it that you, a child so small, can carry such weight? Then again, for now you are ignorant. And it is more than likely that you will remain ignorant for many years to come, the elf mused silently.

He stood carefully as to not wake the child, and turned away from the Ranger's body. He would have liked to cover him up or bury him, but would and could not with the child in his arms. He had to get Aragorn to Rivendell.

The baby slept on for the first hour of the journey before he began to stir. Legolas halted on a tree limb, staring down at the waking Aragorn with alarm. He had no idea what to do! What if the child cried? What if he was hungry? The elf really hoped the baby did not need his diaper changed.

Large eyes fluttered and opened slowly, revealing silver orbs. Aragorn stared at the elf carrying him with confusion on his face before he giggled, reaching up at grabbing the assassin's hair. Legolas smiled nervously, relaxing as Aragorn remained content merely playing with and chewing on the elf's long blonde hair. It was a little disgusting but mostly cute, and the assassin could see how so many people could be drawn in by a baby's simple charms.

He continued on his way, subconsciously rocking the boy and hoping his quietness and contentment would last. Other than the occasional giggle and coo, Aragorn stayed mostly quiet. He was not hungry or wet, so there was no need to bawl. Besides, the pointy-eared long-haired man's hair was fun to pull, like Mama's.

As he ran Legolas wondered if the child was always this quiet or if he had learned to be silent after being hunted on the road. Based on the thinness and exhaustion surrounding his mother— it saddened Legolas that he did not know her or the Ranger's names—, Arathorn, and the Ranger, they had been running for a while, away from civilization.

It angered the elf that anything would make a baby's life so dangerous, and hunt the child because of who his ancestors were. He would have to be careful who he told that Aragorn was the Heir of Isildur. Then again, would he be telling many people. Legolas halted once more, Aragorn falling asleep in his arms. How could he get the baby to Lord Elrond without revealing himself? It was still not time. The answer was obvious the moment Legolas thought of the question.

Glorfindel.

The elf glanced at the sun, judging the time of day. The Balrog-Slayer would be at the training grounds right now. He turned left, heading towards them instead of Rivendell's main gate. Aragorn was asleep once more, snuggling into the warmth of Legolas's chest. The elf pushed himself, not stopping until he reached the clearing of trees where the Rivendell training grounds were.

He instantly spotted Glorfindel swinging a sword at some dummies, but also saw two more shapes sparring nearby. The twin sons of Elrond were deep in a mock battle nearby, trapped in a stalemate. All of them were in lighter and less ornate versions of Rivendell warrior armor, practicing their skills like Glorfindel and Legolas had earlier that day. Laughing and joking with Glorfindel that morning suddenly seemed so far away, as if the assassin had been transferred to another dimension as peace and fun was replaced by war and death. Then again, that was the life Legolas was used to, so he took it in stride.

Shifting Aragorn to one arm, he put is hood over his head, pulling his face-cloth up. The assassin purposely stepped on a twig, and was almost amused when the three elves' heads snapped in his direction simultaneously. They moved into a triangle, Glorfindel in front, the twins behind, swords held at the ready.

"Who is there?" one twin called.

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"Who is there?" Elladan shouted, sword held defensively as he stared suspiciously at the shadows beneath the trees. "Show yourself!"

His twin was beside him, with Glorfindel slightly ahead. All three stared intently into the darkness. For a moment noting moved, and Elladan prepared to call again. He knew something was there. Then a green-cloaked shape emerged from the shadows, walking cautiously forward. One hand was offered in a peaceful gesture to show he held no weapons, while the other held something protectively to his chest. All three elves blinked as what had appeared to be a bundle of cloth moved, dark hair peeking over the edge of the blanket. A baby?

"Glorfindel." the stranger greeted simply, an accent Elladan recognized as a Man of the North's coming from his lips.

The Balrog-Slayer instantly relaxed, sheathing his sword. "Brian. Welcome to Imladris."

The twins remained wary. "You know him?" Elladan asked cautiously.

"Yes. Brian is a Ranger of the North. I met him a few years ago." Glorfindel said shortly. His blue eyes dropped to the bundle and a small smile crossed his face. "I did not know you had a child."

"He is not mine." Brian said softly, sadness in his tone. He went as if to speak but did not, glancing sidelong at the twins. "You are the twin sons of Elrond?"

"Yes." Elrohir said when his brother did not reply.

"Then you can be trusted." Brian said.

He turned the bundle, revealing a young baby with thick dark hair. The child stirred as he was moved. Silver eyes opened halfway for a moment and looked around vaguely at the elves before closing once more. Brian readjusted the baby, holding him securely with his head on his shoulder.

"This is Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, and Isildur's Heir." the Ranger revealed. "Arathorn and the boy's mother are dead."

Grief clouded Glorfindel's blue eyes but the twins looked at each other in shock. They had thought the line of Gondorian Kings had been broken long ago. History said that the last King of Gondor and his family had been murdered, leaving no one to inherit the throne in Minas Tirith and complete the prophecy detailing Sauron's doom.

"This is Isildur's Heir?" Elladan demanded. "Are you sure?"

Mutely, Brian stepped forward, dropping the Ring of Barahir into the twin's hand. Elladan turned over the ring in his hands, the emeralds glinting in the little bit of light still remaining as twilight crept up on the forest. Brian looked at Glorfindel.

"My Chieftan told me to bring the child to Rivendell, and leave him in Lord Elrond's care..."

Glorfindel nodded, stepping forward to accept the baby. Brian hesitated, looking down at the child. His muscles tensed as he stared at the child. Glorfindel's eyes saddened and he let the Ranger hold the boy just a little longer. Finally, Brian kissed Aragorn's forehead briefly before passing him to the Balrog-Slayer.

"Goodbye, little one." he murmured. His cowled head looked up, and although they were unable to see his eyes, the elves knew that the Ranger was looking at them with the intensity of an Elf Lord. They could feel the pressure of his gaze, as if the Valar themselves were staring at them. "Keep him safe."

And he vanished. He was gone without the tiniest hint of movement. Elrohir leapt back in shock and Elladan jumped. Both were stunned by the Ranger's rapid disappearance. One moment he was there, the next, he was gone. Glorfindel looked both surprised and thoughtful, along with a little sad.

"How did he just do that?" the older twin gasped, heart beating rapidly. "Not even an elf can vanish like that!"

"Perhaps he was a ghost," Glorfindel murmured, barely amused by his joke.

He knew why Esgal had left so abruptly. The elf was upset, and did not want to lengthen the goodbye he had to say to the baby he had so quickly become attached to. Also, his fast departure stopped any questions and invitations the elves may have put forward to have "Brian" come to the Last Homely House. Glorfindel looked at the sons of Elrond, who were still wide-eyed and trembling. When Esgal revealed himself and things were not so stern, the Vanyar would definitely have to employ the assassin when planning to prank the twins. But now was not the time for that.

"Lets get back to the Last Homely House." Glorfindel said.

He positioned his warrior cloak carefully so few would notice the baby he carried, and the three elves walked quickly back to Rivendell. Elrond met them outside the door, with Erestor at his side. Both were dressed in robes, with Elrond in dark blue and Erestor in a emerald shade of green. All of the elves were beginning to glow as darkness descended over Arda, their inner light illuminating their features. Elrond welcomed his sons and friend with a smile.

"You are back— What happened?" the Elf Lord's mood changed instantly as he spotted the serious expressions on his sons' and friend's faces.

Glorfindel stepped forward, letting his cloak fall back, and handed Aragorn to the stunned Elf Lord. Elladan gave his father the Ring of Barahir, which the Half-Elf studied for half a minute. No words needed to be spoken. He knew what had occurred, and what this meant. Still, he looked up at them, needing confirmation.

"Arathorn is dead?"

"Yes." Glorfindel confirmed.

"I did not see this." Elrond confessed, staring down at the babe. "Actually, I did, but the boy was at least four, not a few-month old babe! And Gilraen, she was killed as well?"

"Yes." Elrohir echoed the Vanyar.

Elrond's expression grew increasingly grave. "In my vision, she survived. I told Arathorn of my vision but I thought they would be safe for a while yet. However, we all know visions are not always right. Still, they died so young..."

"At least Aragorn is safe," Erestor said. "The line of Kings endures."

Elrond looked at him sharply, scanning the outside world with wary, suspicious eyes. "That name is not safe, even here. We should not call him that or tell him of his heritage before he is fully grown, at least twenty years old in human years."

"Will you adopt him, Adar?" Elrohir asked.

"Of course," the Elf Lord replied without hesitation. "He is my distant nephew after all. And if Amulug or his followers have any objections—"

"I can finally kick him out of Rivendell?" Glorfindel asked hopefully.

"Perhaps," Elrond said darkly. "Aragorn has a small bit of elven blood, thanks to his heritage. That is enough for him to have a right to stay here and call Rivendell home."

"What should we call him, since his birth name is not safe?" Erestor asked, getting back to the main point.

The elves all looked at the slumbering child, so innocent and peaceful despite the horror he had experienced. His future would not be easy, and he had a destiny and burden on his shoulders few would be able to comprehend. All the elves could hope for was that he would become great, and finally unite and save the world that was slowly sinking into Shadow. He was not only the Hope of Men, but the hope of all races that created the Free Peoples of Middle-earth.

Aragorn snuffled and cooed, a tiny fist reaching up to grip Elrond's dark hair. Silver eyes opened, looking at the elf, and a bubbly giggle was Aragorn's greeting to the Lord. Elrond smiled at the babe in his arms, swooping down to kiss the tiny forehead covered by thick, dark hair. The warm love of a father holding his newborn child had risen in the Elf Lord. His paternal instincts were returning, and he found himself more at ease and hopeful than he had been in a long time.

Hope...

"We shall call him Estel." Elrond decided, and all of the elves agreed with him.

LOTRLOTRLOTR

Translation:

Estel: Hope

Mellon-nin: My friend

Adar: Father

A/N: Congratulations, Elrond! Its a boy! :P Sorry for updating late. Life got in the way.

Yeah, Legolas put on a fake "Man's" accent, which told Glorfindel he wanted to be known as "Brian the "Ranger"" not "Esgal".

Thanks for all of the awesome reviews! :D

Responses to Guest reviews:

To "Issy": Thanks!

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To "Lys": Kid Bilbo is so cute! Its great to know I wrote Gandalf so well. Thank you!

To "Emilz": Oops! Thanks for telling me. I should go fix that...

To "Water dragon": Thank you!

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