The Only Choice
Part One: Of Rivendell

The sun above shone onto the village. The collection of buildings seemed more like an especially sculptured piece of the forest than any city shaped by man. Threads of sunlight twisted into brilliant colours in the stone and gems that made up the buildings, and Rivendell was a captured rainbow.

Elrond gazed upon it, and saw nothing but the darkness beyond. He had recently come out of a conversation with Gandalf, the Wizard still recovering his strength, both in a physical sense and in a more intangible one. Even the Istari had traitors in their ranks, and the blow of losing Saruman to the Dark Lord was a harsh one. The White Wizard was a powerful being, and with his shift of allegiance there were suddenly too many enemies for his people to face, from too many directions.

Elrond moved to another window in the large room, this one facing west. The view was the same, but his thoughts drifted towards the sea, and what lay beyond. How easy it would be to gather the Elves and escape the shores of Middle-earth. Let Sauron take that piece of the world, and be safe in the undying lands, protected by a power much greater than his evil one. Already his people had begun the migration, almost an instinct inscribed in them. His wife had gone, leaving their children and him, who had still harboured a loyalty for the continent. He imagined rejoining her with his sons, but when he thought of his daughter, he knew his family would never again be whole.

"I know I must lose you," he whispered to himself, "but I will not abandon you to the darkness."

With new resolve he left the room. The corridors were tall and exposed to the weather. The light danced along their walls, tracing over the thin runes carved into the polished surface. He headed towards Gandalf again. The Wizard had spoken of a hope almost more terrible than having none at all, but Elrond trusted in the wisdom of his friend, in a time when trust came seldom and at high cost.

The corridor opened suddenly, structure giving way to garden. In the centre of green bushes and tiny flowers was a stone fountain of exquisite detail; however, it was the figure before it that drew his attention. Deep red hair fell onto a faded tunic which obscured her stance. She seemed not to notice his arrival, but Elrond knew better.

He approached her, but even when he stopped beside her she didn't move. He looked down to the pooled water. There he saw a vision, shifting slowly with the tiny surface ripples, of a small face with thick lips and wide eyes, as silver as the water reflecting them. He met her gaze in the natural mirror, and only then did she acknowledge him.

"You were thinking about her again," she said.

Elrond sighed and sat on the edge of the fountain. "Silglin," he said, "We were married. I loved her for a very long time."

The girl turned her head towards him. "You still do."

The Elf moved one hand in a circular gesture. "I cannot wholly separate myself from my past. That does not mean I live within it."

He raised his eyes to hers. Her face was set in an open expression, but any emotions which might have been shown through her eyes were reflected back within herself by her silver irises. Except for those, she appeared human, yet Elrond couldn't read beyond her words. Her mind was as shut to him as her eyes.

"I don't have the past. I only have now, and maybe the future. But when I think about it, all I can imagine is you." She smiled slightly. "Tell me you feel the same."

The smile made her eyes seem at once flat and deep, like sunlight on a lake. Looking into them, Elrond felt his own impossible fantasy - himself and his children, all of them, again with their mother and almost happy - slip from his mind.

"I do," he said. And it was the truth.

*

Who Silglin really was, none knew, least of all herself. She had been found in the forest near Rivendell with nothing but a torn robe, and holding the memories of only a few days before she had been found. They had thought her to be a young human girl, but almost immediately she had displayed a powerful magic. She had seemed as surprised as they to discover it. Elrond had taken it upon himself to help her discover the depth of that power.

Over the weeks, she had grown stronger and gained control over her gifts, with the Elf-lord's help. When he was with her, Elrond found the world seemed a little bit different. Millennia of memory blurred until it became something he could find comfort in, instead of only experience. It was a challenge to get to know someone when even her most powerful emotions were hidden, and especially when she didn't even know herself. But it was a challenge he was willing to face, and their new friendship became something much stronger.

She couldn't tell them her name, so the Elves called her Silglin, which means "gaze of bright silver" in their language.

*

When they entered his chamber, Gandalf was standing tall and looking intently at something only he saw. "The Nazgul are nearing," he said.

"I know," Elrond said. "I can feel it."

"As can I," Silglin added.

Gandalf frowned down at her for a moment, but his expression soon softened. He continued staring through the wall. "They pursue him of whom I told you, but I cannot find much relief in the knowledge he too is close to Rivendell. He cannot avoid them."

"I have sent out the most powerful of my people to find your small friend and his companions. They ride our swiftest horses. One of them will succeed."

"Perhaps," Gandalf said. "But for this prize the Nine would risk anything. They would chase it to Valinor had we the power to get it there." Elrond's jaw set in understanding. "Does the River Bruinen still do as you bid?"

"You know it does. But I do not usually ask so much of it. I will need your help in this, old friend."

"I offer my help as well," Silglin said. Elrond nodded solemnly in acceptance.

*

Elves do not need grand magic to perform grand miracles, they only need know how to ask. The nine Ringwraiths were the servants of the Dark Lord, who desired all of Middle-earth to be barren. It took few words, spoken softly by Elrond in a dialect few even of the Eldar knew, to convince the waters to rise against them.

Then Gandalf lifted his arms to the sky and bellowed in a different speech. His voice echoed about them, and as he spoke the water began to move and shape itself. Silglin glared at him when he was finished. "You have wasted your energy sculpting when you should have been forging. We need a weapon, not a statue of water!"

Elrond was startled at her outburst. "Much power comes from beauty in one's craft. I had thought you understood-"

"More power comes from power," she interrupted. She screamed one word, long and broken. The air became filled with a static heat, and the water of the river grew turbulent beneath the surface. Gandalf's shapes, which had begun to vaguely resemble horses, seemed skittish.

Now Gandalf frowned. "You have woven an impatient magic. I hope it is content to wait."

"It will wait."

The three walked back to the Elven-village, golden under the setting sun. There they found song and food, but Elrond partook in neither. He stared out the window facing the river, and watched the night deepen around him. Elves are most comfortable under the soft light of the stars, but as the day faded a different sort of darkness spread through the forest. It was enough that a shadow of its might crept past the invisible barriers shielding Rivendell, and the music faltered in the great hall as it touched those within. He focussed his energies on strengthening the borders of his land and gently dissipating the despair that had found a way through. The music became loud again, louder than it had been before, and he recognized the song as a lament to Elbereth: a story of those who had found victory by her guiding light.

There was a movement behind him, and he turned to find Silglin looking at him from the door. He gestured an invitation.

"I was worried," she said. "You've been avoiding everyone since this afternoon." Her lips raised into a smile. "You tend to brood when alone."

"There is much to think about," Elrond countered. He looked again to the window, and listened to the energy of the charged waters.

Silglin stepped in front of him. "We have done all that we can." He looked down at her eyes, almost glowing in the faint illumination, and felt much of his anxiety soften into a new emotion. The stirring of the river and the winding song joined into a harmony.

He glanced towards the west, but immediately his eyes were drawn back to the girl before him. "Waiting is always the hardest," he said.

Her smile deepened at his words. "Perhaps we can think of something to help us pass the time."

He came towards her then, a strange desperation in his movement, and the strains of music and energy became rhythm. When, in the morning, the water finally loosed its rage and buried the Nine under its frothing tides, it seemed an outcome of their passion.

* * * * *

Author notes: Like all fair tales of the time of the Rings, this one is doomed to end in sorrow. And yet, if you wish, I shall continue.

Perhaps little happiness can be inspired by a story bereft of hope, but my inspiration lies in your words of encouragement and criticism.

So, please leave a message after the button, and I will get back to this as soon as possible.