Disclaimer: I do not own any characters, places, ideas or anything else from Lord of the Rings. I do however lay claim on Elrond's twin daughters as Tolkien never wrote about any twin elven girls anywhere in his books. Everything else though, as much as I wish it, is not mine and belongs to the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien (a wonderful, wonderful man). Except for a 2-year-old toddler by the name of Estel (forever called tithen min by his siblings) who needs looking after.

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Rómë fought back the tears that were threatening to start falling down her cheeks. "They are dying, Elladan, and there is nothing we can do. No comfort we can five to ease their passing, nor stop the grief of those left. What is this sickness that even Elvish medicine cannot cure it?"

Her brother surveyed the tent that had been set-up slightly outside the town of Bree. Here the sick were brought, in a vain attempt to keep the deadly illness from spreading through the entire town. Brought here seeking help and healing, but all they found was death. Elrond's son smiled bitterly at the irony. Here were men who had little love for the elves, coming to them for aid, but there was no aid to give.

Elladan had wracked his memory for anything that he had heard or studied that was similar to this sickness, but he had found nothing. Even Elrond, greatest of the healers left in Middle-earth had no answer.

In the three weeks since the Elven party had arrived in Eriador, the number of sick had grown from a few dozen to hundreds. And now there were hundreds dead, and nothing could be done to stem the tide of illness. He knew they should have left already; that it was pointless to stay as it only gave the men false hope. Only three Breelanders had so far survived the illness, but they had been only mildly sick. They had recovered on their own, for certainly the medicines given them had made no difference, as it hadn't in all the others either. The Elves were doing no good, and Elladan had received a message from his father the day before, informing him it would be advisable to leave.

But Elladan had found he could not. Even if there was no cure, no help to east the sickness, at least the Elven presence seemed to calm the frantic townspeople and remind them they were not alone. Soon, however, they would have to leave.

A week before Elrohir had taken Dúnë and ridden north to the other towns. Elladan had received only one message from his brother since then. The letter had been short and bitter: They are dying and there is nothing we can do. Stark truth it was, and the realization of seeing it in writing, done so beautifully in Tengwar, had cost Arómenë her composure. Her bother was certain she had wept most of the night, rather than slept. But he could not blame her, for he wished to weep as well.

Weep for the frailty of a mortal life; the shortness of such a precious thing; how quickly it came into being and how suddenly it ended. He had once heard his father compare a mortal life to that of a candle. It started fresh and tall and strong, but as soon as it was lit, it became shorter and older, and as the years of a mortal life passed so too did a candle burn down, until there was nothing left and the flame went out. Indeed, the length of time a candle burned was equal to that of a mortal life in the eyes of the immortal Eldar. Quick and sudden; harsh and bitter; short and abrupt.

And shorter still when consumed by and unstoppable illness.

Elladan turned suddenly to his young sister and said: "We are leaving. We could not do what we came here to do. It is time for us to go."

She nodded even as the tears raced each other down her fair cheeks; and watching her, Elladan could not stop his own tears from falling.

And so that day, in the small town of Bree, a few mortals witnessed a sight that even those numbered among the Númenoreans were seldom blessed (or unblessed) to see. As the tears fell over the fair beings faces they shone like gems in the candlelight: for one brief moment it seemed to all as if the very stars themselves must be weeping for the death of man.

They left at dawn the next day, ridding north to meet the other party before they turned East for home. Five more Breelanders had died in the night.

With the wagons and horses it was nearly a week before they reached the valley. A week in which the twins watched Arómenë retreat into herself and fall into grief so deep even her sister could not reach her. The twins pushed the Elven party as fast as they dared, but even so they feared it might be too late for their young sister. Elladan nearly collapsed in relief when they crested the hill at sunset to find the lights of the Last Homely House glittering below, and their father waiting for them. He searched his sons' eyes quickly before striding forward to take his youngest from her perch in front of Dúnë. Rómë made no acknowledgement as her father wrapped her in his warm cloak and, mounting his own horse, set off at a canter for the house.

Elladan was so relieved when Elrond explained to him that his sister would be alright that he was able to sleep soundly for the first time in weeks; Elrohir curled beside him.

The following weeks and the months seemed to pass with agonizing slowness; an unknown quality to the Eldar. Every few days a new message would arrive: more dead, more sick, the illness spreading west; they became worse every time.

Elrond and his children clenched their fists and prayed to Ilúvatar to spare their descendents' race, but to no avail. The race of men was facing its end.

But as all things will, even sickness will die out on its own, sooner or later. It seemed to be later, but by the time the year was out there were few cases of the illness left anywhere west of the Misty Mountains. Though many had died, and whole towns were left nearly deserted, the race of men did not meet its end. It survived, and grew stronger, but it was hardened from the experience and ever after the villages between the mountains and the Shire showed little love for any outsiders, even the Elves who had tried so hard to aid them.