Beneath the outstretched arms of the great willow tree, Elladan, Elrohir, and Estel sat. The boy, who had long ago set sail upon the seas of slumber, had nestled his head into Elrohir's sturdy shoulder; a mess of brunette tresses spilling over the young Elflord's elaborately embroidered tunic. Both twins had passed the lethargic hours with contemplative silence. In Elladan's vibrant eyes, a sorrowful tragedy played, ceaseless and encumbering…
They had risen early that day, the call of the dawn drawing them from slumber to ride. According to Arathorn, they were nearing the southern tip of the forest of Mirkwood. Brisk winds blew from the west, giving them greater speed in their journey to Rhun.
But a speedy course proved to be a treacherous venture. Near mid-day, they were skirting the forest, fully aware of the dangers within, when the shadows of the brush produced a roving band of orcs. The air was full of feral calls and the clamor of swords to shields. For some time, the mere three of them fended off the tide.
Three fine swordsmen and time-worn travelers could have the fortune of the lucky or of the damned. Never had the idea of any of them dieing in battle crossed their minds. However, in a single instant, all their fortunes turned ill.
Without warning, an array of archers emerged from the bushes. Arrows fell from the heavens into the thinning fray.
"Arathorn!" Elladan's voice called over all else, the sound resonating in his thoughts as if he had yelled into a vast cavern. But it was too late. IN the midst of three foes, the Man turned to strike another attacker, unhearing of the warning. Brightly did his blade gleam as it sliced the dusty air.
Time became a crawl. The falling arrow, its black fletchings guiding its path, came upon the warrior, striking him with fatal force in his eyes, once so brilliant and clear. Beneath him, his legs surrendered. His hands slipped from the hilt of his sword.
Another of the line of Isildur had fallen: Arathorn was slain.
"Elladan," came Elrohir's voice from over the mass of orcs. "Elladan." It was not urgent nor strained from battle.
"Elladan!" Elrohir's hand took his brother's shoulder. "Gwenuar1, what is wrong?"
At last returned to the present, the rich night air and the fragrant flowers all about them, Elladan shook his head. "Nothing… Merely thinking…"
Elrohir could read the unrest within him, but knew better than to press for answers. More than that, he suspected he knew what it was he thought of, for his minds was not far from the same thoughts. "We should take Estel to bed before he catches cold."
"Indeed."
1Gwenuar. S. Brother.