See part one for Disclaimer and all other pertinent information. I really prefer not to repeat myself. Besides, it's so depressing to admit Faramir's not mine.

Also, as different languages are brought into this, I'll indicate them as italics or bold. Where possible, I'll use Elvish.

Part One

The Present

"NOOOOOOOOOOO!"

She bolted upright, her heart pounding in her chest. A quick look around her provided some reassurance. It was 2004, and she was lying in her bedroom. In her apartment, not in the house where she grew up. She drew her knees to her chest, trying desperately to settle down. These dreams were the worst. Ordinary nightmares didn't have her bolting up into a sitting position, screaming her lungs out. But these were no ordinary nightmares. Not after ten years. . .the horror was still fresh after all this time.

Even worse, the dream was always the same. Her brother moving in front of her, the popping sound, the look on his face as she tried to break his fall. Her own rage and sorrow as he died in her arms. It was a constant, never-ending replay of the day her brother died, her brother and Flynn. She was spared the further nightmare of her brother's blame, the nightmare that he blamed her for his death. He spared her that with his dying words, though she continued to blame herself. Brody no longer blamed her, or so she heard. She hadn't seen him in years.

"You are worth it, little sister. . .I love you," Michael whispered as he choked on his own blood. She cradled his head in her lap, telling him to hold on a little longer. She would take care of him until the ambulance arrived. For so many years, he took care of her when she was ill, comforted her when she was angry or sad. Now, at the end, their roles were reversed. She gently stroked his wavy black hair, caressed his bearded cheek. Saw the light die from his blue-gray eyes.

Michael was ten years older than she, and the only father she ever knew. He was the only family she had for so many years. . .ignoring the brief, beautiful time when Michael and Allison were part of the Hurley family. The only blood relative she had was gone. Not even thirty years old, and he was dead. He told her, many times, that he would not live to see thirty. Could he see the future? Did he know what would happen to him on a glorious June afternoon?

It couldn't be. No one could see the future. No one could have seen that Michael Norman, a twenty-nine year old teacher and beloved older brother, would die during a convenience store hold up. No one could have foreseen that he would die protecting his nineteen year old sister. Well, maybe some could have seen that coming, because it was common knowledge that Michael would kill for his sister Allison. But the ones who saw that coming were in no mood to speak out in those early days.

So it came as a surprise to none that he died protecting her. Allison sighed, knowing she would get no more sleep. She grimly reflected that she could look forward to an even more hellish day at the plant than usual. The factory where she worked for the last five years was miserable enough. . .but trying to deal with the insanity that went on without any real sleep? Still, it did no good to try to force herself to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she would find herself back at that damn convenience store where two men she loved so much were murdered. And it would start all over again.

With another sigh, followed by a muffled curse (something along the lines of 'I hate that goddamn place'), Allison kicked the remaining covers away from her body and lurched from the bed. 'Lurched' was something of a misnomer. More properly, the word for her motion was 'fell.' How utterly embarrassing. She couldn't remember the last time she fell out of bed. It was while both of her parents were still alive, probably.

Not that Allison cared. She stumbled across the room to her computer and sat down, flicking on the power strip. Her computer came to life with an astonishing demonstration of lights and sounds. Allison winced at the bright lights in the dark room. She wished they had the technology in Star Trek, the kind which would allow her to turn on the lights with just a command, instead of getting up and turning on the light.

Hell, for all she knew, the technology existed, but it wasn't available to people like her. That was her mother's favorite phrase. 'That isn't meant for people like us.' Her attitude enraged Michael, Allison remembered. 'People like us' were just as good as anyone else, and her brother taught her to always hold her head high. She was just as good as anyone, and better than most. Dear, sweet Michael. She smiled in spite of the lingering tears caused by the dream.

The system finished booting up, and Allison signed onto the internet. What did she do before the internet came about, when she couldn't sleep? Well, yes, even before the internet, she would turn on the computer. Play some video games. Michael loved Pac-Man and Hunt the Wumpus, and half a dozen other games from the early eighties. And Allison's adoration of her brother led her to those same ancient video games after his death. It was a connection to him.

Allison checked her email first, groaning at the spam which built up after only five hours. As she deleted said spam, an IM window opened, and 'hihihi' was visible. Allison raised her brows, then sighed when she saw who IMMed her. Not him again. Well, she should have expected this. He didn't take her seriously about anything else, why would she expect him to take her seriously when she told him to leave her alone?

There was only one thing left to do. Not something she liked doing, but there it was. She closed the window and went to her set-up box to block his IM's. He seriously annoyed her, with his obnoxious cheeriness, his patronizing attitude, and his insistence that he knew what was best for her. The last was most obnoxious because he never even met her. Just talked to her maybe three times. Assumed that he knew everything about her, just by her screen-name and the profile she created for her online persona. This was her own personality, of course. But no one in her online circle knew her real name.

Maybe she was being bitchy, but what she needed, more than anything else, was a good night sleep during the anniversary week of her brother's death. That wouldn't happen, because she was still mourning him. Or so her therapist said when Allison called off their sessions. She called those sessions off because they weren't helping her. Two years after her brother's death, she was still having nightmares about that godawful day on a weekly basis. Those two years of therapy didn't help. She wasn't sure if it was because her therapist was incompetent or if it was because the therapist was right, and Allison didn't want to be helped.

Allison was leaning toward the former explanation, especially during the last few years. Three years earlier, the therapist lost her license. Allison didn't hear the entire story. . .just learned enough to discover that her instincts were correct. Apparently, the woman had a syndrome known as Munchenhausen's by proxy. In parents, it involved harming the child in some way to garner sympathy for themselves.

In therapists, it manifested itself in a very different way. The therapist undermined the well-being of her patients, to keep them coming back to her. She undermined them, to make her patients need her more. When she heard that, Allison wondered briefly if her nightly dreams about Michael were a warning. . .her older brother still trying to protect her, even after his death. It wasn't long after that Allison's dreams about her brother changed to yearly.

Allison made her way through the email. . .picking and choosing what she would keep and what she would delete. She asked Wendy, Michael's girlfriend, once if she thought the therapist was right, about her mourning for Michael. Wendy answered thoughtfully that she was right, and she was wrong. Allison would never stop mourning for her brother. She loved Michael, and Michael loved her. That was to be expected. In that way, the therapist was right.

But she was wrong, when the dreams were caused by Allison's mourning. Of course she had dreams about that godawful day. Two people she loved died that day, and it traumatized her. Wendy blamed herself for recommending that idiot as a therapist, and offered to find someone better, but Allison was determined to make it the rest of the way through this without help. She felt as though she failed Michael all over again.

A new box opened up, and to her relief, Allison discovered it was from a friend. She didn't know his real name, of course. He went by 'Undercover Elf,' and called her 'little pixie.' Allison didn't look anything like a pixie, but she didn't correct him. He said now, 'is the mindless one giving you a hard time, little pixie?' Allison chuckled as she hit the 'respond' key and chewed her lower lip thoughtfully.

'Since when isn't he? I finally put him in my blocked list. . .and don't say it. I know you're gonna say it, so just don't tell me that you told me so,' Allison responded. She paused, then typed, 'Hey Elf-boy. . .need to run something past you.' She rolled her shoulders to release some tension, and giving her friend enough time to send a smiley. That was Elf-code for 'go ahead,' and Allison typed, 'You know this is the anniversary week of my brother's death. Do you think it's weird that even after ten years, I still dream about that day?' On the other hand, why did she need a therapist when she had her Undercover Elf?

'I would find it much stranger if you did not, Pixie. You've told me in the past that your brother was murdered in front of you. . .you were nineteen years old, and home from college that weekend. You were traumatized, by his death and the death of your friend Flynn. No, I find it not at all strange. He was your only family after your mother's death, yes?' Elf asked. There was a pause, then he added, 'And how many times must I tell you not to call me that?'

Allison laughed aloud, surprising herself at the same time. This was why she needed to be online. This was why she got up in the middle of the night when she couldn't sleep. She typed back with a winky-face, 'Oh, but it's so much fun to irritate you, Elf-boy! Besides, you would worry about me if I didn't tease you.' Her friend responded with a 'hahahah.' Allison grinned, sitting back in her chair. She needed this. She needed to talk to Elf-boy. After a moment, she continued, 'And thanks. I know that in my heart, but ever so often, I need to be reminded by someone else. I don't trust my own instincts at times.'

'Now that, my dear Pixie, is the greatest mistake you could make. You have those instincts for a reason. That little voice which guides you. Is it your voice, is it your brother's? Does it really matter? Not at all. The only thing which does matter is that you listen to that voice, and heed its warnings,' was Elf-boy's response. By this time, Allison came to the conclusion that English was Elf-boy's second language, judging from the formality of his grammar. There was another pause, then Elf-boy added, 'And Pix, you are quite correct. I would be most concerned for you if you did not tease me.'

Allison grinned and leaned forward, typing, 'Aww, I love you, too, Elf-boy.' This time, her friend responded with a virtual raspberry, and Allison threw herself back in her chair, laughing hysterically. Elf-boy could always do this for her, if nothing else. He probably wasn't a boy. Based on his reactions to things, she guessed that he was about her brother's age. . .or, at least, what her brother's age would have been, if he survived. Late thirties, early forties.

And yet, he had a playful streak. He could make her laugh, even when she was in a bad mood. On a whim, Allison typed, 'Just outta curiosity, Elf-boy, what do you look like?' She asked the question before, in the three years they were corresponding. He never answered her, though she told him what she looked like. A drab little woman with brown hair and hazel eyes. A little sparrow. Small and thin. Nothing special. Certainly not beautiful.

But that didn't matter when she was talking to Elf-boy. He liked her because he thought her smart and funny. In some ways, it was the perfect relationship. Such was the power of the internet. He typed back, 'Why does it matter what I look like, Pixie? Or is it mere, idle curiosity which drives these questions about my appearance?' Another pause, then a pair of waggling eyebrows appearing in the box. Allison laughed again.

She answered, 'Just idle curiosity. It doesn't really matter, Elf-boy. You could be breathtakingly handsome or look like a troll. That's the beauty of the internet. It just doesn't matter.' She paused, then added, 'Hey, it doesn't matter to you that I look like a sparrow. Why should it matter to me what you look like? It's just a. . .a reference point for me. Unless, of course, you'd like me to draw my own conclusions?'

'Brat! All right, Miss Pixie. . .what do you think I look like? No cheating. . .just your own instincts,' was Elf-boy's response. Allison raised her eyebrows. Just her own instincts, huh? Elf-boy might just regret saying that! Michael taught Allison to use her instincts. He also taught her to use her imagination. If Michael had any flaws, it was his belief that she was worth dying for. Flynn was worth dying for. . .he had dreams. He wanted to be a doctor. Brody was worth dying for. She was nothing. Nothing but Michael's sister, and that was enough.

Allison closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. She focused on the formality of Elf-boy's language, and his mischievous streak. Yes, he spoke formally, but never asked how Americans said things. He actually used American slang when it suited him. All right, forget about his speech patterns. Clear your mind of everything. A picture appeared in her head, and she typed in, 'About forty or so. Brown hair. . .or at least, dark hair. Dark eyes.'

She waited for several moments, then Elf-boy responded, 'My apologies, dear Pixie, but I am MUCH older than forty. I am flattered that you thought so, however. I do, indeed, have dark hair.' Allison shrugged. Hey, she never claimed to be perfect. Elf-boy continued after a moment, 'And Pixie, you should not think yourself lacking in some way. You are not the first person to underestimate my age. Nor will you be the last.'

Allison scowled at the monitor, then leaned forward, her fingers flying across the keyboard. She typed, 'Dammit, I hate it when you do that! Can you read my mind or something?' She sat back once more, almost pouting in her frustration, never mind that it was inappropriate behavior for a woman of twenty-nine. That was exactly what she was thinking, before Elf-boy had to pipe up with that addition about other people underestimating his age.

'Not at all, my dear girl. However, I do know you. You have extremely high standards, Pixie, standards which I sometimes consider impossibly high. You do what you can, little Pixie, do your best. I can tell you, my young friend, that your best is better than you think it is. It may not be good enough for you, but then, you would not be human if you attained the standards you set for yourself,' Elf-boy replied.

Allison chewed her lower lip thoughtfully, then typed, 'You know, you sound just like my brother Michael. He always said that it was good enough. . .my best was good enough, because I try. In fact, he also told me that sometimes I try too hard. But I don't get that. How is it possible to try too hard to do your best?' She was painfully aware that the question was more suited to a teenaged girl than a woman approaching thirty.

But. . .in some ways, she was still nineteen years old, still frozen at the age she was when she lost Michael and Flynn. Better yet, where Michael was concerned, she would always be nineteen years old. Though some of the guilt for Flynn's death dissipated with time and maturity, the same wasn't true of Michael's death. And it was only in the last year that she started responding to Brody's tentative attempts at reconciliation. She would always think there was something more she could have done to save her brother, if not her childhood friend. Michael did so much for her. . .why was it impossible for her to aid him, for once? Why was it impossible for her to save him?

Elf-boy responded now, 'Your brother, as I have said in the past, was a wise man, Pixie. And in answer to your other question, consider this. You are painting a wall, and find yourself leaning over the edge of your scaffolding. The railing which is there to protect you is pressing into your ribs, and still you lean out, trying to accomplish a little more from your limited space. Sooner or later, little one, you will overreach. . .and the fall to the ground is a long one.'

Allison read the message, then muttered a few imprecations under her breath. She hated it when he did things like that. When he wasn't reading her mind (or seeming to), he was coming up with analogies which made perfect sense. No one she knew came up with perfect analogies. Not even Michael could do that. Still, Allison knew she should be gracious, as she was taught. She typed, 'Thanks. That made sense, frighteningly so.' She paused, yawning, then said, 'And if you'll excuse me, Elf-boy, I do need to get some sleep. Hopefully, I'll sleep without dreaming.'

'Before you sign off, let me ask you this. If you could have anything in the world you wanted, what is the wish you would make? And please, do not make it anything obvious like 'world peace.' I am asking as a friend, not as a judge for a Miss America pageant,' Elf-boy requested. Allison frowned, chewing on her lower lip thoughtfully. As if hearing what she was thinking, her friend added, 'First instinct only, Pixie.'

'Damn you, Elf-boy,' she typed without any real heat. She was rewarded with a smiley-face, and Allison laughed. After a moment, she typed, 'I. . .I want a second chance. A second chance with Michael. If I can't save him, then I want to tell him how much he means to me, how important he was to me for the years we had together.' She hit 'send,' and sat back in her chair, sighing. Now she was really getting tired.

Undercover Elf's cryptic answer was, 'Sometimes, our second chances come where we least expect them, little one. Enough deep conversations. Go to sleep, sweet Pixie." Allison was on the point of saying good-bye, when a flash of lightning lit up outside her window. Confused, for there was no thunder or rain, Allison reached for the off-button. However, there was a second flash, her computer seemed to explode. . .and everything went black.

. . .

Lady Arwen, daughter of Elrond, was trying to focus on her embroidery, but her mind was wandering. Something was about to happen. She overheard her father talking with Mithrandir about the One Ring, and about Estel a few weeks earlier. The One Ring was found, and Estel, as usual, was right in the thick of things. Of course. She rarely saw him during the last year. . .he was away, tracking Gollum, for much of the year, then taking the former Stoor to the Mirkwood Elves.

It was bad enough, that her father was putting pressure on her to leave with him, to leave Estel, and take the ship to the Undying Lands. To join him in Valinor, with her mother. She missed her mother, and she didn't want to leave her father. . .but nor did she wish to be separated from Estel. She loved Estel, why could her father not understand that? Arwen shook her head once more and returned her attention to her stitching.

At least, she tried to do so. However, Arwen was distracted by a flash, a scream, then a sickening thud. The Elven Lady stabbed herself with her needle, threw down her embroidery, then ran out to investigate. She gasped at the sight under her window. There was a human there, though Arwen could not tell if it was male or female through the curtain of dark hair. She knelt beside the figure, gently pushing the dark hair away, and discovered the stranger was a woman. A young woman, perhaps five and twenty years of age as Humans counted them.

And she was alive. . .unconscious, but alive. Very carefully, Arwen rolled the girl onto her back and winced. She had a broken arm, possibly some broken ribs. The Lady whom her kin called Evenstar scooped the unconscious stranger into her arms cautiously, not wanting to hurt her further, and carried her inside. She wasn't the only one who noticed the sudden bright light, or the scream, because her father met her at the door.

"I have her, Father," Arwen said when Elrond tried to take the girl from her arms. The Elven Lord inclined his head and moved to one side, allowing Arwen to carry the girl into her room. The strange girl was gently placed onto the bed, her face turning to one side. Her face was unmarked, but Arwen was more concerned with internal damage. The girl whimpered as Arwen's father began examining her, and Arwen gently caressed the dark hair, murmuring in Elvish, "Tis all right, little one, you are safe."

Her father set the girl's arm, murmuring, "This girl is Human, but her clothes look most strange." Arwen nodded. She was attired in loose-fitting trousers and a strange top which bared her shoulders. . .and she was shivering. Arwen caressed her hair again, murmuring in a soothing voice to her. She knew not if the child could hear her, but the sound of her voice didn't frighten her. Elrond continued, "And there is a strange mark here." He indicated something that looked like a burn mark on her forehead. Something Arwen missed earlier.

"Perhaps it was from the bright light. Father, do you have any idea how this girl got here?" Arwen asked as her father finished bandaging the injured arm. Elrond shook his head absently as he checked over the rest of her body. The girl moaned outright when he reached her ribs and this time, Arwen took her hand. The girl clung to her, whimpering a name. Arwen listened intently. . .'mi-kal?'

"I do not, Arwen. Nor do I know from whence she came, alas. I hear her murmuring, and her language is not known to me. It is not any form of Elvish. . .nor is it Westron. Her life is not in immediate danger, and I require more bandages. Do you wish to stay here with her?" her father asked, and Arwen nodded, not even thinking about it. Her father lay a hesitant hand on her shoulder and Arwen looked up at him, then the Lord of Rivendell left the room. Arwen returned her attention to their unexpected guest, who fell silent once more.

"Who are you, child? Why have you been sent here?" the elven beauty asked softly. She wasn't truly a child, not by the standards at least of Humans, but she was very young nonetheless. Especially to an elven Lady of nearly three thousand years. Her eyelids slid open briefly, revealing muddy green eyes, then they closed once more. Arwen murmured, "Be not afraid, little one. No harm will come to you here." At least, not for now. However, the time of the Elves was coming to an end, and Arwen knew this girl could not stay here.

Her father returned, and Arwen asked, "When is Mithrandir expected back, Ada? I heard something mentioned. . ." Her father looked at her, and Arwen fell silent. Something was very wrong. She did not dare speak of the One Ring, it was far too dangerous. Arwen's instincts were telling her that her father's reaction had something to do with the One Ring. Danger was fast approaching. She could expect more pressure from her father regarding Estel. However, for now, all she said was, "Do you think you can help her, Ada?"

"I am less concerned with her physical well-being than I am with how she arrived here, and how we will communicate with her as she begins to heal. As I said, she has no life-threatening injuries. But I can only imagine her confusion and fear when she awakens and cannot speak with us. She does not have the look of the Easterlings, or anyone under the sway of Mordor," Elrond answered.

Arwen looked up quickly at that, and she asked, "So you were concerned she might be a threat to us? I saw a flash of light, Ada, and heard naught but a scream. I do not think she is a servant of the Dark Lord." From her father's expression, she could tell that he was inclined to agree with her. The girl moaned and this time, her eyes opened fully. Arwen smiled down at her reassuringly, saying in Westron, "Do not be afraid."

She knew the child could not understand her. Her father already told her that was the case. But Arwen well knew, whether one spoke to a child who did not understand or a frightened animal, the tone was far more important than the words spoken. The child stared up at her, her eyes wide with fear and perhaps the beginning of trust. Arwen gentled her smile further, adding, as she placed her hand against her chest, "Arwen."

At first, she wasn't certain the girl understood, then her hand tightened around Arwen's, and she repeated with a tiny nod, "Arwen." The elf nodded with a broad smile. Yes, exactly right! The girl said next, tugging Arwen's hand toward her, "Allison." Allison. Her name was Allison, then. What a passing strange name, but she could hardly expect this Human child to have an elven name, though she did look like she was of Gondor. Rohan, not as likely. Rohirrim tended to have light hair, rather than dark.

Arwen said with a smile, nodding to her unexpected guest, "Allison." The girl's smile could have lit up the night sky with its warmth and relief. It was a start. They knew her name now. Arwen said next, indicating her father, "Elrond." She debated briefly about the wisdom in trying to explain that Elrond was her father. After a moment, she thought better of her impulse. There was no sense in further confusing the poor child. The Lord of Rivendell inclined his head to the young girl with a grave smile.

The girl repeated, "Elrond." She sighed very quietly, then sank against the pillows once more, relaxing. Arwen's heart twisted at the girl's obvious exhaustion. Poor child. She had no idea how she would react in the girl's position. Allison was obviously confused and frightened, and rightfully so. Arwen knew not of the girl's time, but up until the girl's arrival, there was no thunderstorm outside. . .her journey here must have been terrifying.

"I will check on her later," Arwen's father whispered and she nodded. He slipped from the room and Arwen lay on her side, facing her new guest. The eyes flittered open once more, and the uninjured arm moved toward Arwen. The Evenstar didn't move, and the palm of Allison's hand settled lightly against Arwen's cheek. Arwen covered Allison's hand with her own, smiling softly at this need for contact, for connection, as the child drifted off to sleep.

. . .

Galadriel had the right of it. Change was coming. Seventeen years earlier, Mithrandir began to suspect that the One Ring was in the Shire. To that end, he journeyed to Minas Tirith, and asked permission to enter the archives. The permission was given, begrudgingly, by the Steward of Gondor, Denethor. So Mithrandir told Elrond. What he did not tell him was whether or not the Steward willingly gave his young son Faramir permission to aid the wizard in his research. He did, however, tell him that the eighteen year old was an invaluable help.

High praise indeed, coming from Elrond's old friend. The Lord of Rivendell noticed that Mithrandir had a habit of collecting strays, of adopting certain folk who were close to his heart. Elrond's own foster son, Aragorn, was one such beloved child. No doubt, Denethor's younger son Faramir was another of those beloved children. Mithrandir had no children, save the children of his heart.

And now, Mithrandir was missing. For the last seventeen years, the Hobbit Bilbo Baggins lived in Rivendell, among the Elves who were his friends. Mithrandir was missing, and it was the fear of many Elves that the current guardian of the One Ring was in mortal danger. And now, there were mysterious lightning storms. Such storms were not common in Imladris, but even more odd, it brought a most unexpected visitor.

Like his daughter, Elrond realized immediately that the newcomer was human. A very strange human at that. He could not question her. She spoke no Westron, he realized quickly, nor Elven of any kind. It might be possible for Mithrandir to question her without words, or Lady Galadriel, his mother-in-law. But not Elrond. He was a healer, and while he had the gift. . . sometimes the curse. . .of foresight. He could not read the hearts or minds of others.

As Arwen settled beside the sleeping girl, Elrond reviewed what little he knew of her and her arrival in his domain. Based on what he knew from his human relatives, including his twin brother Elros, she seemed to be in her twenties. They often seemed so young to him, though he was half-Human himself. Her coloring was reminiscent of the men and women of Gondor, who were dark-haired and dark-eyed.

And yet, this unexpected young guest spoke no Westron. She spoke not the language of the Horse-Lords, the Rohirrim. Indeed, she showed no comprehension of any language Elrond ever heard. Her name, Allison, was unusual. It was not a name common to the Rohirrim or to Gondor. Those of Gondor had their fair share of Elven names. No, Elrond never heard such a name before. And then there was the matter of her clothes. Never had he seen such clothes, in all his seven thousand years. Those strange trousers, and the even more strange tunic that left her shoulders bare.

Could she be an omen, a harbinger of things to come? It was possible. . .indeed, nearly anything was possible. He simply didn't see what sort of omen. . .his foresight was not triggered by this child. Which meant either that she was not here to cause additional concern to the Lord of Imladris. . .or whatever trouble she caused was of minimal importance. Was her appearance connected with the one Ring? Possible, but he did not believe so.

And perhaps he was foolish for worrying so, but these were perilous times. Even as he tried to convince his daughter to leave Middle-earth, and journey to Valinor, she resisted him. It was a difficult thing, to work against one whom he loved dearly as a son. But he was ever against the relationship between his foster son and his daughter. Arwen was an immortal. No parent wished to outlive their child. For any reason.

This was the fate which Elrond was facing. He would lose his son Estel. There was no way around it. There was a strong possibility that he would lose his sons Elrohir and Elladan. Elrond could not lose his daughter as well. He could not. The Lord of Rivendell sighed and rested his temples in his head. His concerns about Arwen and Estel brought him right back to the child who arrived tonight.

Perhaps when Mithrandir arrived. . .if he was still alive. . .he could tell Elrond more about the child. Too many other things demanded his attention. Slowly, Elrond rose to his feet and walked outside. There was no more lightning, which made him uneasy. However, he walked to Gilraen's tomb. Many decades passed since Arathorn's young widow arrived in Rivendell with her son, two year old Aragorn. He ran his fingers lightly over the effigy of Gilraen's face, whispering, "I did my best, my lady."

Gilraen said nothing. She never did, and Elrond knew better than to expect comfort from the dead. Little such comfort and hope was found from the living. He was not happy about the rift between himself and Estel. No father was ever pleased about an ever-growing abyss between himself and his child. Indeed, there were times when Elrond felt he was being forced to choose between his two youngest children. If only Estel and Arwen never met. If only they never fell in love. If only his baby girl was not so determined to throw away her immortality.

Only if Aragorn accepted the crowns of Gondor and Anor would Elrond permit the marriage between his foster son and his daughter. Only then. But with the One Ring surfacing once more, war would soon be upon this land once more. Aragorn would fight in that war. He was a soldier, a Ranger, a chieftain of the Dunedain. There was a good chance that his youngest son would die.

A small piece of Elrond's heart died at the thought of Estel's death. He watched his foster son grow from a small scrap of humanity, with huge eyes, to a strong young man. And he laughed as his twin sons, Elrohir and Elladan, involved their 'little brother' in one scrap of mischief after another. He loved his youngest son. . .truly he did. There were times when his throat closed over, at the idea of Estel no longer among the living.

It tore his heart out. How, then, could he accept losing Arwen to the same fate? How could he accept that his beautiful, gentle, stubborn little girl would diminish to nothing after her beloved died? Elves mated for life. When they gave their hearts, it was forever. There were no half-measures with the love of Elvenkind. It was all or nothing, and most Men were unable to comprehend that. Their life spans were so short. . .and such passion frightened them.

It was not simply the Elvenkind who frightened Men in that respect. They feared such passion in their own kind. It threatened to consume them. And yet, there remained mortals who continued to exhibit such passion, never mind the possibility that they would be consumed in their own fire. Elrond had no illusions about the strength of men. Three thousand years earlier, after defeating Sauron, Isildur kept the One Ring for himself, instead of destroying it.

There was a chance that day, to put an end to Sauron once and for all. There was a chance that day to ensure that Isildur's Heirs, and Elrond's own heirs, would never find it necessary to fight the Dark Lord. . .ever. But Isildur kept the One Ring for himself, and in time, the One Ring betrayed him to his death. Elrond held absolutely no illusions about the coming fight with Sauron. And a fight there would be.

Elrond did not wish to see this land, this world, destroyed. The elves could not fight Sauron. He had little faith in men. There was little hope, regardless of what Mithrandir said. Elrond's musings and stroll brought him back to his daughter's bedroom. Arwen lay beside their unexpected guest, the child's head resting against Arwen's bosom. His daughter was stroking young Allison's hair, softly humming to her. Arwen never even noticed him standing there.

Elrond smiled to himself, recognizing the melody. Celebrian often sang that to the children when they were small. He knew his daughter missed her mother. They all did, though they also understood why Celebrian sailed to Valinor. The Elven Lord wondered briefly if this child had family. . .parents who were worried for her, brothers or sisters who protected her, even as they tormented her.

He watched a moment longer, then walked away quietly. They had no idea when the child would awaken, and Elrond had no doubt that she would be hungry. Assuming, of course, that she was able to eat anything. A rather large assumption, but Elrond preferred to err on the side of caution. Yes, he mused, yes, let us operate under the assumption that this child eats like a Hobbit. He learned a great deal about the many meals of a hobbit during the last seventeen years, courtesy of Bilbo Baggins. In fact, that was rather a good idea. Bilbo knew quite a few things about being lost in a land not his own.

. . .

In the early twenty-first century, a tall, blond-haired man was carefully letting himself into the apartment building. It was eleven thirty in the morning, and Detective First Class Broderick Hurley was called in on a missing person's case. Generally, the police had to wait at least twenty-four hours before they began searching for a missing adult. However, since Detective Hurley knew the missing person in question, he was conducting his own investigation.

Two hours earlier, as Brody was filling out paperwork, he received a phone call from Delia Conover. Normally, he didn't take calls from her. Logically and rationally, Brody knew Delia wasn't responsible for her husband's actions. But logic and rationality had nothing to do with the way Brody Hurley felt about Saul Conover. That bastard murdered his baby brother and his best friend. Brody would never forgive him for that.

Just as he would never forgive himself for his own behavior after Flynn's murder. So lost was he in his own grief, he failed to recognize the warning signs in his father. So lost was he in his own grief that he lashed out at the person who deserved it the least. Brody knew that Allison loved Flynn just as much as he did. He knew she felt guilty about the murder of their brothers. And he knew none of it was her fault.

And yet, he lashed out at her anyhow. Because she did feel guilty, because he was hurting, because. . .because he was a selfish bastard who forgot that he wasn't the only one grieving. Because of his selfishness, his father was dead. . .and the girl whom Brody once called 'sister' was missing. Brody turned in a circle, looking around at Allison's apartment. It held very little of the girl he once called 'sister.'

But the joy went out of Allison ten years earlier, and that bitch whom Wendy recommended to Allison only made things worse. Brody was taught to never strike a woman, but that therapist sorely tried his patience. Especially when he learned that she was deliberately undermining the well-being of her patients, just to make herself feel needed. Brody was a protector by nature. That was what he did. That was whom he was. And people like that therapist brought out the protector in him more quickly than anything else. . .save the mental image of his dead brother.

There were times when he thought he was always a protector, in one form or another. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about reincarnation, though he admitted that after Flynn was murdered, it was something he wanted to believe in. Was it possible that he lived past lives? Was it possible that after he died, that he would live again? Brody admitted that he wanted to believe that. It was a comforting thought.

But reincarnation was the last thing on his mind right now. Right now, he wanted to know where Allison Norman was, and how she left. She never arrived at work this morning, and that, by itself, was reason enough to worry. She hated her job. Even without his old relationship in place with her, Brody knew how much she hated her job. But Allison, even without the light in her eyes, would never simply. . . not go in.

She was far too responsible for that, and it went against her own personal code. Once, many years earlier, before the death of their brothers, Brody told her that she was an honorable person, because she didn't believe in shirking her duties. Allison, he recalled, simply laughed. As if she thought it was a great joke. He loved the kid, the gods knew that. . .but there were times when he could have happily shook her until her teeth rattled. And then some.

"Find anything, buddy?" Robin Edmunds asked softly, entering the apartment after Brody. The elder cop looked over his shoulder at his partner. They were partners for more than ten years, he and Robin. They might have been brothers-in-law, and that would have made Brody very happy. Even as this crossed his mind, his eyes settled on an old photograph. Swallowing hard, Brody picked up the framed picture, one of the few touches of Allison's personality in this entire place.

The picture was taken by his father, more than fifteen years earlier. In spite of his obvious pride in Brody's athletic prowess, Devin had another passion, aside from being a cop and sports. . . photography. Brody smiled, remembering. It was about six months after the Hurley men arrived in River's Dale, and that same year, he and Flynn bought their father a camera with a telephoto lens for his birthday.

As Devin Hurley grew more comfortable with the Norman siblings, he took the children, all four of them, out to the river late in the summer. Brody and Michael talked while sixteen year old Flynn and thirteen year old Allison played in the water. At one point, Flynn talked the shy younger teenager into swinging on the tire hanging from the tree with him. Devin, laughing with delight, snapped a picture of the giggling teenagers.

Robin came to his side, smiling faintly as he looked at the picture. Gods, they looked so young. Flynn's red hair was a little longer that summer, and it was curling slightly. Those curls drove his little brother insane. . .absolutely insane. Robin said in the silence, "My sister always envied her, you know. It wasn't just jealousy. She actually envied Allison because of her history with Flynn. Even though you two looked upon her like a sister, Ava envied her. I tried to tell her that their friendship, between Flynn and Allison, didn't make Flynn love her any less. She couldn't accept that, and I told her that if it was any consolation, Allison didn't entirely trust her. She actually laughed and said it did make her feel better."

Startled by this revelation, Brody looked at his friend. Robin grinned at him, adding, "What, you thought you were the only one who knew? Don't be ridiculous, Brody. Allison was absolutely over the moon for Flynn. It didn't take much in the way of intelligence to figure out why. She was in love with Flynn, Ava switched her affections rather quickly from Allison's brother to yours. . .and our Allie Kat has always been a protector."

Brody grunted as he settled the photograph in place, unable to look at his brother for more than a few minutes. After a moment, he replied, "Allie doesn't seem to understand that. She's never forgiven herself for 'letting' Michael and Flynn die. I know, part of that is my fault. I should have never told her that she should have died in Flynn's place. But. . .gods, Rob! Why can't she accept that she was just a nineteen year old kid who was helpless?"

"Because she's been helpless for too much of her life, old friend," was Rob's surprisingly insightful answer. Brody looked at his partner quickly, and Robin picked up the photograph Brody just set down, explaining, "She was helpless to keep her father from leaving when she was seven. She was helpless to keep her mother's spirit with them. She was helpless when her brother and the boy she loved died. I think she was sick and tired of being helpless."

The scary part of that was, Brody actually understood what his partner just said, convoluted as it was. And it never occurred to him, any of what Robin just said. He shook his head, murmuring, "She's like my little sister, Rob, and I don't think I know her at all. Not any more, and maybe I never did. Because if you're right, this has been going on a lot longer than just the last ten years. This has been going on since she was seven."

"Allie is a lot like Flynn was. She's always been very proud, and she lets people see what she wants them to see. And only what she wants them to see. Look at this place, Brody. Does it really look like she was taken here without her consent? There are no signs of a struggle, nothing to indicate that she was taken. Even if she went quietly, there would be signs of a struggle," Robin pointed out.

"Two things wrong with that, Rob," Brody answered, and ticked off both reasons on his fingers, "first, she never reported to work this morning. And two, her car is still out in front." He paused, then added, "All right, there are more than just two things wrong with it. Still, the simple fact is, Allie is not here. She never showed up for work, never called in, her car is still sitting out front, and not even the evil trinity knew she was planning something."

The evil trinity, of course, was comprised of Wendy, Delia, and Ava. Again, Delia's inclusion into the little club made him more than a little nervous. It wasn't her fault that she married that loser when she was barely in her twenties. Her husband killed his brother, not Delia herself. But he would never feel comfortable with her. Still, he would have never forgiven himself if he disregarded her concern and his own instincts. Delia's phone call got Brody concerned about Allison. Wendy's obvious fear made him uneasy, and Ava's outright panic had Brody starting the investigation. Robin looked away, for he knew this, just as well as Brody did. For all the envy and distrust between them at one time, Allison came to mean a great deal to Robin's sister, simply because she was a connection to Flynn.

Neither Wendy nor Ava were given to fear or hysteria. Indeed, Wendy was one of the most sensible women he ever knew. Yes, she was overly protective of Allison. . .for the same reason Ava was. Allison was all she had left of Michael. She could have done what Brody did after the death of his brother, and blamed Allison for being alive. But she didn't. Instead, she took that grief and turned into a different kind of weapon. One to protect the badly traumatized college student. It was Wendy who fussed at Allie in the weeks after the shooting, who made sure she ate, and who helped her to make funeral arrangements for Michael's death.

Robin interrupted his thoughts, asking softly, "So what do you want to do about this, partner?" Brody didn't answer, not immediately. He still hadn't checked his little sister's bedroom. But his gut told him that Allison wasn't here. That she was taken far away. And though he would never give up trying, he had the sensation in his gut that he wouldn't be able to find her. How he knew this, he didn't know. It was just. . .there.

At last, he said quietly, "We'll check the bedroom next, make sure all of her clothes are there. Eliminate all the possibilities. . .the plausible ones at least." He looked at his partner, adding softly, "I just hope she's okay. . .wherever she is, and that she'll come back to us. As the real Allie, the one I've missed so much." Robin put his hand on his shoulder, then Brody sighed, "C'mon. We have work to do."