Elrond listened to the tale of the blue-faced child with growing bile in his throat. He had lived longer on these shores of Middle-Earth than even the great Gandalf; this shouldn't have shocked him as it did. This shouldn't have, have made the insides of his stomach, that which could hold its own against even the most gruesome of sights on the battlefield or – far more impressively – even the most experimental of his daughter's concoctions, twist and turn as if it itself was suffering the violence the boy described.

Battles were no new thing, and though it alarmed both him and the Wizard that a battle of such magnitude and scope could have gone unnoticed to the world outside Dunland, it certainly wouldn't have been enough to scare them, certainly in no manner that the full tale did.

No, what truly caught the Elf and the Wizard off guard was the descriptions of the dead, the dead that in the land of the Dunlander rose from their graves and stalked the living, like so much spectres at the King's feast. Maybe it was the drawn-out descriptions of their rotting flesh, or how even when the bones in their legs grew too brittle to walk, they would crawl on the ground till they reached their quarry. Or maybe it was the tales of their screams, loud and so life like as to almost fool a mother to snatch her son's body from the pile of burning corpses.

Perhaps it was none of that, perhaps it was simply the tales of the disease, the pain and the despair that came from the child's mouth. These people had never been well liked among their fellow men, their choices of allies during war time too poor, their dislike of the Dunedin too great, and their culture too bizarre to the other men. The men of Rohan, the men of Gondor, even to the far-off men of Harad and Rhûn, these strange men of Gods that were not the Valar, not even the Wicked one, stood apart. The only culture of men – or at least the only one Elrond had heard any reports of – that retained no Numenorean influence. Not in their clothes, or their speech, or their writing – though it was highly doubtful they had any form of written word at all.

This boy was of a strange and alien people to the elves, and yet as Elrond sat there and looked into the serious grey eyes before him, his mind was pulled back to before, to before the ranger, to when the King of the Dunedin had just been Estel. Had sat before him in this room, his posture almost as bent and submissive as Calgacus Aon-adharcach's. Elrond could no longer remember why the boy had been dragged before him, most likely something to do with the twins, they were generally at the heart of all the young Dunedin's misdemeanours.

He was there now, back again, a boy with striking grey eyes looking to him, begging him to please help, please don't be mad, please make it better and what could Elrond do but say yes to eyes like those.
Reaching out he grabbed the blue hands of the boy.

'If there is any way I can help you or your people in this matter, it would be my honour Calgacus son of Leomhann.'

The boy smiled then, such a smile as had only a child of his own had ever bestowed upon him before now. Estel, Arwen, Elladan, Elrohir…Erestor. The warmth of that gratitude, that smile was almost enough, almost worth the dark scowl of reproach from the wizard.

Middle-Earth, Rivendell, Lord Elrond's Council Chambers: T.A. 3018

'I know what you would say to me Gandalf, and I shall not hear it, perhaps my heart did soften slightly for the Dunlanders, but only for the plight they suffer, not the messenger they sent.'
Gandalf tried not to smile, he really didn't care how nostalgic the elf lord was for his children's childhood, where life was viewed through the rose-tinted spy-glass of time. Yet perhaps he should have, if that misplaced nostalgia was going to affect his judgement.

'For Manwe's sake Gandalf you sat there, as unwanted as you were, you sat there beside me and heard the same tale. Do you believe the child was making it up? You, yourself have witnessed the strange forest that has grown up around that land, unhindered by the mortal passage of time. That is fact for certain, do you think the rest of the tale is nothing but lies? That all those…all those descriptions of the dead walking the earth, of plague and pestilence striking down those men who were brave enough to stand against such fiends, to be nothing more than the by-product of a twisted mind? Come now Gandalf, I thought you wiser than that?'

'Did I say I believed he lied?'

The elf stopped pacing and turned to glare at the wizard.

'Then what do you say Gandalf, that we should ignore such a plight simply because it is inconvenient?'

'I am saying to look at the bigger picture here, Master Elrond, not just your feeling of connection with the child who brought you the news.'

'And what exactly is the bigger picture here, Gandalf? Hmm? These people, this cursed land's borders are close to Rohan's.'

'An Enemy of Rohan.'

Elrond paused then, his brows furrowed, and Gandalf pressed the inevitable conclusion to the seed he had already planted within the mighty lord's mind.

'Rohan is an alley we need in this war, Dunland is not, I'm sure their plight is quite real this time, but Rohan shall not thank you for aiding a people who have caused them so much grief in the past.'
Elrond grimaced.

'No, perhaps not, but you cannot tell me your heart is as stone as the walls of my home. And say we do leave them to their fate, that we do turn our backs on the cries of these children of a strange and distant land, what then? If they cannot seek help from us, from amongst the free people of Middle-Earth, then perhaps they shall turn to our enemy.'

Gandalf sighed.

'That is a point I have feared since first I laid eyes on the lad, there is great hate and resentment toward the horse lords festered in that land and now, now there is desperation. You are right, what would such a people do when turned away from the light but to turn back to the darkness. Send a small group of soldiers if you truly feel that you must, but nothing that will attract the notice of the riders of Rohan.'

'I will speak to my sons, now I think onto a matter of other business for us. The Wizard the children arrived with, a comrade of yours from the east I believe.'

Gandalf nodded slowly as if preparing himself mentally for what was bound to come next.

'What news did he bring you that was so urgent, it would warrant such a dangerous journey?'

And so, Gandalf told him.

'A Silmaril, Gandalf?' It was hard to judge Elrond's moods on the best of days, now though the elf was completely unreadable. It was as if he had just shut down the moment Gandalf had said the word Silmaril.

'And what does your Pallando expect us to do with this information?' As he spoke Elrond rose from his elegant council chair, he had collapsed into, and strolled to the balcony. 'We have no Silmaril in front of us to use against our enemy, does he expect us to drop everything and kill ourselves searching for this gem, as too many have done before us?'

Gandalf scowled, not enjoying the tone he was being addressed in.

'I suspect Pallando does not expect us to do anything with this information, in the time I knew him he was never one for schemes and gentle manoeuvring. If he had wanted us to do something with this knowledge, he would have said it, now please do sit down again, you are giving me a headache.'

Elrond stalked back to his chair with as little grace as any elf could manage, and Gandalf continued to work through his own thought process.

'In all honesty there is nothing we can do right now, you are right in part, the ring's destruction is too important to set aside for the brief possibility of a Silmaril. Yet I do worry, the thought of one of those gems out in the world and unprotected by the earth's core; anything could happen to it.'

For a fraction of a second an awkward silence hung between the two mighty beings, and then Elrond coughed.

'Well if we're quite done with that, shall we get back down to the immediate danger. The ring must be destroyed that is apparent. Now we just have to decide who will do it before the Ringbearer wakes.'

'Yes' Gandalf sighed. 'I suppose we must.'

The twins hadn't exactly reacted favourably to being told that they were being sent to this strange, foreign land – to aid a very strange and often untrustworthy people. They wanted to stay here, in their father's house and protect the borders from the scourge of the orcs. It's what they'd done ever since their mother…since their mother had had to leave. To move on to the Grey Havens to heal from…from what the Orcs had done to her. But so enthusiastic had been his sons pursuit of the creatures, that they barely had an orc problem near the borders anymore. They avoided it like…well…like a land with a great sickness hung upon it. He'd even said as much to his two sulking boys, but they hadn't been particularly convinced.

Still he wasn't just their father, he was their lord and they knew their duty to him. They had left the following morning with a small band of maybe twenty, or twenty-five of Elrond's best warriors. He would have liked to send more, but it wasn't entirely true that the Orc problem had vanished. Plus, there was the Ring and the Ringbearer to concern themselves with – they needed the protection of his guards and his people, he was risking much just sending his boys away. Though privately he was grateful for the excuse, Gandalf had liked too much the idea of one of the twins going on the quest. Now neither of them would ever have the chance to volunteer, for they would not be in attendance.

'My lord, are you alright?'

Elrond stiffened and straightened, turning to face the councillor who had so taken him by surprise. Erestor, it was always Erestor. He moved so silently, almost as silent as a hobbit sneaking in to steal something from the kitchen. It wasn't meant to be an unflattering comparison; Elrond had been impressed by how quickly the young Took had moved when he thought he'd been caught in the act of stealing one of the pastries for the feast. Still he would never say it to Erestor's face, the young councillor was already too ready to hear criticism of himself in his lord's words, even if there was none there. It was left over from his childhood, Elrond was certain – moving silently, a fear of being reprimanded even if he tried to hide it now, in the service of Elrond Peredhel. Those of the Eldar race didn't exactly deal kindly with children born outside the marriage bed.

Elrond had not known Erestor in his early childhood, by the time the Half-Elven had returned to Gil-galad's court from one of his many journeys to try and locate his foster fathers, the young Erestor had been in his mid-fifties. Certainly not an adult of any kind, but nor was he a toddler anymore – he was a young elf, with thoughts and mind of his own. Fully aware of the nasty things that must have been said about him, and his mother all around the court of that mighty Elf King.

Elrond did not often let himself think of Erestor's mother – not because her absence pained him so terribly, as his own wife's had. They had never really loved each other – she was kind, and intelligent, and saw things more clearly than even Elrond with all his many gifts could have ever done. He'd fancied for a time that he must be in love with her, because elves weren't supposed to lay with someone who they did not love – but Hecile, who was almost a hundred years Elrond's senior, had known better than that. He did not really love her, and anyway the differences in their station – he the last Eldar son of the line of Beren and Lúthien, those noble heroes of legend, and she just a common kitchen maid. Maybe one day, if she worked hard enough, she'd even be a cook but she'd never be a lady, fair and beautiful and worthy in the eyes of the court, to marry an elf like Elrond.

She'd said as much to Elrond himself, when he'd tried to propose the day after they'd lain together. She'd laughed at him, high and almost cruel. He'd gotten angry then, demanded to know why it was such a ridiculous notion for two Noldor Elves of different stations to marry – when tales such as Beren and Lúthien's were still sung in every banquet hall yet standing. It was not the same, Hecile had explained, all the grief they had had to go through was worth it for Beren and Lúthien, because they had truly loved each other. Hecile and Elrond did not, not really – they might have liked each other, maybe even respected, but they did not love one another not as a husband and wife in the Eldar tradition should.

He'd been angry and hurt and…well, maybe that was why he had left that same day, and stayed away for so many years. Stayed away long enough to see the truth in Hecile's words, he did not love her– it was just a young elf's folly. And she was right, their marriage would have brought more heartache to them both than it would love. No, Elrond did not avoid thinking of Hecile because he so desperately missed her, but because her memory reminded him too much of the damage his absence had done for her son.

'My Lord? My Lord?'

The was the sound of clicking close to Elrond's nose, and the mighty elf lord snapped back to reality once again. And he turned to behold the oldest of the sons of Elrond, the one it would be too complicated to ever really claim, looking at him with narrowed expectant eyes. He really…he really did look so very much like Elros.

'It was nothing Erestor, nothing at all…I just worry for my sons. To face the walking dead is no danger small and frail.'

And Erestor smiled at that, a quick turning of the lips – so similar to Elros that it made Elrond want to laugh and weep, but he held himself back, for Erestor's dignity if nothing else.

'I it is, my lord. But be not afraid, Elladan and Elrohir are mighty swordsmen and besides it's only Dunland that the Dead have set their sights on. Terrible for the people who live there, but a small land not overly involved – at least anymore – in the doings of this great war we must fight against the enemy. It could always be worse, Lord Elrond, at least it isn't Rohan.'

Yes…yes, as usual Erestor was right; at least it wasn't Rohan.

***
Middle-Earth, Rohan, Edoras: T.A. 3018, February 8th

Théodred had never thought about what his death would be like before, well not in any detail. He'd had a vague notion of dying at 102 in his bed surrounded by 10 children and 20 grandchildren, or barring that falling in battle, defending his king and country. But whatever he may or may not have imagined his death to be like, it would never have been this.

He was a prince of Rohan for gods' sake, one of the last in a long line of great kings that had come before him. If he had to die young at least it should have been in a battle, even just a small one at the start of a great war would have been better than this. Oh, how they would crow at him in the history books, the mighty Théodred son of Théoden undone by a crusty piece of bread.

As his vision began to fade and the sound of his panicked father and cousins began to grow fainter and fainter, Théodred could have sworn he heard a new voice whispering in his ear. An old voice, a cold voice…or maybe that was just him, he was so very cold now.

Maedhros son of Fëanor, opened his eyes and screamed.