"So he'll wake in a day?"

Elrond looked down at the small body lying on the bed and nodded. "Yes. The Black Breath and Morgul wound has been healed, and his body is just recovering from the burden of bearing the remnants of dark sorcery. Frodo will be up by morning."

Bilbo sat down, visibly relieved. "Thank you Master Elrond, and you too, Master Reviauron. I do wish that we've met in better circumstances, but as it is, I am very glad you were there."

The aged hobbit turned to face the bed, his eyes softening. "My poor lad," he breathed, gently brushing Frodo's dark hair from his face. The shadows that had been constantly present in Frodo's face had vanished, and the hobbit looked remarkably peaceful on the bed.

Harry and Elrond shared a look and retreated from the room. Once the door had been quietly shut behind them, Elrond spoke.

"It is good to have you back in Imladris, my friend. You have already met my foster-son–"

"Really?" Harry whipped his head around. "Who and when?"

Elrond raised an eyebrow. "Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Estel."

A blank look.

"The Dúnadan you travelled with," Elrond said, mild exasperation laced in his tone.

Harry stared at him. "He's Arathorn's son?"

Were elves less dignified, Harry was sure Elrond would have made some fascinating expressions. As it was, the elf settled for a sigh. "Yes really, Reviauron. Did Glorfindel not tell you?"

"No." Harry said slowly, some pieces falling into places. Glorfindel had strictly referred to Thorongil-Aragorn as "Dúnadan" the entire length of their journey, and even the Ranger had seemed a little confused by it. There would be words when they meet again. "I only knew Aragorn as Thorongil, and the hobbits just called him Strider."

Elrond tilted his head to a side. "Thorongil… Gondor?"

Harry nodded, about to speak, then turned around to see Lindir hurrying past them, an aura of abject agitation about him. The feeling was so strong that both wizard and Elf-lord paused to watch him disappear down the corridor, intrigued. There was only one thing that could cause that expression of grim anticipation on Lindir, so Harry turned to Elrond, an eyebrow raised. "Dwarves?"

Elrond heaved a sigh. "Later this afternoon or the next."

Ah. Harry looked back sympathetically. Lindir never fully recovered from the Dwarvish Incident seventy years ago, so having more dwarves (behavioural problems included) in Rivendell must be rather distressing.

The two of them continued walking, their previous conversation dropped in favour of companionable silence. Elrond seemed to have some destination in mind, so Harry followed him, basking in the calming, timeless atmosphere of Rivendell. It felt good to be back, no matter how exciting it was in the far east. There were just some things that couldn't be compared. Perhaps he should try calling for another gathering soon—he had brought back some interesting drinks when he returned, and it would be entertaining to see what the others thought of them.

They walked past several gardens, some occupied, some empty, and passed the courtyard and several bridges, heading towards the eastern side of the city. Finally, Elrond stopped outside the forge and gave Harry a meaningful look before entering.

A wave of hot air rushed over Harry, ruffling through his hair and robes as he followed behind the Elf-lord, a little confused over the exact meaning of Elrond's look. Several elven blacksmiths were working away in the centre of the room, hammering at a piece of glowing red metal. One of the elves looked up as they entered and said something to his partner. The other elf glanced at them, realisation lighting up his eyes as he saw who they were, then darted to a side room and re-emerged a moment with a sheathed sword.

Harry recognised the hilt immediately—it was his, after all, for all that he hadn't used it in more than a decade. The elf handed over the sword almost reverently, and Harry held it up to inspect the new scabbard. Curling elvish designs were etched onto the golden chape and locket, while runes inscribed on the body named the sword it sheathed. It was a fine specimen of Noldorin craftsmanship.

He grasped the hilt of Caladui and unsheathed it in one fluid motion. The blade was pale gold in the afternoon sun, seemingly shining with a faint radiance of its own, and Harry almost staggered as the familiar weight in his hands brought forth a rush of memories, some more fond than others. With a wistful smile, he sheathed Caladui and strapped the scabbard to his belt, the new weight at his hips a familiar comfort.

"Thank you," he said sincerely.

The elf bowed low and murmured a response before heading back to his work. Harry looked up at a smiling Elrond, suddenly remembering why he had left Caladui in Rivendell in the first place. "Narsil has been reforged?"

"Not yet. We had been waiting for Aragorn's return since he alone has the shards."

Harry 'hmm'-ed, and then jumped when a horn started bellowing in the distance. Visitors. He glanced at Elrond, who had already begun moving. "The dwarves have arrived."

Glóin was getting old. It was in the way he walked, more rigidly than before, and the way he would be just that little more breathless when walking at his usual pace. Harry knew it was inevitable, yet it still caused a certain pang when he paused to think about it (which was certainly why he didn't). His head-butts, on the other hand, had not decreased in force. Blinking away stars, Harry attempted to smile cheerfully at his son. From the unimpressed look Gimli gave him, it probably wasn't pulled off very well.

Elrond had chosen to stand behind him, radiating amusement as he watched the dwarves attempt to give Harry a concussion. He himself was rather pointedly ignored by the entire group, who had chosen to greet only the single non-elf, non-dwarf member in the hall. Harry shot him an amused, if dazed, grin.

"Their rooms are by the fountain," said Elrond, when the dwarves began asking about their living arrangements. Gimli bristled at the use of Elven-tongue and there was a flurry of Iglishmêk as they were led away.

Harry politely pretended he didn't know the insults about the place, the elf that just walked past, the structure of the buildings, the garden they'd passed, the waterfalls, the style of the buildings and anything else remotely Elvish that were being thrown around behind him. Glóin looked faintly abashed as he related their journey from Erebor to Rivendell in Westron, and twitched when Gimli said something not particularly polite about Harry's "elven attire".

At the third turn down the corridor, Harry stopped and turned to face the group.

"These rooms will be yours for the duration of your stay," he told them in Khuzdul, smiling at them in the way of kindly wizards that said repent or the next potion I make will include your perfectly pickled body parts.

Nari, the one who had been most active in mocking Elrond, flushed, and Gimli looked away, not quiet meeting anyone's eyes. Glóin gave a soft "tch" and shooed them into their separate rooms, signing him a not-quite-apology behind his back as he entered the room beside Gimli's. Harry shook his head. Dwarves. Honestly.

He turned to find Elrond walking up to him, chuckling.

"Did you know," Harry said casually, falling in step beside the Elf-lord, "the dwarves said you are wearing that circlet to draw attention away from a receding hairline?"

Elrond very calmly did not react to that fascinating statement. For all intents and purposes, he appeared not to have heard it at all, serenely bringing up a topic they'd have to discuss with Gandalf later.

Dinner, however, had been a very green experience that night. Green and leafy.

Círdan's party arrived at dawn the next day. They were a small group of three led by Galdor, who would be acting as Círdan's spokesperson for the duration. Harry heard about it from Lindir while heading to the dining hall. It brought up a certain guilt that gnawed at his thoughts—he hadn't been to Mithlond for a rather long time now, even before he left. Soon, Harry told himself. He'd go visit Círdan after this Frodo affair was cleared.

Speaking of hobbits, Harry paused at the entrance to the dining hall. Merry and Pippin were seated at the table, and from the looks of the greatly diminished food items upon it, had been there for a while. Merry caught sight of him as he entered and waved. Harry smiled and dropped himself into the chair beside the two.

"Good morning," he said cheerfully, taking a slice of bread from the basket.

"Morning," the two chorused between bites.

"Frodo should be up in a few moments, do you want to go see him?"

"Of course." Pippin said, looking highly affronted that he would even suggest otherwise. "One glance at my dashing looks and he'll be fully recovered."

Merry reached over and gave his hair a light swat, his mouth too full to reply properly.

Harry hid a grin and polished off his bread with a few bites, then reached out to snag another one, beginning to rise. "Alright. You two coming?"

"Now?" Pippin sent a longing look at the pie on the table. Merry rolled his eyes and pushed the last bit of eggs into his mouth, then dragged his cousin away from the table. "Second breakfast, Pip," he reminded, and Pippin brightened immediately.

Harry stifled a laugh and nabbed a strip of bacon before heading out the archway, the hobbits at his heels.

"Harald, you said you'll show us some more magic tricks when we reached Rivendell?"

It was Merry. Sometime along the journey (after the scare from the illusion trick had worn off), the hobbits had decided to use his Westron name, claiming that "Reviauron" was simply too much of a mouthful. It was curious—Bilbo had no such issue. Perhaps it had something to do with habits. After all, Bilbo had been in the company of elves for the past decade and more, so it probably rubbed off.

Harry stopped his wandering thoughts and looked down at the bouncing hobbit.

"Mm? Would you like something more like Gandalf's fireworks, or would you like to see something better?"

Pippin rolled his eyes. "Something better, of course."

Harry grinned and lifted his wand. A memory of happier days (redheads and a brunette curled by the fireplace) brought up a familiar heartache, one he brushed aside with practiced ease, and a stag leapt into existence, bright eyed and soft furred.

There was a surprised noise from his left, and the stag bowed his head to sniff delicately at Pippin, then nuzzled Merry's hair in greeting. Harry grinned at the hobbits' look of awe-struck wonder, and seated them upon the Patronus' back before they could react. An indignant exclamation was cut off abruptly as Prongs surged forward, leaping over bushes with ethereal grace. The corridors were wide enough for his antlers to brush past, leaving naught but a whisper of wind to mark his swift passage.

There was never any danger of the hobbits falling off—Prongs was too careful for that—and the calm ambient magic of Rivendell would only sustain the charm for longer. Harry followed them at a more leisurely pace, and elves that had seen the passing of Prongs turned to him in bemused amusement.

When Harry reached Frodo's room, he was viciously attacked by hobbits. Harry dropped to the floor and died dramatically as Pippin prodded him in the chest and complained about being manhandled while Merry peppered him with questions. Gandalf was standing on one side, his form shaking with mirth as the smoke around his head turned into a stag with two shapes on its back, prancing in circles around the room. Prongs stopped his investigation of Frodo's hair and trotted over, dipping his head for Harry to haul himself upright.

"What is he?" Bilbo asked, patting Prongs on the side when the Patronus came to stand beside him.

"Condensed happy thoughts," Harry said, sliding into a chair beside the Istar. "How are you feeling, Frodo?"

"Much better than before," Frodo said, looking remarkably healthy. He got off the bed and Sam was immediately beside him, hovering anxiously. There was a short hobbit group-hug, where everyone non-hobbit looked awkwardly at the ceiling, and then Gandalf shooed everyone out the door to give Frodo some privacy.

A few minutes later, Frodo came out, dressed in light green garments.

"Cheers for our noble cousin! Out of bed right in time for Second Breakfast," said Pippin to Frodo with a clap on his back, after which he strode to the front of the group, declaring dramatically, "Make way for Frodo, Lord of the Ring!"

Harry gave a small frown. "Best not to call Frodo that, Pippin."

"Evil things do not come into this valley," Gandalf said sternly from the back, "but all the same we should not name them. The Lord of the Ring is not Frodo, but the master of the Dark Tower of Mordor, whose power is once again stretching out over the world."

"And I am sure Frodo would not find the comparison flattering," Harry said, quirking a smile when the hobbit in question grimaced.

Pippin pulled a face.

Prongs took this moment to huff into Pippin's hair, drawing a surprised laugh as the hobbit tried to reach around to bat at his snout. He sprang out of the way easily, and pranced around the group, antlers almost brushing the walls on either side. Pippin muttered something under his breath, preoccupied with brushing his hair back down, and the Patronus slowed to a stop beside Harry. With one last nuzzle to his face, Prongs dissolved into wisps of white mist as the charm wore out.

There was a startled noise by Bilbo at the sudden disappearance but the group had arrived at the dining hall before he could say anything. Food had always worked as the best distractor for any hobbit, even extremely curious ones.

When the meal was finished, Harry signalled Elrond that he would be out of Rivendell, to which the Elf-lord across the room acknowledged with a nod. Harry found himself an empty balcony and changed form, taking off into the air with ease.

While Rivendell itself was protected by one of the Three Rings that was held by Elrond, danger could be lurking right outside, awaiting, and no one within would be wiser. With Frodo awoken and the Ring in the city, it was rather important that nothing was amassing outside. Harry stretched his wings and circled above the valley, gradually expanding his flight path as he mentally compared the current Rivendell to the one before his absence.

Movement from the south caught his attention.

There was a man trudging along the Bruinen, hood down, his dark traveling cloak discoloured with mud and dust. On his baldric was a great war-horn, tipped with glinting silver. After a moment of staring, Harry recognised it—the Horn of Gondor. This man would have to be Boromir.

Intrigued, Harry changed his course and drifted south. What would be a Gondorian—not least the Steward's eldest son—be doing here?

Boromir hiked slowly along the stream, stopping momentarily by a large boulder to look around. His hood slipped as he turned, and the look of weary frustration on his face became visible. Harry tilted his head. The man was roughly two day away from Rivendell, and countless more from Minas Tirith. Was he trying to find the elven-city?

Harry descended slowly, landing on the ground less than thirty metres away from the man and raised a hand in greeting the moment he had one.

"Hail, Boromir, Captain of the White Tower!"

Boromir had his hand midway to his sword, suspicion written all over his features but he returned the greeting nevertheless. "Hail, stranger."

"What is a man of Gondor doing in these parts?"

"I am seeking the counsel of the Lord of Rivendell," was the response as Boromir approached. He was alert, eyes wary as he surveyed Harry, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. It felt like looking at a younger Denethor—the bearing, the face, the pride of the two men were all too alike.

Harry gave a glance around. Relatively flat terrain and solid ground—suitable for horses. "You are two days away from Rivendell if you walk. I will escort you. We will, with luck, reach by this evening."

Boromir furrowed his eyebrows. "I do not see why I should trust the words of a stranger."

"I am no stranger, Boromir," Harry said, ignoring the man's sharp look at the lack of deferential terms. "You would, perhaps, know me better as Callahen?"

He did not like that name. 'Green-eyes', of all things. It was the name he was given in the more… epic… ballads after bards had argued against his pre-existing ones. Accordingly, Harry had used the name in the courts of Minas Tirith to suit the pomp and grandeur of the nobles. It was the only time he could bear the name without feeling like a Lockhart.

"I believe I had to convince you that feathers are not meant for eating more than once," he added thoughtfully, only for Boromir to stare at him in puzzlement.

Harry sighed and waved a hand. His eyes seemed to glow with (a holier) inner light, and an odd breeze caused his hair to sway. His robes became gleaming armour with intricately etched patterns upon them, and Caladui appeared in his hands. A ray of sunlight shone down upon him. It was all very dramatic and matched the ridiculous portrait hanging somewhere in a hall in the White City perfectly.

Still, it did the trick. Boromir's eyes widened and wonder filled his face.

"The Battle of Fornost," he breathed, but Harry shook his head, dispelling the illusions as quickly as he had called them up.

"No, just an artist's rendition. I assure you that there was a lot more dirt in the battle, for one."

"I can imagine," said Boromir, still staring.

"Yep. Never trust anyone with shiny armour after a battle. I assume that you would like to reach Rivendell as soon as possible?"

A nod.

Harry transfigured two large rocks into horses, one a raven-black, another a pale pearl. He checked them over, and once he was satisfied with both, good-quality, well-cushioned saddles sprang into existence on the horses' backs. Job done, he turned to look at a gaping Boromir.

"Well, get on. You didn't think we would be walking the entire way, did you?"

Not really action-y, this chapter. I was going to put a sword-fight in here, but ugh at that, so it got cut out. Council of Elrond next.

Callahen: From Sindarin Calen + hend. (I don't think people would bother pronouncing 'CaleNhenD' each time, so it'll likely get dropped after a while.) Caladui: Sindarin, Last (medui) Light (cala). Because I'm using the cliche of "LAST LIGHT YOU'D EVER SEE" as sword name. Yayme. Thanks for reading, and please do leave a comment :]

[4/1/16: Changed the last bit, edited language, minor scene changes.]