Request: : I'd like something a little off the beaten path: Any canon Elf-- except Legolas!-- with Halbarad or Imrahil. Characterization is key; I'd much rather read good characterizations than plot-driven prose. If you can manage both, I'll worship you forever. I'm leaving plot wide open. A happy ending is not required; ambiguity is fine. Prefer my smut to be sensual and evocative rather than graphic.

Summary: Halbarad accompanies Erestor on an expedition to the lost city of Fornost, and along the way an unexpected connection develops between the Man and the Elf.

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Lhossgond they call it, the Whisper-Stone, or luss�ondo in the High-elven tongue, which no one in the valley uses anymore, and few remember. It lies on the far side of Imladris, where the ash woods are cut short by the sharp-edged wall of the mountain. Many have tried to move the stone, but none have succeeded; the eldest say that it is heavy with the weight of the secrets it holds and which give it its name.

The lore tells that the stones were planted in Middle-earth by the Vala Aul� after he learned of the awakening of the first-born. He took pity on them for their eternal life, for he knew that the loss and ruin surrounding them brought them great grief and their body and spirit would grow weary in a world which changed more swiftly than they ever might. To Dwarves Aul� gave noble metals and gemstones and the craft to use them; but to Elves he gave stones that would listen to their secrets and sorrows, and hide all their stories that would otherwise be lost forever.

And some even say that the tales whispered to these stones settled deep down into the memory of the earth, and when several ages of the world were gone, they might be found in the darkness of the ground as glowing gems that held the light of times long gone.

Erestor has never spoken to the Whisper-Stone, but he holds it in high regard, for he understands about listening. As Lord Elrond�s chief counsellor he has learned that in order to speak wise words one must first know how to listen. He has listened long, and he has listened more closely than anyone. He has heard the waters of Middle-earth burst through rocks and carve their mark on the ground, he has heard darkness hide and unravel again from the shadows, he has heard grass grow over bones crumbling in the ground and wind shuffle the shapes of clouds endlessly. His way of listening can compel trees to weep and skies to sing: he hears words and stories where other ears catch but silence.

Sometimes, when the night is long and all light as far away as stars or the western horizon, Erestor stops by the stone for a moment, but he will not stay to listen. If the weight of secrets and hidden tales binds the stone to the ground, would it also chain him to this earth for ever, he wonders, until all his kin were gone and his own spirit had worn his body brittle, so it would not seem more than a rock or an ancient tree trunk to mortal eyes? He returns to the house along a narrow path which follows the brook-bank, and night air is light and fresh in his nostrils. He listens to the world, the Shadow smoldering in the East, quiet but not gone, and the forces stirring in its web, waiting for their moment. He has heard such stirrings before; he knows they will claim the lives of many, and that many deeds will remain unsung, many stories be lost that others would be told forever.

He listens to the lament for this loss in his own blood, the stifled beating of his own heart under the weight of this sorrow.

He, too, is waiting for his moment, and understands the wait is now growing shorter than a fraction of a mortal�s eternity. Middle-earth will soon end for him, but if it is through the Shadow or through the fading evening light upon the sea, he knows not.

When Lord Elrond asks him to travel to the dead realm of the North to search for lost writings about the creatures of darkness known as the Nazg�l, he wonders if he will know soon.

* * *

Eriador, year 3000 of the Third Age

The man is tall, his body is that of a warrior and his words barren and few as the weather-beaten paths of the North. They are riding across green mounds at a slow pace, and Erestor has time to listen: to the man�s movements as they follow the movements of his horse, to the wind that flaps the edges of his dark grey cloak, to his hair as it swishes against the fabric of his garments. Under the traits of a Ranger Erestor sees in him the marks of the descendants of sea-kings: a flicker of Elven light behind the grey eyes, a brush of eternity that is longer than an ordinary mortal�s.

�Halbarad of the D�nedain will join you in Bree and accompany you on your way back to Imladris,� Lord Elrond had said. �He has been to Fornost before and knows the way to the Lost Library. He is an Elf-friend and kinsman of Aragorn, and known to me. He will be the best guide on your journey.� Erestor had remembered a tall, quiet stranger who had come to Imladris twice or thrice over the years in Aragorn�s company, never staying long and always leaving in silence as he had arrived.

They have journeyed two days and rested two nights, and the grassy hills of Fornost roll before their eyes, long-abandoned and avoided by Men. Deadman�s Dike it is called now by those who live; the battle that once crushed the last city of the Kings of the North is still remembered in songs and tales.

When they reach the hilltop, Erestor sees a ring of trees on the side of the next hill, barely a few miles away, as evenly rounded as if the trees had been purposefully planted in this formation. Halbarad beckons towards them.

�That is where we are going,� he says. Then he prompts his horse to a light trot, and Erestor follows.

The trees stand mute and ancient, deep in their drowsy dark thoughts, when Erestor and Halbarad ride inside the ring. The trunks are covered in moss and ivy, and not even the leaves on their branches stir to acknowledge the presence of the strangers. The hill shields the spot from the tireless wind seeking its way between the mounds. The silence of the trees is vast and overwhelming.

�Why were these trees planted?� Erestor asks. �It is unusual to see such formations anywhere, more so in the North.

Halbarad dismounts his horse.

�No one knows now,� he says and ties his horse to one of the trees. �Some stories tell of the Grove of Wisdom which was at the center of the city of Fornost and where only kings, counselors and soothsayers were allowed.� Halbarad turns to look at Erestor. �But would not a counselor of Imladris, who is familiar with lore, know more of it than a Ranger of the North?�

�The memory of the Elves may reach far,� replies Erestor, �but what is lost and long buried remains hidden. Little is known of Fornost, and telling true stories from empty words and false fancy is impossible even to us. Elves move seldom far from their homelands anymore; mayhap a Ranger who walks Middle-earth knows more stories than an Elf who will not leave his library for centuries.� He dismounts and fumbles for a piece of bread for his horse in his saddlebag.

An inscrutable, closed expression lingers on Halbarad�s face; then the corners of his mouth twitch.

�Aragorn was right,� he says. �He told me your wisdom was in listening before it was in words. But in this matter I am no more knowledgeable than you.�

In the middle of the ring of trees the grass and moss are broken, as if they have been moved around many times. Halbarad goes to the smallest tree which twists its roots in a shape of a strange ornament, and measures the distance from it towards the center of the ring by his footsteps. He stops to move a patch of grass aside, revealing a slab of stone with engravings long gnawed by time and now impossible to read. Erestor watches closely as Halbarad�s fingers find the edges of the slab and he lifts it. Behind it opens a stairway descending into underground darkness.

Erestor looks at the narrow, slightly crumbled stairs, looks at the dark passageway. The faint whispers of time climb its walls: hidden writings, long since lost from the memory of the world.

Halbarad searches the bundle of cloth he carries on his back for rags and tosses one at Erestor. A strong scent of pitch rises from it. The man picks up a piece of wood from the ground and wraps the rag around its end. His fingers move swiftly as he produces a tinderbox from a small pouch hanging from his belt and lights the torch, which he hands to Erestor. While the Elf waits, he prepares another torch for himself. When Halbarad tilts his piece of wood towards Erestor�s in order to put it on fire, Erestor sees his face through the flames. The fire flares high as it catches the other torch; the man�s face is briefly lost in the blaze like a moth scorched into dust and ash by the flames.

Halbarad begins his descent down the stairs, into the ground, and Erestor follows.

The passageway winds towards the centre of the hill in the darkness of the earth and eventually opens into a wide hall, which has once been great and mighty. The high vaults have crumbled in many places, and here and there the ceiling is punctuated by holes that let through glowing shafts of pale Northern light.

Erestor sees forthwith that most of the writings have been lost. Shallow puddles of water glint on the stone floor and humidity has decayed the tall, wooden bookshelves lining the walls. Some of them have collapsed to the floor. Dark, bluish spots of mould are visible on thick leather-bound volumes; half-rotten scrolls and badly waterlogged remains of ancient parchments are lying scattered on the shelves and the floor.

�This is the Lost Library of Fornost, known to few,� says Halbarad. �We found it by mere chance on our expedition North of the Shire. What is it you seek here, Erestor of Imladris?�

�Long was the fight of the North against the persistent evil that dwelled once in Angmar,� says Erestor, �and Lord Elrond believes that some hidden knowledge of this wraith, the Witch-King, is to be found within these walls. For carefully did Fornost guard its secrets, and by some strange fortune this fiend never found the library during the year that he ruled this city after Arnor fell, so it is said.�

In the middle of the hall a narrow stairway winds upwards, leading nowhere, for the upper steps have collapsed.

�This must have been the stair to the Tower of Fornost, where the kings would stand and see far,� says the man quietly. �The songs of my people tell of it; here dwelled the wisdom of Arnor in its last days.�

Erestor goes to a tall shelf that is partly bent into an oblique shape and picks up a book. When he opens it, he sees jet-black beetles scuttle across the wet, putrefied mass that is left of the pages. Erestor pushes the book back on the self in disgust.

�I need your help,� he says to Halbarad. �Collect all the books and scrolls that have remained even partially legible. While they are few, we must rescue as many as we can.�

Halbarad nods. Erestor listens to his steps on the stone floor, the rustling of his garments as he strides across the hall to the far wall and begins to study the contents of the shelves.

* * *

Evening falls swiftly. They have gathered no more than two dozen books and a similar number of scrolls, and built their plain camp on the edge of the ring of trees. Erestor takes the first watch; while Halbarad does not say it, he hears in the man�s voice and in the slowness of his movements that the Ranger is weary.

The night is deep and full of hidden sounds around them, but Elves do not fear the ghosts of Men. Erestor�s fingers burn when he adds more wood into the fire. He withdraws his hand and the night air extinguishes the glow from his skin quickly.

Halbarad is sleeping restlessly, turning and stirring. His hair has fallen on his face, and small muscles around his mouth are tensing and moving. His breathing ripples the soft grass stalks on the ground next to his mouth.

Erestor watches as the man�s face darkens and a great shadow of distress twists his features, and a strange and unexpected urge to shelter Halbarad from lightless dreams waxes inside him like the slender shard of a new moon.

When a bird takes wing from the trees, Halbarad starts awake.

His face is coarse as a stone and grey with weariness, and behind it lies a darkness that Erestor has not seen before.

�It was but a bird,� Erestor says. �Sleep, Halbarad D�nadan, for there is still time until your watch.�

Halbarad does not respond, and Erestor knows that it would be unwise to force words out of him. Only the one who patiently listens to what remains unsaid will eventually hear the words. He has time: this night, many a night after this.

The man wraps himself in silence and lies down on his side, staring at the fire. His breathing flows without rest, and again Erestor feels something stir inside himself, a pull that is not quite longing, a tug that is not quite an ache, not yet.

He moves closer to Halbarad, kneels down next to him, and places his hand on the man�s arm. A small shiver passes through Halbarad at Erestor�s touch, but he does not turn his eyes from the fire, does not push the hand away.

Erestor sits in the glow of the flames and listens to the song of the mortal blood under his hands, the stirrings of hidden thoughts behind the man�s eyes, and the hours pass away, wordless. Neither of them moves closer; neither draws away.

They leave Fornost at dawn. Pale mist lies on the hills that are green and silver-coloured in the grey morning light. The earth and sky are quiet, and in silence they journey through the day.

When the dark threads of the evening unravel around them, they build a camp in the midst of large flat rocks by a hillside.

�If you wish to tell me what burdens your heart and turns sleep away from your eyes, I will listen,� Erestor tells Halbarad when the man is making the fire. �And if you do not, I will listen anyhow: to the words you do not speak.�

Halbarad stares at a flame as it catches a dry twig. Light passes his face and fades away as the flame dies.

�There is naught to tell,� he says.

But in the night, when Erestor is keeping watch, Halbarad lies with his eyes open towards the skies, and the shadow behind his face is deeper and darker.

The pull inside Erestor is not quite longing, not yet; he thinks of the man�s body under his hands, and he thinks of how Elves do not take mortal lovers, for the loss and ruin of the world around them is a sorrow great enough already.

And yet he moves closer to Halbarad again, kneels next to him and places his hand on the man�s chest, letting his fingertips listen to the beating of the mortal heart inside the cage of bones under the skin, to the living heat of flesh and blood against them. Halbarad breathes deeply and closes his eyes, and his lips part slightly; but he does not speak, does not shift, and thus passes the night.

The following day is near its end when they reach an old refuge that Rangers use as a night-shelter in this area. It is an abandoned Hobbit-dwelling from the time when Fornost was defeated and King Arvedui fled to the sea with the palant�ri, and war swept over the Shire and drove its folk into hiding.

Erestor finds the place unfamiliar and of little comfort, for to him it is a hollow rather than a home. The rooms are low and the halls narrow; but the dwelling has a fireplace and it gives a shelter from the weather, and the shadow is still deep on Halbarad�s face. Erestor knows Men will always sleep better within walls than under bare skies, even Rangers, so he does not say anything, but prepares his bed on the worn wooden floor by the fireplace, next to Halbarad�s thin bedroll.

�Will you let me keep watch?� Halbarad asks as they eat a simple meal of salted meat and bread. �Sleep is still avoiding my eyes.�

Erestor complies and does not ask why. He lies down on his narrow bed, listening to the faint movements of the night, the man�s steps on the floor and his breathing, the quiet rattling of the fire, and eventually the dreams come: bright and tangible and nearly as true as the taste of salt and smoke from the fire on his tongue, as tingling as the heat of a body against his hands.

He knows it is not yet morning when wakes from his Elven sleep.

Halbarad is sitting on his bedroll, his knees bent, his arms crossed on his legs, his face turned towards the fire.

�My mind walks strange paths tonight,� says Halbarad quietly, without turning, still staring into the flames. �I am not used to seeking comfort for myself, and while my time is longer than that of most mortals, I have always known it will be short and leave barely a trace behind. My own footprints will soon be worn from the roads I have treaded, and thus I have followed in the footsteps of those greater than myself, given my thoughts, my sword and my bow to the hope that Gondor might crown its king again and the world be freed from the Shadow. But in Deadman�s Dike some sorcery clutched my heart, and I have not known peace ever since, be it night or day.� He breathes out a long sigh. �What do you know of mortal dreams, Erestor of Imladris?�

�Mortal dreams are strange to Elves,� says Erestor, �but they dissipate like mist from the fields at dawn, so it is said.�

�They are often brittle and brief, like the rest of our lives, that is true,� says Halbarad, �but sometimes they flow through us stark and pungent, and leave a mark that will not fade nor vanish. I do not know what darkness sent me such a dream in the ruins of the Lost Library, but it is caught within me and fills me with fear I have not known before.�

Erestor is quiet. He knows that in order to speak wisely one must first know how to listen, and that when the gate of words opens, it must not be latched carelessly.

�In this dream I saw myself descending underground, where the passageways were not abandoned and dead, as they are now,� Halbarad continues. �People were passing through them, and above was a living city. The great hall of the library was unscathed and filled with light from torches burning on the walls. In the middle of the hall a steep stairway wound upwards, further and further, and I ascended the stairs until I came to the top of a tall tower, where under open skies lay a stone dais, and on the dais something I had never cast my eyes on, whether in dream or in waking. It was a great sphere of stone, so large that it filled the tower top and one had to walk around it to look at the other side. It blared with a strange power, resting there, and seemed to lure me closer.� Halbarad is quiet for a moment before continuing, �It was a palant�r, was it not?�

Erestor listens to the silence emanating from the man for a long while before he speaks.

�The greatest one in the North, kept in Fornost for a time beside another, less potent one. The palant�ri were lost to the sea with the last king, but who knows what wisdom and strength they may have left behind?�

Halbarad�s silence does not soften with this; it seems to tense and strain, and when he speaks, a restlessness pierces his voice.

�I went to the stone and on its glowing surface I saw myriad lights and colours flaring, as if I were looking into fire, but instead of dancing flames I saw figures and patterns entwining and drawing a clear image before my eyes.

�I saw a long, dark passage and a crowd of grey-clad men, and I knew some of their faces. They followed me into the darkness; but I myself was following another, the one to whom the crown of Gondor belongs and whom I will follow until this world crumbles, lest my own flesh will crumble first. He led us all through the tunnel into light.�

Halbarad still keeps his eyes tightly chained to the flames in the fireplace, as if speaking to them makes his words less revealing, less damning than speaking to a living creature.

�I do not know what terrifies you in such a dream, Halbarad D�nadan,� Erestor says, and his voice is barely more than a whisper, a soft-winged moth that soars towards a flame. He places his hand on the man�s shoulder. Something on Halbarad�s face shifts, or so he thinks; but it could be the fire.

�In the light my death awaited me,� says the man quietly, and the words seem slow and stiff in his mouth. �I did not see its exact shape, but I saw a battlefield bathed in light, and around the edges of the light darkness wavered, as if waiting for its turn. It reached for me and wrapped a finger around me, and I felt my heart stop.�

Erestor lets his touch listen to the tension in the man�s muscles. He does not move closer, does not draw away.

�Too long has Fornost listened to the ruins buried under grassy mounds and distant memories of the darkness that swept away those who lived there,� says Erestor, keeping his voice soft. �Mortal dreams are strange to Elves, but rarely do they come to pass in the waking world, this we know.�

But worry still does not leave Halbarad�s voice, his long limbs and hard muscles.

�I have no family,� says Halbarad, �the bloodline of the Rangers is nearly lost and Aragorn son of Arathorn is my only living kinsman. Those who walk with me walk towards the same end. The few lovers I have had are now gone; I have no hope that my name might be remembered after I have left the world. I have never paid heed to this, and little have I given thought to it. But the end is truer and nearer now than it was before, and this fear is new and strange to me: to dissipate from the skin of time, to vanish from the memory of the world.�

Only now Halbarad turns to look at Erestor. A hidden flame is burning in his grey eyes.

�But forgive me, Erestor of Imladris. I know the affairs of Men are of little interest to Elves. I have bored you by talking of things I would normally keep to myself.�

Erestor looks at Halbarad and in the fire�s glow he sees anew what mortality means, sees it closer; for to him mortals are as strange as their dreams. He sees the traces of time on the man�s skin, sees the brittleness of his body, but for the first time he also sees the strength of his spirit. The time of the Elves is many mortal eternities, and they are in no rush to seize the world. But mortals know that their time will not last, and yet they must love each moment of grief and fear that belongs to them, every day listening to the end of their brief life winding nearer.

�Why do you say that?� Erestor asks.

Halbarad smiles, a rare sight, as if clouds passed and light fell on rocks, revealing crystals glittering in them.

�It is well known that Elves do not take mortal lovers, and that loving Elves will only bring grief to Men,� he says. �This is not for no reason: the ways of the Elves are unknown to Men and we do not understand the world as you do. For us there is this day, this year, perhaps the next, if we reach far enough in our minds. Our eternity is but a shard of yours. Our sorrows may hardly bear more meaning to you than a passing wind in the trees.�

�And yet every Elf will turn to listen to the passing wind and look at the dance of light in the leaves it shakes,� replies Erestor. �And when it has passed, he will feel sorrow because it will never return the same again, and yet another moment is lost forever. Do you know how much grief we bear for all that is gone, and how great its weight is?�

Halbarad turns towards the fire again, does not reply. Erestor reads hidden marks on his face, reads unspoken words that he wishes to bring to light and press on his skin and keep in himself. He leans closer to the man.

�If you believe that your dream foretold you the truth,� he says, �perhaps it was not sent to you by the Shadow, but by the Light beyond the sea.�

�What shall plant fear in a warrior�s heart, if not the Shadow?� asks Halbarad.

�Mayhap fear must come so it might also go, and clear the way for courage,� Erestor says. �I have heard of omens that come to Men in order to prepare them for their fates; and their wisdom oft remains hidden until the time comes and their whole brightness is revealed.� Erestor lifts his hand on Halbarad�s chest, and the man�s heat glows into his fingertips, settles in his blood. �A courageous heart lives in your chest, Halbarad, and this dark dream would not have been given to you, if you had no strength to bear it.�

Halbarad looks at him for a moment that is long in the time of mortals, and places his hand on top of Erestor�s. Erestor feels the throbbing of his pulse, the life that flows next to his own.

In this touch he recognizes longing for longing, ache for ache.

�Thank you, Erestor of Imladris,� Halbarad says. His eyes are grey as the sky, grey as the sea, and his face seems smoother in the soft flush of the fire than under the harsh light of the day. Halbarad�s face is close now, and Erestor feels the man�s breath flick over the skin of his jaw.

Halbarad lifts a hand into Erestor�s hair, brushes the arch of the cheekbone and the pointed tip of the ear with his thumb. Erestor listens to the stirrings inside himself, the song of blood in his veins, the growing fire in his loins. And he listens to the stirrings inside the man: Halbarad�s swift years and short eternities, his brightness that burns for a moment, and then is no more.

It is well known that Elves do not take mortal lovers.

And it is well known that not all stories are remembered: some are lost so others would be told forever.

Halbarad leans closer, is not gone yet but is here and now, and Erestor parts his lips and responds to the man�s hungry kiss, slides his hands along the man�s sides, caresses his hips and the small of his back.

A mortal�s touch is not like an Elf�s, it is not commanded by eternity but the lack of it. Halbarad�s hands are impatient and feverish on Erestor�s skin. They lift the hem of his tunic, slip under his linen shirt and move on his body fiercely, yet in awe. Erestor grasps Halbarad�s wrist and stops the hand on his waist, guides it to slow down its movement.

�We have time until dawn, and all of tomorrow, if that is your wish,� he whispers into Halbarad�s ear and feels the man�s hardness press against him. �And as long as we walk hidden from other eyes, I will hold you in my arms every night, if that is your desire.�

Halbarad kisses him again, caresses his sides more slowly, and the man�s touch is like water washing over rocky shores, withdrawing and enclosing the planes of stone again. Erestor lets it surge over him, sweep him away. He rocks his hips unhurriedly against the Ranger�s, fits the angles of his body to Halbarad�s, listens to the desire that sings in his blood, new and exciting.

�Show yourself to me,� he whispers, nipping the man�s ear with his lips, and Halbarad breaths more heavily. �I wish to see you.�

Halbarad stands up. His dark hair is mussed and his face is aglow in the firelight, and Erestor feels his own want turning slowly inside him like a hot iron. The man sheds his tunic and shirt, his worn leather boots and trousers. He stands bare before Erestor in his full length, and Erestor sees the ancient bloodline of Elves in him clad in a mortal�s skin, a warrior�s spirit in a tall and strong warrior�s body, eternal light from long extinguished stars wrapped in the brevity of a fragile life.

�Are you pleased with what you see, Erestor of Imladris?� An unexpected smile flickers on Halbarad�s face again, bright as an Elven dream.

�I am, Halbarad D�nadan,� replies Erestor and reaches to stroke the man. He slides his fingers up and down the hard length before taking Halbarad in his mouth, tasting the salt and skin. The man twists his fingers in Erestor�s hair and stifled sounds escape from him.

�I would now look at you in my turn,� says Halbarad, his voice low and ragged, �ere the night wears away.�

�Patience, mortal. We have yet many a night before us when we may look at each other until our eyes and bodies are sated.�

�Do you need help, Elf?�

Erestor stands up and undresses, listening to changes in Halbarad�s breathing as the man�s eyes move on his body.

�Are you pleased with what you see, Halbarad?�

Halbarad does not avert his gaze, his eyes are heavy with forbidden touches and withheld words.

�I am, Erestor.�

Halbarad steps towards him. Erestor wraps his arms around the man�s waist and pulls him closer. Their lengths are pressed together and their hips are moving in a shared rhythm. Erestor kisses Halbarad, listens to the low groans that ask, urge, demand as they leave the man�s throat.

�Lie down, Halbarad,� he says softly.

And the man pulls him down, on top of the thin bedroll, into his arms. His hands are everywhere and his mouth burns his skin, and Erestor rocks against the man, hears the song in the man�s blood and the desire that glows in it as brightly as his own.

�I will keep you, Ranger,� Erestor breathes on the man�s skin. �I will carry you in my blood and whisper you to this earth, that your memory shall ever grow in its leaves and fly in the sky on the wings of its birds. This I shall do ere I leave these shores.�

Halbarad is moving next to him, under him, and he is made of blazing fire-coloured want and a flaming stream gushing through him from his groin.

When it is over, they lie in silence for a long time. Erestor listens to the beating of Halbarad�s heart in the brittle cage of bones under his skin, listens to the breathing that slowly merges into sleep.

The flames in the fireplace fade into embers.

* * *

The sun is high behind a pallid veil of mist and the footsteps of their mounts echo sharply from the walls of stone behind them, when Erestor and Halbarad plunge from the steep cutting into the open. The East-West Road unfolds before them towards the Ford, and the grey waters of Bruinen rush relentlessly over the rocks of the river-bottom on their way to the sea. Not many words have passed between them since they many hours earlier mounted their horses near the edge of Trollshaw, where long-abandoned remains of towers and walls were watching them blindly.

An ominous barrier of clouds is simmering with rain in the horizon. Erestor listens to the stirrings of wind and water, to the rustling of the shadows in the woods.

�Wait!� he tells Halbarad, and the man holds his horse, drops his hand on the hilt of his sword. Erestor turns towards the woods. The tall pine trees are quiet, they do not move their branches, but behind the trunks the shadows shift, change their shape, draw closer.

�You are late, Erestor!� a clear voice rings out, and it is joined by another, deeper one:

�Mae govannen, Halbarad D�nadan!�

Halbarad�s hand moves from his sword back to the reins, when two figures on grey horses appear from among the trees. Their fair Elven faces hold the same, amused expression; Erestor recognizes the slightly taller one as Elladan, and the one who has spoken with a deeper voice as Elrohir.

�Mae govannen, sons of Elrond,� the Ranger replies, and Erestor sees a rare smile on his face again, elusive as water flowing to the sea.

�I did not know I was expected to return on a certain day,� Erestor says, when Elladan and Elrohir ride closer.

Elrohir smiles. �We have been waiting here for three days,� he says. �Father would surely have sent us to seek you in Fornost, if you had not come today.�

�We could not journey faster,� says Erestor. �The writings we found in Fornost were in such poor state that a swifter ride would have ground them into dust in our saddlebags.� Halbarad�s gaze avoids his own.

�You will stay for a few days, will you not, Halbarad?� Elladan asks. �You are too rare a guest in Imladris.�

�I wish I could stay,� says Halbarad, �but I must return to the borders of the Shire soon. I have already been off guard too long, and I cannot let my men wait longer than is necessary. Such is the time of the world that duty and desire must often walk separate paths.� Only now does he turn his gaze to Erestor, and the Elf cannot read his face.

When they cross the Ford, the first raindrops hit the surface of the water.

* * *

Light fades from the sky and the clouds are gone, and stars are lit in the wrap of the night.

Erestor has remained in the library for most of the day, studying the writings brought from Fornost with Lord Elrond. He is returning to his quarters when he sees Halbarad walking towards the ash woods that are cut short by the sharp-edged wall of the mountain. He does not follow the man, but takes to the direction of the brook and waits by the water until Halbarad returns from the Whisper-Stone along the path winding back to the house.

Halbarad stops when he sees Erestor.

�I was hoping I might speak to you again, Halbarad D�nadan,� says Erestor.

�I had hoped for the same, Erestor of Imladris.� Halbarad is quiet for a moment and then continues, �I shall take to the road again tomorrow at dawn.�

�Will you return?� Erestor asks. �The gates of Imladris shall ever be open to you. You have the respect and trust of Lord Elrond.�

Halbarad�s face does not change, does not darken or brighten.

�Aye,� he says, �but duty will keep me away. I have spoken to Aragorn about strengthening the guard of the Shire, and that is now my task. If I come again, it will be years from now; and then will the time of the world be wearing thin, and those who will rise against the Shadow must rise without delay. My path is clear: it will take me where Aragorn son of Arathorn goes, in life and in death. I cannot stray from it. This may be the last time I speak to you, Lord Erestor; if it should be so, know that I shall ever hold our friendship in my heart.�

The man�s voice is even and he stands tall in the dusk under the trees, and at that moment Erestor sees that the shadow of the dream has passed from him, and left his spirit stronger.

�My footsteps will wear away,� Halbarad continues, �but the footsteps of those I walk with will remain. That is all that matters now.�

Erestor feels a stirring under his skin, deep in the cage of bones in his chest.

�May the Valar walk with you, Halbarad,� he says.

The man steps closer and embraces him, aglow with the fragility and force of a mortal life. They stand there for a long time, like a tree and a stone, and wind dies down and the night is quiet around them.

I will keep you. I will carry you in my blood and whisper you to this earth, that your memory shall ever grow in its leaves and fly in the sky on the wings of its birds. This I shall do ere I leave these shores.

They return to the house together and part at the doorway, where both take to their separate rooms.

The next morning Erestor sits behind closed doors in the library until Halbarad has left.

* * *

Rohan, N�ri� 3019

The seas of grass are undulating in the wind and the tameless light of the sun draws every stalk sharp, when the escort of Evenstar arrives in Edoras. The war has withdrawn and Middle-earth is mending its wounds; but many have been left on the battlefields, many will never return home, Erestor thinks, and does not ask, for he sees the stories behind Elladan and Elrohir�s eyes. He knows that words will pour out of them soon, for those who have survived must speak of those who have not, until grief will pass.

�An orc-spear pierced him on the Pelennor Fields,� says Elladan at supper, and Erestor knows without asking of whom he speaks. �But he knew,� Elladan continues. �When we prepared to follow Aragorn to the Paths of the Dead, Halbarad said, �This is an evil door, and my death lies beyond it. I will dare to pass it nonetheless.� Who knows what gift of foresight he was given then? He knew, and he fought more bravely than anyone, and without fear he faced his own end.�

Summer stretches its light ever further, and the wedding of King Elessar and Queen Arwen Und�miel will soon be celebrated in the White City. But Erestor turns his face away from the light of Gondor and looks beyond the sea, looks towards evening and autumn, and his blood is still and silent.

* * *

Imladris, Narqueli� 3019

The nights are long and autumn is crumbling around him.

On the first night of frost Erestor looks into the western horizon until all light has faded. Then he throws a thicker cloak on his shoulders, lights a lantern and walks through the bare-branched ash woods to the Whisper-Stone. He places the lantern on the ground.

The stone is cold under his hands. The frost crystals on its surface glimmer in the lantern light. The night is quiet.

Erestor stands by the stone for a long while and listens, but it will not give its secrets away, not even to him, whose way of listening can compel trees to weep and skies to sing. He hears whispers curl against each other and close and turn their backs on him inside the stone, knowing he has no right to them. They are wrapped in silence, sinking deep into the earth.

Eventually he bends closer to the stone, until his face brushes its coarse surface.

If his lips are moving, no one sees it.

When Erestor returns to the house, his footsteps are lighter, as if a great weight had been removed from his heart.

Light stirs behind the horizon, ready to receive him. He turns towards it and listens, and while he cannot hear the sea, he hears the rustling of fallen leaves on the paths that wind from this valley towards its shores.

He hears his own blood that sings of a journey home.

* * *