Chapter Text
Elrond Peredhel stood at the balcony of his study, surveying the landscape below. From this height, his perfect eyesight could see the entire sanctuary of Imladris, of which he was its lord. Gentle silver moonlight fell upon the cascading waterfalls, and the subtle scent of night-blooming flowers drifted from the luscious gardens. The elf lord could also hear the distant sounds of his kin gathered in the Hall of Fire, their voices blending with beautiful melodies against the backdrop of the murmuring River Bruinen. Peace reigned over the last homely house east of the sea, just as it had for the past millennia.
However, Elrond did not feel at peace this night.
The elf lord's eyes scanned the valley, his brows almost knitted together as he searched both the physical world and his subconscious for the source of the unease which tugged at his thoughts. Something was wrong, that much he knew. The feeling of foreboding was completely at odds with his surroundings; it made him grip the carved wooden balustrade of the balcony so tightly his knuckles had turned white, and his heart thundered in his chest as he strained his ears for any sounds that were misplaced.
Elrond sighed softly, letting go of the balcony railing and turning back into his study. The unease was gnawing at him, and it seemed to grow deeper the more he sought its origin. He usually found solace within the walls of this room; the shelves were adorned with his collections of ancient tomes and scrolls, and plush furnishings made the room feel cosy and comfortable. Yet the lack of tranquillity the room offered him tonight was disturbing.
He paused for a moment in front of a painted portrait of his family, commissioned several centuries ago. The smiling faces of his children stared back at him; his twin sons Elladan and Elrohir, tall and broad-shouldered, accomplished warriors in their own rights, as well as his daughter Arwen, seated before her father and brothers with beauty more exquisite than any precious gem. Elrond extended a hand and touched the edges of the framed portrait. He remembered the exact moment the painting had been revealed, how overjoyed he was to see all of his children together. Yet a small part of his heart had shattered when he was reminded at who was missing from the illustration; the light and love of his life, Celebrían.
Elrond sighed again. He did not wish to dwell on the feelings that arose when contemplating Celebrían's choice to sail west. He did not wish to be reminded of how he had utterly failed to protect his wife, or of his inability to provide the respite her soul had so desperately needed. Seeing her ship depart had almost torn his heart in two, yet he knew it was for the best. He had to let her go. The knowledge that her love for him would endure any test of time held his resolve to support his children, and the irrefutable truth that one day they would be reunited in Valinor gave him the strength to endure.
Resigning to the fact that his mind would not be stilled here, Elrond opted to leave his study in pursuit of some calming herbal tea from the kitchens. The door to the study softly closed behind him. As he rounded the top of the staircase to descend to the living quarters, his mind fell upon the other person also missing from the portrait; his human son, Estel. The young man whom he had adopted into his home as an infant was not here, having left Imladris just over a week ago to rejoin his comrades in the north. It had been delightful having him back, even if only for a short period of downtime. Elrond deeply understood that since becoming chieftain of the Dúnedain rangers, leisure time had become difficult to come by for Estel, and his forthcoming destiny to become a king amongst men would mean that his ability to do as he pleased would diminish even further than it already had. Elrond exhaled as his hand lightly touched the oak banister. It couldn't be helped. Estel was an heir, and this was his fate.
He had better make his herbal tea extra strong if he was going to have any chance of alleviating his uneasiness.
Elrond's supple leather boots lightly padded the stairs as he descended. It was here, still six feet from the bottom, that he was suddenly and violently overcome by a vision of foresight.
He found himself in the heart of a once-thriving village, now engulfed in chaos. The night air was thick with smoke, the acrid scent of burning buildings slowly spreading through the settlement. Every street was now a battleground; clashes of steel and anguished screams of those fighting for their lives.
Aragorn was in the heart of the chaos. His sword glinted repeatedly in the light of the fires as he swung, parried, dodged and kicked orc after orc. Black blood coated his tunic and ranger's travelling cloak, the liquid catching the moonlight as his chest rose and fell with the exertion of battle. The waves of beasts seemed unending, for as soon as he cut one down, another would take its place.
He glanced quickly over his shoulder. Nearby, several villagers were equally engaged with the foul beasts. They were putting up a brave fight, but their only means of defending themselves were farming scythes and pitchforks. Aragorn saw to his horror that the group were quickly becoming overwhelmed. He launched a war cry, decapitating the nearest orc and slashing his way towards the group without hesitation.
Before he could get to the group, however, movement from above caught the ranger's attention. A handful of orcs had scaled one of the unburnt buildings, and they were holding bows. "Archers!" Aragorn blared over the ruckus to the group of locals. "Take cover! Now!" The orcs began to nock, draw and release. A wave of tipped projectiles raced in their direction. Several hit their mark, embedding into the flesh of those who had heard Aragorn's warning too late. One arrow found the stomach of the villager closest to ranger, sending him to the ground. Aragorn's first instinct was to race over to help the fallen man, but before he could act, an arrow pierced his own shoulder.
The ranger staggered, pain threatening to overwhelm him. Yet he resolved to continue to fight; there were innocents in this village who needed his protection. He glanced down at the protruding fletching and ripped it from his flesh before he could overthink what it would do to his senses. He let out a roar of pain. The arrowhead had buried itself deep near his collarbone, and blood began to pour from the open wound. He idly wondered how best to pack the wound and stem his bleeding in the midst of this battle.
Distracted, he failed to notice a particularly large orc barrelling towards him. The monster collided with the man, sending his form crashing to earth and his sword flying. Aragorn's ribs screamed under the weight of the filthy orc, and panic started to rise as the creature's hands wrapped themselves around his neck. Darkness began to form at the edges of his vision as he struggled to reach for his weapon…
Elrond's reality came flooding back to him then, and far too late he realised he was pitching forwards, the staircase he had been gracefully traversing now rushing up to meet him. He landed hard, the edges of the wooden plinths colliding with his side. He lost all control as he rolled down the remaining steps, tangled in his own flowing robes and the normally elegant braids askew in his hair. Finally, he came to a stop at the foot of the stairs, his entire form shaking from shock and fear.
Two of the household staff heard the commotion and rushed forwards to their lord's aid. Elrond gripped the forearm of the elleth who was nearest to him, his voice weak and breathless over the sporadic shudders that coursed his body.
"Find Elladan and Elrohir. Find my sons."