Third Age, 2509:

Elrohir laid down to sleep, wondering as he did so how much sleep he would actually be getting. Over the past millennium and a half the dream had continued to come with increasing frequency, and now it happened to him almost every night. It had grown in urgency, as well, bringing with it feelings so strong that at times he imagined they threatened to swallow his soul, but he could make nothing of them. Just as always, he had never been able to find the answer, and he had spent more sleepless nights than he could count, thinking on account of the dream.

True to prediction, as soon as he closed his eyes, Elrohir was flying.

Once again, Elrohir found himself in the dreamworld, floating through the Void. This time, though, it was different. It was...changed; harsher, in a way, than the tranquil nothingness of the world before.

Now the stars wheeled about him, cold and distant, icy pinpricks gleaming in the blackness. For the first time, here, Elrohir was made aware of the fury of the sun's fires, of the ever-cycling aloofness of the moon. He discovered, now, the terrible lonesomeness and isolation, out here in the Void.

And once again the feeling of purpose came to him, but it, too, had changed. He could feel the answercoming to him, closer than it ever had before. It engulfed him, this sensation, and it could not possibly go on much longer or he would surely burst, his existence scattering to spent eternity in the desolate cosmos.

Suddenly it came calling him. “Elrohir!” it said. “Elrohir!”

The sense of purpose-to-be intensified a thousandfold, and then without even thinking – without knowing that he would – he answered it. “I know,” said Elrohir, “I know.”

And he found that he did know, that the answer was there, was just there, when -

Elrohir woke up in a cold sweat, with Elladan standing above him.

“Finally,” muttered Elladan. “I have been calling your name for ages to try to rouse you.”

Elrohir gave him a bit of a blank stare for a moment before closing his eyes with a sigh. He had almost had it; he had been so close. “No,” he groaned. If only he had been allowed another second! Why did Elladan have to wake him? “I was so close...”

Elladan fixed him with a curious stare. “So close to what, Elrohir? Get out of bed or I shall go hunting without you.”

Reluctantly, Elrohir opened his eyes and sat up. “I almost had it figured out, Elladan! I almost knew what it meant...”

“Oh. The dream.”

What else? “Yes, the dream. Now will you move so that I can get up and dressed?”

---

The hunt that day was unsuccessful. The brothers had only been out for an hour or so when a very violent thunderstorm sprung up, thoroughly drenching them and threatening to chill, if they did not escape it soon. The pantry could wait another day to be filled – though it was running a bit low, it was not yet empty – so they headed home, soaked through to the skin.

Elrond happened to be passing by as the twins stepped in the doorway; he paused in his stride to raise an eyebrow at their sodden appearance. “It is nearly time for dinner,” he told them. The corners of his mouth quirked into a smile. “You may wish to change before you flood the whole household.”

Elrohir and Elladan headed upstairs to their rooms to do so, trading their rain-soaked hunting clothes for fancy formal robes. Celebrían was leaving in the morning for an extended visit to Lórien and tonight's dinner was special, in her honor; they had to look their best.

The evening went splendidly, with those gathered telling jokes and tales and singing songs long into the night. It was well after midnight when Elrohir, tired from the day's exertion and having had more than a little wine, finally rose to go to bed.

He had just turned to his mother, to wish her good night, when a chill came over him, as though there were a draft in the Hall. How odd. He looked about to see if anyone else had noticed it, but they appeared not to have, so he shrugged it off, saying his good-nights and heading to bed.

Elrohir slept well that night, and woke up in the morning to join the rest of the household in seeing his mother off. He still felt a bit of a chill, and pulled on a heavier robe than those normally worn at this time of year before he headed outside. Elladan gave him an odd look, but said nothing.

They headed outside, to the gates and the path where Celebrían's party stood waiting. Families embraced, murmuring goodbyes, and then the Lady Celebrían raised her hand in farewell and she and her company rode away.

Elrohir began heading in. He and Elladan would be resuming the hunt today, and before that he had arrows that needed fletching and bowstrings that needed plaiting. He had nearly reached the entryway when a sudden dizziness overtook him. He put his hand to his temple, and shook his head to try to clear it, thinking for a moment that he might retch, and then the feeling was gone as suddenly as it began.

Elladan, who had been behind him, put a hand on his brother's shoulder. “Are you all right?”

He shook his head again, waved a hand. “Fine.”

Elladan surveyed him with narrowed eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes; I am fine.” He was not sure what had just happened, but he felt well enough now. There was no need for concern, surely.

The rest of the morning passed without incident. Elrohir still felt slightly chilled, as he had upon waking, but he had no further dizzy spells. After finishing his tasks, he gathered his hunting gear and met up with Elladan in the courtyard, shortly after noon.

“Ready?” Elladan asked him, and Elrohir nodded in response, when-

Peril.

Naneth surrounded by orcs and all around a battle – arrows and blades and spears and hideous creatures, fel things of death! Spilt blood and broken blades and a poisoned wound -

He gasped; all the air had left his lungs, replaced by a crushing coil of pain.

“Elrohir?” Elladan was leaning in, his hand on his brother's arm, worried, but Elrohir couldn't answer him, couldn't breathe, could barely see anything other than the horrific tableau in his mind, all grotesquely twisted faces and gore and slaughter. He fell to his knees, hands at his temples and eyes opened too wide, wishing he could make it stop, could unsee -

“Elrohir?” Elladan had followed him down, now kneeling beside him. “Elrohir, what is wrong?”

He shook his brother's arm, trying to get a reaction, but Elrohir could only shake his head in response, mouthing wordlessly, knowing that he should say something but lacking both the air to speak and the coherence of thought to say anything at all.

“I am going to get Ada.” Elladan's voice rose higher than its normal pitch as he tried to stay calm. He didn't know what was happening to his twin, but knew that it was bad.

He ran to Elrond's study, where he found his father at a desk, poring over some obscure map. The Elf-Lord looked up when his son entered, brows furrowing when he saw how flustered Elladan was. “What is it?”

“It – Ada – there is something wrong with Elrohir! He fell in the courtyard– I – you need to go to him, now!” He didn't know what else to say, and anxiously took one step out of the doorway, impatient to return to his brother.

Elrond had risen from his chair even before Elladan had finished speaking his first sentence, and together they ran out to the courtyard, to find the fallen twin.

Elrohir had curled up into a ball now, his forehead resting on his knees. His hands still clutched at his temples; he was rocking slightly back and forth, there on the ground.

Elrond hurried to his son. He knelt on the smooth stones beside him, putting a hand on Elrohir's shaking shoulder. “Elrohir?” he asked softly, “Elrohir, what happened?”

Elrohir gave a choked-off whimper and shook his head. The images wouldn't stop, wouldn't stop. No matter how much he tried to make them do so, they stayed there in his head, displaying themselves over and over.

He felt his father's hand rub his shoulder, gently, and then the hand moved underneath his chin, to lift his face so that he could look Elrond in the eyes. Seeing him there helped; he found that he could push the horrible pictures a little bit away, could begin edging them out of his mind.

“Elrohir, tell me what is wrong.” The Elf-Lord's voice was gentle, but firm, and Elrohir found that it removed enough of the twisted sickness in his head to allow him to speak.

“A-Ada.” He locked his gaze on his father's. Elrond would know what to do. He had centuries of experience healing, fixing people. He would know what this was, would surely know how to make it stop.

Elrond nodded. “Yes, Elrohir. I am here. You need to tell me what is wrong. What has happened to you?”

The younger of the twins took in a shuddery breath. “ Ada, I – in my head – I -” Thinking of it made the images, the horrible ghastly scene, flare up again, and he brought his hands to his temples and dropped his gaze, closing his eyes tightly as though that would make it all go away.

“You what?” Elrond kept his voice gentle, hoping to calm Elrohir to the point where he could talk about what was happening. It worried him, as he had never seen such an affliction come upon his son before, and hoped that when Elrohir managed to tell him what was wrong he would be able to find a way to fix it.

Two thin lines of tears trailed from the corners of Elrohir's tightly closed eyes. His voice rose in a desperate cry, breath coming fast and shallow. “I am seeing things!”

Seeing things? That only added to his worry. People didn't generally suffer from such an ailment so suddenly, and without a direct cause – Elrohir suffered from no head injuries, had never been in a battle that might have affected his mind. This was not good. “What sort of things?”

Elrohir tried to tell him, tried to put the horrible pictures into words, but it only made them worse. Thinking on it only made them more intense, more real. Oh, there was no possible way they could be real; nothing could be that awful... He merely shook his head and curled up into a tighter ball.

“What sort of things, Elrohir?”

The younger of the two twins shook his head again, and Elrond decided that a change of environment might be in order. Elrohir might be more comfortable inside, might relax enough to speak. He needed to speak, to say what exactly he was seeing, or Elrond wouldn't be able to help him.

Elrond looked up at Elladan, who was standing cross-armed above them, his face the picture of anxiety. “We should get him inside. Help me, please.”

To Elrohir, he murmured, “Come, Elrohir, we are going to go inside. Can you stand?”

It was a moment before Elrohir responded, and Elrond wondered if perhaps they would have to carry him inside, but then he began to uncurl himself. With the help of Elrond's hand on his arm he rose shakily to his feet, but stood falteringly, unable to move forward. Elladan put an arm round his brother's shoulders, to help steady him, and then like that they were able to walk inside.

Elrond's study was the closest non-public room. He and Elladan led Elrohir to a comfortable chair, there, and Elrohir sat down, hunching over and wrapping his arms about himself. The messy tear-tracks on his cheeks glistened, still, but the walk to the study had helped him break away from the horror in his head. When Elrond knelt next to him, he made eye contact briefly before looking away and squeezing shut his eyelids.

He put a hand on Elrohir's arm, squeezed it gently to try to keep his son focused on the outside world, and not on what was going on inside his mind. “Elrohir, I promise you I will do my best to help you but before I can I need you to tell me what you see.”

At last, a broken answer came from the younger twin's lips. “I see orcs.”