Disclaimer: I own only Daeglir, Blackfinger and Aeleth. All other characters, and all places belong to Tolkien.

The wind howled angrily through the dark night as rain poured down on Rivendell, accented by lightning bolts that seared the rolling black mass of cloud obscuring the sky. Everyone in the valley was inside the House of Elrond, and conditions were cramped.

Seated at his desk in his study, Elrond shivered, using his hand to shield the guttering flame of the candle he was writing by. He glanced over his shoulder at the wizard standing behind him, poking at the inadequate fire in the hearth.

“Do you have anything to use for kindling, Elrond?” asked Gandalf the Grey, noticing the elf’s dubious look.

Elrond crumpled the parchment he had just been writing on, tossed it to his friend and grabbed a fresh sheet. Gandalf nodded, shoving the parchment deep into the embers with the end of his staff and watching as it ignited.

“I doubt I’ve seen a darker storm,” the wizard remarked conversationally.

“It’s certainly one of the darker ones,” Elrond replied, frowning over his work. “That won’t do,” he muttered to himself, scrunching up his second attempt.

“What are you working on?” inquired Gandalf, looking up from the hearth.

“Paperwork,” the elf sighed, scowling at the stack of forms on his desk. “As usual.”

“You shouldn’t let it pile up,” said a deep female voice from the doorway.

Elrond smiled wryly as his mother-in-law gracefully entered the room. “What do you know about paperwork, Galadriel? I can hardly see you poring over a desk for hours on end.”

The Lady of Lothlórien laughed. “That may be owing to the shortage of desks in Caras Galadhon.”

Elrond frowned, casually changing the subject. “I’ve heard news that there is a band of Corsair ships heading north to Mithlond.”

“Corsairs?” repeated Gandalf.

Elrond nodded. “Apparently they sailed past Belfalas, heading north up the coast. It’s very unusual for them to venture so far north. They might pose a threat to the elves; they seem to be the Corsairs’ target.”

“How far are they from the haven?” Galadriel wanted to know.

Elrond opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again as a strong wind extinguished his candle and caused it to wobble. Elrond, reaching out to steady it, received a drop of very hot, molten wax on his finger.

“Blast,” the half-elf muttered, cringing in pain as he waited for the wax to cool. Peeling the congealed stuff away from his finger, he flicked it into the fireplace.

The wind howled again, and he shuddered, feeling a sudden wild urge to get up and walk out in the storm, with the wind in his ears and nothing else mattering. He glanced around at his two comrades, noticing the odd, dreamy looks on both their faces.

Slowly Elrond’s eyes unfocused. His senses blurred and bled into a grey haze; all he could hear was the wind wailing, calling him. To what destination or purpose, he didn’t know. But something told him to heed the summons.

He rose, moving toward the door as if lost in the velvety haze of a trance. Galadriel and Gandalf followed silently behind. The three of them strode out into the dark heart of the storm.

Elrond revelled in the feeling of the wind. It whipped through his hair and screamed in his ears, and he suddenly wished that he was not an elf, but something as light as a single leaf, able to be carried by the slightest breeze. He wished for freedom.

Rain poured down on the trio, soaking them to the bone. Galadriel didn’t care. The icy wetness crept softly down her skin, as though it was trying to wash her body and all her worries away. She wanted to let it continue… she wanted serenity.

Gandalf was blind to all but the lightning. Those jagged, blinding flashes scarring the sky, sizzling with raw power. If ever one dared kiss a tree or shrub, its might would be awesome to behold, as flames arose to feed. He wanted that power.

The tempest rose to a whirling climax of wind and rain, pierced by shafts of lightning like swords of white flame. The three friends, caught in its midst, were powerless to stop it.

The wind roared to Elrond, demanding an answer to its summons.

The rain drenched Galadriel, every droplet whispering seductively to her.

The lightning challenged Gandalf, daring him to rival its might.

Their answers came, all three at once.

Yes.

There was a howl, a torrent, a flash…

…then nothing.