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Chapter One:  New Day's Dawn
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     THE SILENT FIGURE SAT bent over in her workshop, curling thin silver metal around a precious stone of sapphire. Her hands shook with the slightest of tremors as she held the circlet, but she had learned to ignore it...most of the time. Dull emerald eyes studied the woven glittering metal with dissatisfaction. A frown drawn across her ageless features as she noted every single imperfection. The sapphire should have been larger to look any good. Imperfections marred the silver like scars. There was a slight bend in the shape that made it rather unsightly; such a mistake only a novice would make. She was no novice.

     The elf breathed out a sigh of disappointment and set the misshapen circlet down on her workbench. Perhaps she was overreacting; the flaws were minor and could be fixed. But it had been Naerien's sixth attempt to create something of beauty in the past few weeks. No amount of painstaking care pushed into her work had resulted in her desired outcome: something beautiful. She never made anything beautiful anymore, so she was not quite sure why she tried anymore.

     The gentle, flickering lights of a dozen candles illuminated her workshop and crept into the attached living room. She had no energy to put them all out, rather desiring to let them melt into nothing. Scattered among her tools were shavings of silver and a small pile of sapphires. With dismay, she rose to her feet to clean up the failed project. It is for the best, Naerien decided. The sapphires glittered in her eyes as she collected them into her palm and returned them to their proper place. She moved to a small desk in the corner of her workshop filled with small clear drawers. Within them were rubies, emeralds, topaz, amethyst, garnet, and diamonds (though she rarely touched those now).

     Her eyes swept over the materials, her mind filled with dismay over their disuse. She knew how disappointed her family would have been to see the empty state of her workshop. In the growing shadows, she swore she could see her grandfather. There was a displeased frown etched into his stony features. His grey eyes were sharp as he scrutinized every centimeter of the space. When they locked eyes, he evaporated as though his form were a candle snuffed out. Naerien was the last member of her House still among the living, mortal realm. After many, many years, she still felt shadowed by the withered branches of her family tree.

     Not for the first time, and not for the last, she feared, Naerien left her workshop dissatisfied. Her mood was as dark as the night that surrounded her, something hollow growing in her chest. It was not an unfamiliar feeling, nor was it a welcome one. She had become numb to the grief, she had thought. But every once in a while it would tug on her soul like a blade struggling to free itself from flesh and sinew.

     She shut the doors to the shop but hesitated to take her hands off the brass handle. She sighed, and with a small shake of her head she left it behind. She had no desire to step foot in room any time in the near future. The sight of her grandfather's ghost unsettled her enough.

     The Ñoldor elf stepped out onto her balcony, the fabric of her river blue dress billowing in the gentle caress of the breeze. She braced her hands against the railing and looked out over the Valley of Imladris. The crescent moon's pale light was too gentle and too kindly to overtake the shadows of the night. It would take days for it to build up the strength on its own. For that evening, the fires of lanterns and torches lit by the elves would bolster the light.

     It was to be a night as all other nights were in Imladris: warm and calm, though not quiet. The soft voices of young elves rose up into the air, songs of the ocean and the moon coming on the wind. It was a serene, beautiful place, but Naerien's mind did not love the silence. It desired something, so it filled itself with memories. Memories of war and blood and death and dragon fire.

     "Naerien!" The hushed voice of a young boy cut through her spiraling thoughts, an answer to a prayer she had not uttered. She peered down to the path leading up to her small cabin and spotted a small figure waving up at her. He was the son of men, a head of messy brown hair sticking up in all directions and clear blue eyes. Yet he wore the ornate but practical dress the elves of Imladris were fond of. Despite the dark haze that had filled her mind, the Lady of Sorrow managed a small smile.

     "What are you doing here, child?" She inquired, leaning over the railing to get a better look at the boy. But he had already gone. She turned from the balcony and ventured back into her living room. She made it halfway across the space when her front door opened without a sound. The child darted inside and shut the door behind him. Panting, he spun around and ran up to her, arms wrapping around her legs. She asked her question once again, giving him a pat on the back.

     He released her and craned his neck to meet her waiting gaze. "I must hide, Adathêl," he told her, still in his urgent, hushed voice. She had no desire to correct him on the name he had given her. She was not a sister of Lord Elrond, his foster father, and therefore not the child's aunt. But he had said it with such confidence that she had not the heart to correct him.

     "Estel," she sighed, hands folding across her chest, "what trouble have you gotten into now?"

     "Ada mustn't know!" He insisted, tugging at her skirts. "He would have me clean the stables if he found out it was me!"

     "Estel," she warned, arching an eyebrow.

     The boy's shoulders slumped, a look of guilt passing over his childish features. "I...I broke it."

     "Broke what?" Naerien probed, moving to the lounge sitting near the large windows. He followed her, climbing up to sit beside her. He did not meet her inquiring gaze.

     "One of the statues in the gardens," he admitted, ducking his head. "I was practicing my sword fighting and I swung too hard. Before I could stop, the blade went right through his legs, and he broke apart."

     "I was under the impression that you were not to be touching a sword," she said, arching an eyebrow. "Your mother thinks you too young, Estel."

     "I'm not!" He protested, head whipping up to meet her eyes. "I'm ten years old now, Adathêl. I am strong enough to hold a sword."

     "It is not a matter of strength, child," she corrected, shaking her head. "It is the fact that your mother forbade it, and you are going against her wishes."

     "How am I supposed to become a great warrior like Elladan and Elrohir if I do not practice?" He demanded. The boy had been spending too much time around Elrond's twin sons. Perhaps she needed to speak to him about that.

     Naerien parted her lips to give him an answer, only to find she did not have one. She closed her mouth. She instead ran her fingers through his messy brown hair in an attempt to tame it. "Estel...you have much time yet to become a great knight. And besides, knights are more than swords. They have a code."

     "What code?" He asked, allowing her to groom him as she spoke. His eyelids fluttered for a moment, her gentle actions casting a sleeping spell on him.

     "Well, to begin with, they are chivalrous and respectful to all, even their opponents."

     "What does chivalrous mean?" He mumbled.

     "It means courteous and honorable," she explained. "A knight and a warrior must be honorable above all, or else he is not a knight. And, to be honorable is to also honor your mother when she gives you instruction."

     "But — "

     "Estel," she cut him off, tugging on the ends of his hair so that he would look up at her. When she knew she had his attention, she continued, "does your mother love you?"

     "Yes," he replied without hesitation, nodding. There was a frown of confusion forming on his youthful face.

     "And you love your mother?"

     "Yes, of course."

     "Then, because you love her, you would know that she knows what is best for you, correct? And that part of loving her means respecting her wishes for you?"

     This time, Estel did hesitate, frowning. "...oh. Yes, I guess so."

     "Well, I know," she said, brushing his cheek. "Your mother loves you more than anything in this life. She would do anything to ensure a good life for you. But you must not undermine her by disobeying her wishes, Estel."

     "I'm sorry, Adathêl," he mumbled, face reddening in shame. In the early light of the moon, she could see his blue eyes become glassy with fresh tears.

     "Do not apologize to me, child, you must go to your mother and Lord Elrond." She drew him into her lap and wrapped him in an embrace. He dropped his head into her chest with a sniff, his small frame curling up like a feline. "I understand that you wish to be a warrior, and one day, I believe you will be."

     "Really?" He squeaked, pulling back to stare into her eyes. She studied the child of man, how young he was. He had seen so little of the world. If he had, perhaps he would not be so eager to wield a sword.

     Naerien nodded. "Yes. But not yet. You are only ten years old, Estel. You have many years ahead of you. You need not pick up a blade just yet." She paused, letting her words sink into his mind. He did not offer any words of reply, but nodded. She grabbed him under his arms and lifted him from the settee and set him on the ground. He laughed, eyes scrunching with the joy only a child could possess. "Now, shall we explain to Lord Elrond what has happened?"

     Sudden fear crossed Estel's face, but he swallowed and nodded. He lifted his chin high and clenched his fist as though preparing for battle. For him, she supposed it was just as serious a matter. "Yes."

     Naerien nodded in approval, rising to her feet. "Let's go."

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     Estel had taken Naerien by the hand and dragged her across Imladris and to the reading room of Lord Elrond. They found him seated at a magnificent wooden desk, an ancient scroll in his hands. Upon hearing their entry, he glanced up. When he saw who stood before him, hand-in-hand, he set down the scroll and stood.

     "Am I correct to assume that my ward has gotten into some trouble once again?" He asked, his kind but regal voice a song of subtle authority. "What has he done to bother you so late in the evening, Naerien?" She could sense the warm humor in his voice, but Estel huddled closer to the she-elf, fearful.

     "You are correct, Hîr Nín¹," she nodded to the Lord of the House with a respectful bow. She rested her hand on Estel's back and nudged him forward. "Estel, tell him; it's alright."

     The boy stepped forward and fumbled with his words, but managed to explain his predicament to the Lord of Imladris in a way that was coherent. Elrond knelt before the child and placed a hand on his shoulder, speaking in soft, kind words. Of course, he understood the child's desire to wield a sword, and found no fault in Estel for breaking the statue. He was a child, after all.

     "It is only stone, Estel," he said. "Stone can be sculpted again. And besides," he gave his ward a quick wink, "I was never too fond of that statue in the first place." That earned him a giggle from the boy.

     Elrond rose to his feet and instructed Estel to find Gilraen, his mother, and explain to her as well what had happened. Though apprehensive, the talk with his foster father bolstered his courage. He bowed to the Elf Lord, then embraced Naerien tight. After a moment of hesitation at the door, he disappeared to find his mother.

     "Thank you, Hîr Nín," the elf maiden said after a moment of silence, offering him a bow. "I apologize to have disturbed your evening."

     Elrond smiled. "It should be I thanking you, Naerien. I am not surprised he came to you with this; he is quite fond of you."

     "I haven't a clue why," she hummed, though she could bolster little humor in her words. "I do not wish to disrupt you further. Good evening." She bowed and made to leave, but he stopped her with a word.

     "Please, stay for a moment," he offered, folding his hands before him. She paused, turning back to face him. "There is a matter I have been meaning to discuss with you."

     "What is it?"

     "I have received word that Imladris will receive visitors in two days' time," he informed her. "I would like you to accompany Lindir and I as we host them."

     She could not help the frown that soured her polite curiosity. Gone were the days where she spoke to many outside of Elrond and Estel (who never did give her much of a choice in the matter). The polite formalities her former life had taught her were not forgotten, of course. But like a simple weapon of men abandoned on a battlefield, they had rusted.

     "Mithrandir is arriving," Elrond continued, "and with him he brings the dwarves of Erebor." His voice mirrored the gentle care on his face and in his eyes held the compassion of an elf who knew her better than anyone of the living realm.

     Naerien drew her arms across her chest, fingers tracing the healed scars that marred the skin of her forearms. The memory of dragon fire sent gooseflesh unwelcome across her skin. "I see," was all she could think of to say. She did not know what to say.

     "I doubt Thorin Oakenshield and his company will readily accept Mithrandir's word that we are not enemies," Elrond spoke after a pause. His voice drew her out of the memories flashing behind her eyes. "I know no one better to convince them of our goodwill. You knew Thorin; he will remember you." For a reason she could not explain, the way he spoke pulled up a sudden anger from her soul.

     "He knew Celebrenon," she snapped. She had not meant to, and her eyes widened in horror. But there was only grace and understanding on Lord Elrond's ageless face. Naerien bowed her head, her heart twisting with pain within her rib cage. The anger subsided, but did not evaporate. "I do not think he will remember our limited interactions."

     "Do not give yourself so little faith, Naerien," urged the Elf Lord. "I have a feeling that he and his kin will trust you."

     "If you wish for me to speak with them, then I shall," she replied after a moment. Her voice had gone monotone with dull obedience. She would do so only because he had asked her to. They had known each other for as long as she could recall. Lord Elrond Half-Elven had been good friends with her father. They had fought side-by-side in the War of the Last Alliance, when the armies of Sauron had slaughtered her kin. He had watched her grow up and become much like her grandfather. He had sent Alassaran and Celebrenon off from Imladris, only for Naerien to return in their stead.

     "Mellonmell nín²," he murmured, stepping closer to her to rest a hand on her shoulder. He had the gentle touch of a dear friend. With no choice but to look up toward him, she lifted her eyes to hold his gaze. "If you cannot bear to see Thorin Oakenshield, then do not. I do not desire to cause you any more pain."

     "They arrive the day after tomorrow, do they not?" She asked after a moment, taking a small step back to release herself from his touch; Elrond nodded. "Then may I have tomorrow to think about it?"

     "Of course, Naerien," he said without a moment of hesitation.

     "Annon allen³." She murmured her gratitude and excused herself. She found herself regretting everything she had said in response to his request with each step back to her cabin. When she entered her living room, she could do nothing but pace, eyes darting about without much purpose.

     She should have turned him down, denied the request as soon as he had uttered the words. But she had not, and she resigned herself to pacing in a circle, fingers itching at her scars. Did she not owe it to Lord Elrond, for his unending compassion? Naerien could not count the number of times he had saved her life in every possible way she could imagine. He had done everything for her, and she was skeptical of her worthiness of his actions.

     Surely, she could do one thing for him, could she not? She had the training of an emissary, knew how to use her words to forge alliances. Celebrenon had, of course, possessed a far greater talent for it. But that did not make her useless in that regard. She stopped pacing and rubbed her face in building frustration. Her fingers came back wet with tears, she observed with momentary surprise. She could not recall the last time she had shed tears after her brother's death.

     In the corner of the room sat a wooden chest, intricate carvings swirled into the wood. Naerien had not approached it in two centuries, fearing what lay within it. She threw her unsteady gaze at it as she stepped forward, almost as though she anticipated a trap. But her fingers did not burn on the metal latch and no horrible beast lunged for her throat as she lifted the lid.

Reverence had gone into the organization of the contents within. Two small, wooden boxes inlaid with intricate carvings stacked against the back corner. Beside them was a toolbox filled with various equipment Naerien had not touched in ages. Hammers of varying sizes and weights, tongs, chisels, and other handmade tools without names filled the toolbox. She looked over the tools to the other side of the chest. She lifted an item wrapped in soft linen and freed it from the fabric.

     A once-beautiful scabbard of burned leather and iron revealed itself in her hands, hiding within it a shining sword. Dragon fire had not burned the blade itself, but the hilt had fared no better than the scabbard. The blade had a slight curve at the point, while a thin line of an engraved pattern curled on its path to the hilt. As she rose to her feet, she noticed the uncomfortable weight of it, the balance of the blade not quite to her liking. It had not been her sword, so she was not surprised it felt strange in her hand.

     A whisper so faint in her ear that it felt more like a memory made her jump. "You were never satisfied with my craftsmanship..."

     Naerien spun around, blade held aloft, but she was still alone. "Why must you haunt me?" She demanded into the empty air. "Have you not moved on?" She received no answer, and the silenced pressed in on her. Perhaps the answer was already hidden in her heart, lodged in like the broken shard of a sword. It would be agony to dig it out.

     The elf looked back to her brother's sword, fingers tracing the engravings on the cross guard. Her lips curled into a faint, doleful smile. At least dragon fire had not burned that detail away. Naerien lifted the sword and the metal caught the gaze of the rising sun through the East-facing windows of her cabin. A new day's dawn has arrived, she mused as the light filled her eyes.

     "Things would be far simpler if you were still here instead of I," she murmured, tracing the elegant curve of the unsharpened edge. She sighed and sheathed the sword with a slow, reverent movement. In the corner of her eye, she spotted a familiar figure in the shrinking shadows of her home. She turned to him, but he had never been there in the first place.

     "For you," she said, lifting her chin to watch the sun rise. "I shall do it for you."

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Sindarin Translations:
(1) "my lord"
(2) "my dear friend"
(3) "thank you"

a/n: finally, chapter one is out 😅 I may put forward a "one chapter a week" schedule for updating, just because my week is so darn busy as of late. Luckily, this means I can be rather consistent with this story, unlike most other times.

I do hope you like the rewrite so far!! I am pretty pleased with it, especially the small changes between lil Aragorn and Naerien. Please lmk your thoughts, I'd love to talk with y'all 🥰✨