It was late in the evening when a young lad entered the Prancing Pony, catching the eyes of nearly every other patron within. He was used to such stares and mischievous attentions, and passed them by unflinchingly, searching through the crowd. Then finally he set eyes upon a stranger sight still: a wizard and a ranger sat across from one another, seemingly enjoying eachother's company.

Quietly he approached, wishing as he sometimes did that he could hide his boyish face. The slightest shadow of a beard brushed across his angular features, and though his hair hung long, he was noticeably slight, wide across the chest, but narrow through the hip.

As he neared the table slowly, for the first time he felt just a tad intimidated, realizing even as they sat that the ranger must be several inches taller than he.

"Are you lost, boy?" he poked from his spot at the table.

"You'll hold your tongue, human. I seek the counsel of the grey wizard."

Gandalf turned to examine the source of such rude commentary, and his eyes widened measurably as they fell upon the young man, his tankard of ale slamming hard upon the table as rivulets of the brew went cascading down his beard. The young caller only raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth gliding upward slightly.

"I was told you would recognize me," he offered in surprise, "but you look as though you have seen a ghost."

The wizard let out a gentle huff as he scanned the youngling up and down appraisingly, unable, it would seem, to believe his own eyes.

"Who are you?" he finally managed, still staring unabashedly.

"My origin is of no charge, master wizard," he said forcefully, uncomfortable releasing such information in the presence of the ranger. "I must speak with you."

"Not before you introduce yourself properly," Gandalf boomed in exasperation, taking another swig.

At this the new visitor gestured with his eyes towards the other, and was shortly informed that he was of the utmost character and posed no threat.

"Very well," he acquiesced. "I am Filigan, son of Kili of Erebor, and Tauriel, guardian of Greenwood. And I have urgent business, if it please you wizard."

"So it's true then," the ranger suddenly spoke up again. "Another daughter of the woodland has chosen a mate among men."

"Dwarves," corrected Gandalf. "And yes, it appears that she had."

The hooded figure's brow shifted with interest at the word "had."

"Has," Filigan informed, and at this the wizard dropped his pint to the table for a second time.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying, young man? That you are not the only heir of Durin that lives."

"Aye," he smiled proudly. "That is why I must speak with you."

"Take a seat," the ranger slid over and gestured, and as he did so a shining pendant slipped high across the neck of his shirt.

The dwarfling stood motionless, a knowing look beginning to spread across his face.

"You are the Dunedain that troubles Lord Elrond. "

As soon as the words left his mouth they were returned with an almost menacing glare.

"How is it you came upon such information, boy?"

"From the lips of the Evenstar, straight to my ears."

Now the ranger's expression softened, try as he might to maintain an authoritative air.

"You have come into her confidence?" He almost sounded... jealous.

"Had elves not the ability to form friendships with dwarves, I wouldn't be standing in front of you now," he answered.

It was a point well made, and finally as the ranger's trepidation faded, the half-dwarf-half-elf took a seat at the table beside him.

"Did you find her well?" he asked cautiously, staring into his ale. "When last you saw her."

The avoidance of eye contact, the anxious tone said it all. And for a moment, the young man let down his guard, unable to help himself from being touched by borrowed sorrow.

"Very," he replied, "but for a sickness of the heart."

The ranger turned to look at him, a loaded expression, and he went on in earnest.

"Many nights I have walked with your lady in the garden, wrapt in attention as she speaks in secret whispers, of you. I confess there are times when I have found myself jealous."

"Jealous?" the ranger's interest piqued.

"Aye. The look in her eyes when she almost says your name; I have seen it before, in the eyes of my mother when my father is away. It is a look of longing and compassion to be sure, but also of sadness, anxiety, and fear. The type of rare and precious love that can only be felt for a mortal, by an immortal. Deep, unwavering, a mixture of profound happiness, and the looming anticipation of a decimating loss."

"Your elven mother was a poet," the human postured as he took a sip from his cup.

"No," the youngling snickered. "A warrior, through and through."

"Then you speak of things you are too young to understand."

"Oi!" he retorted. "Bite your tongue! I am the half-blood son of an elf."

The ranger looked to Gandalf in silent questioning, and he nodded as the boy confirmed his suspicions.

"I may look like a boy, but if anyone knows that such looks are deceiving, it should be you."

"Then this counsel, son of Durin," the wizard interrupted. "What is it that I can do for you?"

"Well..."

Authors Note: First off, I'd like to thank Nanoute1321 and Amber85 for all their sweet reviews. You guys rock! Secondly, sorry I pulled a Sopranos on everybody, but the unanswered questions might leave room for a sequel in the future, maybe. And thirdly, I know I took some artistic liberties with my tie-ins here, but I hope that you still found it enjoyable. To everybody who read all the way through: I hope you liked it, and thanks for the love. :)