This is a plotless little fic as a present to all my friends, especially to Silivren Tinu, who kept me well supplied with plot bunnies and food for the plot bunnies even when the muses were utterly and absolutely refusing to cooperate.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Summary: The night before the battle at the Black Gate, three Elves prepare for what is to come. Characters: Legolas, Elladan and Elrohir, with a brief appearance by Aragorn.

Many thanks to my wonderful beta, Calenlass, for her work on this.

Eve of Battle

Elladan looked up at the stars, wondering if this was the last time he would see them.

The next day the small company marching from Minas Tirith would reach the Black Gate. The next day they would make their last, desperate charge in defence of the freedom of Middle-earth.

The next day they would probably die.

So much had changed in just a few years. Estel, the young boy they had taken in and raised as their brother, was now a grown Man, one who could no longer stand among the youth of the Eldar. He had chosen his destiny and taken his place as King of Gondor, and, much as they might want it, there would be no returning to the days when he had dwelt in oblivious happiness in the halls of Elrond.

On reflection, Elladan realized that, in fact, he did not want that. He could not deny that it would be pleasant, but he could also not deny that Estel – Aragorn – was not an Elf but a Man, a valiant Man and a brave one, who deserved to take his place among the great kings. He would not be happy among Elves, not once he realized what they were truly like.

Because Estel, Elladan knew, had never known how Elves lived when they could live as they pleased. He had been brought up in an Imladris that had already known sorrow and loss, he had been brought up in a house of high deeds and noble battles, where the glories of the Noldor and their mighty victories were sung night after night in the Hall of Fire. He had been brought up in a world that was as close to the world of Men as Elves could get – and that was even including Mirkwood.

Elladan glanced over at Legolas. There were no trees nearby, so the young archer had done the best he could, vaulting gracefully onto a high spit of granite to put himself closer to the stars. For once, the Dwarf was not with him. No doubt he had refused to be lifted onto that narrow outcropping, and Elladan doubted that he could have climbed up on his own.

The Elves of Mirkwood, unprotected by magic rings, had had difficult lives for centuries, but they were even further removed from Mortal lives than the Noldor. They traded with Men and, if requested, provided them safe conduct through the forest, but they had very little to do with them. Legolas had ridden at the head of his father's archers countless times, but they were Elven archers, preternaturally fast, untiring, in strength and speed and grace far surpassing the most experienced of mortal bowmen.

Estel knew more of Elves than any mortal living did, and yet he knew nothing of Elves. He knew nothing of how they lived in times of peace, endless hours and days and weeks of music, of dancing beneath the stars with no thought to the passing months, of conversations that could begin in January and last till November. Elladan knew, dimly, that Estel would never be happy with that life. There was too much in him that needed to be up and doing.

Elladan understood: he had felt that urge to action himself, if far more faintly. Yet he and Elrohir had known their choice from the moment Arwen had made hers. They could not leave their parents childless.

Elrohir had drawn off on his own as well. He was sitting atop a large boulder, mirroring Legolas' posture almost exactly, although neither of them had realized it.

Elladan sighed. It had been so long.

It was a sign of his own mixed blood, and perhaps of the contact he had long had with the men of Númenor, that he thought of it that way. How many generations of Men had come and gone since the Dagorlad? Aragorn berated himself with Isildur's weakness, yet Isildur was a distant enough ancestor that even if it was a weakness of the blood, there was little to worry about.

For that matter, most of the Men who fought under Aragorn's banner today probably had ancestors who had faced Sauron under Elendil's. But they did not know it, and Estel did. Would Aragorn have worried so much if he had not been told of his ancestry? Elladan did not know. He was proud of his foster-brother: he was a Man, a King, and what more could anyone ask of him? There was no sense in worrying too much about what might have been.

Yet he could sense his brother's worry, and Legolas', sharp and solid in the air. They alone of the company would fight the same field their fathers had fought. It was a battle whose approach they had recognized and dreaded for centuries.

Elladan cleared his throat. Softly. It was inaudible above the faint whisper of the wind, but Elrohir and Legolas both heard it. In almost the same instant, they leapt soundlessly to the ground. A moment later they were standing side by side before Elladan.

Elladan looked at them, feeling old and wise and responsible. He was only elder than Elrohir by a few minutes, true, but firstborn was firstborn, and he had centuries on Legolas.

"You are troubled."

He was not certain which of them he was addressing. Both, he supposed. It was Elrohir who answered.

"Are you not? It is an hour for doubt."

Elladan held out his hands. Elrohir responded first, stepping forward, taking Elladan's left hand and dropping to his knees. Legolas followed a moment later.

"We always knew this time would come. We face it as we hoped to: together, with a chance of victory however slim, and prepared to fight to the death." When that did not draw a smile from either Elf, he added, "And, to make matters even better, both of you have managed to acquire some basic battle skills in the interim. I will not need to be completely ashamed to stand with you."

That drew an unwilling laugh from Elrohir. Legolas said nothing. Elladan laid his hand lightly on the young Elf's head.

"You are worried about your home."

"I have no idea what is happening. We are too far – I have had no word, I cannot sense anything."

"I do not doubt that they miss you, Legolas. But you can do more good here than there. If the Quest fails, the outcomes of all other battles will cease to matter."

"I know."

"It may be that we ride into disaster," Elrohir said quietly. "It was a larger force the last time, and more powerful, and yet they lost."

"They won the battle."

"The Ring survived."

"We are fortunate, then, that this time the fate of the Ring is not in the hands of a warrior. You know the Halfling best, Legolas. Do you trust him?"

After a brief pause for thought, Legolas nodded. "If anyone can resist its power…"

"Elrohir?"

"Legolas is right. The Halfling has great strength of purpose. He will find a way."

"You trust Frodo Baggins and you doubt yourselves."

"Frodo is fit for his task."

"And you are fit for yours. There is a reason a Halfling was chosen to be Ring-bearer. No Elf, and in likelihood no Man, could have borne the Ring this long without being tempted by its power. You and Estel and Mithrandir, Legolas, were his companions for weeks and none of you attempted to take it from him: that is a feat in itself. In any case, none of us is called upon to cast the Ring into the fires of Orodruin. We are called upon to fight a battle. Do you tell me you are unfit for that?"

There was no answer.

"Elbereth, give me patience!" Elladan muttered. "Have you both lost your minds? Elrohir, you have spent centuries battling Orcs. Legolas, you were practically raised a warrior. I do not know what melancholy has infected the two of you this evening. Get up." Two pairs of startled eyes looked up at him. "Get up," Elladan repeated implacably. "The only thing wrong is that you have both had too much time to brood. Elrohir, go and get your sword. Legolas, your knives." They stared at him in disbelief. "Now!" Elladan barked.

By the time they returned, Elladan had located a flat, clear space they could use to spar. He beckoned them closer. They approached cautiously, exchanging glances, as though they were not quite certain he was serious.

"Come here," Elladan hissed, trying to sound like Glorfindel in a bad mood. He evidently succeeded, because Legolas and Elrohir stopped dawdling at once, running up to him and taking up guard positions on either side. "Clearly," Elladan told them, "the two of you have too much leisure. You can work off your excess energy now. Be careful: you are using sharpened blades. I want no blood." He stepped back and out of the way. "Begin."

Metal gleamed in the moonlight, blades flashing and meeting with the soft whisper of razor-sharp steel. Elrohir and Legolas were evenly matched: Elrohir was strong and skilful, one of the finest swordsmen in the Elven realms; Legolas was not as powerful but he was just a hair faster, with the uncannily keen senses of the Elves of the Woodland Realm.

They were being slower than usual out of caution: they were using their regular weapons instead of blunted practice blades, and they could not go into the next day's battle with injuries. But they were still putting up enough of a show to draw a crowd of interested observers from among the Men. Estel – Aragorn – came as well, as did Gimli and Éomer, who had been dicing by the light of one of the campfires. The watchers left a broad circle around the sparring Elves.

Elladan could tell that Elrohir and Legolas were aware of their audience, because they took greater care to stay in the middle of the circle to avoid any unfortunate accidents. But neither of them paid any attention to it, going at each other with a savage ferocity that several of the Men evidently found alarming.

Elladan did not let it go on too long: he had wanted them to work off the frustration of facing an uncertain battle, but he did not want to risk a careless stroke causing either of them to have to sit it out. As soon as he sensed that they were both calmer, he called, "Stop!"

Elrohir and Legolas stopped short. Neither of them was even out of breath, but Elladan saw that they both looked far less nervous than they had earlier.

They stepped back and bowed formally to each other before sheathing their blades.

As the crowd dissipated, Aragorn slipped to Elladan's side. "Glorfindel's cure for moping?" he asked in a low voice.

Elladan smiled in the direction of the two Elves now bickering amiably about which of them had scored more points in the sparring match.

"It works every time."

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