The night after the Council did not bring Elrond any peace. Anxiety coiled like a snake around his heart, whispering of the fate of Middle-earth that rested fragilely on the shoulders of the nine chosen. In the silence, broken only by the rustling of leaves, he heard a soft, barely audible footstep outside his window. Was someone still awake? It was unlikely that it was one of the hobbits, weary from their long journey and the lavish hospitality they had received... they were most likely dreaming of honey cakes and green hills.

Elrond, silent as a shadow, rose from his bed and went to the open window. In the silver light of the moon that flooded the valley, he saw a figure crouched in a flowerbed filled with night-blooming flowers. It was a small elf. Elrond's heart was filled with wonder. He had not known that there were children of his people left in Rivendell. Leaving the chambers, he went down to the garden, approached the flower bed, and, kneeling down, spoke softly so as not to startle the young creature.

"What brings you here, little one, at this late hour?"