Torrigan stood looking at one of the great fires that gave the Hall of Fire its name. For a week he had been a guest at the Last Homely House, under the protection of Lord Elrond. He was well rested, garbed in the finery of a guest of Imladris; silks and soft linens of red and white. He had eaten and drank his fill every day since he had arrived and was well tended. He was granted everything he needed to be comfortable. Yet he was still unhappy.
From the moment he had settled down in his room in the Guest Quarters he felt discontent. The difficulty by which Denerick, Lore and he had found Rivendell had rankled him somewhat, for he wondered to himself, what help would come from those who hide themselves so well?
Days passed with little of note; days spent walking through the valley or talking with what elves he could. He spent his evenings with his companions, talking over what they had or hadn't been able to find. Occasionally he would glance at Lore, unable to stop himself. Ever would he remember the first few nights in Rivendell and the small, cold lake to the north of the Valley.
On one of his daily walks he came across an elf, standing alone on a hillside. Bright was his hair and keen his gaze, a gaze Torrigan could not match. The eyes of the elf were bright, but deep, ancient. Eyes that had seen the Lands across the Sea. Terrible and mighty was he; such a power that lay within. In Torrigan's mind's eye he saw a mighty figure, terrible and tall, garbed in white, with fire in his eyes and a crown of bright silver on his brow. Glorfindel was he, who had slain a Balrog and died himself, but was sent back to Middle-earth by the Valar before the Five Wizards. Torrigan could but utter a greeting before turning and slinking away, cowed as a dog before the leader of the pack.
Yet despite such chance meetings there was little else of luck. Every day Torrigan requested an audience with the Lord of the Vale. Ever was he told to come back tomorrow, for the Lord had other matters to attend to. He would spend such days by the fires in the Hall, or walking through the valley, much as he had done before.
One such day, spent at the long table in the Hall of Fire, he came across two elves and to his surprise a woman. Ephelwyn was she, dark of skin and hair. She caused such a ruckus with the elves that Torrigan felt he should leave the Hall. Murmering his fairwells to the small, white-haired and ever curious hobbit who he spoke with at times, he walked to the great door. As he left, he heard a whisper, "My Lord, over here." Beneath the walkway near the door stood a dwarf. Pale of skin and long of beard, with a wheezing voice and dark eyes. Rhim, he named himself. He begged Torrigan to follow him and he did; he was drawn by the flickering memory of a dream. Of what then happened will come in another tale...
Torrigan was eventually received by Lord Elrond. Proud and noble he stood, somehow looking down at Torrigan, despite Torrigan's greater height. Torrigan bowed and thanked his host. He told him why he had come, who is Captain was and what The Eagle Guard faced. Much had Lord Elrond already seen and understood, and he bade Torrigan sit beside him. Struggling to overcome his sense of awe, Torrigan asked if there was anything the elves of Rivendell could do, any help they might give. With great sadness in his eyes the great Elven Lord shook his head, saying only that the time of the elves was over and what strength they had had waned; what little remained was kept secret and used only in direst of needs. He spoke softly and not unkindly, telling Torrigan that the strength they sought had to be found in themselves, that "in the hands of Men dost lie the fate of this Middle-earth". He gave then a blessing to Torrigan and to the Eagle Guard, his words rang through his library, echoing with power, and Torrigan thought he saw in the hand of the Lord, a flicker of white light. Lord Elrond then stood and handed Torrigan a small chest. Within lay two flasks wrought of silver. Each carried a quart of clear liquid, miruvor, the cordial of the Elves. The Elven Lord bid Torrigan safe travels and with some sadness in his voice, said he would watch him and the Eagle Guard from afar.
With somewhat a heavy heart Torrigan and his companions packed their bags and bade farewell to the Last Homely House, and the Vale of Imladris. As they walked their newly shod horses along the Bridge of Rivendell they heard the soft singing of an elf. Looking across to the falls there stood Lord Glorfindel and an elven maid, with dark hair and unsurpassing beauty; verily she was as if Lúthien Tinúviel had come again. With the soft singing fading into the distance they came to the Ford of Bruinen. As Lore and Denerick followed in silence, Torrigan could not help but wonder, what strength lay in Men that did not in the Firstborn? Could they really defeat the Darkness in the North? How could they hope to defeat the Shadow of the Red Witch? He felt worried, doubtful, but hope flickered suddenly in his heart as he remembered the blessing of Lord Elrond and the Fire that burned within the Lord Glorfindel, and the dark malaise of doubt was lifted from his mind. He sat back in his saddle, with a small, confident smile and looked at the rising sun. He nodded and thought to himself, "By Helm, I could really do with a sandwich."
