Beneath the silvered canopy of Imladris, where the Bruinen murmurs its ancient song and the dusk-light filters soft upon leaf and stone, a small but steadfast company gathered at the bidding of Lord Elrond Half-elven. They were elves of Rivendell, tall and fair as the beech-trees whose roots clung to the hidden valley, warriors whose long years had shaped them into quiet masters of bow and blade alike. Clad in mail that shimmered golden like sunset caught in water, they stood as the ageless sentinels of the Last Homely House east of the Sea.

At their head stood Elladan and Elrohir, the Sons of Elrond, alike in face and form so that only keen sight could tell one from the other; yet in bearing they differed as dusk from dawn. Elladan, stern and solemn, bore the weight of long watchfulness, for the shadows had deepened in the outlands and he trusted not the silence beyond the borders. Elrohir’s eyes, bright with both sorrow and mirth, flickered as if kindled by the hope he strove ever to keep alive amidst the gathering dark. Side by side they walked, for seldom did one ride without the other—twin guardians bound by a grief older than many realms of Men, and by a purpose no less enduring than the mountains that ringed their home.

It was whispered in the halls that tidings of foul movement had come from the north; rumour of goblin stirrings beneath the cold stones of the Misty Mountains, and darker whispers still of servants of the Enemy slipping through forgotten paths. Thus the small company was mustered, not as an army seeking war, but as a swift and secret spear cast into the wild.

Among them were archers, their bows of polished yew strung with hair finer than any mortal craft could fashion. They bore quivers feathered in white and grey, and their keen elven eyes missed no trembling leaf nor shifting shadow. Where they passed, no twig broke beneath their tread, yet their arrows flew with the power of the western winds.

Beside them marched spearmen, their long-shafted weapons crowned with leaf-shaped blades wrought in the forges of Rivendell. These warriors stood as the quiet wall against which the wrath of the enemy would shatter like waves upon the sea. Their shields gleamed with subtle carvings of star and river, a memory of peace they swore to guard with their lives.

And amidst them strode the swordsmen of Imladris, swift as coursing streams and deadly as winter’s first frost. Their blades, slender and shining, had tasted the malice of Orc-kind more than once and would do so again ere long.

Thus Elladan spoke to them as the late sun touched the peaks with gold:
“War comes creeping, though we seek it not. Yet Rivendell shall not be taken unawares while we draw breath. Let us go now with quiet resolve, for there are foes abroad who think the night their only ally.”

And Elrohir added, “Fear not the road, my friends. Though the world grows dim, the stars are not yet veiled; and where the stars shine, we shall not falter.”

With that, the company passed from the hidden valley, slipping like pale shadows into the deepening twilight. No horns sounded, for theirs was a mission of vigilance rather than glory. Yet though their numbers were few, the strength of the Eldar was in them still—wisdom of long years, skill unmatched by mortal hands, and a resolve born of both light and sorrow.

Thus began the quiet march of the Rivendell host, led by the twin sons of Elrond, into the wild lands where danger stirred unseen. And in the chronicles of Imladris it would later be said that though their feet were light, their deeds were heavy with purpose, and that on the lonely paths of Middle-earth their passing was as a whisper of hope against the rising dark.