For the LiveJournal tolkien_weekly "Water: Puddles" challenge.
Still, cold winter night in Imladris. Elrond stares into the fire, fingers steepled beneath his chin, unheeding of the candle beside him steadily burning down until its wax puddles on the smooth wood of the table.
Reports from Tharbad, Mirkwood, Rhosgobel; no sign that the Nazgul have done aught but flee broken back to Sauron. And yet I am loath to move, until
A soft knock; as Erestor enters with a half-bow, Elrond catches sight through the doorway of two dripping wet, dark-haired figures. His heart leaps.
"The last of the scouts are in, my lord; your sons have returned."
"The sons of Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir, were the last to return; they had made a great journey, passing down the Silverlode into a strange country, but of their errand they would not speak to any save to Elrond." (LoTR Book 2, Ch 3, The Ring Goes South.)