T.A. 2710

The large fountain hidden away in the depths of Imladris's famed gardens was a marvel of glorious tiers and spillways. Several swans had stopped to bathe in its sparkling depths, paying absolutely no mind to the elf who beheld them with a wan smile. Elrond Peredhel's face was a study in quiet melancholy as he remembered how his wife Celebrían had loved this place so. How many times he had found her here, listening to the peaceful song of the waters at all times of day and night...

Elrond closed his eyes against a wash of sorrow. It was the two-hundredth anniversary of her sailing to the Undying Lands, yet he felt her loss as acutely as if it had been yesterday. While their marriage had been primarily political, he'd grown to love her all the same. He missed her; he missed their camaraderie and the closeness of the family they'd created together. Now, in the wake of her departure and the horrible events that had led to her decision to leave, their sons swept through Arda's lands on a single-minded mission filled with bitterness and destruction, and their daughter still mourned in the Golden Wood with her grandparents, leaving Elrond very much alone.

A swallow landed nearby on one of the garden's many well manicured hedges and began to sing, its head cocked in Elrond's direction. He opened his eyes to glance at his tiny guest, the cheerful chirping bringing a genuine smile to his face. "Perhaps I am not so alone after all," he offered, chuckling as the bird ruffled its feathers and then sped away towards the fountain.

Sighing, Elrond took note of Anor's position in the sky. It was late afternoon already. Imladris was welcoming a diplomatic party from Mirkwood on this day. More than three centuries had passed since he and the Elven-King had last met to renegotiate the long-standing treaty between their kingdoms, and even though Thranduil's disdainful temperament tended to test his own patience, Elrond understood this periodic congress between them was a necessary evil. It would no doubt be a trial filled with endless bickering over inconsequential treaty details, as it always was, but in the end, the continued peace and cooperation between their realms was a priceless advantage.

The colorful blare of trumpets resounded through the valley then, pulling Elrond out of his thoughts. Even from this distance, he could hear the muffled avalanche of hoof-falls as a group of Imladris's own elite sentinels were dispatched to greet and escort the royal entourage across the final length of their journey. His insides fluttered a bit at the sound, despite all his millennia of political experience. He and the Elven-King did not share the same rapport that made interactions between Imladris and other realms much easier and, in some cases, largely pleasant. This welcome would not be warm and lively; rather, it would be formally polite. And cautious. With one last lingering look at the cascading water before him, Elrond turned and made his way out of the lush gardens.

Upon reaching the reception area, he found a full honor guard already in place, lining the sides of the grand staircase and courtyard just inside the main gate, the blaze of Anor's waning light gleaming brightly on their flawless elven plate and leaf-bladed spears. Each stood perfectly motionless, proud, majestic statues on display. Elrond's entourage awaited his presence at the top of the stairs, advisors and nobles draped in their own finery. He scanned the waiting assembly, trying to gauge the overall mood. Saelbeth gazed out over the city, not a single care marring his expression. The counsellor's treasured wisdom always grounded Elrond, and his seemingly limitless patience even more so. Poor Lindir's left leg bounced nervously beneath his robes, so easily intimidated he was by everyone and everything. Elrond briefly wondered if he would need to resuscitate the young minstrel should the imposing Elven-King deign to glance in his direction. And then there was Glorfindel…

The trusted Captain of Imladris's Guard was standing on the top step, fussing angrily with the sleeves of his brilliant indigo surcoat. Elrond grinned at the sight, taking one last look around before coming to a stop beside the tall blond warrior. "Glorfindel," he acknowledged.

Glorfindel stopped what he was doing long enough to glare darkly at him. "Elrond."

"Where is Erestor?"

"Sharpening his teeth, no doubt."

Elrond cocked an eyebrow. "Shouldn't he be sharpening his tongue?"

"Oh, that is already quite sharp, thank you."

"Practiced on you, did he?" Elrond asked, stifling a chuckle.

Glorfindel snorted. "Apparently I looked at him the wrong way."

"Yes, well… we're all a bit on edge, I think."

Glorfindel gave up tidying his dress clothes. "Must we go through this again so soon? Thranduil is the most insufferable Sinda ever to set foot in these lands."

Elrond inhaled deeply, his brow furrowing. "The Lady of the Golden Wood has insisted we convene as soon as possible, though her reasons for such remain... shrouded."

"If she is so worried about the Eldar maintaining peaceful relations, why does she not come and deal with him?" Glorfindel spat.

Tilting his head thoughtfully, Elrond studied his friend. The warrior was, under normal circumstances, a most gracious member of any welcoming party, his charm and warmth easily negating any uncertainty caused by his daunting stature. It was only while in the vicinity of the Elven-King — or at the mere mention of his name — that Glorfindel appeared to grow fangs.

"You truly detest him so?"

"And you do not?" Glorfindel countered, both of his brows arched in question. "I am always shocked he does not simply dismount that ridiculous elk of his, drop his hose, and bend over, demanding we all kiss his arse."

The outlandish visual forced a quiet hiss of laughter past Elrond's lips, even as he shook his head. "My goodness, such animosity."

"I'm entitled." Glorfindel's expression softened then, his deep blue eyes patient yet penetrating. "And how do you fare this day, meldir?"

Elrond paused, unconsciously glancing away. He knew full well the question had nothing to do with the impending diplomatic arrival. A few heartbeats later, he met the warrior's gaze again. "I am well, Fin, thank you. Your kindness is much appreciated."

"I worry for you."

Offering a gentle smile, Elrond said, "There is no need."

Glorfindel watched him intently. "It is my honor as your friend to do so."

The trumpeters sounded their instruments again, heralding the Mirkwood party's arrival within visual range of the city. Elrond grinned once more as the warrior's expression darkened at the interruption. Glorfindel's gaze shot to the musicians, perched high in a balcony far behind them. "Sauron's spawn be damned, that is much too spirited a tune!" he spat. "The next time we should be forced to greet him, I'll order a dirge to be played."

"That," Elrond noted whimsically, "would be a most interesting reception."

Glorfindel's eyes sparkled with the same humor. "One far more appropriate, yes?"

"I find it endearingly amusing how much you dislike Thranduil. He brings out the best in you, Fin."

The warrior tossed him a bold look. "Brings out the best in me?" His gaze slid along Elrond's raiment. "I've not seen you bedecked in such noble hues in, oh, nigh three-hundred years, my friend."

Elrond glanced down, self-consciously smoothing the exquisite material of his surcoat, which reminded him of the color of amethysts once mined in Menegroth. Twining over the fabric were vines of deep pewter that very nearly matched the shade of his own eyes, and his silver over-robe lay in resplendent folds of pure silk all the way to the ground. For one who usually dressed in understated colors that gave little indication of his status, he did indeed look quite regal. "What, this old thing?" he asked innocently. "It's been gathering dust in my wardrobe far too long. I'm simply airing it out."

Glorfindel grinned wickedly. "How convenient. One might suggest the Lord of Imladris secretly develops a certain competitiveness while in the presence of Mirkwood's king."

"Mmm," Elrond played along, enjoying their repartee immensely. "One might also suggest my Captain's animosity is in fact a ruse meant to conceal far deeper emotions. Lust, perhaps? Thranduil is rather comely."

Eyes widening in shock, Glorfindel quietly hissed, "Utterly preposterous!"

Elrond chuckled soundlessly, his gaze drifting towards the main gate, beyond which the delegation and their escort could clearly be seen pressing forward towards journey's end. "And away we go," he announced loudly, tossing one last amused glance at Glorfindel before beginning his descent.

The rest of Elrond's retinue fell into step behind him, fanning out once they reached the bottom of the staircase. The Lord himself continued forward until he stood upon the intricate star of dark gray and dusky cobblestones at the center of the courtyard that marked the entrance to the secluded haven. There he waited, trying to maintain a relaxed and welcoming stance while painful knots of nervous energy cramped limbs and digits. Truth be told, Elrond loathed dealing with the arrogant Sinda, whose presence always cast a shroud of oppressive tension throughout his beloved Imladris. The next fortnight or two would be difficult, indeed.

The thundering echo of hoof-falls assaulted Elrond's ears as the arriving party cleared the gate, the cushion of the earthen path beyond no longer muffling the sound. The Elven-King led the procession astride a magnificent white stallion. Unlike the rest of his party, who slowed their mounts to a brisk cooling walk along the outer edges of the large courtyard, Thranduil pressed forward, trotting his steed in a loose circle around Imladris's Lord before coming to a stop directly in front of him.

Thranduil hadn't changed at all, of course. His piercing blue eyes were as shrewd as ever, slicing straight to the core of any who beheld him. Long, flowing strands of the purest gold framed a handsome face whose countenance was ever molded into one of pretentious apathy. The Sinda towered over most, his height on par with that of Glorfindel, and he used it to full advantage. Intimidation was one of Thranduil's most effective tactics. Fortunately, it was one to which Elrond did not easily succumb. He met the other's penetrating gaze calmly, waiting until the Lord of the Woodland realm finally dismounted and approached, the stink of horses, wet leather, and long days spent on the road surrounding him like a cloak.

"Nathlo na Imladris, Thranduil Oropherion," Elrond offered as he bowed his head, his right hand touching the place above his heart in the traditional Elvish greeting.

Thranduil acknowledged him with a simple, "Elrond," while he loosened and removed his gloves with unhurried care, one finger at a time.

A tendril of annoyance wove its way through Elrond's resolve, even though he'd expected this kind of cool indifference from the Elven-King. Regardless, his duty as host compelled him to finish this welcome with a respectful, "We are honored by your presence, as always."

It looked as though Thranduil had been about to respond when his eyes suddenly narrowed, his gaze tracking movement somewhere behind Elrond. For his part, Elrond didn't even need to turn around to know who was approaching. Glorfindel's bright attire slid into his peripheral vision a few moments later as the warrior came to a stop beside him. Inhaling deeply, Elrond braced himself for the inevitable posturing.

"Ah, Glorfindel of Gondolin," the Elven-King stated, his displeasure readily apparent.

"That's Glorfindel of Imladris, thank you."

Thranduil cocked a brow. "Might this be the new and improved version?"

Glorfindel accepted the barb with a smile... one that contained no warmth at all. "Naturally. That's a rather interesting excuse for an elk, Your Majesty," he noted, a fair amount of sarcasm coloring the honorific. "Pray tell, where is the beast?"

Two sets of crystalline blue eyes trained on each other, the coldest of cold fire igniting in their depths. And then Thranduil answered, his voice low and laced with venom. "Dead."

A hushed silence descended upon the courtyard as the two blond warriors continued their stare-down. The Mirkwood company reined in their horses, though they remained mounted. Everyone seemed to pause expectantly; even the small group of servants and equerries dispatched to assist the visitors slowed to a standstill on the grand staircase. Noting the taunting smirk that tugged at Glorfindel's lips, Elrond suddenly realized just how volatile the situation was. Given the mercurial temperament of the Woodland elves, this confrontation could prove a disastrous precursor to the deliberations at hand. The tension needed to be defused. Quickly.

"Our sincerest condolences, Your Majesty," Elrond offered, taking care to infuse Thranduil's title with all the respect deserved of his station. "May your noble companion rest in peace."

Thranduil's gaze slid back to him, now cold, hard, and very accusing, though he remained silent. Unwilling to draw out this rather inauspicious reception any further, Elrond glanced towards the servants, gesturing for them to attend their tasks. It was the signal all appeared to have been waiting for. As one, the delegation dismounted, relinquishing their steeds to the equerries while servants unloaded their packs and guided the Mirkwood warriors towards the special barracks reserved for visiting guard members.

Still feeling the weight of the Elven-King's stare, Elrond allowed his own gaze to roam the courtyard a few moments longer. Thranduil's small diplomatic corps stood about awkwardly, eyeing their Imladrian counterparts with a certain amount of disdain, even as they offered polite murmurs of greeting. Formal introductions would take place later, of course, but almost all of those present were already known to Elrond and his counsellors, including one of Thranduil's own sons. The sole exception was a blond Elda on the far side of the courtyard who was trying in vain to settle his horse. Another son? Elrond pondered, though that was nearly assured. The only golden-haired residents of Mirkwood were those of Thranduil's ancestry — royal blood.

Unable to see the newcomer's face from his vantage point, Elrond observed the scene with a touch of curiosity. The ellon's beautiful dapple grey mare was rather agitated, stomping nervously with ears flattened and nostrils flared at the unlucky groom who currently held her reins. Her owner smoothed his hands along her neck, whispering soothing words, but they appeared to do little to calm the steed. When the groom tried to lead the mare along, she reared, raising such a fuss that the blond ellon finally retook the reins and began leading her away towards the stables himself. Elrond watched them go, wondering whether the presence of another royal member boded well for this congress. That would give the Mirkwood delegation an extra voice of dissention in what was already gearing up to be an epic political showdown.

Elrond turned towards his Captain. "Will you please show our guests to their quarters, Lord Glorfindel?" He sincerely hoped his friend would recognize the use of his title as the gentle warning to behave that it was. "I will see the King to his chambers myself."

"Of course, my Lord," Glorfindel responded, inclining his head respectfully. Elrond didn't miss the defiant twinkle in those blue eyes, though. The discordant air that lay between his steadfast Captain and the Elven-King was far from settled.

The remaining individuals dispersed quickly, leaving the courtyard empty save for the two esteemed leaders. Elrond now had no choice but to face Thranduil's harsh scrutiny, which had not wavered in the slightest while he'd been focused elsewhere. "Please allow me to apologize for—"

"Why are we here?" Thranduil interrupted coolly.

The mild annoyance Elrond had felt thus far began to bloom into genuine indignation. "I presume your question is not meant to impugn my courtesy?" he asked, resisting the urge to take the Elven-King to task for his impertinence.

Thranduil's expression morphed, openly displaying how ridiculous he found Elrond's question to be. "Our treaty was not due to be reviewed for another two centuries at the very least, so I ask again: why are we here?"

Elrond paused before answering, both to subdue his irritation and gather his thoughts. "Lady Galadriel was most insistent that this assembly convene without further ado. Beyond that, I know not why."

The Elven-King's jaw tightened. "I rightly suspected the influence of that Noldo witch."

"Come now, Thranduil. You know as well as I that her requests are never to be taken lightly. They are usually laden with portents, and to ignore such only invites uncertainty and peril."

Thranduil's gaze slid to the buildings behind him, and for a moment Elrond thought he saw a flicker of recognition there, elusive and very, very guarded. Before he could even speculate on what that might mean, Thranduil spoke, "If there is greater purpose to this congress, why does she not speak plainly?"

"That is not for me to say," Elrond responded, turning towards the grand staircase and gesturing for the Elven-King to join him. "The nature of our Lady's mirror often precludes any measure of clarity."

Thranduil snorted arrogantly as he fell into step beside him. "She is not my Lady."

The firm admission nearly caused Elrond to chuckle despite his darkened mood. There had never been any love lost between the Elven-King and the Lady of Lothlórien, with their wildly different personalities and ideologies. They held a grudging respect for one another on the most fundamental of levels, yes, but nothing past that. If Thranduil only knew of the colorful descriptors Galadriel often used when referring to him...

The rest of their walk to the Last Homely House was spent in relative silence save for several futile attempts on Elrond's part to engage Thranduil in pleasant conversation. He shouldn't have wasted his breath, he realized a bit too late. Neither was entirely agreeable to the circumstances, but there was simply no way to avoid the discomfort of these meetings. The Woodland elves tended to keep to themselves, sheltered even from those of their own kind. They were a wary lot with fickle dispositions, and the only way to successfully deal with them was through patience and tolerance. Elrond only hoped he and his counsellors somehow acquired an abundance of both before discussions began two days hence.

I must make certain the Miruvor flows freely this evening, he thought as they finally reached their destination. That, at least, might be a good way to start.

The magnificent Homely House was both a marvel of architecture and a haven for travelers of all races who happened to find themselves passing through the Valley of Imladris. Exquisite columns of polished marble braced three storeys, both inside and out. Every detail, from the rich tapestries and intricate latticework of precious metal that decorated the interior walls to the delicate aromas of incense and flowers that drifted through the cavernous atrium, was meant to soothe the senses of wearied guests. It was a place of comfort, contemplation, and merriment, the beauty of which usually left visitors in awe.

The majesty of it all was entirely lost on Thranduil, of course. He kept his gaze narrowly focused on the staircase to which they were headed, largely ignoring the respectful bows and quiet welcomes offered by passersby. Elrond bit his tongue. The Elven-King's behavior was worse than that of previous meetings, aided no doubt by Glorfindel's well aimed verbal artillery.

The tense silence hung between them all the way to the third floor, where Elrond halted before a set of finely carved wooden doors. Pushing them open, he gestured for Thranduil to enter. "A feast in your honor will be served in roughly a candlemark. I do believe pheasant is on the menu."

Thranduil didn't seem the least bit interested in his words, or the fact that great lengths had most likely been taken to procure the rare game bird. He merely continued gazing about the guest suite with a critical eye.

At a loss, Elrond made one last effort to salvage what remained of this diplomatic welcome. "Thranduil?" he asked, waiting patiently until the Sinda had finished his assessment of his chambers. When the Elven-King finally turned to face him, he continued, "It is my sincerest hope that you feel comfortable here in my home. You need only ring for a servant if there is anything you desire."

Thranduil took a step closer, his gaze unrelenting. "Understood," he clipped, grasping both doors and pushing them closed.

Elrond was left staring at the tangled weave of leaves and branches carved into the darkly stained wood before him. He sighed heavily, already formulating a scathing message for the Lady of the Golden Wood. Kind words, stately rooms, the promise of a grand feast... there was simply no satisfying Thranduil, and that was unlikely to change anytime soon. Slapping one of his hands lightly against his thigh, Elrond quietly murmured to himself, "Perhaps I should have offered to kiss his arse..."

Snorting at his own cheekiness, he turned and made his way towards the other side of the Homely House. He said a silent prayer to Manwë as he went, asking for the swift resolution of all treaty details in the days to come. Such a fortunate occurrence really would be in everyone's best interest.

(~ * ~ * ~ )

Translations:

Arda = the world

Anor = the sun

Sinda = singular of Sindar, a race of Elves of Telerin descent

Elda/Eldar = Elf/Elves

meldir = friend

ellon = male elf

"Nathlo na Imladris, Thranduil Oropherion" = "Welcome to Imladris, Thranduil, son of Oropher"

Miruvor = a cordial with the power to grant renewed vigor and strength