THOSE WITH COURAGE

A/N: Chapter 10 is heeeeere! Sorry it took so long! Turns out that being on holidays doesn't actually make me more motivated, it just gives me more excuses to procrastinate. XD

I hope you're all enjoying this so far, and if you're one of the people missing the balrog, don't worry, it'll be back soon enough. ;) So from… not this chapter, but very soon, TWC is going to really divert from canon – I'm serious, I have some totally epic things in store for you all. It's gonna be a blast writing it, and I hope you'll all love it as much as me!

Thanks to everyone who's reviewed! It really inspires and motivates me to read your thoughts on the story, and even if you don't realize it a few of you have actually given me ideas that have changed the course of this entire story – definitely for the better! Special thanks goes to Zip001 once again for all your support! You're awesome. =)

Warnings: descriptive blood and gore, frequent swearing, dubious French

Summary: Luka Baudouin's best friend is apparently the subject of a (literally) other-worldly prophecy, which dictates that she is going to be the one to kill an unkillable, undead, asshole of a king…

"…Alrigh' den. I'll 'old 'im down, yo' wack 'im wit' de fryin' pan, Ange."

Disclaimer: If I owned Lord of the Rings, I would've dropped out of high school and retired to the beach long ago. In other words, I own nothing except my OCs. =(

A/N#2: Ahh yeah. So I didn't actually get up to the summary quote in this chapter. It… kinda just ran away on me. I'll get there… eventually. ^_^

Chapter 10: Clouded Reflections

-Angela-

Beautiful and terrible, she towers over them, bathed in ghostly white light. Her expression is one of benevolence – distant pride like a queen over her nation.

Galadriel is both everything and yet nothing like Angela had expected.

She looks like… like a goddess.

Angela swallows, forces herself to breathe evenly as those piercing eyes linger on her.

She would like to think she's prepared for this, for this moment, but now it seems oddly anticlimactic. They've achieved their 'great things' – she's not dead and Luka had defeated a troll – and now it's time to go home and live happily ever after. Luka will get her memory back, and everything will go back to the way it had been before.

This is it.

"The enemy knows you have entered here," the male elf at her side – who Angela is embarrassed to realise she had completely missed in the shadow of Galadriel's radiance – begins abruptly in that same, lilting accent of all the elves here. "What hope you had in secrecy is now gone."

Angela sees Luka glance at her from the corner of her eye, face quizzical. She can almost hear her amnesiac friend's bemusement. The elf – Celeborn, that's his name, right? – continues steadily, "Eleven there were who entered this land, yet here stand ten, and it was nine who set out from Rivendell. Tell me, where is your final companion?"

"Estel is injured and will not wake," Gandalf answers gravely. "He has been taken to the Halls of Healing for further treatment."

Celeborn nods. "Have no fear, he will recover," he says, and oddly enough it doesn't sound like an empty platitude – it's a statement of the truth, plain and simple. "Greetings, my old friend. It has been long since we last spoke, and there is much I have to tell you. But first, you seem to have grown in numbers. Who are your young companions, and from whence have they come? They are not of this land."

Surprised, her head jerks up. But before she can ask how he'd known that little titbit of information, Galadriel speaks for the first time.

"Angela, daughter of Gabrielle… with the blessing of our Lord Irmo, you have been called far from your homeland." Then her eyes turn misty and her voice drops to a hoarse whisper.

"By your left hand, the Black King will fall. By your right, a kingdom be saved."

Silence.

"…It is as I feared," murmurs Gandalf, then refuses to say any more.

Angela trembles, but finds herself unable to look away- until suddenly, Galadriel blinks and the all-consuming presence in the air dissipates with the breeze. She takes a deep gulp of air, only just noticing that she'd stopped breathing at all, and waits for the elven Lady to turn to Luka and spout similar words of prophecy (and she doesn't even want to think about what this might mean, for them, for home, for herself).

But Galadriel's eyes pass over Luka without pause.

"Do not let the great emptiness of Khazad-dum fill your heart, Gimli, son of Gloin," she says instead, and Angela shoots a puzzled look at her friend, whose expression has fallen into its old neutrality. "For the world has grown full of peril... and in all lands… love…. is now mingled with… grief."

As she utters the last word, her gaze turns on Boromir and sharpens unnaturally. After a few seconds under her heavy scrutiny, he begins to shake and a sound close to a sob tears itself from his throat. He fights to turn his head, seeming to struggle with his own body until-

"Stop it."

Galadriel rears back as if stung. Behind her, Boromir's breath leaves him in a great gasp of relief.

Luka's voice is brittle and dry, but sharp-edged like a knife. "Get outta 'is head, Lady. It ain't yours ta share."

Out of his 'head'?!Angela's mind shrieks, skidding to a halt. As in, like, mind-reading? Wait, but how Luka know?

Outside of her babbling consciousness, the whole Fellowship hangs on tenterhooks, waiting for the inevitable blow up – but it never comes.

"My… apologies," Galadriel murmurs after a moment. "I have over-stepped my bounds."

Angela can hardly believe her ears. Galadriel, immortal, beautiful, powerful… is apologising to Luka? Not that Luka is in any way weak, she amends hurriedly. In fact most of the time Angela is completely in awe of her friend's natural ability to capture every eye in a room and keep it – but this- she's just- she's Luka. Angela's cheeky, brash, crazy best friend. Not… not someone who tells magical elf queens what to do.

Not someone who walks around with blood staining her clothes. Not someone who looks at skeletons and recreates the battle like it's common sense. Not someone who snaps the neck of an attacker at an order. Not someone who fights trolls and wins.

But she is. She's done all those things, and apparently whatever strength she calls upon isn't reliant on her memories being intact. Maybe this is Luka. Maybe it's just the way she is.

And isn't that humbling?

Finally, Gandalf breaks the silence. "The One Ring is sly and cunning," he observes. "It speaks to our minds and our hearts, even to those of us who would think ourselves immune."

The One Ring? What-?

"Indeed." Galadriel seems to regain some of her earlier poise. "The quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail… to the ruin of all." Her lips curve into a knowing smile. "Yet hope remains, while the company is true. Do not let your hearts be troubled. Go now and rest, for you are weary with sorrow and much toil."

At her side, Luka twitches and purses her lips, and Angela wonders how much of the story she's missing here.

"Tonight, you will sleep in Lorien's embrace."

…

As the rest of the fellowship descends the stairs once more and Gandalf disappears to speak with Lord Celeborn, Angela hangs back. She won't lie to herself, Galadriel scares the heck out of her, but there is one very, very important conversation that has yet to happen, and it looks like it's up to Angela to start it.

…Well, and Luka.

"Maaairde! M' feet 're killin'!" Before Angela's incredulous eyes, her dark haired friend throws herself down on the short set of stairs between the two platforms and begins to remove her boots. "Oh, beurk. Ça pue." (Oh yuck. That stinks.)

Angela wrinkles her nose a little. Over a week of walking all day long in the same sweaty, disgusting socks does not make for a particularly pleasant odour, that's for sure. It's a good thing her nose is mostly adjusted by now, or it would probably smell even worse-

Back on track, Webber! Get your head into gear!

"Milady," she says firmly to Galadriel, fully intending to ignore the fact that her friend is a tactless idiot with no manners to speak of. "This world is beautiful-" and dangerous "-but we really must get home. There are people waiting for us there." Well. Her boss, and her landlord, waiting for the rent.

Then Galadriel looks at her with pity in her eyes, and Angela's heart sinks. "I am sorry, young one. It was Lorien who brought you here, and Lorien alone can send you home."

Angela squeezes her eyes shut tightly, trying to push back the wetness welling up under her lashes. This is not what she wants to hear. She wants to go home.

"I do not know for certain, but it is my belief that once the prophecy concerning you is complete, so will your time in Middle Earth be over."

"So it's true den." Luka speaks up from where she still sits on the step. "Wha' yo' said, abou' Ange 'ere takin' out some Black King dude – ain't dat prejudice 'nyway? – and savin' a kingdom or somethin'… dat was true? How d'we know yo' no' just spoutin' crap?"

Galadriel looks unfazed. "That was indeed Lorien's prophecy, and I have the means to prove it to you, should you wish it."

Luka face remains distinctly unimpressed. "Go on."

The Lady of Lothlorien smiles, and Angela shivers. "Come. I will show you."

…

-Luka-

Keeping one's sanity in a place like this, Luka has learnt, requires a great deal of patience and no small amount of willing suspension of belief.

As such, it is with a steady pulse and a carefully neutral expression that she follows the Lady Galadriel and Angela through the city. Because, there are a lot of things that don't add up here, and Luka considers herself to be open-minded, generally, so she is willing to wait until she has all pieces of the puzzle before passing judgement.

She doesn't bother concealing the undercurrent of scepticism that lingers in her thoughts, open for Galadriel to sense (assuming that her abilities extend to more than just communication). It's not in her nature to be anything less than true to herself, and Luka was brought up to be about as paranoid as they come. No saints in the slums, as they say.

Luka had known from the first glance that Galadriel isn't nearly as squeaky-clean as she'd like to make herself out to be. Oh, she's certainly gone to a lot of effort to appear faultless, but it is exactly that unnatural perfection that tells Luka something's up. People only cover up when there's something to hide, after all.

She knows people like that, back home – had grown up with them. Girls in the streets, with their faces delicately made up, as if it can hide the bruises on their hips and their wrists from rough, indifferent hands. She isn't disgusted, doesn't pity them – understands perfectly well the kind of desperation that can drive a person to seek out the lowest dredges of society if only to survive another day. On the other hand though, she looks at those girl and sees people who have given up, and that's never been an acceptable outcome to her.

She doesn't think for a moment that what Galadriel's hiding is as obvious as this, but there is something there, and Luka has a feeling it will be revealed before long.

"Wha' I wanna know," she states evenly as they traverse a winding path deeper into the woods, "is if Ange's de… prophecy chil', or whate'er… den why de 'ell am I 'ere?"

Angela looks startled, but Galadriel just nods as though expecting the question. Maybe she had been. Maybe she'd read it out right of her head…

"A curious enigma," she agrees. "One I hope is soon to be solved. We have arrived."

With (unnecessary, in Luka's opinion) grandeur, she sweeps aside a hanging fern frond to reveal a small clearing, complete with a bubbling spring, one particularly cliché ray of moonlight, and an empty bird bath.

"Tis no mere accessory, daughter of none," Galadriel corrects almost absentmindedly, reaching for a tall vase.

Luka scowls. "Stay out o' my head."

She stills for a fraction of a second, and the hair on the back Luka's neck stands on end. Then- "My apologies once again. Curiosity… is perhaps my greatest fault." She leaves it at that.

"Why're we 'ere?" Luka asks bluntly, long since tired of the secrecy. "Yo' claim to 'ave proof." She gestures to the clearing. "I do not see it."

Instead of answering, Galadriel kneels by the spring and fills the vase to the brim, before rising gracefully once more. She turns to them with a mysterious smile on her face.

"Will you look in the mirror?"

"A mirror," Luka says flatly. "How de fuck is dat gonna-?"

"No, wait," Angela interrupts, straightening. "Is- is it like Lorien's mirror? Magical, I mean? Hang on, does that mean we can get ho-"

"My answer has not changed," Galadriel cuts in with finality. "I cannot help you. No, this mirror serves another purpose."

"Which is?" Luka asks warily.

"A glimpse of possibilities… and memories. Will you look?" She repeats, eyes boring unblinkingly into her. The water splashes into the bowl.

Memories. Luka won't deny it – the idea is incredibly tempting. She's only recently acknowledged that there is indeed a gap in her memories; it hasn't really had time to sink in yet. But she knows it will. Can she afford to give up this chance, when somewhere in her memories might be a way to get home?

No. No, she can't.

"'s'it dangerous?" She asks, but she's already stepping up to the basin. It's an indelicate thing, silver and undecorated, appearing more like a mixing bowl than a magical basin.

"You do not seem the type to let danger hinder you."

"You know me well."

"Perhaps," Galadriel replies cryptically. "We shall see."

Well, that doesn't sound at all ominous. Undaunted, Luka places her hands on the edge of the mirror's pedestal and leans in. The water is dark, dark as the night sky, though the spring, its source, is crystal clear.

A gust of unfelt breeze ripples its surface as an image forms within. Despite herself, Luka waits with baited breath as the ripples clear to reveal…

"Is dis some kinda joke?" She demands, pulling back to scowl at Galadriel. "Look, femme, I love ta look a' m'self as much as de next fille, but I fail t' see how dat proves anythin'." (woman, girl)

Galadriel takes a half step back, one hand going to her heart. "So it is true," she whispers. "I had suspected, when I spoke into your mind and saw nothing…"

Warily, Luka steps away from the mirror, keeping Galadriel in her line of sight. "Wha' d'you mean yo' saw nothin'?"

"I could not see you," the elven lady whispers hoarsely. "Your past, your future… they are clouded to me. Every soul in this land is as an open book… and yet I looked in yours and I saw nothing."

"So… quoi?" She says flippantly after a moment of poignant silence. "Am I gonna die den?"

"Your death would not cloud my sight. There must be another reason."

Luka shrugs. "I don' know it."

Galadriel stills. "Or perhaps," she says slowly, gaze flickering between the mirror and Luka, "you do know, and you simply do not remember it."

"That can't be!" Angela, who Luka has almost forgotten is present, protests. "I've been with her every moment since the start of this! When could she- when could this possibly have happened?"

Galadriel's eyes slide closed. "Oh, it's quite simple really," she murmurs. "The one place you, Angela, cannot follow Luka… her dreams."

A/N: Okaaay… so this story has gotten a little off track. You know, originally, Lorien bringing the girls to Arda was going to be a one-mention kinda thing. But then I got this idea… and it kinda snowballed… and now Lorien is kinda a HUUUGE plot point. Um.

…Oh well! I'm having fun writing it, and that's the main thing for me! XD

Sorry again for taking so long with this chapter. I pinky promise I'll never take more than one week to update, and if I do you can throw rotten tomatoes and I'll happily play sitting duck.

Thanks guys,

See y'all next time! =)