I know this chapter took forever, but my daughter's off school for the holidays, so I haven't been writing as much. In which Sharley and Sauron are very busy, Lorna has no idea how to take care of thousands of sick Elves, and she and Thranduil meet Sharley's father.

Sauron could not see what Sharley saw, nor did he know what she was doing, but he could feel it – a massive, shivering wrongness scraped across his fëa, emanating through the blistering air. The heat only rose, its metallic tang coating the back of his throat, and he smiled. It had been long – far, far too long – since he had faced a true opponent.

Granted, this Mother seemed intent on spending all her energy on Sharley, which could not be allowed. Her mind still called to him, and while he could not bring himself to betray Sharley utterly, he was not one to resist temptation.

Sauron had no need to touch someone, if he wished to enter their mind. While this creature's offered a manner of resistance, it was not nearly enough.

Her inner landscape seemed strangely familiar, though he was certain he had never seen it before: a forest of fir trees, dying beneath a dull red sky. Here too the air was hot and metallic, but there was something else, some spark of life alien to Middle-Earth.

The Mother looked upon it with scorn. In her mind – her smooth, unbroken mind – the colors were washed out and faded. It was a place she had once lived, to which she had no attachment.

He sought her memories, lightning-fast, and found them tiresomely dull. She was the beautiful daughter of the beautiful woman who had turned this world, the Other, into this wasteland, who had done nothing of note herself. She brooded in the Elsewhere for centuries, until she summoned these mortals and began twisting them. Tedious.

Tedious, and arrogant, almost to the point of complete stupidity. She, mere centuries old, who had fought nary a single battle, thought herself capable of taking over Middle-Earth? Oh, what she had done to the mortals was impressive its creativity, but it took far more than that to conquer anything, let alone a continent.

It irked him, that such an upstart should reach so far. Oh yes, power she had in plenty, but power was not enough. Winning took more than strength and desire, and she did not possess the cunning necessary to it.

He could use her, all too easily, and even now it was tempting – but there would be no keeping Sharley from killing her, and she truly was acting well above her station. Destroying her would be nearly as amusing as using her. Even watching her struggle to fight him was amusing, though he was already tiring of it.

Of all the Maiar, he had always been the most intrigued by mental manipulation, and he had dabbled in more than enough over the last millennia. He attacked now not with a hammer, but with the finest of razors, slicing at her thoughts, her memories, her very sense of self, eroding the core of her being.

Only now did she truly try to fight him, but that her efforts were a disappointment was no surprise – she was fighting a battle on two fronts.

He wondered…he could not see Time, not as Sharley did, but he was in the mind of one who could. How had she seen, when once she lived here? How did she control her power now?

Sauron was about to find out.

Sharley didn't realize anything was up with the Mother, but the Stranger, detached as it was from her pain and rage, did. And it explained why Sauron appeared to be just standing around.

The Mother's finesse was wavering, her huge, liquid eyes turned to mismatched pools of shock and horror. Sauron was in her head, and Sharley would bet he was having a field day.

Even as she raised her sword again, she shuddered. She'd read his history – she knew what he could do to a person's mind, even if it had failed with her. Had she been whole – had she not been born with her mind in pieces – he could have destroyed her, too. He would destroy the Mother, if given the chance, but he would not do it quickly. 'Mercy' was not a word he understood.

Sharley managed a step forward, and agony jagged through her. Her body wasn't capable of true pain, but whatever passed for her soul was, and it tor eat her, slicing and rending much like the Memories that had killed her.

The Mother screamed – a high, piercing, horrible sound, her face stripped of arrogance and filled with terror. Sharley couldn't summon much sympathy, despite knowing Sauron was raising hell in her head.

Another step, and another, but she paused when blood dripped from the Mother's nose. Her kind were incredibly difficult to wound – just what was Sauron doing in there? The sheer terror on the Mother's face made Sharley uneasy, even through the force of her anger. She did not want Sauron for an enemy – and once this was over, he would become one, sooner or later.

Later. He was going to draw this out, and Sharley – Sharley didn't have it in her to torture someone, no matter how much they might deserve it. If the Mother could do what she did, she was an abomination herself, and if she was the same manner of abomination as Sharley, she had to be at least slightly mad herself. Yes, she deserved her suffering, but that didn't mean Sharley was going to make her endure it.

Step. Step. Agony, ever worse. The Mother didn't attack, didn't even try to fend her off when she brought the sword around, neatly cleaving the creature's head off in one stroke.

The body fell with an anticlimactic thud, blood as red as any human's spraying onto the dusty ground. It sprayed on Sharley, too, hot and coppery, sending a memory of nausea ghosting through her. The wild threads of tortured Time still lashed around her, but Sharley scarcely felt them. She stared at the corpse, its life snuffed out so abruptly, a pit opening somewhere inside her.

Her eyes raised to Sauron, and found his pale face twisted with fury. She'd deprived him of his toy, cut off his fun, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

This person, this Mother, monstrous a creature though she had been, was like Sharley. She was the only other, and now she was dead, her blood smeared crimson on the dull blade of Azarael's sword.

Sharley had killed orcs, and spiders, and the twisted creatures that had once been human. Not until today had she killed actual people. Her detachment, the thing she'd stolen from the Stranger, deserted her now. Her soul was like a raw nerve, uncaring of Sauron's anger.

Within her mind, the Stranger stirred. Under any other circumstances, she would fight it, but just now she welcomed the relief of its ascendance. Let it deal with this. It didn't know how to feel.

Sauron was not at all pleased at the sudden loss of his plaything. In his wrath he could easily have taken it out on Sharley, but Sharley…changed.

Not physically. She had been different, yes, in fëa if not hröa, when she made the Memories, but there had still been a trace of self, of Sharley. What faced him now was pure Stranger, impassive and silent, seemingly unaware of the blood on Sharley's arms and face.

It raised her free hand, staring at it while the fingers flexed, eyes tracing it with a detached form of curiosity.

He realized, rather abruptly, that of the pair, it was the most dangerous. There was little that Sharley wanted, but the Stranger had no concept of the term. Its mind was foreign, inscrutable – and it should not be stirring now. Not when all was over.

Unless it wasn't over.

The Stranger looked at him through Sharley's eyes – Sharley might be so very young, but it was ancient, and that odd, mismatched gaze sucked at his fëa. "Come," it said – to him, to the horde of Memories that lurked around the edges of the crater. "We must go."

"Go where?" Sauron asked, his wrath overtaken by both curiosity and confusion.

"Elsewhere," it said, its tone too flat to be Sharley's. "She will not have had her entire force here. Somewhere, there will be a Door."

"And what of Sharley?" he found himself asking, and wondered why he did.

"She sleeps, for now," the Stranger said. "We cannot help her. We do not understand her grief."

That was true enough, and yet… "How long will she sleep? How long will you remain in control?" If the Stranger slipped while they were in the midst of something dire – if the broken wreck of Sharley's mind returned – that could be a rather large problem.

"I do not know," it said. "She does not fight me now. Should she wake, fight she will, on instinct if nothing else. She fears what I will do, with control of this body."

Sauron arched an eyebrow. "Should she?"

"Not as much as she should fear what she would do."

Lorna got Legolas up to her and Thranduil's room, and then she and Ratiri were driven to distraction taking care of the rest of the Elves. Katje was too sick, and of course Von Ratched wasn't to be thought of.

They couldn't just keep getting everyone drunk, but Lorna didn't know what else to do. She'd spent most of her life crawling into a bottle whenever things got rough. Even Ratiri didn't seem to have any better ideas.

Marty and Sméagol tried to help, but the poor little girl was far too distracted to do much, so Lorna ordered them both to dog her heels. Marty, unfortunately, knew that whatever had happened was her mother's doing.

"Mama can be scary," she said, her tiny, icy hand held firmly in Lorna's. "She's not like Granddad – she's not like that all the time – but something made her mad. I don't know why it's made everybody here sick, though."

"Elves can feel things we can't," Lorna said, lifting the girl into her arms. They were headed to the kitchen to check on the dwindling wine supply, the vast halls eerily quiet around them. "I just wish I knew how long they'll be like this. The four'v us can't do it by ourselves." She was always careful to include Sméagol in their number, so he would feel useful, even if he did give her the creeps. He seemed harmless enough right now, but she didn't need to read his mind to be quite certain that wasn't his default state. Fortunately, Marty seemed to have a handle on him, because Lorna couldn't deal with one more thing on her plate. If something decided to attack now, they were fucked.

Marty and Sméagol had done some reconnaissance in the forest, and it was so quiet she was uneasy. That was probably sheer paranoia, but paranoia had kept her alive on the streets of Dublin for six years. She knew better than to disregard it.

For now, alcohol, and a shitload of sandwiches. Living at Bard's last winter had taught her not to try cooking on a woodstove, so she made sandwiches until there was no more bread to be had, and then tried to make her own. The result was ugly, but edible, and she set Marty to slicing it. She didn't want to let Sméagol anywhere near a knife, so she had him scale the shelves to find her crocks of jam and butter.

"We need more meat."

Lorna nearly humped out of her skin, dropping a heavy crock of butter on her foot. The crock didn't break, but she wasn't sure the same could be said for her toes. "Bell, Thranduil," she growled, wincing.

Her poor husband still looked ill, though marginally better. Dark smudges lurked beneath his eyes, but his skin was ashy rather than green. Sharley had better have had a damn good reason for doing whatever it was she'd done, given the state it left him in. "I brought you something," he said, drawing her crown from one of the pockets in his voluminous silver robe.

"Why?" she asked, ushering him to a bench. His movements were almost human, lacking their usual Elven grace.

"To reassure people," he said, setting it on her head even as he sat. "I wish I knew what she has done. I wish I knew when we would recover."

"You and me both," she sighed, pressing a kiss to his forehead before returning to her sandwiches. "I know she can't take Thorvald out for us, but maybe she'll weaken him. She's got that bloody sword."

"I do not see why she cannot kill him with it, if it supposedly kills anything," Thranduil said, not a little irritably.

"She could," Marty said, dragging over a stool, "but she won't. Granddad says sometimes the price is too high for the sword."

"What in hell does that mean?" Lorna asked, looking down at her small, pallid face.

"It means sometimes bad things would happen," the little girl said solemnly. "Granddad will explain."

A sliver of ice worked its way into Lorna's gut. "Will?" she asked.

"He's here," Mary said, blithely slapping huckleberry jam onto a slightly misshapen slice of bread. "He's in the forest. He said he a few things to do first, but he oughtta show up any time now."

Lorna carefully set down her knife. "Marty," she said, "your grandfather is Death, and he is about to show up in a place I'm technically queen of. Don't you think you should've told me that already?"

Marty's death-filmed eyes blinked at her. "No?" she offered uncertainly. "You woulda freaked out, and you don't have to. He knows Mama did something crazy, and he's here to fix it."

That ought to sound like a wonderful idea, except for the part where he was death incarnate. "How long do we have before he turns up on the doorstep?"

Marty shrugged. "Dunno. Ten minutes? I can't see as good as Mama."

Lorna cast a helpless glance at Thranduil. Crown or not, she hardly cut a queenly figure in her plain green tunic. He could look regal in a paper bag, but he was still awfully bloody wan. They were hardly in any shape to receive visitors, but especially not the god of bloody Death.

Thranduil rose, automatically switched into what she thought of as King Mode. Wan or not, under-dressed or not, there was no mistaking him for anything but royalty. He could greet even Death with dignity and aplomb – which was a damn good thing, since she knew she could do neither. He'd faced the concept so many times that meeting the personification might not seem so terrible.

"Come, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said, offering her his arm. "We have a guest to meet."

Lorna took, it, trying – and failing – to calm the butterflies currently throwing a rave in her gut. It was just as well she hadn't had much breakfast, or she'd be sicking it up right now.

Having him beside her helped, as they ascended the stairs. He knew what he was doing; while she ought to say something to their…guest…she wouldn't have to. Thranduil could be incredibly rude, but he could also be diplomatic, when he thought something worth the effort.

She straightened her spine, drawing herself up to what passed for her full height. She'd seen a picture on the internet that said the best way to walk like a queen was to stand up straight, draw a deep breath, and think 'murder' while you walked, but given the nature of their guest, that was probably less than appropriate. At least she'd brushed her hair earlier.

The silence of the halls somehow managed to seem even more eerie, and the two gate-guards sat on the floor. They were a formality anyway, given that they weren't in any condition to fight anything off – especially not with the cups of hot wine each one clutched.

Thranduil looked down at her, arching an eyebrow, and she shrugged.

"I didn't have any better ideas," she said. Getting everyone drunk was a stopgap measure, but at least it worked for now. It was better than nothing.

Little Marty came scurrying up behind them, Sméagol in tow, perfectly unconcerned. At least someone was.

Lorna shifted uneasily from foot to foot, jittery, and still jumped when a heavy knock resounded through the massive gates.

The guards hesitated a moment before opening them, looking to Thranduil for confirmation. Lorna did, too, and was actually reassured by the aloof, icy mask he wore. She could see through it, even if no one else was likely to.

The gates swung soundlessly open, admitting the golden afternoon sunshine – and with it, someone who didn't fit at all. Who couldn't have fit in anywhere.

He was actually a touch taller than Thranduil, broad-shouldered, every bit as pale as his daughter, swathed head to foot in black. His hair was long, a dark reddish-brown gathered low at the nape of his neck, but his eyes were what drew her attention: they were the same color and brightness of glowing coals. He somehow managed to come off even more intimidating than Thranduil – for all of five seconds. His forbidding air was rather dispelled when Marty threw herself at him, hugging his legs.

"Hi, Granddad," she said.

"I hope you have not burned anything down while your mother is away," he said, picking her up. His voice was deep, his accent like nothing Lorna could place.

"That was one time," Marty protested.

"Four times," he said dryly. "Five, if you count what happened on your grandmother's ship."

"That wasn't just me."

"I am quite sure it was not." Those unholy eyes raised to Thranduil and Lorna, flicking between the two. "I apologize for my daughter," he said, "yet what she has done might well prove necessary. She is leaving your world for a time, so I must come in her stead."

"How much do you know of…recent events?" Thranduil asked, still every inch a king, thank God. Lorna seemed to have entirely lost her tongue.

"Too much," their visitor said. "My name is Azarael. I offer you aid, but first I must ask a boon of Lady Galadriel. She is, I think, the only one strong enough to bear it."

"She's…ill," Lorna managed, her voice not quite steady. "All the Elves are."

"It is not illness," Azarael said, looking down at her. "It is a weariness, and it will pass, given time. What you have, however, is an illness. Though I puzzle that it is not more severe."

She pointed at Thranduil. "I've got him to thank for that," she said. "He gave me something he called a soul-anchor. We're pretty sure it's why I'm not as bad off as the others."

Azarael's eyes turned to Thranduil, with a curiosity Lorna wasn't sure she liked. Thranduil tensed, very minutely, though his face remained impassive. "I have never seen one such as you," Azarael said. "Barring violence, you truly might live forever. What manner of deity would create such a creature?"

"One who hates humans enough to dump all the disadvantages Elves should have had on us," she grumbled, unable to help it. Her nerves were still misfiring, badly enough that it was all she could do not to shiver. She didn't wonder why the two gate-guards looked ready to be sick. Perhaps the worst of it was that she didn't think Azarael was trying to be intimidating, or that he was even necessarily aware of just how intimidating he actually as. Not even holding an adorable zombie child could truly dispel it. His eyes – it wasn't just that they were terrifying. They were hauntingly, worryingly familiar.

"A peculiar world," he observed. "Bring me to Galadriel, and to the other humans. You have your own quest to complete, and you cannot do it as you are."

"What'll you do, while we're gone?" she asked.

"There are those I must speak with," he said, not a little grimly. "That is my problem, not yours. Meanwhile, I will see to your people, and I must meet with Lady Galadriel."

Lorna wasn't sure what to make of any of it, so she didn't try. She just fought the urge to squeeze Thranduil's hand as they led Azarael deeper into the halls.

Thranduil was not at a loss, because he wouldn't allow it of himself, but he was near enough.

If this Azarael was indeed Sharley's father – and there was a strong resemblance – it explained a great deal about her. Thranduil really didn't want him here – if Sharley was equal in power to Sauron, her father could be as one of the Valar. Great power only attracted great trouble.

He doubted Lorna could sense the full scope of it, but it was daunting – and yet, for the avatar of Death, there was a peculiar sense of half-life about him. Yes, he radiated cold; yes, he shared Sharley's metallic-lightning scent, and yet he seemed more alive than she did.

Galadriel would not be pleased to see him, but Thranduil did not think he would harm her. Unsettling though he was, he exuded no sense of malice. The fact that he carried Marty so easily certainly helped; he might be Death incarnate, Eru only knew how old and powerful, but he was also grandfather to a tiny undead child – a child who was currently braiding his hair, chattering away in an unknown language. To call it dissonant was a vast understatement.

Lorna did not seem nearly so appeased – she was visibly struggling for equanimity, her arm unsteady where it touched Thranduil's. Not since his mind-rape of her a year ago had he seen her so disturbed, and while the why of it was obvious, still he wondered. It wasn't just unease – there was surprise as well.

I've seen him before, she sent him. I'm sure'v it. The bus – the one I crashed into the Liffey. I saw those eyes then.

Ice wormed its way into Thranduil's spine. She'd shared the memory with him, months ago – the figure had been indistinct, but the eyes were indeed the same.

And yet, neither Lorna nor her companions had actually died, so why had Azarael been there? Why had he ventured outside the Other? Thranduil wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he was quite certain he was going to find out.

Remember how I said, all the way back in chapter forty-five of Ettelëa, that Lorna met Sharley's father and didn't know it? Yeah, she did. And you'll find out why soon enough.

Title means "Death" in Irish. As ever, your reviews give me life and hope.