In which Thranduil admits he dun goofed, Lorna tries to find things she can actually do while pregnant, and bad shit happens.

Thranduil…had not expected that. At all.

It truly had not occurred to him that none of the peredhel had been born of mortal mothers. Part of him wanted to go after Lorna, though he had no idea what good it could possibly do.

"Somebody wanna tell me what the fuck just happened?" Geezer asked.

"Lorna received some worrying news," he said. "More than that you will have to hear from her, if she will tell it." He pinched the bridge of his nose again.

"I will go to her, once her anger has spent itself," Galadriel said. "She has just cause to be angry, Thranduil. I do not care how deep in your cups you were, if you were coherent enough to make such a plan, you should have known better."

"Lorna needs those twins," he sighed, "and children do not happen spontaneously. She would not have, as she put it, a one-night stand while sober, and I could not fault her for it – I would not be able to, either, nor would any Eldar. In her other world, her might-have-been, they were conceived through force, and were she to venture out into the world without having birthed them first, that might have been her fate here as well. I need her help in Gondor, but I did not want to risk that fate."

"It is logical, but she will still see it as selfish," Galadriel said gently. "I hope you are prepared for mood swings. Edain women are rather more volatile than Eldar when they are with child."

That actually dropped a small ball of lead into his stomach. Lorna was volatile enough already.

"She will also likely suffer greatly from nausea soon, and she is so small that to carry twins will be a great trial to her. It would be a danger even if the father was also Edain."

"Well, she obviously survived it when the father was Edain. You are the finest healer out of all still left in Middle-Earth; if you would consent to stay throughout her confinement, it would be of benefit to her."

"I have little choice," she said. "Do not tax her, Thranduil, if you can at all avoid it. She has friends here, though you have put her in an unfortunate position. Should she find someone who takes her heart, she cannot marry, and that she would resent you for."

The mere thought sent a surge of something hot and ugly through him, and he realized with dismay that it was jealousy. Where had that come from? He did not know, but he did not like it.

"I must see to her," Galadriel said. "Think on what I have told you." She rose, and left him with Geezer, Gandalf, and a rather unwelcome revelation.

Lorna didn't want to admit it, but she was scared shitless. It had never occurred to her that interspecies pregnancy could be dangerous, though now she wondered why it hadn't. It was a relief to know that Elves and humans could successfully interbreed, even if the parents' species had always been flipped around before.

Her first pregnancy, while it lasted, also hadn't been any fun at all, and she imagined it would only be worse with a half-alien baby. Two half-alien babies.

And Christ, how was she to explain this to the healers? As much as she'd love to make Thranduil look like a shit, that would have consequences for more than just him. Destabilizing the monarchy of the Woodland Realm would not do anyone any favors, no matter how pissed off she was. But at the same time, she wasn't going to pretend this was the result of actual forethought – for one, she was a rotten liar, and for two, she didn't want to. She might not intentionally make things worse for Thranduil, but she wasn't about to make them easier, either.

She sat on one of the high bridges, looking down at a stream that meandered through the floor. How long she sat, stewing in her own anger, she didn't know, but eventually her silent aggravation was interrupted by Galadriel.

"We must go see the healers, Lorna," she said gently, holding out a pale hand.

Lorna took it, and stood. "What in God's bloody name am I to tell them?" she asked. "'Oh, your King sent me up the yard and didn't bother telling me we're married now'?"

Galadriel smiled. "While it would be amusing to see the reaction to that, you ought to allow me to do the talking. You must focus on being well, for I will not lie to you – this will not be pleasant. Are these your first children?"

"Yes and no," Lorna said, letting Galadriel lead her by the hand like a child herself. "I was pregnant before, but I lost the baby. That pregnancy wasn't any fun, but it wasn't unendurable, either."

"We will do what we can, to give you comfort with this one."

Lorna sure as hell hoped it worked. She was glad she at least didn't have to tell Galasríniel and the other healers that she'd had a drunken one-night stand with their King and got herself knocked up. She really didn't want to know what they would make of it.

But she trusted Galadriel, and so followed her to the healing wards without too much trepidation. If Galadriel could tell she was pregnant, how many others would as well? That was a slightly mortifying thought.

The wards were, as always, rather empty, and Galadriel led her to a private room. She hopped up onto the bed, unaccustomedly nervous, swinging her feet and wishing she'd never gone to that feast.

When Galasríniel came in with Galadriel, she looked badly startled, and rather worried. At least, when she spoke, it wasn't to ask how the hell this had come about to begin with. She laid a hand on Lorna's abdomen, shutting her eyes in concentration.

"Lorna, I will tell you now that I can make no promise you will carry both these children to term, but I will try my utmost to help you do so." She paused, and then said, carefully, "Lady Galadriel says there is some dispute about your marriage."

"As far as I'm concerned, there is no marriage," Lorna said, exasperated almost beyond endurance. "As I keep telling everyone, it might be your custom, but it's not mine. If you have to say it's marriage, fine, but nobody better be asking me to actually act like Thranduil's wife. If I see him again any time soon, I'll jam my boot so far up his arse he'll taste leather for a week.

Galasríniel looked completely scandalized, but Galadriel laughed. "A warning I do not think he needs, but I will give it to him anyway. For now, we must begin brewing you cordials, so that your body will not attempt to rid itself of the babies."

Lorna felt the blood drain from her face. "That's a possibility?"

"I am afraid so," Galasríniel said.

Well, that was horrifying. One miscarriage was enough, thank you very much. "So what do I do?"

"For a start, you rest," Galadriel said. "No running, no lifting, no sparring, and no use of your telekinesis. We do not yet know what that will do to your body."

"Can I still at least give guitar lessons?" Lorna asked, a little plaintively. "If I don't do something, I'll go spare in a month."

"Yes, you can do that," Galadriel said, "for as long as you have enough of a lap to hold the instrument."

Lorna shuddered. She hadn't been far enough in her last pregnancy to have more than a minor bump when she lost it, but she remembered that when her Mam was pregnant with Mick, she hadn't been able to see her own feet by month seven. Weirdly, the only time her da had ever acted like a decent human being was when Mam was pregnant. It wasn't just that he stopped hitting her – he'd actually stay home from the pub and do things around the house. Of course it didn't last long after the kid in question was actually born, but apparently the desire to take care of a pregnant woman was hardwired into the human species. "I'll get it in while I can, then. Can I at least keep my room?"

"For now. In a few months we will need to move you nearer the healing wards, for safety. Meanwhile, do not strain yourself, and no more wine."

"That I already knew. I just…what do I do now?" Lorna asked. "I mean, right now?" Though she was in a cavern filled with people, she felt very alone, because seriously, who the hell could she tell this to and have them actually understand?

Galadriel gave her a gentle smile. "Bring that instrument you call a guitar, and play us another song. Without straining yourself."

Gondor saw little more in the way of snow, but the bitter cold continued.

Day by day, Von Ratched's influence spread, but it was not enough to keep his interest on its own. Unwilling to often endure the crowds of people (and the armpits that came with them), he attempted to put together as close to a modern laboratory as he could.

It was not easy. He had as yet found no natural gas deposits – but even if he had, there was no way to bottle it. After making a thorough study of the minds of several blacksmiths, he helped himself to some of their equipment and supplies, and set about crafting himself a full set of surgical tools, spending the long dark evenings polishing and sharpening them. Laid out in a row on a long piece of black velvet, they glittered in the firelight, looking refreshingly modern amid such a medieval setting. He'd begun carving molds for glass beakers, but there was only one glassmaker currently living in Minas Tirith – it meant that he only had one source to study, which he rather disliked. One should never rely on a single source of information, but in this he had no choice. Lacking natural gas, he would need to build clockwork steam engines to craft his weapons.

The Elves would come. Whether in six months or six years, they would come for him, and shatter his plans to lay low until the time of Sauron, but he would be ready. Superior fighting ability counted for nothing against a bomb or a bazooka – what he made would by necessity be primitive, no less effective for it.

If they couldn't get near him, they couldn't affect his mind – most of them, anyway. Galadriel was still a very big problem, but he had at least another three months to figure out how to deal with her.

Once Lorna had explained her objective to the musicians, they were happy to duplicate the instrument she insisted on calling a guitar, even though it wasn't quite.

She set up shop in the guardroom, it being the only place A.) big enough, B.) with fewest distractions, unlike, say, the training hall, and C.) where Thranduil wasn't likely to frequent. She was still supremely pissed at him, and likely would be for some time yet.

Initially, she hadn't been sure how many people would show up, but a surprising number did – Faelon and Menelwen; Arandur; Geezer, Katje, and Ratiri, and Galasríniel, who Lorna suspected was only there to make certain she didn't strain herself. Eight musicians sat around and behind her, half of whose names she didn't know, watching her with an avid curiosity that bordered on creepy.

The light in here was usually strong, but she'd added even more lamps, so that everyone could see clearly what they were doing. Elves had unnaturally keen eyesight, but she had no idea how good (or bad) the vision of the three humans might be. She'd always thought her own was pretty keen, but then she'd met Elves.

She strummed her not-quite-guitar – being an Elvish instrument, it was of course perfectly in tune, so she could probably skip tuning lessons. "All right, even you musicians have probably never played like this, so pay attention. These are your frets. Memorize their numbers, for they are your friends." She repeated that in English, pointing. She'd marked each with an actual number, mostly for the benefit of the humans, so they wouldn't have to be forever silently counting. "Do you all see the little triangle of metal next to your chairs? That's a pick. While you can play with your fingers, doing that with a steel-string is a great way to make your fingers bleed. Your left hand's probably going to be sore anyway. Okay, watch my hands carefully."

Again, she repeated that in English, and launched into a very slow version of Hotel California, exaggerating her fretwork. The Elves, no doubt, would pick up on it almost immediately, and she hoped they wouldn't inadvertently be jerks and make the humans feel inferior. Lorna had a natural affinity for the instrument, but it had taken a solid year of daily practice before she could tackle songs like Crazy on You. The Elves, being Elves, would probably have it under control in a week. So far, it seemed the only thing they couldn't learn with relative ease was Irish. She was oddly proud that her second native tongue was so difficult that even Elves struggled with it.

The musicians, sure enough, mimicked the frets almost perfectly, though they stumbled a little over the strings. Guards and humans started off at the same level, thank God, so she moved among them, correcting and needed and very carefully not touching anyone – Galasríniel only felt her two buns in the oven after touching her.

She felt a prickling on the back of her neck, as though she were being watched, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Thranduil lurking in the shadows outside the doorway.

Her eyes narrowed, and she fought a scowl. She couldn't yell at him in front of everyone, which was probably why he had chosen to observe her near a crowd. Whatever. She'd just ignore him.

"You've almost got it, Faelon," she said in English, figuring he could use the practice, "you're not whacking a dummy with a sword. Keep that up and you'll snap a string, and believe me, it's no fun at all to get hit in the face with one. I know a bloke who damn near lost an eye that way."

"What?!" Katje demanded, her hands stilling.

"You're not playing near hard enough to worry about that. He was high on I don't even know what. Whatever it was, the doctors at the A&E were surprised he was alive."

Dammit, she could still feel Thranduil watching her like a creep. If he kept that up, she'd give out at him, audience or no. What the hell was he even doing all the way down here? Had he seriously turned up just to annoy her? That was petty even for him.

He wants a reaction, she thought. Don't give him one. The problem was that restraint had never been her strong point, and she wound up grinding her teeth.

"Katje, you've almost got it, but that buzzing happens because you're not pressing hard enough on the bar chords."

"Funny, I usually get told I press too hard on things," she said, which made Geezer snort and Ratiri burst out laughing.

"Obviously I'm missing something," Lorna said.

"Katje's a call girl and part-time dominatrix," Ratiri said.

"Was," Geezer added. "She needs a new job."

"Hush, old man," Katje said. "My old one was fine. I like disciplining people."

Lorna tried to laugh. She really did, but in the end, she couldn't help it. "I don't know where in Middle-Earth you'd have cause to do that, but there's got to be somewhere." God, but it was nice to talk to humans. She might never really be one of their tiny circle, but maybe she could attach herself to the outside of it.

She eyed Geezer's hands, which were so much improved she'd never have guessed they'd been such a mass of scars. "Geezer, you've got the opposite problem – you'll slice your fingers open if you keep on pressing so hard."

See, she could do that. Ignoring Thranduil entirely might not be possible, but at least she did need to react. Suck it, Drag Queen Barbie.

She slept well that night, at least initially. At some point, her usual jumble of dreams took on an unnatural clarity, and she was again chucked headlong into what might have been.

This one was much nicer than the last had been. There was a long, low house in the mountains, seated in a meadow ringed with fir trees. It was high summer, the air hot and dry, drawing out the scent of fir and freshly-mowed grass, as well as the heady aroma of a trellis of roses beside the sliding-glass door of the kitchen. The kitchen itself was rather large, the countertops polished granite, the cabinets dark cherry wood. It was even nicer than Mairead's, and it was hers.

It was also, at the moment, rather crowded. Katje and Geezer were there, as well as a black man she knew instinctively to be Gerald, Katje's husband. Ratiri was trying to stir something on the stove and hold a small girl of maybe two at the same time – a girl who looked almost identical to Lorna as a child, tiny and dark-skinned and black-haired. Another child, a boy, was attempting to scale Geezer like a monkey on a tree. A box fan in the doorway to the living-room tried and failed to alleviate the heat, but Lorna loved that heat, because uncomfortable as it was, this was her home –

She woke with tears on her face, hot and salty, and immediately tried to blame them on hormones. She also felt distinctly nauseous, but it was way too early for that.

Early or not, she barely made it to the toilet – such as it was – before sicking up everything she'd had for dinner. That process repeated twice before her nausea faded to bearable levels, and then she had to pour herself some water to rinse her mouth out. She hadn't even been up the yard a full month, so why was she sick to her stomach?

Alien babies, she thought, struggling to her washbasin to pour more water and wash her sweat-sticky face. Who know what would be too soon or too late? Not her, that was for certain.

Only now did she register streaks of dampness on her thighs, and cold dread seized her heart even before she looked down and saw bloodstains on her nightgown.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Lorna staggered back into the bedroom and hunted down her dressing-gown, before she made her way into the corridor. Arandur had the room next to hers, and she prayed he was in as she pounded on his door.

No such luck. Christ, could she make it to the healing wards before…well, before? She had to try. Weirdly, there were no cramps, as there had been with her first miscarriage – just blood. Did that mean this wasn't a miscarriage? If not, what was it?

She had to pause to sick up again, and dizziness gripped her so strongly she nearly fell.

"Lorna?" Faelon, wide-eyed, grabbed her shoulders.

"Healing wards," she said. "Now."

Fortunately, he didn't ask any questions – just picked her up like a child, practically running down the corridor and up the steps. It was a damn good thing he'd come along, because she was so dizzy she probably couldn't have even crawled. While her consciousness didn't precisely fade, she grew less aware of her surroundings.

What might have been is important. The thought came out of nowhere, and disappeared into the ether just as quickly. Her mind was churning so badly that she wasn't even aware at first that they'd reached the healing wards.

Alarmed voices came from several directions, but she didn't have the energy to even turn her head to see who they belonged to. Faelon passed her to Galasríniel, who hauled her into an exam room. Lorna dimly heard her demand that somebody fetch Lady Galadriel, but her consciousness was fading fast, dragging her back into the dream of what ought to have been her life.

Galadriel had feared this, but she had not thought it would happen so soon, and had hoped the cordials would stave it off. Lorna's body was rejecting the babes before they were even fully formed, sensing that they were something alien, and Galadriel was not entirely sure she could save them. The Eldar who had borne half-Edain children had bodies and wombs far more resilient – peredhel babies had been easy by comparison. Lorna's mortal womb saw these two as a threat, and it was not necessarily wrong. One peredhel would be taxing enough, but two might be too much to bear.

Mercifully, Lorna's consciousness had deserted her, though that too was a worry, for she had lost so much blood her face was grey with it. She was so very still stretched out on the table, and the fact that Edain slept with their eyes closed always did make them look dead.

But she breathed still, and Galasríniel rubbed a soothing oil of athelas onto her forehead and temples, trying to encourage her body to relax and fight its instincts.

Galadriel laid her hands on Lorna's abdomen, still flat and taut with muscle, chanting under her breath. The tiny, unformed souls, which felt very much Eldar, were frightened, and she tried to soothe them as she worked.

Eventually the bleeding stopped, and they quieted. Lorna stayed asleep even when Galasríniel cleaned her up and dressed her in fresh nightclothes, carrying her carefully into a recovery room.

What had happened? Why now? Galadriel did not know, and she could not search Lorna's mind for the answer. Thranduil could, but she would never allow it – not yet. Her anger at him needed time to cool.

One thing was certain – she did not look forward to telling Thranduil of this development. His temper did not perturb her, though it terrified his subjects. No, it was the fear he did not wish to see, and she knew that she would, because he did care about Lorna, in his own odd way.

"Send for me, if she wakes," she told Galasríniel, "but I do not think that she will for some time yet."

"Yes, my Lady," Galasríniel said.

Galadriel rose, and let the healing wards like a ghost. There was no way this would be pleasant, but it had to be done.

Of course, Thranduil thought, someone would have to disturb him on one of the rare nights he actually planned to sleep.

He was in no good mood already. Strangely, he'd found he missed having Lorna snark at him, so he'd gone to find her, fully expecting that she would. To his surprise, he was to be disappointed; she actually managed to ignore him. She must be even angrier than he'd thought – not that he could precisely blame her, either.

But of course he could not be allowed to drink away his irritation and sleep. Someone had to dare come knocking on his door – if they didn't have a damn good excuse, they'd pay for it.

When he opened the door, however, he found that it was Galadriel – a Galadriel who looked very grave indeed.

"You must come with me," she said.

"Why?" he demanded.

Her damnably deep blue eyes held his steadily. "There is something wrong with Lorna. She is very angry with you right now, but that might be to our benefit."

"What is it you need?" he asked, following her when she turned away.

"Something is causing her body to reject the children," she said. "I cannot safely read her mind to discover what it is, but you can. Yes, she will be infuriated with you, but if she is infuriated, her fëa is more tightly bound to her hröa. She is physically too strong to die, but if allowed, her mind will wander and never return."

That was a dreadful thought. Irritating though Lorna might be, Thranduil would not lose her – not yet. Ever in the back of his mind was the knowledge that losing her was inevitable someday, for she was all too mortal. She would die, and never again would she tease him, or harmlessly destroy his clothes, or tell him off when she thought he needed taking down a notch or two. No one else, not even Legolas, dared to that. Unlike the rest of his people, she was not in awe of him, and she had not feared him since she first left for Dale weeks ago.

And one day she would die. There would never be another Lorna Donovan, this tiny, aggravating Edain with the unearthly green eyes that even now unsettled him. She and all she was would be lost forever, gone wherever the fëa of Edain went after death.

But not today. She and her mind and her fëa were staying right here.

Aaand here you have the biggest reason Thranduil doesn't want to admit, even to himself, just how fond of Lorna he really is. He thinks that if he doesn't get too close, it won't hurt so much when she dies. Silly Thranduil, it's a bit late for that.

Title means "Peril" in Irish

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