In which Lorna discovers that pregnancy with half-Elf babies sucks especially badly, Faelon and Menelwen find something disturbing in the woods, and poor Legolas is still left in the dark.

The next few weeks were an utter misery to Lorna.

She was almost constantly nauseated, often sicking up both broth and water almost as soon as they'd gone down. It only abated when she slept, which she did as much as she could.

Thranduil, to his credit, didn't leave her to suffer alone, though she often raged at him for getting her into this mess in the first place. This was so very much worse than her first pregnancy, and it had to be because this time the kids were half alien. She felt no guilt over sicking up on him, which she did, several times.

"I hate you," she said, rinsing her mouth out with water yet again. "I hate you so much."

"I know," he said, rubbing circles on her back. "But the sickness will pass, in time."

"How d'you know?" she demanded, before losing what was left of her breakfast. "No human's ever had Elf babies, remember? I could well be like this the next eight months."

He said nothing to that, because there was nothing he could say. For all anyone knew, she might be right.

Faelon obviously knew of her pregnancy, and he told Arandur and Menelwen, but she'd ordered all of them not to let anyone else in on it. Soon enough she wouldn't be able to hide it, but she'd keep it her secret as long as she could.

She crawled back up onto her bed, vaguely wishing she was dead. A bath sounded nice, but she had no energy at all to take one, and she wasn't so far gone that she was willing to ask Galasríniel or someone for help.

"You need to eat something," Thranduil said, pulling her blanket up over her shoulders.

"Not right now, I don't," she retorted. "It would just come right back up, and I've had enough'v that for one day. Sure God I can't go through another eight months'v this."

"It might be nine," he said helpfully. "Elven pregnancies usually last for ten months."

Lorna shut her eyes, burying her face in her pillow. "Thranduil, you are not helping. At all."

"Sooner or later the healers will find a cordial to stop your sickness.

"I wish I could believe that," she groaned, curling into a ball. "I really, really do. At this point, I don't dare hope for anything."

"Why not?" he asked, again rubbing circles against her back. It was vaguely soothing.

"He who hopes for nothing will never be disappointed," she said. "Can't remember who said that, but it's true."

"It is also appalling. I will speak to the healers."

"Good luck," she grumbled.

Thranduil was growing worried. Even an Elf could not survive forever if they could not keep food in their stomach long enough for it to do any good. Lorna was losing weight she could ill afford to lose normally, let alone when she was with child. Children.

The healers were rather at a loss. They tried cordial after cordial, but none of them stayed down long enough to be of any use. Lorna's already sharp features were turning skeletal, and while she had not yet had another bout of bleeding, if she kept on like this, it was only a matter of time.

Terrible though it was, part of him almost hoped she would lose these children, because as it stood, they were killing her. If this was what happened to an Edain woman tried to carry Eldar babes, it was just as well it had never been tried before. Had Caranthir and Haleth wed – and from all Thranduil had heard, there had been some manner of feeling there – she might never have led her people on to Estolad.

He went to Galadriel, who was brewing yet another cordial that he feared would be just as useless as the rest. Even she was worried, though one would never have known it to look at her – her pale face was serene as ever. It lurked in her eyes, however, even as she stirred her concoction in a glass bowl.

"Has she eaten?" she asked, not looking up from her work.

"She has tried." Thranduil sat heavily in a chair beside the fire. "Again, she has failed."

"I think that failure lies not only with the cordials," Galadriel said. "We must trick her body into not rejecting them before they can be of any use."

"And how are we to do that?" he demanded.

"Distract her. Her fear of losing it all immediately must be only making it worse. Galasríniel and I will help her bathe, and she will sip very slowly. Once it has taken effect, it is my hope that subsequent draughts will be easier. Such sickness does not normally last among Edain women, but in this we cannot be sure it will not."

Were this anything like a normal marriage, he'd be the one giving the bath, but it was not normal, and thus would likely be uncomfortable at best, and mortifying at worst. "If it fails, tell me," he said. "If it works, tell me. I must see to something." There was nothing to be seen to, and he knew Galadriel would know it; what he really needed was a drink.

Though the depths of winter were now past, still the snow fell. Patrols became more monotonous than ever, because nothing, not even the giant spiders, could move through such drifts. So Faelon was inwardly surprised to find, one frigid, pale morning, an Edain child sitting halfway up a tree. A wight Edain child.

She was very young, and very tiny, with long, white-blonde hair and milky eyes. Her clothing was much the same as Lorna's had been upon her arrival, little trousers and a short-sleeved shirt wholly inadequate for the cold – not that this child could have felt cold.

She watched him, and he watched her. His weapons were not equal to wights, as they were not exactly common in this part of Middle-Earth (not that they were common anywhere); quite frankly, he had no idea what to do, since she didn't look likely to attack him.

"Hi," the little girl said, giving him a small wave. "You're pretty."

Well. That was unexpected. While he had heard that wights could speak, he couldn't imagine one telling someone they were pretty – and she spoke English. Were there wights in Lorna's world? If so, she'd certainly never said anything of them. "Do you have a name, child?"

"Marty," she said. "I lost my mama."

Eru, what sort of mother could a child like this have? "Was she in the forest with you?" he asked carefully.

The little girl shook her head, her hair whipping her in the face. "Nah. Mama Tanya and all my brothers and sisters're in the Other, and Mama Mama's on Earth. Which I'm pretty sure this isn't, 'cause you've got pointy ears, and nobody on Earth does."

It took Faelon a moment to work all that out through the child's accent, which was not like that of any of the other Edain. "This is Middle-Earth," he said, and wondered what he should do now. Leaving her here seemed wrong, but what if she was dangerous? Oh, she didn't look it, but she was still a wight of some sort.

Fortunately, Menelwen came up beside him, saving him the decision. She must have been watching their odd little interaction. "We must bring her," she said in Sindarin. "At least if we take her to the halls, we know where she is. And perhaps one of the Edain will know what she is, and what to do about her."

"She is a wight," Faelon said. "That is rather obvious."

"She is not like any wight I ever heard tell of," Menelwen retorted. "Do you sense any malice from her?"

"No," he admitted. "But she is a dead creature that speaks. You cannot tell me that is natural."

"Perhaps it is not natural for Middle-Earth," she pointed out, "but she is not from Middle-Earth. We must take her with us."

"Very well," he sighed, "but I do not relish the thought of carrying her. Come, child," he said in English. "You must come with us."

The little girl jumped down from the tree, and to his surprise, she landed as lightly as any Elf. It was something of a relief to see that her tiny bare feet actually left tracks. "Where are we going?" She seemed remarkably unperturbed by finding herself in a strange world, but then, she was already dead – what was the worst that could happen to her?

"To my lord's halls," he said, and then, feeling more was needed, "there are other humans there."

"Cool," she said, and padded along beside him.

What in Eru's name had he actually found?

Much as Lorna hated needing help with a bath, need it she did. As per Galadriel's instructions, she sipped the latest cordial while Galasríniel washed her hair, soaking in the recessed tub like a posh lady in a spa. The hot water did feel wonderful, at least.

She looked down at her stomach, which was still flat. At her size, with twins, she'd have the baby bump from hell. Hey, maybe she'd know what it was to have actual boobs for once in her life – she never had graduated out of training bras. Would her bellybutton poke out like some sort of weird growth? She'd heard of that happening. God, she wished she could talk to a human woman who had had a kid. Somehow, she doubted Elven pregnancies were the messy, uncomfortable things humans went through. Elves were too poised and graceful for that sort of thing.

"Galasríniel, can you cut off a little of my hair?" she asked, sipping.

"Why in Eru's name would you want that?" the healer asked, scrubbing at her scalp.

"Because it's too long even for me. Just get it back up to my bum.'

"No. Your hair is too lovely to cut. Tilt your head back and shut your eyes."

Lorna sipped again, and did, carefully holding her glass out of the way. "Oh, come on, Galasríniel," she said, as warm water poured over her hair, "it's ridiculous. I'll start tripping over it soon."

"And when that happens, then I will cut it. Maybe. Now sip, and keep your eyes closed."

Lorna did, and more water ran down her scalp. "You're impossible."

"I believe your people having a saying about pots and kettles."

"We do," Lorna said, opening her eyes and looking up at Galasríniel, "but how did you know about it?"

The healer looked guilty, which was quite odd in an Elf. "I've been spending time with Ratiri," she said, "and learning English from him. Medicine in your world is fascinating." She paused. "I hope this will not upset you."

Truth be told, Lorna was. Quite a bit, in fact, and more than a little jealous. "I suppose I've no right to be," she sighed. "After all, I'm married." The vitriol she infused into the word was beyond description.

Galasríniel winced. "Why do you object to that so?"

Lorna scowled, and sipped her cordial. "Because where I'm from, the prime ingredient in marriage is love, or should be. Thranduil's a lot less irritating than he was, but we don't love each other, and I'm stuck. I can't find anyone I do love – and if I ever did, I can't do anything about it. Not right now, anyway." No, she wasn't bitter. Of course not.

Awkward silence followed that, because it wasn't as though there was anything Galasríniel could really say to that. Lorna had figured for years that she'd never marry again, because she'd never love anybody like she'd loved Liam, and now she was stuck in this farce. And she couldn't help but resent it.

She kept sipping while Galasríniel finished with her hair, now quite moody. Not that that was anything new lately. What she'd be like when the hormones really kicked in, she didn't know, and didn't want to.

The cordial was gone by the time Galasríniel was finished with her hair, and she bundled up well once she was out of the tub. Warm though the wards were, anymore she almost always felt too cold.

When they reached her room, she shooed Galasríniel away, preferring to come out her hair herself.

She had no right to be jealous, she told herself, as she combed and took in the fire's warmth. Yes, she'd married Ratiri in another universe, another timeline, but they'd been different people. In this here and now, he might always fear her to some extent, simply because of what she was – whatever Von Ratched had done to him, it had to have been utterly horrible. Fear was a poor basis for friendship, let alone a marriage. Honestly, it was even worse than a drunken one-night stand.

Well, she'd have children, at least. Though what on Earth manner of mother would she be? Her own mam had died when Lorna was fourteen, and she'd often been too broken to do all a mother should. What if she totally bolloxed it up?

There was no point worrying about it yet. She'd have plenty of time for that later.

Menelwen burst into her room, scattering her thoughts. "Lorna, we've found something in the forest," she said urgently. Her eyes were wide, and Lorna had no doubt that if she'd been human, she'd be out of breath.

"Found what?" Lorna asked, setting aside her comb.

"A child. A wight of some sort, but she does not seem to mean any harm. Nor does she seem at all concerned at finding herself in a completely different world."

A wight – could she be one of Aelis's people, brought in a little early? Lorna couldn't think of any other reason. She stuffed her feet into a pair of slippers, and followed Menelwen. Thank blood Christ this cordial appeared to be working so far – she didn't particularly want to spew all over Menelwen's back.

"Where are you going?" Galasríniel asked, appearing from apparently nowhere. Lorna never had got used to just how suddenly there could be an Elf where there was no Elf moments before.

"Menelwen found a zombie," she said. "A little girl zombie. I need to see it."

"Her," Menelwen said. "She gives her name as Marty Corwin, daughter of Sharley."

Sharley…Lorna knew that name. Aelis had mentioned her, but hadn't said anything about her zombie kid. What the fuck? "Menelwen, I can't go fast enough," she said. "I need to get up on your back." By this point, she'd lost all sense of dignity – she was pretty sure she'd sicked it up along with everything else.

Menelwen knelt so she could clamber on, and then she clung like a monkey, praying the cordial would keep working. Blowing her groceries all over Menelwen's head would be even worse than sicking up on her back.

They passed a great many incredibly confused Elves, all of whom wanted explanations, and none of them actually got one. Word of Marty's arrival must have traveled fast, but further information obviously hadn't been forthcoming.

Both Lorna and Menelwen ignored them as they made their way to what turned out to be one of Thranduil's council chambers – just how many of those did he actually need? Of course he was there, as well as Galadriel and Legolas, with Geezer, Katje, and Ratiri clustered at the far end of the table with Faelon and Arandur.

Marty sat on top of the table, and even though she was a zombie, she was just about the cutest thing Lorna had ever seen. Yes, her skin was grey, the tracery of blue veins beneath it quite visible, and yes her eyes were milky, but she was still goddamn adorable. Unfortunately, it seemed that Lorna was the only one who thought so.

Menelwen set her down, and she made her slipper-shuffling way over to the little girl, ignoring everyone else.

"And how long'v you been here, allanah?" she asked.

Marty blinked at her. Beneath their film of death, her eyes did not match – both were mostly dark brown, but the left had an uneven section of blue and an even more uneven bit of green, while half the right was a brown so light it was nearly amber. "Since last night," she said, and though her voice was high and sweet, there was a gravelly quality to it, too. "You're Lorna, right? I think I'm s'posed to find you and him." She pointed at Thranduil. 'He's really tall. As tall as Granddad."

"Yes, he is very tall," Lorna said, climbing up onto the table to sit with the little girl. "Stupidly so. Did you come here on purpose, Marty, or did you just find yourself halfway up a tree?"

"Tree," Marty said, hugging her knees. "It was big. Everything here is big."

"It's not a great place to be small in. At least now I'm not alone."

"Why must you find us, Marty?" Thranduil asked. "Did Aelis speak of us?"

Marty turned her dead eyes to him. "No, Mama did," she said. "She said if I ever did come here, I had to find you and stay with you until everybody else shows up."

That would have sounded a lot more ominous if Lorna hadn't been expecting it. She looked at Thranduil, who didn't look at all thrilled, and at the humans. Geezer looked curious; Katje, dubious; and Ratiri was visibly creeped out. Not that she could blame him for it – if she hadn't seen the much more horrifying Aelis first, she might be, too.

"What does she say?" Legolas and Lorna let Thranduil answer.

"That she has been sent to stay with us," he said, looking at Marty. "And she creates something of a complication."

Lorna didn't need to wonder what he meant by that. She doubted many of the Elves were going to be happy having a zombie running around their halls – even a benevolent one.

"Kid, you can't be from Earth," Geezer said, assessing her closely.

Marty shook her head. "The Other," she said. "It's kinda connected to Earth. There's lots like me there, and lots not like me."

Lorna just knew that they were all going to want to question the girl, which would take ages. "Marty, allanah, can I have a look at your mind? Can you show me the Other?"

"Lorna," Thranduil warned.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Thranduil, she's already dead. It's not like I can infect her like I did you."

"And what if she infects you?" he demanded.

"With what?"

He waved a hand. "I don't know…something."

"Eloquent, but unconvincing." She looked back at Marty. "What d'you say, allanah? Will you show me your home?"

After a moment, the girl nodded.

Caranthir and Haleth are from The Silmarillion - Haleth was the daughter of a chief whose people were besieged by orcs, who killed her father and her brother. She held the survivors together for days afterward, and then Caranthir and his army turned up and helped. The idea that there was anything between the two is total headcanon, but it's mine, my precious. (Seriously, Haleth was so badass that her people, who had once called themselves the Haladan, started calling themselves the People of Haleth.)

Title means "The Walking Dead" in Irish.

As ever, reviews feed my hungry, hungry soul.