Elrond's eyebrows raised so high they almost tangled in his hairline.

'Would you please repeat that?' he asked his advisor.

Erestor tried not to sigh. He pushed aside the carefully-crocheted coaster set – really, the sooner Arwen moved on to something useful like blacksmithing, the better – and slid the sheaf of scouts' reports closer to his lord.

'Flashes of fire in the sky some fifty miles south of the confluence of the Langwell and the Greylin towards the mountains.'

'Is there no chance it is connected with the recent earth tremors?'

'It seems unlikely. The last aftershock was several weeks since; the sighting of flame was less than a week ago; the scout rode with all haste to get the report here swiftly.'

'I can only think of one reason for there to be flames in the sky, Erestor, and I am not thinking of Mithrandir's party fireworks now.'

'You think there are dragons, still? My lord, there has been nothing heard of them for centuries; they must all be gone by now, surely?'

Elrond shook his head. 'I fear the time of the dragons is not quite over… still. Did the scout himself witness the flame?'

'No, indeed. He had reached the edge of his allotted trails when he came across one of those poor lost wanderers we see from time to time…' Erestor sighed. 'Why these wretches continue to wander when there are sanctuaries such as Imladris just waiting to welcome them…'

'Sometimes people believe they do not deserve help. And sometimes, it is true. But we cannot force these vagabond wayfarers to take sanctuary amongst us… So. I must say, then, hardly the most reliable of witnesses. What of matters our scouts have seen for themselves?'

'The warg population seems to have been having a hard time of it…'

'Pity…'

The sarcasm in Elrond's tone meat it was Erestor's turn to raise an eyebrow, which he did less magnificently, since his hair line had not receded nearly so far as to make it quite as dramatic as his lord's.

'…reports directly from our scouts say there are bodily remains of wargs – mostly bones but not many of them – strewn through the mountains near the rising of the Rhimdath… the scouts spoke with the party send to rebuild the pack bridge across the Langflood - and they reported no flame in the sky. Moreover, orc activity is much reduced – there are no rumours of them in the region, although we had suspected a nest had become established in the mountains…'

'Perhaps they and the wargs killed each other? Those foul folk cannot even keep their allies for long. Strange portents indeed. But with regard to the eyot… I understand some of the Mirkwood contingent is there?'

'As was suggested by King Thranduil's advisor, yes, their bridge detail remains and together with our party are putting in place such structures as may be required.'

'To recap, then; a wandering vagabond imagines fire in the sky – one wonders if he saw smoke on the water, also…'

'My lord?'

Elrond waved a hand. 'Before your time. Orc activity is minimal, warg numbers are reduced, the bridge is built and supplies are in place. Our people and Thranduil's people have not yet enacted another kinslaying… so why do I wish I had an excuse to call off this ridiculous travesty…?'

Erestor cleared his throat.

'You mean this most advantageous and propitious union between Imladris and Mirkwood, my lord?'

'Yes. That.'

'Perhaps no father really ever wishes for his daughter's marriage,' Erestor said.

'It is too late to back out, whatever my wishes.' Elrond exhaled heavily. 'By the time any message reached Mirkwood now, the deputation will already have left. No, I am afraid we are committed.'

'Indeed my lord. It will be good for lady Arwen to properly meet her potential in-laws… I suppose, if all goes accordingly, she will eventually begin her married life in Mirkwood?'

'Yes.' Elrond brightened. 'We must ensure she's properly aware of the fact.'

'My lord, I must confess I do not fully understand your reluctance…'

'No. No, nor do I, not really. For who else is there who is suitable? It is just difficult to see Arwen and Iaruon as a happily married couple. Still. We ride tomorrow. Order everything so we can be off after the breakfast hour… expect to be underway by noon. If anyone needs me before dinner tonight, I'll be speaking with the healers.'

'Ah. Have you the headache, my lord?'

'Usually, these days.'

Elrond waited for his advisor to leave, organising his thoughts as he organised his desk, moving aside random pieces of brightly-coloured crochet… well, if nothing more, it would be entertaining to see how King Thranduil would react to Arwen's current work-in-progress; she had written to Iauron via messenger hawk to enquire the name of Thranduil's elk and the size of its antlers and was presently crafting a multihued, personalised headset-warmer for the beast.

And, really, it wasn't that he disliked the notion of Arwen and Iauron. Given the right wife, and the right father-in-law, the prince would shape up to be a reasonable husband. Or else.

No. it was more that there was a sense of unfinished business there, business he had hoped would not need revisiting. He was growing acutely aware, however, that someone, somewhere would say something to bring it up again.

Elrond was rather afraid it might even be he.

It had seemed like such a good idea, at the time. Sensible. His sons reacting badly to the loss of their mother, and who was there here of their own age for them to talk to? Not really anyone who might offer alternative pastimes to heading off slaughtering orcs. So he had sent a tentative invitation to Mirkwood; would King Thranduil perhaps send his sons on a visit and maybe then receive his sons in return? An exchange, beneficial to both their houses, each seeing the challenges faced by the other in the spirit of mutual cooperation and understanding. Granted, the sons of King Thranduil and his own boys weren't the same age, not really. But they were of the same generation and roughly at the same place in their lives at least.

Thranduil had not been enthusiastic. He was unable to spare all three of his sons, he said; only one would make the trip, and in the finish, it had been his youngest who had arrived with a handful of escort riders, intending to stay for three months. He'd seemed to get on well with Elladan and Elrohir, and if at first they rode out after orcs as was their wont with the prince adding his bow to their own weapons, soon they tired of that and began exploring around, showing the Mirkwood prince the gentler lands to the west of Imladris instead. Prince Legolas became familiar, accepted, liked, even, and at the end of three months, the escort returned to Mirkwood without their prince, messenger hawks having sent for permission and brought it back for Legolas to extend his visit. Three months, after all, is no time at all when you have forever and a visit of a year seemed like a much more realistic timescale to make certain the sons of Elrond were back on the right track.

So there were joyful songs in the Hall of Fire again, and laughter began to be heard around Imladris once more, and if Elrond noticed Arwen looking at Legolas under her eyelashes, he also saw that Legolas either didn't see, or didn't care.

It took him a while to realise why. And, perhaps, if he hadn't realised, if others of his household hadn't realised, then things would not have fallen out the way they had. But the upshot if it was that when Prince Legolas had finally returned home, there was no reciprocal invitation to Elladan and Elrohir.

Elrond sighed. All that was long ago, now. Who would care about such ancient history? He could have wished, however, that the Mirkwood healer had not contacted his own healer for advice; acknowledged as it was as a centre for learning and healing, Imladris could not refuse to help and, as the master of lore and healing, that meant Elrond could not refuse to help either.

He made his way to the healing rooms and presented himself to the healer on duty.

'Is Healer Feril available?' he asked. 'I want to go over details for the journey with her.'

'Yes, Lord Elrond. Will you wait in the library while I seek her?'

Elrond nodded and allowed the healer to open the door for him. The library attached to the healer's wing was much smaller than the main one, but it made sense to keep the healing books and scrolls where they were most needed. He noticed a small stack of books on one of the desks; volumes on ancient, mystical practices, one or two about field medicine… it looked as if Healer Feril was ahead with her preparations.

He turned the pages of the uppermost volume idly until he heard the door behind him click open.

'You wanted me, Lord Elrond?'

He turned, a smile of reassurance on his face.

'Yes, Feril. I wanted to make sure you were ready for the trip?' he said.

'Indeed; I would say I was looking forward to it, but it seems inappropriate. Word from my friend suggests that the prince is still suffering occasional attacks, but they seem to be not excessively severe. She notes that it appears his insight is quite accurate in some matters… it intrigues me.'

'Indeed, for those without foresight it can be seen as appealing. The reality can be otherwise.' He gestured for her to sit and himself took a seat. 'Are you travelled at all, Feril?'

'A little. I have crossed the mountains in winter, and so I know our trip is not going to be like a stroll down the Bruinen, my lord. But I am used to walking and riding in hard weather and delivering healing at the end of it.'

'I'm pleased to hear it. Are you seeking to bring these volumes with you?'

'Oh, I would not presume… I have made copious notes, however.'

'Good.' Elrond got to his feet and smiled again. 'I'll see you in the morning, then. I go now to make sure the Lady Arwen is fully prepared.'

He found his daughter in the throes of packing and humming to herself, looking at him with joyful eyes.

'Oh, father! It's so exciting! I am really looking forward to seeing Belegornor again – even if he is Prince Iauron!'

'I am pleased to hear it, daughter, for otherwise we would be going to great trouble – and putting Mirkwood to great trouble, too – for no reason.' He looked around her room with concern. There were three open trunks all in various stages of fullness. 'Arwen… you do know you can't bring all this?'

'No? But I do not know what Iauron will like me in…'

'Well, Belegornor didn't seem to mind, did he?'

'…no…'

'So, for the sake of our poor horses, take your riding gear and two or three nice dresses if you like; there will only be two formal meetings where you and Iauron will be present at the same time. One trunk is all we can manage. And that includes your wonderful handcrafted gifts, I'm afraid.'

'But…'

'Arwen! Think of the horses!'