"And so?" Galadriel asked.

Morwinyon did not answer at first. She had too much to consider, not least that she had been in her mother's thoughts and then seen herself bring about the destruction of the Greenwood.

I had two eyes, she thought suddenly, staring past Galadriel. She was still not used to thinking of herself with only one, she supposed, however used to compensating for it she had become. She reached for her right hand with her left, feeling that it was there, and asked, "Does it always show the truth?"

"Is, was, and may be," Galadriel said. "Only one is mutable."

"But it is based in, what, probability?"

Galadriel shrugged. "Perhaps it is based on the hearts of those who look. Perhaps they are warnings, if the watcher takes a certain path."

Morwinyon, frowning, said, "What does it mean, if I saw something that cannot be?"

"I would say that it could be, given certain circumstances. What did you see?"

"My mother," Morwinton said, and it was as if speaking the words made everything clearer: Morwinyon had lost an eye, not a hand, and if Laeriel had been long in the clutches of the Enemy. Anyone might be turned after a hundred years or more. She thought of someone breathing in the dark who she could not see.

Galadriel looked suddenly sad, and tipped her head back to stare into the high, straight branches above. Morwinyon did not: the light had not become easier on her eyes.

"I have lost many loved ones," Galadriel told her, voice even sadder, and Morwinyon wondered if Galadriel gazed upwards not to look for something herself but to keep Morwinyon from seeing her face. "Even I did not expect to lose Laeriel."

Struck by a thought, Morwinyon demanded, "Did you see her here? In your mirror? Is that why-"

Galadriel shook her head. Morwinyon subsided.

"When I looked I saw nothing," her cousin said. "When I listened - nothing. A shining silver surface, as if it were a mirror in truth."

Galadriel smiled suddenly, a little ruefully, and continued, "But it was always thus. Laeriel was always difficult, and to me her mind was never open."

Morwinyon did not blame Laeriel. She looked back at the mirror.

"You may look again if you wish," Galadriel said. "Sometimes others see more than once."

"Can I choose what to see?" Morwinyon asked, thinking of Tari and Nion, and how Gloin meant to speak to them.

"You cannot," Galadriel admitted. "Only I have managed that."

Morwinyon looked again at the mirror.

"So you see," Galadriel said. "No straight answers, and no certainty. Your future remains yours and what you make of it, and you may tell Kili so."

That was not right, or not entirely right. She had been selfish and irresponsible, she had told Elrond and his children, and it was true.

What kind of princess seeks not to let her kin know her? Elrohir had asked.

The kind that is me, she would have said, but she could not be that kind of princess anymore. Alia wanted her to judge Aragorn, but how could she judge a man who chose another people without hypocrisy? How could she look at her children on a throne that would be their responsibility and say, no, sorry, I cannot help you?

Her future had never been entirely her own: she had responsibilities as a princess, as a mother, and as a sister even if she no longer had them as a wife. Someday one would have to come first, but today duty to all three boiled down to one firm thought.

Mirkwood must be warned.

Kili agreed with the principle of her argument. He only did not understand why she felt she must do the warning.

"They are my people," she finally said. "I have ignored them long enough."

She would not be budged, and Kili knew it: he must have been arguing for the sake of it, because he sighed and said, "Will I be put in the same cell this time?"

"No one will put you in a cell," Morwinyon said hotly, and realized that she might not have a way to ensure that. Kili knew it too.

"Am I supposed to leave you here then?" she asked. She and Kili had been in each other's pockets for sixty years now. There might have been a week they were not in each other's company, but she could not think of one.

"And go alone to Mirkwood?" he demanded.

"There is no winning here," Morwinyon complained, and went to see Galadriel in her study.

"Of course you would not go alone," her cousin said, drawing herself up to her full height. It was impressive: Morwinyon knew few people taller than she, but Galadriel definitely was.

"Kili will not be comfortable here or in Mirkwood," Morwinyon told her. "Is there a solution to that then too, o wisest of my kin?"

Celeborn, sitting at the desk, snorted. Galadriel shot him a look. Her husband ignored her and continued writing.

"To be sure," Galadriel said after a moment, turning a gaze of renewed equanimity to Morwinyon. "I have seen a party of dwarves journeying near, but a day or two out."

"I thought your mirror could not tell you what would happen," Morwinyon said suspiciously.

"I saw them leave and I know where from," Galadriel retorted. "Barring catastrophe, they will be there."

"Are they Longbeards?" Morwinyon asked. "Not Broadbeams or-"

Morwinyon had not thought Galadriel could grow taller. She was wrong.

Galadriel stared down her nose at her young cousin and said with great dignity, "Acquit me of stupidity, Morwinyon. My brother was Finrod Felagund, and often did I dwell in his halls. I have been longer acquainted with dwarves than even you. I will arrange your escort tomorrow, and one for Kili."

There was nothing to say to that. Morwinyon dropped a quick bow and left.

"I won't be comfortable with dwarves either," Kili pointed out. "There's going to be questions."

"There are going to be questions wherever we go," she said. "Do not tell me you do not miss your own folk. I will not believe you."

He fixed her with a look. "Don't pretend you don't. That doesn't mean it isn't complicated."

He had a point, but Morwinyon refused to admit it. She was already rethinking the whole thing: maybe she could bring Kili to Mirkwood with her. Maybe he would not be as miserable as she thought. Maybe she would not have to face her mistakes or misjudgments or discomforts alone, as she had not had to for sixty years.

Grow up, Morwinyon, she told herself. You have been telling everyone you are an adult for near a hundred years, and hated it when they did not listen. Adults face their problems and do what is right, and it would not be right to have Kili come for your comfort when it would not be comfortable for him.

She continued to remind herself of that in the morning, when she and Kili went to meet Galadriel again.

"And who would you send with the princess of Mirkwood?" Morwinyon heard Haldir demand before she had quite come into view. She stopped. Behind her Kili stopped too. "Our borders are ill-defended enough, if what you say is true of the enemy."

"If?" Galadriel asked. She sounded too amused to be offended, but Haldir backtracked.

"When the enemy comes even ten marchwardens could make a difference."

"I thought our people were skilled, Haldir."

"Skill does not always matter when armies clash, Lady, and you know it."

"Just so," Galadriel agreed. "Do you suggest we leave the Greenwood unwarned of the threat we have seen?"

"A royal we is unbecoming of you, Lady," Haldir said reproachfully. "I am doing my duty."

"You always do," she said. "Would you say skill was important in clashes other than armies'?"

"Of course," Haldir replied. He sounded wary. Morwinyon did not blame him: Galadriel sounded as if she was up to something.

"Who would you say was the most skilled of us, then, Haldir?"

"You."

There was a brief moment of silence. Morwinyon thought Galadriel might be giving Haldir a disappointed look. Finally she said, "Of the marchwardens, Haldir. Obviously."

"Me," he said, without any arrogance.

"Just so," Galadriel said again. "You will accompany our eavesdropping princess."

Morwinyon shrugged at Kili as she turned the corner. "It is an old habit of mine. If Haldir does not wish to come, I can go on my own."

Haldir and Kili snorted at the same time.

Kili did not give his real name to the dwarves that Morwinyon could tell, but they accepted him with only a modicum of discussion.

Haldir, who watched with her from the trees, said, "He is not very trusting."

"Says the person who blindfolds people regularly," Morwinyon retorted, standing as the dwarves passed out of sight. It was a relief to be gone from Lothlorien. She could see without squinting again, and no one watched her - at least not so obviously that she could feel it.

Later that night she almost talked about Tauriel, but a glance at Haldir reminded her that there was no one here to tell things they already knew, or to reassure them of Tauriel's love. She missed Kili almost more than she missed her children, which might not say good things about her: Kili she had been with almost constantly, no matter where she went. Tari and Nion she was used to being separated from.

Two elves travelling alone left hardly any traces and made hardly any impression. They did not stop long enough to make campfires, since they needed hardly any sleep. They walked long into the night and began early in the morning. Morwinyon felt almost as if she was stretching muscles long left to languish and tried not to feel as if she was being disloyal: it was the fault of no one that humans and dwarves needed more sleep or more food than elves did. Lembas might have been boring, but it was perfectly sustaining.

They pushed even harder the last two days, forgoing sleep entirely. Morwinyon was even tired when they reached the borders of Mirkwood and saw the weather-worn statue of her grandmother - she had forgotten what being tired was like.

"You have no border guards?" Haldir asked, which made Morwinyon realize that they had hardly spoken the entire time.

Morwinyon shrugged. "Often the spiders take care of unwanted visitors."

"Of course," Haldir said. "The spiders."

Morwinyon stepped into the embrace of the forest, taking the first breath of its air in decades, and felt the warm humidity of the place wrap around her like a blanket. She remembered thinking at the mountain that Mirkwood had no favorites.

Mine, she felt something say in the back of her mind, dark and comforting like a balmy night. Mine mine mine.

She had been wrong.