A/N: Artanis and Nerwen ('man maiden') are Quenya names for Galadriel.

9.

Fëanor woke with a start and sat up, disoriented. He'd been dreaming about a dark labyrinth full of living statues that tried to kill him and when sunlight hit his eyes, the Elf had no idea where he was for a moment. Then, it all came back and with it also came the awareness that their little camp was surrounded. Everywhere he looked, he saw horses and cloaked figures. Fëanor groped for a weapon, shocked to find nothing on himself but the small dagger in his boot.

"Peace, my Lord. And good morning," a voice said in Sindarin and when Fëanor jumped to face it, his shoulders sagged with relief.

Before him stood a tall, broad-shouldered Elf, wearing the grey cloak and the garb of Lothlorien's Marchwardens. His features were somewhat familiar and Fëanor tried to remember where he had seen him before. But more importantly, how many archers did he have with him and what business had brought them out of the Golden Wood?

"I am Haldir. We have met before, albeit very briefly. Earlier this summer, in Imladris," the Elf offered, a vague smile on his face.

'Wonderful,' Fëanor groaned inwardly. 'He was part of that delegation… This does not bode well,' he thought, but kept his expression neutral and busied himself with straightening his clothes.

"I remember," Fëanor said. "May I ask what brings you here?"

"If you follow me, there is someone else who might explain it better," Haldir told him.

"Someone else?" Fëanor frowned. "Who?"

"Follow me, please," the Lorien Elf beckoned stiffly. "And our apologies for startling you. We took the liberty of approaching your camp when none of you showed any signs of hearing us coming. We feared that you had been afflicted by something."

"Only exhaustion. Although some of us are wounded," Fëanor replied. He looked around and saw that at least twenty more Galadhrim had come right among them and neither of them had been aware of it. Curufin still slept and Caranthir was waking up just as startled as Fëanor had been. By his side, Maglor tried to explain what was going on, although he too was confused and apprehensive.

Fëanor searched for the wizards and Maedhros and finally spotted them a little way off, talking to more cloaked figures. The three of them obscured whoever they held converse with, but Haldir obviously wanted Fëanor to follow him there.

"Just a moment," he said. "I must see how my son feels," Fëanor knelt by Curufin's side and touched his son's forehead.

Curufin stirred but did not wake. With the morning sunlight on his face, he was his old, healthy self again, no longer pale and cold and torn by pain. His hand and arm were warm to the touch and he did not flinch when Fëanor touched his shoulder gently.

Relieved, Fëanor rose and gave his other sons a shrug when their eyes searched him questioningly.

"Stay with your brother and call me if he wakes," he told Maglor and Caranthir. "I'm going to find out what this is all about."

As he let Haldir lead the way, Fëanor saw that the Galadhrim had found their horses and brought them along. Everything they had left behind had also been carried and stacked together in a neat little pile, which was good. Fëanor had meant to send Maglor and Caranthir after the horses and their supplies, but the Lorien Elves had saved them the trouble of that trip. Of course, that did not mean they would spare them other trouble. Such a large company, armed to the teeth from the looks of them, would most likely complicate Fëanor's existence if he knew anything about the one who had sent them.

"Fëanáro," Gandalf turned toward him and, as he did so, he revealed none other than the Lady of the Golden Wood.

Fëanor stopped and his eyebrows rose, taking in the sight of his niece clad in the same garb as her warriors. She stood just as tall as them and far prouder, the only visible sign of rank on her shining in the brooch that pinned her cloak at her throat. Galadriel tilted her head very slightly in greeting and studied Fëanor with her cold eyes.

"Father, they were just telling us that…," Maedhros intercepted him, guessing that his father was none too happy about their meeting.

"Valar, Nelyo! Your face looks worse than it did last night!" Fëanor flinched at the purple and yellow and green that colored his son's cheek in sickly hues.

"Looks much worse than it feels and most of it is the herb paste Aiwendil has given me. Now, if you wish to speak to Artanis…," Maedhros stepped aside.

"Good morning," Fëanor said flatly.

"Good morning," Galadriel replied in like manner.

"What brings you so far from the Golden Wood?" Fëanor inquired, knowing full well that Lothlorien lay just across the Anduin.

"I have seen from afar your confrontation with the Necromancer and wished to hear for myself how things have come to pass in Dol Guldur," Galadriel said, in her deep, monotonous voice.

Fëanor bit the inside of his lip hard against the first thing that sprang to his mind in reply. He took in the sight of his niece and told himself that she had fully earned her unflattering name of Nerwen. He wondered how many thousands of years it had taken Galadriel to perfect her utterly condescending and superior look and whether he was supposed to be impressed. That he was most certainly not.

"If you were expecting casualties, I hate to disappoint you. We are all accounted for and the three that are missing travel north with Thorin Oakenshield," Fëanor could not keep irony out of his voice or his choice of words.

Galadriel narrowed her eyes and the faintest trace of disdain could be read on her features.

"Father…," Maedhros sighed. "The Galadhrim are here to offer us help, not harm or hinder us."

"I wonder…," Fëanor mused. "A word with you, Nelyo," he drew his son aside. "Listen. You know I can't tolerate the sight of her more than she can stand the sight of me. Last she and I parted, we did not do it on very good terms. Not at all. I can't and won't hold my temper before that brat, no matter who she thinks she is in this world. You handle this, you were always the better diplomat. Find out what they want and get rid of them. Alright?"

Maedhros closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. But he kept to himself whatever reproachful remark bubbled on his lips and that was good, Fëanor would have none of it.

"I'll see what I can do."

"Forgive me, Artanis," Fëanor turned back to Galadriel. "I have no time to exchange pleasantries with you. Curufinwë has been wounded and I must see to him. Nelyo and the wizards will tell you everything you need to know."

Without waiting for a reply, Fëanor walked away and back to his sons. If that little brat thought she could get a rise out of him with her airs, she was welcome to try her charms on his retreating back.

Curufin was just beginning to stir when Fëanor returned to his side. He opened his eyes and squinted in confusion.

"Turko?" he blinked and rubbed his eyes. "Wait, you're not Turko, you're one of those Lothlorien faeries," Curufin frowned at Haldir and Fëanor did the same. He hadn't noticed Haldir shadowing him, but offered the Elf a smirk nonetheless.

"Good morning, my Lord," Haldir greeted Curufin unperturbed.

"What is going on, atar? What is he doing here? And where is here? What happened? Why am I half naked?" Curufin made to sit up and the cloak fell from his shoulders. He tried to cover himself and groaned when his wounded shoulder would not let him. "Ow, ow, ow… Now I remember."

"Does it hurt so much still?" Maglor asked him.

"It hurts… in a good way. You know, like a healing stab wound should. Nothing like last night," Curufin flexed his fingers and smiled when he saw that he had regained the use of his left hand.

"That's a relief. You scared us for a while there, baby brother," Maglor petted Curufin's hair and helped him into his tunic.

"I scared myself too," Curufin shook his head. "That was unlike anything I've ever felt. What did the wizards say? I'm going to live, right?"

"Of course you are, don't be stupid!" Maglor nudged him.

"Not stupid," Curufin grumbled. "Just hungry. And thirsty. And itchy," he rubbed his bandaged shoulder.

Haldir approached him and offered Curufin a small flask. Fëanor saw him barely suppressing his amusement and was surprised to find himself not the least bit irritated by Galadriel's guard.

Curufin took the flask and helped himself to what Fëanor presumed was miruvor. His son's satisfied smile and how revived he seemed confirmed his guess.

"Thank you," Curufin returned the flask and even bowed slightly. "Now, can someone tell me what is going on here? What is this merry gathering all about?"

Haldir patiently began to explain but Curufin interrupted him.

"Oh, no! Queen Bitch herself is here?" he wrinkled his nose when he caught sight of his cousin.

Fëanor barely bit back a snort and readied himself to intervene, in case Haldir did more than glare furiously.

"What have we done to deserve this, atar? And don't tell me… you left Nelyo to deal with her. Well, don't ever pester me about doing this and that wrong again. This is prime example of whom I take after," Curufin carried on.

Fëanor saw Haldir's eyes growing even wider and he was surprised by Curufin's cheek as well, but he could not be mad at his son. Not after the terrible scare Curufin had given them. If anything, hearing him mouth off in such manner showed that Curufin was alive and well and Fëanor would not chide him for it.

"You need to stop talking right now, Curufinwë," Maglor caught his brother's uninjured arm and pulled him away. "Come on, let's find you something to eat and fill that big mouth of yours."

As the two of them left to join Caranthir in inspecting their recovered belongings, Haldir frowned after them.

"I will go ahead and presume that was not a side-effect of your son's injury, my Lord," he said dryly.

"Your presumption would be correct," Fëanor smirked. "But come, you might find us more amiable after we've had some breakfast."

The look on Haldir's face said he very much doubted that, but Fëanor smiled anyway. He found himself truly appreciating the Elf and thought it such a shame that he was one of Galadriel's henchmen.

Surprisingly, breakfast turned out to be quite a civil affair and even Curufin knew when to hold his tongue. He sat quietly and ate when Maedhros joined his kinsmen and Galadriel came with him. Although she declined to partake in the meal, she sat with them and told them how her scouts had marked their journey south and found their horses near the border of Mirkwood the day before. She had journeyed as fast as she could with her contingent of archers, thinking to enter the forest and give them her aid if necessary.

As he listened to her, Fëanor could not help translating Galadriel's words into what they likely meant. She probably wanted to make sure they had gotten the job done and while she may have worried for the wizards, her uncle and her cousin were no great concern of hers. There had never been and there would never be any kind of love between them and as he watched Galadriel, Fëanor could not help but notice the toll that age and power and responsibility had taken on his once youthful and fair niece. She was still fair, but cold and lifeless and so burdened that it must have taken immeasurable effort for her to smile. Freedom and dominion had gotten her nothing more than a plot of land between two streams where her people lived in trees, of all unthinkable things. The passing of time and the sorrows of her long life showed in Galadriel's eyes best. She was so very weary, Fëanor sensed it, and yet… she clung to her pride and cloaked herself in it, still posing as a haughty queen before him.

He felt her trying to probe his mind and discern his thoughts when his eyes did not leave her. But Fëanor smiled thinly. I did not work like that and she would have no more entry into his mind than she ever did. He could probably overcome her defenses, but he felt no need to do so. Where in another life, he would have been fascinated by his kinswoman and more than willing to learn the secrets of her heart, as they sat across from each other there and then, Fëanor realized that what he felt for Galadriel was pity. More than disdain, it was pity for how much she had been and how little there was left, in spite of the Ring of Power shining on her finger.

"A word with you, Fëanáro?" she startled him from his musings. "Alone, if you please. It will not take long."

Fëanor shrugged and sat up, following Galadriel past the ring of her watchful archers. They had taken only a few steps away from them when Galadriel spun on her heels and fixed him with a hard look.

"Well?" he crossed his arms over his chest and eyed her impatiently when Galadriel merely stared and said nothing. "You'll have to speak with words, you are not welcome in my head."

"Nor do I have any desire to be there," she said. "But I do wish to ask something of you."

"If by ask you mean demand, let me remind you that you have no dominion over me, Artanis. I do not answer to you and neither do my sons. You have my word that we will not disturb your people or trespass your lands, but beyond that, we are free to go wherever we wish and do whatever we please," Fëanor asserted, staring her down and having every intention of putting her in her place.

"You should allow me to speak before drawing your own conclusions and attacking. I see that I can reason with you now no more now than I could in the past," she bristled.

"And who's fault is that, Artains? Who's fault is it?"

"It matters not," she said, but the way she averted her eyes gave Fëanor the satisfaction of her admission. He had not been the unreachable one and she knew it well.

"Indeed. But what is it that you wish to ask of me?"

"I wish to plead with you that you do not start another war over your Silmarils, Fëanáro. I may have no dominion over you, but I have taken upon myself the responsibility of protecting this world even beyond the borders of my realm. In the name of that responsibility, I ask you to shed no more blood for the Silmarils."

"Oh. I see," Fëanor's expression softened and he dropped his aggressive stance. "Well, here is something that we both agree on. I have no intention of starting any war with anyone or putting this world that I have been returned to in anymore danger than it is already in. I should think that the place we have just returned from and the wounds we have taken there would be enough proof to you that we are here to protect as well, and not destroy."

"Does that apply to Thorin Oakenshield?" Galadriel insisted.

"I doubt Thorin Oakenshield is any of your concern or that he means more to you than he does to me!" Fëanor's voice rose. "But if you must know, I mean to help him, not to rob him. I could have gotten rid of him long ago or just let him perish in the wild along with his company if that had been my will. But when we find the Silmaril and the dragon is destroyed, I mean to see his kingdom restored and Thorin back on the throne of his forefathers. He deserves no less. I may even let him keep the Silmaril, so long as I know it is in good hands and not part of a dragon's plunder. Better yet, he may give me my jewel of his own free will."

Galadriel smiled thinly and eyed him doubtfully.

"You do not know the hearts of Dwarves if you believe that."

"And you do? Artanis, you underestimate me. Do you think I cannot charm a single Dwarf, no matter how stubborn he is? You forget I convinced our whole people to follow me into the unknown."

"You have not changed at all," Galadriel shook her head sadly. "And still you overestimate yourself, uncle."

"Perhaps. But I have all the time in the world for this. And contrary to your belief, I truly do mean to serve Thorin Oakenshield well. Without any bloodshed, unless it is that of our common enemy. You will see this in time, so long as you do not insist on meddling into my business."

"Nothing good ever came out of that," she sighed.

"Now we understand each other."

"I don't believe we ever will, but that is unimportant. If I have your promise that you and your sons will not plunge our people into a war with the Dwarves for the sake of your jewel, I will return to my lands and disturb you no more."

"You have my promise. I don't suppose you want an oath on it, do you?" Fëanor smirked, unable to help himself. But Galadriel's utterly indignant reaction was completely worth it. "Now then, as amusing as antagonizing you may be, I don't believe either of us has any more time to waste on it. I must set my camp in order and see to my sons. We should organize our belongings and plan the next stage of our journey when everyone is recovered for it. Radagast will return to his home and Gandalf means to accompany us only as far as the eastern edge of Mirkwood. Since I do not believe you wish to lend us your fine archers as escort, I will thank you for bringing us our horses and bid you all a fond farewell."

Galadriel's darkening features plainly showed how much she appreciated being dismissed. But she knew a losing battle when she fought one and perhaps the Ages of the world had taught her something about patience, Fëanor mused.

"I wish only for a word with Maitimo before we go," Galadried said.

"By all means," Fëanor pointed the way back to camp, wondering what Galadriel thought she could possibly say to his son that Fëanor would not learn of immediately after. But, with the uncanny ability Maedhros had of parting on friendly terms with everyone he knew, it was best to let him carry out what remained of the encounter.