Hmm... We get almost to the end and no one is still reading. Well, fine. Thanks to tsalagi, this chapter's for you!

The horses picked their way through the darkness carefully, but their riders were still weary from their adventures, uncaring for the most part how long it took them to arrive. They knew they were awaited, for Argile had carried messages for them once in a while.

Eirthriel ran from the trees with a grin, tossing Legolas's sword at his feet as she threw her arms around his neck. She laughed and was about to tease him, when she saw the seriousness in his eyes. "What is it?"

He sighed, lifting a brow. "You should probably sit down."

"Why?"

"It was Teraien, Eirthriel. He commanded the spiders to attack, tried to kill me… killed our mother, though that may have been an accident."

She paled, sinking to the ground. "What?"

Legolas knelt before her, keeping his hold on her arms. "Eirthriel… there's more."

"More?" she laughed shakily, lifting a hand to her face, rubbing at her eyes as if it would clear away the betrayal he spoke of. "Great. What else could there possibly be?"

He took a deep breath. "Father is weakened… probably poisoned as well. He plans to sail to the West soon." His hands tightened as she took a sharp breath. "He shall live, Eirthriel… but Nenya…"

Eirthriel frowned and slowly shook her head. "You must be wrong. She was too strong to die."

He smiled faintly and got to his feet. "I wish I was. There are some things we must do, and then we can return home. We may have a few seasons with Father before he leaves. You are, of course, welcome to go with him if you wish. I shall remain here."

"What of Teraien?"

"Dead. He took over the throne after poisoning Father, and Nenya killed him in her own defense."

"Then if she isn't dead, you would have to have her killed."

He shook his head. "No."

"But even if it was in the service of the King, as a traitor he should have been killed by family, or by command. To have any of royal blood, evil or not, not so killed—"

"He was, Eirthriel." Besides, she wasn't at all right. Nenya had been perfectly within her rights to defend her life.

"What?" she stared at him as if he had gone daft. "But Nenya's not related to us!"

"Not anymore," he agreed softly. He sighed and sat in the dust beside her once more. "Nenya's mother was Father's lover before he married mother. They had Teraien. Why he never told any of us, I don't know. I haven't had the heart to ask. Teraien didn't know, or at least didn't wish to believe it."

"So that's what she meant—she was like Teraien!"

"No!" Legolas vehemently denied it, shaking his head. "She was nothing like him. He was evil, she was light. She fought to help us, he plotted to destroy us. He poisoned us, she cured us. Never compare them in such a way again, Eirthriel. You do her a great injustice."

Eirthriel frowned and looked up at him, lifting her fingers to run lightly beneath his misty eyes. She bit her lip. "What of you, then?"

"I shall live," he stated shortly, getting to his feet, turning away.

"Truly?" she insisted, following him to the base of the main tree.

He paused, his head bowing for a moment. "I must remain here, Eirthriel, as long as Father has gone West. We cannot leave Mirkwood to fend for itself, especially in such a time. Right now they believe Teraien died in the confusion of the war—so far none have mentioned he never lifted a finger to help the kingdom before, except for spewing orders which would have been against Father's decree in the handling of the dwarves and all their problems…" He trailed off, his lips tightening. "He left quite a mess of our home, dear sister. As Father is not strong enough to remain…"

"You will, for the kingdom," she stated bitterly.

"What else is there? You and Father shall travel west. Someday I shall be able to join you."

"Will you last that long?"

"As long as I am needed," he agreed with a sigh.

"I never thought I would be thankful for a poisoning," Eirthriel shook her head, resting a hand on his shoulder. "But without it, I would have lost both of my brothers, along with the sort of sister I never knew I had, until she was not only no longer related but among the casualties of a war we should never have had to fight."

A faint smile escaped him as Oleydya jumped from a low branch and ran to the group. He watched through a tilted gaze as Miranol swept her up, then averted his eyes as the two kissed.

He sighed and took the chest of letters to the flet beyond those of Nenya's he had seen before. It was full of things he could tell were not often touched. It was her mother's room, and he would bet she had changed nothing since her mother left the flets to die.

There was a desk off to one side which was in better shape than Nenya's, a bed to the other. A chest, much like the one he had brought, sat at the foot of that bed, full of letters. He thumbed through a few, seeing his father's concern for Teraien, the honest worry about the darkness he saw growing ever faster after the queen's death. He felt his father's desire to put things right, but sensed his inability to do so. He picked up some of the letters she had written back to him, and found similar concerns expressed, along with an overwhelming love—for his father, Nenya, and the wood.

She would have made a good queen.

Why hadn't Father married her?

The question was late in coming, he knew, but he also knew he was glad they had never married. He didn't want Nenya to have ever been his sister, and was glad their blood no longer ran together, even if hers no longer flowed.

He exchanged the chests and pulled the medallion from where he had kept it for the journey, and hung it from a broken branch over the desk. Hesitating only a moment, he pulled his mithril pendant from under his shirt, disentangling his hair from the links. He set it over the stone, and left without looking back.

He paused in her room with a sigh before forcing himself on to the other flet, picking up the book he had once searched for. He fingered the cover for a moment, running his mind through the stories and illuminations, and then laid it back on the shelf. He could never read it.

The others were ready by the time he reached the big flet. Though all thought it a waste to leave the flets empty, none could stand to stay with her gone, so they left them closed up from the last rain. There were no falcon cries in the still air, no feelings of being watched. The forest was dead, as dead as the black spiders who would bother no one else, ever again.