AN: I am soooooo sorry for not updating sooner! grovels I've a) been rather uninspired as of late and b) had little time to write even if I was. I know this is a pitifully short (and slow) chapter, but I promise it will get better. I just didn't want you all to think I'd abandoned it or something (thanks AmberRose for the e-mail! hugs)

I promise- more next time. nods

Chapter Nineteen:

Current Mood: Cynical

Current Music: Everybody's Fool- Evanescence

She still hasn't spoken to me. It's been almost two days since I woke to find the vision of Mirien in my room watching over me as I slept. I still remember the moonlight illuminating her sleeping gown, making her seem as a Maiar or Vala clothed in shining white gossamer. Before I found the strength to speak she was gone and I was left bereft of her presence. I haven't slept well since.

I have just met with a party of Galadhrim that have just recently arrived, led by my lieutenant Ameron. He said Celeborn wished to send his personal good wishes to Thranduil for his begetting day, and asked that a gift be delivered in a formal ceremony that will be held momentarily. Only Ameron knows what the gift is, and was instructed to not reveal it until the ceremony. I must admit, at least to this private diary, that for some unknown reason, I feel a sense of jealousy for not being the one Celeborn entrusted with this task. It certainly would have made my time here a lot easier if I had come with a gift for the King.

"My Lord King Thranduil of the Realm of Northern Mirkwood," Ameron addressed him formally. He stood before the King's throne in formal elven dress with his arms outstretched, holding out a gilded box of shining mallorn wood. "The Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood bit you receive this gift as a token of their good wishes for the day of your begetting." With a surprised, yet pleased look on his deceptively young face, the King nodded to Ameron, who approached the throne, unhooking the clasp and presenting the box to the Sindar. The King lifted the lid to the collective gasp of all present.

"Mithril Ore," Legolas breathed, his eyes bright with wonder. Ameron's face was alight with joy.

"Enough to enhance the weapons of an entire elven army," he said proudly. Thranduil reached into the box and lifted one of the larger pieces, needing both hands to do so. His face was a mixture of shock and wonder.

"I have never had the pleasure of working with raw Mithril before," he said, almost to himself. "They say a blade coated in even a fine layer of pure Mithril will pierce any armour. It will never rust, never bend or brake, and will remain razor sharp without ever touching a whetstone." He looked down, catching Ameron's eyes. "This," he weighted the metal in his hands, "is a gift of life. With our army enhanced with this mithril, our defensive and offensive strength doubles. It may be possible to repel this evil on our own." He paused, and none but Legolas caught the emotion in that silence. "I have not the words to thank your Lord." Ameron bowed, setting the box at the King's feet and stepping back a pace.

"My Lord says: "Remaining alive is thanks enough. Twenty pounds of Mithril ore is a small price to pay for preserving the lives of my Silvan brothers." Ameron bowed again, and so did not see the tear fall from the King's eye. It seemed as though the Golden Wood had not abandoned them after all.

Carielle sat in one of the few places she knew of where one could find nearly every variety of ale, mead or wine this side of the Mountains of Rhun. At the moment she was nursing a particular variety of dwarven ale that brought back rather fond memories of her friends in the Iron Hills. She traced the rim of the glass with a finger, remembering long nights working with some of the greatest Dwarven smiths of the Third Age. She took another long draught from her glass, letting the ale amplify the warmth the memories stirred within her heart.

She often felt disdain or even outright anger towards those of her kin who still held to the long hatred of the dwarves. The conflict that had begun the feud was ages past, and yet both sides stubbornly refused to call a truce. She had no pity for those she knew were too young to remember what had happened, yet still remain as narrow-minded as their sires. Many of these, she mused, she dealt with daily.

"May I join you?" a soft voice asked from her left. Without looking she shrugged and put down her glass.

"Fine by me," she said. Haldir sat in the seat next to her and asked the elf on duty for a drink. "I recommend the dwarven ale from Khazad Barak," she said, still not making eye contact.

"Rosemead," he requested. Carielle snorted. "What? Do I amuse you?" She chuckled again, shaking her head and causing the many braids cascading around her shoulders to dance in the air like branches in an autumn wind.

"I knew you wouldn't try the ale," she answered. Draining her glass as she stood, she left a bewildered Haldir at the bar as he waited for his drink. She was so absorbed in her observations of the Marchwarden of Lorien that she nearly bumped into Mirien, who it seems was just on her way for a drink of her own.

"You're leaving?" she asked, sounding playfully disappointed. Carielle jerked her head back towards the bar.

"Your boyfriend is in there having a drink," she reported. No sooner had the words passed her lips that she felt Mirien grab her arm and drag her away from the door.

"He is not my boyfriend!" she whispered harshly, defensively. "Yes, we have been working rather closely lately, and yes, he is…very…attractive, but…" she paused, formulating her defense. "But I am still a married elleth, and my husband is here, so I would appreciate a certain amount of discretion on your part in regards to your own speculations!" Carielle listened to her friend's outburst in quiet fascination, an amused grin spreading slowly across her face.

"Mirien," she said, "I was joking." The two women stood in silence for a moment, and then Carielle watched her friend's resolve crumble. She slumped against the wall and slid to the floor. "Ameron's visit has been a little stressful, has it?" Mirien nodded, suddenly somber. Carielle took her friend's hand so that she would look at her. "You know if you ever need someone to talk to..." Mirien smiled and laughed lightly to disguise her awkwardness.

"I know, Carielle, thank you." She looked in through the still open door to the bar and caught a glimpse of Haldir sitting with his mead. "I think maybe I'll just go back to my room," she said softly, "get some sleep. You know we're going home in a few days."

"Yes, I heard. How do you feel about that?" Mirien looked up at her, and the look in her eyes gave Carielle pause.

"I don't know," she lamented. "Things are just...so much more complicated now."

Haldir turned subtly to look over his shoulder at the quiet exchange between the two elves at the door. He watched as Mirien spoke softly to her officer, and then left after having seen him sitting here. Turning back to his drink he sighed, reconfirming his earlier assumption. He would return home in three days, taking nothing with him from this experience but the memory of the beautiful yet untouchable elleth whose phantom he'd seen in his bedchamber as a product of his own wishful thinking.