Unbeta'd because I. keep the fab Anarithilien busy enough with Seven, but acknowledgement to wndrgrl for some very interesting thoughts. And great conversation! And quite a few of you are prompting me to write Thranduil meets Gimli/ Thranduil meets Elrohir which made me add a few things in here. Acknowledgements to Appassenseofhumour, Naledi, chasingbluefish, firstamazon, Rosenthorne, paradis-artificiels (esp comment about the reverence about the Sea), Nemo, Golden, Nina, Guest and earthdragon.

Chapter 10 The Mirror.

The old Moon had sunk low for it was towards the dawn, and it nested now in ribbons of silvery cloud. Its light shone through the white silk of Galadriel's pavilion, and she thought of the Ice.

There were those who thought it would be silent on the Ice, she remembered, but it was never silent; it was full of creaks and the strange eerie singing of stars.

She lay wakeful and with the strange excitement that took her when Nenya was alive and in communion with her sisters. Listening to the almost silent clicks and whirs of the astra, of their Song as the steady stream of particles streamed through the Unseen. She let their Song soak into her so she almost became a vessel for them, the Hyellë-Vírin.

It had been the least she could do for Thranduil, a father aching with worry and fear, that he be allowed to look into the Mirror; the least courtesy she could do for such an ally, and the father of one such as Legolas Thranduillion whose lightness and open heart had endeared him to her People.

And it seemed that not only her people loved him. How could she forget what she had seen inher Mirror months ago; the grim and barren landscape of the Morannon, Elrohir striding to where a bright archer stood and he looked up at Elrohir's coming, his face filled with a confused mix of trepidation and a fierce joy, and Elrohir seized him and kissed him fiercely. She had not known then who the archer was and at first, the Galadhrim bow had made her think it was one of her own. She hoped it was not Haldir. But now, glad as she was that it was Legolas, it still did not bring her peace. .

The way is too hard for them, she thought. Such a difficult path, such a barren love against the Laws and Customs.

She turned on her silk sheets restlessly and thumped the down pillows. She had never been one to abide by any Law that restrained her or cramped her. Wht should Elrohir be any different, he who was most like her?

She tried to rest but it was no good. At last she swung her feet to the floor and rose, walking to the white silk veil across the doorway to her pavilion. In the distance there was still a little singing, some bawdy and scurrilous Wood elf ditty. She smiled and tossed back her long golden hair amused. She was, after all, Nerwen Artanis Galadriel. Not some silly Vanyarin maiden who swooned at the mere suggestion of an illicit kiss. She had been no virginal bride when she took Celeborn to husband, for she HAD taken him.

But the worry for Elrohir gnawed at her; Legolas was light and merry and his heart seemed so easily given. Nothing like Elrohir. The pull on her to look in the Mirror, to scry, to cast… to seek to change things was hard to resist.

Except he would know.

Celeborn would know she had done something. But Elrohir, she thought, would know exactly what she had done.

And she could not bear HIS rejection.

Had she already done too much? Too little?

She ran a finger over Nenya, not to Unlock the Ring, but for comfort. It grieved her that Legolas would have heard the gulls, no matter her warning. No matter that she had given the words to Elrohir himself to speak, thinking that would change things, that he would impress upon the Wood elf the need to turn aside. How could she have misread that so badly?

Disgust with herself gnawed again upon her and she thought she might go out and join the last of the drinking, the singing. Glancing over to her chest where tunics and shirts were thrown carelessly, long leather belts curled like sleeping snakes and her boots were standing one on top of the other, she thought about escaping this and joining the last of the drinking, the singing. Being Nerwen again in the camp of her brothers, her long lost cousins. Lost indeed. Her brothers…

Ah, Findaráto, she thought with a sudden pang. How far have I come, far from the Ice. Far from the bitter blinding whiteness of the Ice.

How is it that YOU have not returned here for me? What drew Glorfindel back that even I did not draw you? Is it not enough then to know that I, Artanis, am here.? Is it not enough to know that your beloved Arda is beset by your ancient enemy, your murderer?

Whom I have vanquished! Not I alone, but my hand was in ALL of this, she told her absent brother.

Stop… Stop, she told herself.

She bowed her head in defeat. He is not here and he does not come. And you cannot go.

It must be enough that he will take Celebrían and keep her safe.

And indeed, that was the greatest comfort to her that her beloved brother, beloved Finrod, would look after her sweet child, for she would never again hold her daughter. Never would she walk upon those white and distant shores of Valinor.

A quiet voice asked, do you not deserve to? After all your good works?

They destroyed Maedhros in spite of all HIS good works, she pointed out.

But he followed very good with very bad, said the voice reasonably, with a whir and click of comfort. Nenya. She smiled slightly, sensing Nenya curl about her like a sleek cat. We are with you, the Hyellë-Vírin. We will be your family, your comfort. As we are for Ontanë.

Galadriel's hand hovered over the Mirror, given her by Celebrimbor. It was only since she had encountered Ash Nazg that Nenya had begun to use this name the Three gave themselves, the Hyellë-Vírin. As if the presence of Ash Nazg had touched something, opened some hitherto hidden function.

Be comforted, they said. We will find the Way to Open Time. We will Unlock to Door for you, for Ontanë.

She did not yet know quite what they meant.

0o0o

Thranduil could still not believe the letter from Legolas, written a mere seven or so weeks before. In case Celeborn had the chance to deliver it, thought Thranduil softly. He had read it over and over, hoarding every word until he knew it off by heart. It was pressed against his heart even now and he felt the steady, strong beat of his own heart and willed it to strengthen Legolas, somehow, wherever he was, those foreign stars he hoped shone down upon him and guided him home.

It was time for him to go home too, he thought, looking round the pavilion at his meagre belongings, for he had never needed to travel like a king. He was needed at home, he felt it in his bones. And he had done his bit, he thought; he had met with Celeborn and Galadriel, renewed the ties, paid tribute as he should, to the woman who had done what he could not, and he begrudged her nothing. There was one more thing to do and he had been thinking about it since he had ridden through the devastated south and knew he could not spare enough people to heal it. It was too far away and he had too few people to settle here.

A plan had taken shape and he thought he would bind allies closer this way, build a union across this whole land strong enough to defend against any. Even Gondor should the new King decide he wanted wood to build ships like his ancestors, or land to farm to feed his ever growing population.

But he needed a strong Lothlorien for it to hold.

And he needed to go home. His own people needed him and in the aftermath of the battle for the Wood, there would be much to do. He had no real news of his other sons, and he was desperate to see Laersul, to check that he was indeed recovering from the terrible ordeal he had suffered. And there was something, the thread that bound them all was pulling. Thalos needed him,

But before he went, he had to visit Galadriel once more for she had made him an offer that was generous and, she warned him perilous. Like food and drink to a Woodelf, he had accepted with interest but now he knew now that she meant him to look into her scrying glass and Thranduil wondered if he should have been so quick. It was true that he was desperate for a sight of his youngest child, but he knew also that whilst her Mirror did not lie, things might not be quite as clear as they seemed. Nevertheless, he had been deeply moved by her offer which was made in kindness, and accepted.

He pulled on his long suede boots and shoved his arms through the sleeves of the typical silvan moss green tunic, although his had been embroidered with tiny gold oak leaves by a grateful embroideress. Cinching a wide leather belt around his waist, he considered the knives in his boots and then shoved two more into his belt. Even if he stood with Galadriel herself, he did not trust there to be no orc, or hidden danger. In the little sectioned off compartment of his pavilion, he could hear Galion snoring and considered for a moment waking him to share this. And then he did not. Perhaps to preserve Galion's peace, and a little selfishly as well, he recognized.

It was the cold grey of dawn and he threw a cloak over his shoulders. Shoving aside the white silk veil that curtained off his pavilion from the rest of the camp, he stood in the early morning light. It was only just dawn and the thin crack of daylight showed over the horizon and the morning stars were still bright.

The detritus of the feast lay around the wide clearing. Bonfires still smouldered and smoked, and there were flagons and cups lying around, and the remains of the feast had been left on the trestle tables still erected under the wide oaks.

There was the sound of the river, huge and slow, meandering in great swoops here through the southern Gladden Fields. But the river was screened from view by the great willows and the scrubbier hazel trees and aspen. Here the sward sloped gently down to the river and there were calmer pools and quiet streams that fed into the great flow of the Anduin. The willows dipped their long leaves into the waters and frost silvered the grass. Galadriel stood watching him, or waiting for him perhaps. One never knew. She lifted her hand and beckoned him. Morning light flashed through the Ring upon her finger, and he saw the Power that coursed through its glinting facets. In her other hand, she carried something swathed in black silk. That must be her scrying mirror, he thought.

Smiling, she held out her beringed hand to him and he took it reverently. She shook her head at him. 'There is no abeyance between us. We both have beloved children who are far away. Come.'

She led him along the bank through the meadow that was high with wildflowers and tall grass, and Thranduil brushed his hand against the feathery grass as he passed.

There was a glade amongst the willows, the grass flattened as if others had sat here before, and here, a small tributary of the Anduin pooled and gently poured through the meado towards the river. Light dappled the water and cast light shadows upon the green leaves.

'Let us sit here,' she said with a smile that was very beautiful and made even Thranduil pause for a moment. 'I come here to rest and to think.'

And then he smiled back and spread his cloak upon the grass that she might sit.

Smoothing the tunic that was as serviceable as his own beneath her, she sat upon his cloak, and he knelt beside her. She drew away the black silk cover and he saw a strange mirror. It was not big, about ten inches across, its surface smooth and dark like obsidian and it was framed in bronze chased with mithril and gold. He wanted to touch it for it was a beautiful and artful piece.

She placed the Mirror carefully on the black silk that and dipped her hand into the clear, cold water of the pool. This she poured onto the surface of the Glass and then inclining her head, she tilted the Glass slightly so it was towards Thranduil.

'It can show what is now,' Galadriel intoned sonorously, her eyes upon him were wise, knowing. 'And what may come to pass. It does not tell all. Are you prepared for this?'

'I am,' he said for he knew well the risks, the potential. 'I wish only to see that my sons are safe.'

Galadriel inclined her head. 'It may show you your sons, but it may show you other things that have not yet come to pass, or that are merely possibilities now,' she said.

He stared into its star-blasted surface and half closed his eyes, reaching for the Power that was innate, that linked him to the Wood. He let the Water touch his fingers and with his other hand, he touched the Earth. The Glass seemed to swirl and shift and he saw his own face reflected at first, a hard-edged face, familiar. Exhausted by the years and years and years of sending the children of his folk to war, his own sons sent into unspeakable danger for century after century until he thought it would be forever. But now he saw in his tired eyes the hope that had been born since the fall of Sauron; he saw how the green shoots of the Wood curled about him and how the Song rang through him, freely, like a wave of sound, endless, joyful now, but sometime, it would settle into something else. Something new.

Nothing would be the same. Sauron's fall had created new possibilities. Not all were good.

Thranduil did not care right now about the future of the World; he just wanted to know that all his sons were safe.

A grey light shone from the Mirror and he began to see shapes emerge as if from the smoke of a battlefield. There was a sickly yellow tinge to the smoke, and he saw Laersul, his tall, strong son whirling a sword and before him, swathes of orcs and goblins fell or ran from his fury. The yellow smoke curled about him, choking, and suffocating him so he fell and immediately the Orcs fell upon him and Thranduil could no longer see him. Flames washed the Glass and yellow smoke rolled through the Wood and Thranduil thought he saw Legolas standing at the edge, just in sight, his face appalled and weeping. A shadow-silhouette of a horror was playing out before them both; a spear, or lance shoved downwards, a groan of anguish and then the lance lifted. It wavered heavily and Thranduil saw that an Elf was impaled upon it. Flames caught the gold of the Elf's hair and he cried out: Laersul! Legolas called Thranduil's own name.

It made him gasp and he knew he had seen this before, when he lay injured in battle and Khamul had twisted and writhed about him, shown him the deaths of all his sons. It isn't true, he wanted to cry out to Legolas, he wanted to reach out to Legolas, to smoothe his hair and tell him that he was safe. That Laersul too was safe, Thranduil reminded himself. Laersul had written that the battle was won. Not in his own hand it was true, but the words were all Laersul's.

Now dark shapes were running through the flames, he could not hear any sound but he could see. This was the devastation of the Wood, he thought. Indeed he could make out the Gates of the Stronghold. There was Thalos, face smudged with soot, but commanding, ordering his troops, confident. But there was something Thranduil could see that Thalos could not; a girl running through the forest, Orcs pursuing her. She seemed to be too far away, running into the shadows and away from the stronghold. 'Silaneth,' he whispered, and he knew it would break Thalos' heart to lose her. A heart he did not even know he had given.

A flicker somewhere far off, towards Erebor. Red-gold lightning.

Thranduil blinked; he wanted to go back to Silaneth, to see where she had gone, to warn Thalos. And what was the red-gold lightning?

The smoke was heavier and thicker and it swirled and now a rider emerged upon a tall black horse, long black hair streaming on the wind though Thranduil could not see his face. In his hand a dark blade that had malice and wicked intent written into its lines. Thranduil gasped; he knew that blade, he recognized it from Doriath. Anguirel? It could not be!

Legolas came striding out of the smoke and ruin towards the rider. His bow was slung over his shoulder, and he looked strong, his athletic grace made Thranduil's heart give a thump of relief. He was safe. He was alive.

The rider leaned down towards Legolas, who looked up, his green eyes full of tenderness. Above them wheeled a gull and Legolas' gaze was dragged away and upwards, and his face was full of loss and grief. The rider pulled away, turned and rode back into the smoke and ruin. Shadows rolled over the Glass and then it showed Legolas running fast over the sand, as if in fear. Waves roiled and crashed on the shore around him.

Thranduil cried out a curse, and then he leaned forwards over the Glass, spreading his fingers above the Mirror but not touching it and he pulled his own Power down. Show me, he murmured and ignored Galadriel's warning.

Show me, he repeated. Insistent. Demanding.

There was a swirl of silver through the shadows and a flash like lightning in the Glass. For a moment, Thranduil thought he saw something entirely different; an oval of light appeared somewhere far off and he thought he saw something strange silhouetted against it, hauled up, chained but it dissolved and the Glass went dark. Fireflies fluttered against the Glass and slowly, one by one, they fell into the darkness.

He stared, breathless, unable to comprehend what it had shown him. He was about to pull away when the darkness swirled again, shot with green-gold light and he saw his child as clearly as if he watched him through a window, riding in some green place, laughing. A Dwarf clung to his back and a chestnut horse almost danced its way through the beech leaves fallen in the autumn. He knew this place. He knew this. Home. Home. It was Legolas coming home.

Thranduil gripped the edges of the Mirror and his fingertip touched the water on the scrying glass. Concentric circles rippled outwards from where he had touched it and he heard Galadriel's voice. 'Do not touch the water.'

The green-gold dissolved and the water stilled once more and went dark. The mirror was quiet. Thranduil saw his own eyes reflected back at him and breathed out.

He was straightening up when something flashed far off in the darkness of the Glass. A red-gold light.

A voice he had not heard for a very long time whispered, Aphâraigas.

He turned back swiftly but it was too late. Gone. The Mirror was just a mirror and he saw his own face once more, framed by the green willows and the wind fingered their long leaves like a harp and the Anduin rushed by somewhere out of sight.

'No!' he cried and peered into the Glass again. He wanted to strike it with Power, force it to reveal that last secret. But an iron hand clamped over his and something was pushed into his other hand. A small glass.

'Drink.'

The hand clamped to his twined its fingers about his, held him now and he found the small glass lifted to his lips.

'Drink.' A voice of command now and he drank.

Miruvor, he thought, drinking it all.

It cleared his head immediately and he blinked and looked at her beautiful face watching him astutely.

'I will not ask what you saw,' she said. 'But it does not show you all.'

He nodded dumbly but he knew the voice of Smaug when he heard it. He had dreamt of Smaug years and years when the Dragon lay on his bed of gold and jewels and Thranduil had sent the Danedh-Amlung to swear the Oath, until he did not need to. What did this mean?

He shoved it away for he did not wish to share that now. Instead, he forced himself to remember the smiling face of his youngest and he did not care if the boy brought a Dwarf home. He did not care if Legolas brought home a whole troop of dwarves as long as he was safe and well and unharmed.

He sat for a while, unspeaking, head bowed, playing out each image again, one by one. Laersul, Silaneth, the strange rider and Legolas; the figure hauled up on chains; Legolas' homecoming…and Smaug.

'I hardly know how to thank you, Lady,' he said at last, drily. ' But I have seen Legolas,' he added more gratefully. 'And he is alive.'

'Not unchanged,' Galadriel warned again so softly he hardly heard it.

Thranduil looked at her, wondering what she had seen. 'He has heard the gulls and that will pull at him. I will lose him I know.' He swallowed. 'But he is safe. He is alive.'

Galadriel tilted her head slightly and regarded him. 'There are many journeys yet. And his is not the only one,' she said obliquely.

Thranduil glanced at her and wondered again, what she had seen. More than he, he thought.

He looked at her again, more clearly, saw the tiredness but beneath it, an elation. It was strange, he thought, for someone whose time is over and whose Power has gone.

And then he said, 'You are not finished here in Middle Earth just because the Ring is gone.' He made it a statement rather than a question and saw her eyes flicker over him appreciatively. 'There is much good you can do without a Ring of Power. You have all that Melian taught you.' He leaned forward slightly. 'Celeborn too. Together, you make a formidable force.'

She smiled then, as drily as his thanks. 'With you in the North, and me in the South, we would be a force for good?'

'Yes,' he said, not missing the absence of her husband. 'I do not seek dominion. We wish to be left in peace, to live our lives.' He spoke with absolute sincerity for it was the truth; he wished for nothing more than the health of the Wood, peace for his folk.

Silently she regarded him for a moment. 'I think so too,' she said. 'You will not oppose me?'

'I will not.'

0o0o