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*** Note I – A big thank you to those favoring, following and reviewing my fanfic; it really makes me happyyy~ =') You people are awesome, and I hope you enjoy this next chapter~! =D ***

*** Note II – Disclaimer: I obviously do not own the too-awesome-for-words Tolkien Universe. I own my ever-growing long list of OCs and my imagination~ :3 ***

*** Note III – Clarifications: It is now Third Age 21~ These specific scenes happen throughout January and February. And on a side-note: I know I'm late with this, but Happy 2015 Everyone~! \(^-^)/ ***

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~ 011 – Snow Is Falling ~

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"The snow doesn't give a soft white damn whom it touches."

~ E.E. Cummings

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It was three days into the first week of January that Isildur, his three eldest sons, and his entourage left the Valley of Imladris. The weather that early afternoon was comfortably cool, although it snowed in fluffy flurries that reminded Lyrial of cotton candy. She hated cotton candy.

To say that Lyrial was happy would be an understatement – she was absolutely relieved and delighted. She did not want to think such rude things; but really, that damned golden ring was now gone. The last bit of damage Sauron did thankfully did not last very long; albeit, it was quite scarring. He took a memory where an eleven-year-old Lyrial was being mercilessly belt-whipped by her foster father, and altered it so that a false illusion of her being violently sexually assaulted was included into that incident. Now, however, Sauron's voice and twisted visions shall no longer torment her.

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"Alright, we shall begin with recent events and make our way down to your childhood. Now, Lyrial, do tell me how you really came to Arda."

Nervously nibbling her bottom lip, Lyrial shifted in her sitting position atop a deep red velvet chair in Lord Elrond's study. The colour of the chair reminded her of seductive deep red wine. She crossed one leg over the other and her hands in her lap vaguely fidgeted with the material of her lilac-coloured dress. She thought he was going into "Psychologist Mode" when he previously mentioned that he was going to assist her in calming her mental and emotional states of mind. To help her fëa feel at peace. To have her improve her focus on her present and future, and not linger in her past's shadow.

Distress was evident within her quiet tone. "I was killed."

"My condolences." Elrond paused and straightened in his velvety chair. Yes, that did make a considerable amount sense than the previous words of, "I slipped on the staircase, fell, and was knocked out cold." After all, it was not possible for someone's spirit to be in two worlds at once. "Please continue. Release the pains of your past."

"I was stabbed twice by my damned stalker ex-lover, Richard. He was insane and I honestly have no idea how it happened, but . . . He was one of those people who you never would have thought that they were secretly such terrible human beings."

She talked some more. He asked questions. She moved her lips again and he listened. He eventually placed a gentle hand against her forehead and mumbled soothingly in Quenya. Although she did not consciously realize it as of yet, Lyrial's fëa slowly became less tormented at his words. It felt as though it was being touched by an angel.

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A curious, perceiving Lyrial sat atop a smoothly carved, plain wooden bench at one of the sides within the indoor training arena. She originally came with Aeluin, wanting to closely observe the ways of the sword as the prince rigorously sparred with a few dark-haired Imladris ellyn.

And even when he left to indulge himself in a relaxing bath – which was about thirty minutes ago – she opted to stay and observe some more. She absentmindedly allowed for her slim fingers to fiddle with the hems of her simple forest green tunic as she trained her eyes unto the sparring match between Glorfindel and Erestor.

There was absolutely no doubt that the golden-haired warrior was of the utmost caliber – one of the best that someone would be lucky enough to find. Though the jet black-haired chief councillor was not at the other's level, he was still pretty skilled himself. After all, Erestor used to be Elrond's main captain until Imladris was fully established, which then led him into becoming Chief Councillor. He did, however, stick to some captain-like duties until Glorfindel made a return to Middle-Earth from Valinor.

Erestor's training garb accentuated his lean build and toned muscles – something that was usually hidden beneath his robes. Lyrial did not know what she was thinking as she thought about what it would be like to run her fingers through his luscious, silky jet black hair . . . And then she absentmindedly mused to the question of what would happen if she ended up here instead of Greenwood. She knew that this was only a silly, passing crush on the dark-haired ellon; and that her heart would rather regard him as an acquaintance, or even a friend. . .

Because he was not Thranduil.

She closed her eyes and faintly shook her head. Of course he's not Thranduil; he's Erestor! Reopening her eyelids, she caught sight of dark grey breeches; and gazing upwards, she met the lovely blue-grey eyes of the sweaty Erestor. His expression was neutral, but his eyes displayed kindness as he spoke first. "Lyrial, are you still fine for the Tengwar lesson after dinner?"

Nodding her head twice, she smiled. "Of course! Are you, though? I apologize if doing this would be eating up some of your time to do your own work. . ."

He shook his head and brought the hand that was not carrying his sheathed sword to her head, gently ruffling her hair. The corners of his lips tugged into a small, amused smile as she pouted. "Don't be sorry, penneth; today is thankfully not a busy day for me! Though, would you mind assisting me in the library after our lesson?"

"Sure thing," Lyrial grinned; and Erestor's tiny smile widened slightly as he then strolled out of the arena. Smoothing out her hair, she hopped to her feet and skipped towards a mirthful Balrog Slayer. "Hi, Glorfindel! May I request something of you?"

Said ellon grinned. "Hello to you too. And what request is this?"

"To teach me how to use a sword. Sword fighting's good. I find the art pretty badass –" At that word, Glorfindel rose a brow and his lips quirked in amusement. "– and I don't want to be a completely useless liability when the occasion calls for it. But you don't have to comply, I understand –"

"Whoa, slow down there!" Glorfindel lightly chuckled as he clapped his hands on either of her shoulders, quieting her from the rapid nervousness that grew in her voice as she said her latest sentence. "I would love to assist you in the endeavour; and I shall teach you as much as possible – realistically – until your departure for Greenwood." He moved his hands and lazily folded his arms against his stomach.

She nodded as he spoke, and then she cocked her head to the side when he then asked her for a favour in return. "And what favour is that?" she asked curiously.

"Teach me how to bake."

Lyrial suddenly laughed.

He gaped, not knowing what to think. "Why are you laughing?!"

Wiping a tear from her right eye, the elleth responded in a somewhat frivolous manner. "Because you said that with such a serious, straight-faced expression – I thought someone had died for the moment!"

He released a chuckle. "Well I am serious. I enjoy sweets. I've tasted many that were absolutely delicious; however, you are a gifted baker. Never have I tasted cake that was so moist, fluffy, rich and different!" His mind wondered to the afternoon of the day prior yesterday, where Lyrial introduced the sexiness that was cheesecake.

The platinum blonde-haired elleth beamed. "I'm pleased to hear that! Thank you."

"So, do we have an agreement?" Glorfindel held out his hand, softly smiling.

She smirked and clapped his hand with hers, feeling like Captain Jack Sparrow as she said, "We have an accord."

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It was almost beautiful. Artistic in a sick form of way. The black blood of the orcs contrasted intriguingly against the snow; perceiving said snow as a canvas for a surrealistic painting consisting only of ink blobs and strokes. The red blood of the Gondorians painted a different picture, as it contrasted passionately and rather fire-like against the snow. Red has always seemed much more alive than black. Even the snow seemed to enjoy drinking the red more than the black.

Thranduil halted Taurhîr and the elk snorted. They, Captain Siraphin, and roughly ninety elves arrived with haste at the Gladden Fields twenty minutes prior. Breathes turned to wisps of mist before disappearing in the frosty air. The skies were dark; the winds carried snow, and the warriors were inspecting each body for one man: Isildur. And when the man was not the High King of Gondor and Arnor, the bodies were moved with respect and placed in a neat pile for cremation. The same was done for the orcs, albeit they were tossed into a separate pile.

Perhaps we are too late? Thranduil pondered with a ghost of a frown. The chilly wind only increased the haunting feeling as his eyes skipped from corpse to corpse.

Perhaps Captain Arayan's scouts should have come to you faster . . . The voice of his precious elk resonated within the Elvenking's mind. Due to the strong and intense bond that the two shared, they were able to communicate to each other via ósanwe.

The hoofs of a chestnut mare crunched against the soiled snow. "Aran nîn, you look so agitated," came the collected voice of Siraphin as he halted his mount. Though his face held neutrality, his violet eyes were filled with care. "Calm yourself a little."

"Yes; that is not quite easy to do when there is a high chance that the One Ring could be in the enemy's hands right now," the Elvenking replied instantly as he faced the other. Although it was a hard reply, he succeeded in making sure that no sarcasm edged its' way into his tone. He took a calming breath. "The Anduin. Was there anything upstream?"

The captain's golden hair fumbled in the wind like delicate, silken threads. "Dead orcs. I was just about to search downstream with a few other warriors. It should take no more than forty minutes."

"Make it thirty minutes."

Siraphin procured a barely noticeable smirk before turning his mare around. "Very well, then," he responded as he brought the horse into a trot. Three other elves followed suit.

Thranduil returned to scanning the vicinity; and the more he did so, the more the whistling wind sounded like the screaming of souls. His neck developed goosebumps for a moment. He eventually caught sight of Isildur's second and third sons – Aratan and Ciryon respectively – and he noted the multiple black-brown rusted arrows that were embedded into their chests and stomachs. Not far from them was the cold body of the eldest son, Crown Prince Elendur. His throat was violently slashed open and so was his abdomen, as bits of coiling intestine drooped lazily out into the open.

Peripherally, he caught a distant Siraphin and three elves returning within the twenty-ninth minute. The king mentally groaned in impatience. Normally he was a patient elf, but he needed to be aware of the whereabouts of Isildur . . . Especially the One Ring.

You can ask the trees, Taurhîr suggested. You have a way with nature.

Thranduil lazily scanned the trees that were naked and covered in both thin and fat icicles. They looked like they were as randomly placed as chess pieces mid-game. They are younger than the ones in Eryn Galen – I would expect that they turned a blind eye to the fighting.

Maybe not; maybe so. Taurhîr made a groaning sound when two ellyn passed him and the Sinda king whilst carrying a smelly, decapitated body.

The Elvenking dismounted the elk to stretch his legs. He placed a gloved hand against his mount's neck, and he gently raked it through the soft, glossy light medium brown fur. Icy sapphire eyes bore almost in a hypnotic trance towards the trees. Precious trees, can you hear me? Please answer, for this is of utmost importance. Where are Isildur and the One Ring?

Seven seconds passed . . . And then twenty slow seconds . . . Forty-five seconds . . . One minute . . . Two minutes . . . There was no answer for an agonizingly slow ten minutes; and before Thranduil could glare and scowl at the trees, multiple answers suddenly floated into his mind.

I am sorry, King Thranduil, but I did not see.

I'm sorry too.

No.

It was so violent! I couldn't bear to simply look at what was happening.

We are sorry.

I saw. . .

The frustration within Thranduil's ethereal orbs flashed with hope upon hearing this last timid tree speak. Tell me.

The human king was by the banks of the Anduin. He had a beautiful golden ring in his hand; and amidst all the chaos, he was debating whether he should wear it around his finger or not. Four arrows then pierced his back, and he and the ring both plopped into the river.

The hand that continuously stroked Taurhîr's neck froze as if it had never moved in the first place. Finally blinking, a silently enraged Thranduil turned to face the Anduin. The elk nudged the ellon's shoulder and back with his snout multiple times; but Thranduil would only stare at the Great River. No words could describe at how furious he was as the tree's words echoed within his head like a mantra. Isildur was dead and his body was lost in the river. The One Ring was somewhere within the water – possibly buried beneath sand or rubble . . . Or it had probably traveled far off downstream.

Thranduil desired to hit something. And then he wanted to murder someone. He wanted to scream his frustration. He damned the idiocy of the late human king and he blamed himself for not arriving in time. The river was definitely too cold to dive in and search. How long will Sauron's ring stay down there? Who will end up discovering it when the time comes? How great will the enemy's forces regrow until the return of this ring? The more years that should come to pass, the more time Sauron will have to recuperate . . . And despite his varying emotions, the Sinda kept a hard, unreadable face.

Taurhîr made a groan that sounded as though he was in pain. He affectionately licked the Elvenking's right cheek. Thran, please . . . Your anger is too overbearing. Settle down a bit; it's hurting my head.

Though still in vexation, Thranduil managed to calm his mind only by a little upon hearing his pleading elk. He stroked the softness of the elk's forehead. I'm sorry.

Oh Valar, how he still wanted to murder someone so very badly. A twig snapped violently underneath his left boot.

It was not until the insanely early hours of the morning of the next day that Thranduil, Siraphin, and the ninety warriors returned to Greenwood's elven kingdom. It had stopped snowing, yet the winds were quite wintry. The sky was as purplish as an ugly bruise.

Currently, Thranduil strode towards his study without any indication of stopping. The warmth of being inside slowly enveloped his flesh and bones.

Infinite thoughts raced throughout his mind as he neared his study. His focus was to immediately write two letters – one to Lord Elrond of Imladris and the other to King Amroth of Lothlórien – detailing that of the One Ring's "disappearance."

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In the late hours of the cold night, Thranéal woke feeling scared. Her body felt as though it was on fire, especially the left side of her face; and she panted and sweated. Her dream – or rather, that memory – still haunted her. Flipping her warm, woolen blankets from her body, she turned to the side of her guest bed and slid her feet into a pair of dark turquoise slippers that resembled ballet flats. Despite it being dark, she slowly strode to the full-length mirror that was near an armoire.

Other than her own breathing, the only sound that her ears discerned was the howling and whistling of the wind outside. The vague silver light of the moon eerily crept through a sliver of window between two, one centimetre-parted creamy curtains.

Her eyes darkened with sorrow and anger as she glued them into her reflection. She was revolted; she wanted to vomit at the monstrosity. With her right hand, she traced along the left side of her face – the bones, sinews, red meat and ripped skin . . . Her index and middle fingers traced the contours of muscle and bone along her jaw, down her neck and towards her shoulder; where the disfigurement was covered by her comfy white nightgown. Her left eye was a clouded, foggy white that made her look like a possessed corpse. The left side of her full, soft lips were burnt away, automatically revealing her teeth and gums. She could swear that she could even discern a bit of her esophagus.

She perceived herself as disgusting in this state. She wanted to cry. To scream at the top of her lungs. To punch the mirror and send the shards flying everywhere. To step onto the shards and not giving any form of damn as to her would-have-been sliced, bloody feet. She wanted to claw at her face, her neck; anywhere where she had the fatal wound. To peel off that sickening disfigurement from her bones. She felt mocked.

She looked like a monster.

What troubled her the most, however, was the fact that she unfortunately could not deny that deep inside of her, she had a sadistic monster. Thankfully, it did not unleash itself unless she was pushed to the limit; such as that time she took pleasure in dismembering and carving out that dark elf who almost raped Lyrial. But it was as though she had a hidden split-personality, lurking beneath the depths of her being and ready to strike when the "real her" could no longer take it.

Thranéal winced in pain as the "healing" illusion spell proceeded to slowly envelope the dragon burn wound, beginning with her left shoulder and chest. As soon as her beautiful face returned, she sighed sadly and moved to the edge of the bed to grab her night robe, dressing herself in the turquoise fabric.

Now stepping out of her guest chambers, she silently ambled down a few hallways – her destination being a certain comfortable hall with which contained a calming fire that never seemed to stop burning. Now, she was not in the mood to see fire, but the Hall of Fire had such a soothing, serene energy that she could easily overlook that small detail.

Arriving at said Hall, she sat atop a cushioned bench against the white-grey wall. She leaned her back against the cool stone and closed her eyes, breathing quietly. Twenty minutes of silence passed and the crackling of the fire became too well-defined that she instantly stood to her feet, desiring to leave the large room. That was when she almost bumped her nose against a tall, hard figure. "Glorfindel?"

The ellon procured a small, weak smile – he was also tired and troubled from a memory nightmare. "Thranéal, you don't look well." He tucked a couple of pale golden strands behind her ear and he kept his palm against her cheek, gently smoothing the skin with his thumb.

She leaned into his touch and replied softly. "Neither do you. Bad dream?"

He gave her a nod. "Gondolin's fall," he spoke quietly. "And the battle with that Valarauka. . ." The princess knew that he was returned the feelings of being burnt and broken and completely afraid. Saying nothing, she guided him to the cushioned bench she had previously sat on; and once sitting, she wrapped her arms around his neck, allowing him to bury his face into the base of the side of her neck.

His arms snaked firmly around her waist. Her wavy pale gold hair smelled of fresh winter and sweet cinnamon; and he allowed for a few tears to escape from their confines. She felt his tears caressing her neck and she rubbed his back soothingly. Even though they were not joined by body, his fëa could feel hers trying to reach out to him – her fëa calming his nerves and soothing his mind; singing out to his spirit in ethereal, angelic waves.

Glorfindel nuzzled his face closer into her neck as she stroked through the soft tresses of his lengthy deep golden locks. She sensed from within him the yearning for those he lived with in Gondolin. Ecthelion. Turgon. Aredhel. And many others. "I am sure that you'll see them again once it is time to sail," she finally spoke, albeit gently.

He made a muffled sound of agreement. To be quite honest with himself that fact was the only thing that truly placed his mind in "peace" with regards to that incursion. He opened his mouth: "And I'll introduce you after hugging them senseless." A pause. "What about you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Before coming here, I sensed your distress." She faintly tensed and he continued. "And I still do. Do you want to talk about it?"

Thranéal said nothing and he pulled back. Smoothly, he slid her onto his lap with her legs dangling over one side and her back to the fire, which was at the end of the hall. One of her hands stayed draped over his shoulder and the other was on his chest, fiddling with his slightly baggy navy blue tunic.

Capturing her chin between his index finger and thumb, he slowly lifted her head so that her face directly mirrored his. After ghosting this thumb over her bottom lip, he leant forward so that their foreheads touched. "Tell me?" he supplicated softly. "It hurts to see you suffer by yourself." His words were soothing; almost like the gentle golden flow of honey cascading down a crystal clear jar.

She talked of the memory nightmare, of the trauma and the fact that she woke up with the wound unconcealed. Her voice was almost a whisper and she took many pauses in between sentences. All the while, his forehead never separated from hers and his eyes made no indication of looking away, either. Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked them away.

"Oh, Thranéal, you are no monster," Glorfindel spoke tenderly when she then voiced her fear. "Please don't say that again. Please . . . Don't you ever say that about yourself. Do not allow for your dragon wound – for these past incidents – to control you. Alright?"

Thranéal nodded her head and her bottom lip shook. But what if I lose my sanity again? I know I will. She absolutely detested feeling like this; but this was Glorfindel, and she did not mind displaying her weakness in front of him.

His hand trailed up her neck; and after gripping into her hair at the base of her head, he gave her a kiss of reassurance and comfort. Her hand came to rest where his neck connected with his shoulder and she kissed him back, accompanied with a hint of forcefulness. "I love you, Glorfindel," she spoke softly against his lips with a small smile. "Le hannon."

"And I love you, my sweet princess." Swiftly reattaching their lips, he gifted her bottom one with a playful nip. The crackling of the fire could be heard from the end of the hall, and the more it crackled, the more the kiss grew in passion. His hands caressed her sides both invitingly and saucily. Her hands tangled into his hair that shined like pure molten gold due to the feint firelight, and one finger traced the outer shape of his delicately pointed ear. She nibbled at his soft bottom lip. His tongue eventually made its' move and proceeded to caress the inside of her mouth. Pleasurably moaning, she felt his hardened elfhood poking into her rear end. . .

A sudden noise had Thranéal separating her face from the ellon's quite suddenly. Her eyes darted all over the room. "Did you hear that?"

Squeak! Squeak!

"Oh my . . . Are you perchance afraid of a cute little mouse?" Glorfindel innocently jested whilst procuring a rather seductive impish smirk.

"You shut it this instant." She glared at him in hilarious annoyance before standing up from his lap and adjusting her night robe.

Releasing a chuckle, he followed suit and yawned in an almost adorable, child-like way. He offered her his hand. "Shall we return to bed, meleth?"

Weaving the fingers of her left hand into his right one, the elleth stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. She smiled. "Your room since it's closer."

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The elleth with amethyst eyes was in a blissful mood as she proceeded to walk through the halls after biding a smiling Celebrían a farewell. They had spent some quality time together – chatting about various subjects whilst having tea and honey cakes with fluffy white cream and multiple berries. The tea had been black with the lovely oily substance of bergamot, and it reminded Lyrial of one of her favorite teas from Earth: Earl Grey. The added lavender essence was something she had never tried before, but she enjoyed it all the same. It had given the tea a more exotic, floral aroma.

An adorable high-pitched meow was suddenly heard, and she turned to find a slender cat perching atop the railing to a staircase that was against the wall to her right. Lyrial made a happy cry of, "Oh!" as she strode towards the feline. Said cat had glossy black fur that resembled a mysterious and starless midnight. The cat allowed for the elleth to pet her.

As she ran her hand through the insanely soft fur, Lyrial thought of her male Siberian husky back on Earth. She felt heartbroken about vanishing away from him into this world; however, she was at peace that he would be in the good hands of her adoptive family. But she would forever miss her precious husky, and those enchanting ice-blue eyes of his that were soul-piercing . . . The cat suddenly hissed as Lyrial's hand neared her tail. "Sorry!" the elf exclaimed sheepishly.

"Ah, yes; she doesn't like it when others touch her tail. Even if it is myself."

Lyrial turned to the amused voice. "Erestor!" she greeted with a grin. "She is yours, I assume?"

The very attractive Chief Councillor procured a nod of his head. "Her name is 'Ithil,' and I've raised her since she was a tiny playful kitten," he responded fondly as he had a brief moment of reminiscing.

Turning to Ithil, the young elleth noted the cat's rather captivating silver-grey eyes. She turned to the ellon who now stood beside her and petted his cat. "The name suits her quite well, since her eyes resemble two cute little moons," she cooed almost absentmindedly as she then devoted her attentions onto the noisy, meowing kitty.

Erestor had a small smile gracing his lips as he observed her gentle actions. The dark-haired ellon brought his hand to the back of Lyrial's head and he affectionately ruffled her hair.

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"Lyrial, unless you have well-controlled balance or have a hidden trick up your sleeve; you should not stand with your feet so close together."

At Glorfindel's words, Lyrial's eyes widened; and she mentally groaned as she then separated her feet and relaxed her stance. "Ah, sorry! My eyes are focused on your sword and I keep forgetting to mind my feet."

The fair-haired warrior lord grinned. "No worries; it's a common mistake for beginners! Just remember to look at my face, or even my neck or upper chest. That way, you can see all of me and read my movements better. If you only focus on my sword, then you probably won't see a secret incoming punch, or even a hidden kick or foot sweep."

She bobbed her head before procuring a salute and responding rather enthusiastically. "Roger that!" She took around six seconds to adjust her high ponytail before relaxing into a straight posture with her borrowed training sword raised and legs apart. "Are we doing this with the direction shouts again?"

Glorfindel's bodily position mimicked hers. "For now, yes; and we shall increase our speed only by a little. Middle right!"

A loud clanging sound was heard as she blocked his attack to her middle right. Even though he was utilizing less than half of his full strength, Lyrial felt her right hand and forearm being slightly pushed back at his strike.

"Bottom left!"

Clang!

"Upper right!"

Clang!

"Bottom right!"

Clang! She almost tripped at that one, yet she quickly fixed her stance. They continued this for a while and Lyrial broke out into a harder sweat.

Glorfindel struck to her middle left and she blocked it. With fierce determination and newfound speed, she took half a step forward and thrust her sword towards his collarbones in a similar fashion to one delivering a punch. Two centimetres away from the tip of her sword touching his training tunic, the Balrog Slayer sneakily raised his shining blade. It came like a snake popping up out from nowhere as it crossed almost vertically against his chest, blocking her attack.

"Good strike," he complimented with a satisfied smirk. A third of his face was behind his sword, and Lyrial thought that the image made him look mysteriously fierce, yet eerie. She cocked her head to the side in puzzlement when he then winked at her and spoke with an undertone of playfulness. "You should probably not stay in the same position for too long, though."

"What – SHIT!" A slew of colourful curses escaped Lyrial's lips as she fell with her back to the hard floor. Her borrowed sword clanged nearby.

Gorfindel had speedily (yet also very discretely) went about doing a half-spin whilst hooking one of his feet against her outstretched foot, tripping her. He gazed at her fallen form smugly as he stood by her shoulder. "And what did I say about minding your feet?"

She groaned with her arms tightly crossed along her chest. "Please do help me up so that I may gift you with a most glorious ass-kicking."

The ellon burst into laughter and Lyrial's grumbling soon morphed into that of entertained giggling.

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"Meleth nîn, I think we were too loud last night," Lady Celebrían's voice musically resonated into Lord Elrond's ears as the two of them entered the dining hall for breakfast. A light pink blush tinted her cheeks.

The elf-lord gifted her a mischievous half smirk. "My dear, there is no such thing as 'too loud' when it comes to love-making. . ."

His clear grey eyes spotted a smirking Glorfindel, who suggestively wiggled his eyebrows and called out: "Good morning my lord and lady! Pleasurable night?"

Elrond's face went completely blank as he and his wintry, ethereal wife took to their seats. "Glorfindel, I do believe that it has been almost two months since you've lead a patrol. Since one unit returned last night; you will choose a few warriors and leave with them this afternoon for two weeks," the lord spoke in a dry, business-like manner.

The golden-haired warrior furrowed his brows as his mouth made a large 'O' shape. A piece of soft, fluffy buttered raisin bread fell out his mouth (Erestor eyed that with disgust and he discretely shuddered) and right back onto his plate as Elrond procured a charmingly smug grin. Thranéal and Celebrían giggled into their palms, and Lyrial and Aeluin openly sniggered – the latter calling out: "You've brought this unto yourself, Finny!"

Glorfindel finally closed his mouth. He shook his head as he then stuffed more delicious, buttered raisin bread into his mouth. "Fine," came his muffled reply.

And as the elves ate and conversed, Elrond momentarily eyed Lyrial; remembering the mental and emotional healing talk session that took place yesterday afternoon. That one was of her early childhood – up to the death of her birth parents, William and Emmeline, twenty years ago. And for some reason, he could have sworn the familiarity of those names. . .

And then it came to him: About twenty years ago, around a month to three months after Amroth returned to Lórien with the survivors of his army; Elrond's mother-in-law shared with him something rather intriguing via ósanwe. It went something along the lines of a mysterious elf-couple being discovered deep within the Golden Wood. They were unconscious and bleeding – in critical condition; and when they were able to speak, they babbled hysterically in a language that was never even heard of. With simple sign language, the married couple had introduced themselves with the human-like names of 'William' and 'Emmeline.'

Well, what an interesting turn of events indeed. . .

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Penneth – Young One – (Sindarin)

Aran Nîn – My King – (Sindarin)

Le Hannon – Thank You – (Sindarin)

Ithil – Moon – (Sindarin)

Meleth Nîn – My Love – (Sindarin)

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*** After Note I – Feel free to drop a review and let me know what you think~! :D ***

*** After Note II – Next chapter: #GreenwoodThings xD It'll be a slight time-skip to around the second week of March . . . More Thran-Thran moments . . . Aaaand there is apparently a dragon masquerading as one of Thran's councillors~ =3 Anyways, I'm contemplating for a trip to Lothlórien either in the third chapter from now, or the fourth . . . Or even the end of the second . . . Can't decide . . . ("w") ***

*** After Note III – The scene with Thranduil and a portion of his warriors arriving to assist Isildur at the Battle of the Gladden Fields only to find out that it was too late was apparently a canon event. A few months ago, I saw it randomly whilst searching for battles that involved Greenwood and I just had to include it~ xD For clarifications; even though I did not directly write it, the following events most certainly happened behind the scenes in this chapter: Ohtar (Isildur's squire) and a soldier companion have arrived in Imladris with the Shards of Narsil. A messenger from Greenwood eventually came to deliver Thran's letter to Elrond – the latter also became stressed, angry and worried about the "disappearance" of the One Ring due to a certain idiot king. Elrond summoned Valandil and his mother to his office and informed them of the unfortunate circumstances. The elf-lord then sends a light escort to guard Valandil, his mother, Ohtar and the soldier companion on a journey to Gondor and Arnor so that Valandil can become king. I didn't write this in 'cause I didn't like the way it was written – I altered it a few times, but laziness soon took over me. However, I'm thinking that I may eventually include that once I have a better idea on how to write it . . . I dunno, or I may end up simply leaving it as is~ x) ***

*** After Note IV – On the nature regarding William and Emmeline: For those who may jump to quick conclusions, Will and Em are not originally from Arda and have somehow managed to go to our Earth, have a child, return to Arda upon their deaths; etcetera. They were 100% Modern Earth prior ending up in Arda; however, this is all I'll say for now until the time comes~ Additionally, there is one other from Earth who is also in Lothlórien~ ;D ***

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