The face that looked back at me in the mirror was unrecognizable. Pale skin and hollow cheeks, eyes rimmed with red and purple, and blotchy patches from tears that had been rubbed raw. Only the expression in my eyes I recognized. It was the same hopelessness that had become familiar in my cousin Celebrían's features. A grimace spread my lips at the memory.

A pale hand rested on my shoulder, and my gaze was drawn to the face behind me. "You look beautiful," Thranduil said. I exhaled sharply, my jaw trembling slightly as I lost a measure of control.

"I would rather be ugly, and have my son returned," I said, malice creeping into my tone. He must have sensed that there was no use consoling me, and so he simply offered me his arm, and together we left the room.

Our place was on the steps that led into the city, and from our place we could look out into the forest, where half the city was lined on either side of the Elven road. The other half stayed inside the mountain, and out of the biting cold. The women were veiled and the children sober. I hated to see them - I hated all of this.

"Where is Legolas?" I muttered to Thranduil.

"I have not seen him since the day we returned."

I pitied myself further for the detachment of my only living child. I skulked, shifting my weight to grind my heel into the stone ground. I did not want to be there. At once, the sound of clanking steps began to echo in the solemn silence of the city. Thranduil straightened, and my head bowed as the six guards bearing Belegorn's body on a platform of marble came into sight.

Many of the flowers grown in the warmth from hot springs beneath the mountain had been harvested for the occasion. Anemones for fragility, magnolia for remembrance, campanula for grief, and cyclamen for goodbye. My own offerings which I had brought were different. Torn handfuls of rue and asphodel fell from my grip before being trodden by the guards, and my heart wrenched. I wished to close my grip and the blossoms to return, for letting them fall upon my son's dead body was to accept his face. Bitterness ran through me in waves, and I trembled. Thranduil lifted his hand to rest on my shoulder, to others it would appear to lend support, but I knew better, and so did he. He kept me weighted, and without his presence I would have flown into a rage. I would have screamed my wrath to world! Vengeful tears splattered the ground before me, and my jaw clenched to show such weakness where all would see me. I turned away.

My world after that became a blur, and it seemed that even in the present everything was dim and far away. I spoke when necessary, ate when pressed, but did not leave my chambers. I spent hours sitting in the window, numb in the chill breeze, and staring into the dead forest as I retreated into my own thoughts and regrets. Galadriel visited me, though I was unsure if she physically visited Mirkwood or if she had simply reached out and touched my mind with hers. The words she offered brought fresh pain, though afterwards my heart began to beat louder once more. She spoke of springtime, of eternity, of circles, and for an unknown reason, she called me Érulisse na i Tharbadeth. I had never heard the name Érulisse before, but when she spoke it, there stirred within me some memory of a dream of another life, a recognition of sorts of who I was and whom I was to be. A grim, hopeful determination caused me to leave my reprieve, and fully enter again the living world. Galadriel had not only called me Érulisse, but she had referred to me as 'na i Tharbadeth'. At the crossroads. Whatever part of my identity I remained unaware of, I trusted my aunt. I was at a crossroad.

I sat again in councils, and presided over feasts. Thranduil and I resumed a sense of normalcy in our relationship, and it was in silted whispers in the dark of the night that he told me what had happened when he had sought Belegorn's killer.

"I wanted to tear its hide," he said, hushed. We were sitting in our regular chairs by the fire. I had given up wine since Belegorn's death, but Thranduil had already made his way through a half a bottle. His gaze was removed from me. "It was a small one, by what I had heard from my father. Only as tall as two men!" He laughed bitterly. "Anyway, I did not succeed. I wounded it a bit, but it was obviously bored, and disappeared while I was regrouping."

"Hmm." I felt no need to interject. His story seemed strange to me, and very condensed, and I supposed he was not going to share more than he had already decided. Did I even want to know more of that terrible day? I suppose not.

"There is one more thing though," he said, running a finger around the rim of his wineglass. "I found a door in the mountain about our size, and was surprised to discover dwarves living in the Grey Mountains."

My interest was piqued. "Is that so?" I asked.

"Yes. I shouted at them for at least a quarter-hour, but a grizzled old dwarf finally stuck his head out and told me to go away, in less polite wording."

"Who are they?"

"I will get to that. I told him that my son was mortally wounded by a dragon, and desperately needed medicine and care. He only laughed. 'I know better than to trust an Elf,' he said, and slammed the door in my face. I shouted again, and when he finally returned to yell at me some more, I told him that I was a trade partner of King Thrain in Erebor. 'Now that is interesting,' he said. 'My father is King Thrain.' 'Then why will you not help us?' I asked." Thranduil paused here, his voice was beginning to shake with anger, and I myself was rigid with fury. "He said that economical trade does not constitute emergency aid. Trade partners, but not friends."

"Not friends!" I exclaimed. "That stupid king! And his stupid son! I would fly to them at a call for aid in a heartbeat! Wretched, ungrateful -"

"Yes, I know," Thranduil said, waving at me to calm myself. "That is why when we returned I ripped up the trade agreement and sent a note to Thrain about what happened and why I was stopping his supply of lumber. He replied and apologized for his son's behavior and begged me to reconsider. Apparently the prince is a bit hot-headed, and thought a colony in the Grey Mountains would be successful."

I shook my head in disbelief. "The prince must be touched in the head. I always thought that dwarves were inbred."

The corners of his mouth twitched. "Come now, Caradel, that is hardly fair," he said. "As well as rather rude and unwarranted."

"Unwarranted! Hardly. He should have helped us."

"Perhaps. But his bloodlines, or line, if your baseless theory is correct - cannot be blamed. Or perhaps he was just saving his own skin from being roasted."

"I would roast him," I snarled. "I can only hope he gets what he deserves."*

Unfortunately, I was not yet fully healed, and Thranduil's story had stirred more than anger in me. I began to fear rest for the nightmares it would bring. I would scream in the night if my mind rested, images of Thranduil's torn body joining Belegorn's surfacing in my mind, and I thought they would drive me mad. I had survived on little rest before, but this exhaustion was unprecedented. It became so debilitating on occasion that if my thoughts relaxed for a moment, even during the day, dark tendrils of fear wormed their way into my mind's eye, and fresh images of my family slaughtered continued to plague me.

My condition did not go unnoticed, though I tried to conceal it. I was as vigorous as I could be in councils, and enthusiastic to see Legolas. Truly, I was happy to see him when he returned with his reports, but seeing him also brought Belegorn to my mind. Guilt made my skin crawl around Legolas. He should have had his brother, and I felt that I was to blame, at least in part. And I could not forgive myself.

Ashamedly, fifty years passed in this manner.

*Thrain's son was ironically named Thorin (the First). If you think about it, and think about all the issues between dwarves and dragons, Caradel's wish could be considered fulfilled.