The letters swam together on the parchment, completely convoluting the message and causing the headache behind his eyes to thud more painfully. He blinked, once, twice - and the words were still. But even then, he had lost interest in the treaty proposal at least an hour earlier. It was polite enough to give the new mortal trading post on the lake a chance, but pretending to care was only making his headache worse.

Thranduil crumpled the paper and threw it towards the fire. It dissolved in a hiss of ashes as he pulled out a fresh piece of parchment, and made a quick note to his newly appointed steward. Send a letter to the Men of Esgaroth. We decline their offer until further notice.

Were the council still in existence, he imagined he might receive some backlash for this rather unpopular move. Trading strengthens alliances, Malandi would say. It would solidify our position of power, Narya might contribute. And Caradel...her view would prick at his conscience the most. They need our help. We can help them. We should help them. The council had never been very effective, even when Oropher presided, but now with the queen gone there really was no point in his pretending to listen. And so the council had been abolished within three days of Caradel's defeat, and he was alone.

Thranduil could not decide what was his greatest misfortune. That he love a woman so full of charity (not one of his own strong suits), or that he lost her. That the entirety of the forest be on his failing shoulders, or that the only one that might help him - Legolas - would not even speak to him, apparently blaming the king for his mother's death. As if Thranduil could have stopped her!

These thoughts were not pleasant, and his headache was beginning to pound more intensely. It had started on the eve of Caradel's death, and he should have considered the pain a warning. The forest had always been willing enough to share its goings-on, be that a curse or blessing. But there had to be a way to ease his headache, as well as the sickness in Mirkwood.

He was not clever enough to see it.

Thranduil picked up the note for his steward, and noticed that underneath it lay the unsigned order for Rui's exile. A sigh of exasperation escaped his lips. He wanted to blame the captain for his misery, he truly did, but he knew it was both unfair and cruel. Despite Caradel's belief that Thranduil cared little for others, he still could not sign it. He himself had seen the regret and sorrow in the young elf's face when he reported of the queen's disappearance and subsequent death. To be capable of blaming anyone else would be a gift indeed, for it would keep Thranduil from acknowledging that the blame rested with him. Legolas was right; he should have done something. But there was nothing that he could have done! And there again was the cycle of grief. Blame. Hopelessness. Anger.

There was a knock at the door, and drawn from his resentment, Thranduil barked, "Enter!"

His steward, Orchalon, stepped through the door and bowed slightly. "Sire, if I may -"

"Excellent timing," Thranduil said, and he stood to proffer the note. "I have a task for you."

The elf scanned the parchment. "I shall see to it immediately."

Thranduil appreciated that Orchalon did not talk back or challenge his commands. It was refreshing...and yet, completely wrong, and his heart started beating faster, emotion rising almost too quickly to suppress. He missed her, he needed her, he could not breathe without her…. "Thank you," he said, and sat again, rummaging through the strewn papers on his desk to look busy, and also to hide his face.

"I have another reason for visiting, sire."

Thranduil looked up, and saw that the steward was shifting his weight, seeming far more timid than usual. And considering the awkward way how Orchalon could not meet his eyes...

"We are - that is - I am, simply wondering since it has been several days since the...the queen, erm, passed, whether there will be a f...fuh...funeral for...her." He was definitely shaking now, even before the king pierced him with a disapproving stare.

"By all means, please organize one," Thranduil said blandly. "I am too busy to do it myself, you see. Though I will certainly attend, simply tell me when and where."

"Ver-very good, sire," the steward seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and took his leave quickly.

A funeral! Thranduil buried his face in his hands, pain ripping through his being and filling his heart with broiling sorrow, causing his limbs to tremble. How had he forgotten? And how could he think of a funeral, now? It had been only a week before that he had sent Caradel on her merry way, and she had smirked at him with bright eyes over the parting cup. A week was not enough. Would a single cycle of the moon dull this terrible ache?

It did not matter. The pain would lessen, or it would not. But he needed to be in control, to pull himself together and to perform the work that had always been shared with his wife, by himself. And he could not do that while the grief controlled him. He must control it. He must.

The tall figure drummed his fingers on the armrest of his carven throne, and he pierced me with his gaze. His golden eyes knew much – too much, in my opinion. The long, echoing hall frayed on my nerves, and my memory was hazy, though I did not know why. Then, against my bidding - memories and memories were recalled to the surface of my mind in rapid succession, and I gasped at the suddenness of it all. Aha! I knew me. I knew who I was, and where I was. Once the memories stopped, I stood straighter, and met Mandos's eyes with a stubborn pride.

"You have put me in a predicament," he spoke. Though his voice was mild, it reached every corner of the hall, and every bit of my being.

I did not answer.

"You have a Fate on you. It was I who shared the secrets of your impending deeds to Nienna, though the way she speaks, it seems that she had the vision." He sounded annoyed, then sighed. "But I digress. To be truthful, I have two choices regarding your Fate. I may keep you here, and try to educate you to my best ability, but I am reluctant. You are disinclined to my counsel."

"And the other choice?" I asked, steeling my gaze.

"You would find peace if you were to be re-born into Valinor directly. There is no rest for you here." At the end of his pronouncement, silence descended on the hall once more.

My thoughts wandered, and I became curious. "Did I act wrongly?" I asked. "You are speaking as if my exile were full of folly."

Mandos shifted his weight on the throne. "Right and wrong can be relative, especially in the context of a Fate. It is not a matter of a single decision or action, but rather a culmination."

"But you had a vision," I pried further. "What did you see?"

"I see all, foolish girl," he said, harsh and sudden. "I saw the outcome of your reign in the Greenwood, and what would have happened if you had not been sent to Arda. I did not see your exact actions."

"And which future has come to pass?"

"Both."

"Both!"

"And yet neither. You died too soon to influence the war beyond your failed battle."

"So my campaign did nothing," I stated.

"No."

I wanted to stamp my foot, clench my fists, hit him – anything! But there were no muscles and bones to do my bidding, so I settled for a strangled squeal of frustration.

Mandos sighed again, as if he were privy to my mutinous thoughts. "You are granted re-birth," he said, waving his hand. I felt as if I were dissolving, and as my consciousness faded, I heard him mutter, "May you find the humility to listen to someone."

I decided on the storyline of Caradel having a destiny a long time ago, but now it feels rather silly. I am very sorry if it seems silly.