A/N: This chapter has a point, but there are plenty of things that are simply fluff and good-natured fun. This book has two more chapters left, and then it's off to The Two Towers. Enjoy!

There was absolutely nothing more handsome than a bare-chested elf, Madison decided.

She got this little jewel of information when she followed Melody and Michael down to the sparring ground so Michael could convince Aragorn or Boromir to spar with him. She hadn't quite been expecting to see a dozen shirtless elves dueling in various forms of attack, but after five seconds of seeing hardened abdominals and carved pectorals she decided she didn't mind one bit. Of course, seeing handsome men - or elves, in this case - always made her feel horribly ugly, so she hid behind Melody. It wasn't hard, since Melody was about five-foot-eight and Madison was five-foot-two. Michael, seeing that the sun was hot and only getting hotter, stripped to the waist and tossed his tunic aside. Madison could have sworn she saw a blush skate over Melody's cheeks, but she could have been wrong. After all, she had never seen the thief blush. But Michael was quite handsome without his shirt; his cinnamon colored skin was pleasantly lithe and flat, muscled without overcompensating. His earring twinkled in the sunlight along with his grin as he smiled at them, that lightning grin skittering up the corner of his mouth. He was also very conceited. He flexed several times, posing like a Mr. Universe model, and kissed each bicep. "Does it look like I'm flexing?" he asked Melody, dropping to one knee and giving her a profile view of his muscular arms. Melody laughed a little and messed up his hair. To Michael, this was like the end of the world. "Woah, woah, woah, lady, hands off the hair," he said, carefully running his fingertips through his hair again to spike the dark hair into stiff peaks once more. His hair had gotten longer, and no longer had the lethally sharp points in front. Actually, it was developing into a ridge above his eyebrows, making him look boyish and rather cute. Melody tactfully decided not to mention this.

"Yes, it does," she informed him, and sat down on one of the benches. She looked longingly at the glittering array of weapons on the other side of the field, and licked her lips. "Do you think it would be a gigantic breech of protocol if I sparred?" she asked no one in particular. Unfortunately, this usually meant Madison, and it was she who answered.

"They seem slightly overprotective of their weapons," Madison said, pointing. "Is that Haldir over there?" It was. Haldir was over by the weapons rack, surrounded by giggling ellith, looking more than satisfied. He was bordering on smug. There was a lazy smirk on his face that was visible even from this distance, and Melody growled low in her throat.

"Womanizers," she grumbled. "Michael, are you going to spar or what?" she asked impatiently. "And where's Aragorn?"

"Over there, with Gandalf," Madison told her. "And they seem to be having a very animated conversation. I wouldn't disturb them, if I were you."

"Yeah, well, if you were me, there would be two Michaels running around. And I think there would just be too much epicness in one place for this world to handle, you know what I mean?" Michael said, sauntering over to the bench where Gandalf and Aragorn were talking. Melody shook her head, hiding her smile behind her hand. Madison almost said something about the absurd amount of smiling Melody was doing around Michael, but luckily, it was at that moment that Legolas snuck up behind Madison and gave her a friendly poke on the shoulder.

"Aiiiii!"

Madison toppled over, landing on her back, staring up at a highly amused Legolas. She swatted at his ankles distractedly. "Elves!" she grumped. Melody was having a fit of laughter on the bench, sputtering things like 'your face, your face, you should have seen your face'. Legolas helped her to her feet and tried hard to suppress his smile. Unfortunately, it didn't work. Madison glared good-naturedly at him. "And you thought it would be amusing to poke me when I am undefended, eh?"

"You are never undefended," Legolas told her with a laugh. "I have never seen someone wield a a pigeon on a string with such deadly accuracy." The two of them laughed then, and Madison's hand went to her throat to stroke the lump of pyrite that were resting between the notch of her collarbones. "But I came over here to ask if you would like to come with me on a ride." he said. Madison looked worried.

"A ride? Like on horses?" she asked. Legolas fought the urge to smile. Everything she did was making him laugh. She was honestly worried about getting on a horse.

"Or a walk, if you prefer," he said. "But there is nothing frightening about horses, believe me." She chewed the inside of her lip for a moment and sighed.

"A ride then. On small horses." she agreed.

"The smallest," he promised. He gave a courteous little bow to Melody. "Lady Melody, would you like to accompany us?" he asked politely. She was looking with a strange little smile on her face, something between I'm-going-to-laugh and I-know-what-you're-up-to-buster. She shook her head.

"Nah, I'm watching Michael spar with Aragorn. Have fun," she said, and waved. She watched the two of them leave with something like motherly exasperation. Madison was obviously a 'Leggy-fangirl', but they seemed to be good friends. She hoped it would stay that way.

Her attention was drawn to Aragorn and Michael at the end of the field. They chose a good distance away from the sparring ellyn, and began exchanging blows carefully. From this distance, Melody couldn't hear what they were saying, but Aragorn kept correcting Michael's stance. Their swords lay on the ground, unused for the moment, and they were concentrating on hand-to-hand combat. Michael's fighting style was a typical barroom brawl - knock your opponent to the ground and keep hitting his face until he hollered uncle. Aragorn, naturally, was a firm, upright, stand-your-ground-until-the-end kind of guy. It made an interesting fight to watch, but Melody felt her attention drifting. She wondered what was going to happen to Gandalf. Now that he was alive, how would it affect the story? Obviously, he couldn't exorcise Theoden, couldn't break Saruman's staff, or fight the Witch-King when he was plain old Gandalf the Gray. She sighed and watched Michael and Aragorn fight with detached interest. And then there were the Sues. Why did they seem to be weakening one second, and then getting insanely powerful the next? It was mind-boggling, that's what it was. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and flipped her bangs from her eyes, spotting Daphne sitting on a bench some ways away. Getting up, she approached the blond, who seemed to be half-asleep. "Daphne?" Melody called hesitantly. The spiky-haired blond twitched, as if waking up suddenly, and then stretched and rubbed her eyes.

"Oh, hi," Daphne said, yawning loudly. "'Ow you doin'?" she asked sleepily, propping her chin in her hands and half-closing her eyes. Melody sat down next to her.

"Fine," Melody said. "Maddie and Legolas went on a ride together." she said. Daphne either didn't care or it didn't register, because she nodded sleepily and said "That's nice." Melody waited a few seconds. "So, how is Isabella doing?" she asked.

"She's awake," Daphne said. "And now I can't sleep. I'm such a worrywart." She dug her knuckles into her eyes, sighing. "I keep worrying about Gandalf and all that stuff."

"I was just thinking that," Melody admitted. "I don't know how it'll affect the story. Do you?"

Daphne buried her face in her arms. "Right now, I want to sleep," she said, her voice muffled. "And then I'll think. Wake me up in a century."

Melody suppressed a sigh. There was nobody to talk to. She was going for a walk.

The sun was weak and watery, and it peered down dreamily on the gleaming bodies as they sparred viciously. Aragorn had removed his tunic, and Michael felt a brief pang of envy at the hard, rippling muscles. He had cool gray eyes that evaluated Michael carefully, and then gave a tiny jerk of his head as though to say 'you'll do'. Aragorn knelt and deftly plucked his boot knife from his calf and flipped it around until he was holding the blade and presented it to Micahel hilt first. Aragorn watched as Michael turned it until the blade was pointing towards him, and then his lips tightened. "Stop, stop, stop," Aragorn snapped. "What are you doing?"

"Knife fightin'," Michael retorted. "It's the way I learned. You don't grow up in New York City or the Bronx unless you know how to knife fight. You don't grow up long, anyway." Aragorn raised an eyebrow and shook his head slightly. Michael, irked that Aragorn didn't approve of his fighting techniques, furrowed his brow and turned away. He yelped in pain when the flat of Aragorn's blade connected with his arm. "Ouch! Damn, man, what the hell was that for?" Michael asked, rubbing his shoulder. Aragorn was glaring at him.

"Fight me. Go on, use your blade." He was using his sword, which had him at a distinct advantage, and he was about an inch taller and a good twenty pounds heavier. Michael growled and jabbed out with his knife, twisting his wrist at what looked like an uncomfortable angle. The blade was fast and sharp, lightweight and easy to use, although to Michael it was rather heavy to be used as a proper switchblade. Aragorn's trained eyes watched him closely as they traded blows, Michael attacking underhanded and never even getting close to Aragorn. Aragorn, of course, was using a sword that he was familiar with and his attacks were hard and strong, although he slowed himself deliberately to keep the boy with him. His footwork was alien, pouncing light as a cat one moment and then landing hard on his heels the next. Mostly, though, he kept himself close to Aragorn, brows knotted in fierce concentration, sweat beading his brow.

They were polar opposites in fighting - Aragorn was powerful and heavy, deflecting blows easily and occasionally smacking him with the flat of his blade, while Michael was fast and light, never nicking Aragorn once. However, fighting an eighty-year-old man does have one advantage - youth. The blades shrieked together, and Michael felt reverberations shudder up his arms. Using a smaller blade was putting him at both an advantage and a disenvantage - the closer he got, the less room Aragorn had to maneuver. Therefore, they kept going backwards across the field, sometimes ducking to turn a different direction and proceed up the field at another angle. But the less control Aragorn had over his blade, the less time he had to twist his blows and make sure the flat struck Michael instead of the edge. By the second close call - Michael actually felt the hairs on his arm stand up, and a pink welt sprang to attention on his shoulder - Aragorn stopped. "Enough," he said.

Michael doubled over and gripped his knees. Aragorn looked at him coolly. "You wouldn't last five minutes in battle," Aragorn informed him as though he were telling him about the weather. "You lack endurance and discipline. Your stance is terrible - that's why you couldn't touch me. You need more weight behind your blows, otherwise your blade will connect with mine and your arms will deaden. You are inexperienced and slow, but..." For the first time, the shadow of a grin skated across Aragorn's scruffy mouth. "You fight well."

He scrubbed a hand across his dark eyes and glared at Aragorn. "Yeah, no kiddin'," he panted. "So, how do I - get better?" he asked, gulping down air. Aragorn's smile was dangerously similar to Daphne's wolverine grin.

"Practice. That's how." He strode over to the weapons rack and hefted a sword. "Let's try your hand with a proper blade, shall we?"

Michael groaned.

Isabella drank the water greedily, licking her parched lips. She sat up in bed, touching a hand to the swath of bandages around her skull. The wound had bled quite a bit, as head-wounds were apt to do, and her ears still rang from the connection with the cave wall. Her vision was blurred slightly around the edges, and it hurt to focus on anything specifically, but she found she could talk without too much trouble and sneer with even less. Supported by several thick cushions, she watched through the window idly. From this distance, she could see two horses coming up the path - one of them bay colored, the other a light brown. Madison was clinging to the bay one with a terrified-giggly look on her face, and Legolas was laughing at her from atop the light brown. They were talking about something animatedly, with most of the discussion coming from Legolas and most of the animation coming from Madison, who was hunched in the saddle as though she wanted nothing more than fling her arms around the horse's neck and hang on for dear life. Isabella smirked as the two friends walked slowly up the path, their horse's tails swishing slowly in the nippy breeze. Madison's cheeks were flushed with humor and the cold wind, and Legolas's eyes were bright with merriment. Isabella rubbed her eyes and her fingers played over the slick, cold glass of the window. Directly outside, an old gray mallorn tree rapped gnarled fingers against the house she was staying in, and contributed an eerie scuttling noise to the colorful sounds outside her window.

Something caught her eye. Adavis was walking quickly down the road with a determined expression on her face, Quilemna and Vanima close behind. They were all dressed in fine clothes, with Quilemna stubbornly insisting to wear masculine clothing and Vanima wearing a beautiful crimson dress. Adavis would look superb in anything she wore, but the golden gown she was wearing was stunning and apparently kept her warm from the chilly breeze, even though it revealed far more than it covered. Vanima posed a question, and Adavis turned on her, shouting and throwing her arms up in the air. From this distance, Isabella couldn't tell what Vanima or Adavis said, but they were obviously up to something. Her mind went through a list of possible options, and settled on the least likely to work and the one with the highest possibility of bodily harm. After all, what's the fun in taking the safe route? Listen to yourself, idiot! Isabella chided herself mentally as she got out of bed and her numb fingers groped for a cloak. Call yourself a genius - pah! You sound like Daphne. You don't want to turn out like her, do you?

It didn't take much to sneak outside and follow the Sues down the road. Naturally, they attracted all kinds of attention because of their flawless beauty and auras, so Isabella had to pick her way among the ruins of overturned carts. Apparently several carts and horsemen had tried to turn around on a dime to appreciate the round backsides of the Sues and everything had toppled over. They all had vaguely bewildered looks on their faces as they chased fruits which were rolling away and tried to scoop up flour with their fingers. Isabella would have sneered or said something snarky, but her head was pounding and her feet - which were bare - were absolutely freezing. The cloak was much too large for her and made her look ridiculous, but she didn't particularly care. Her plan was to follow them at a distance for a while, and then accuse them of - well, whatever they were doing. Somethign heinous, no doubt. Unfortunately for the brain-fuzzed geunii, the Sues - among other attributes - had perfect hearing and turned around to confront her. "Isabella? What are you doing outside on such a cold day?" Adavis asked, mock sympathy in her voice.

"Following you," Isabella retorted. "No doubt you're up to something." It was a partiularly lame reason for following somebody, and she tried to stifle a cough that was tickling the back of her throat. It didn't work, and she coughed into her fist, feeling her sore throat being ravaged by the gusty cough. The Sues smirked and enclosed her in a circle, pressing unnaturally close to her. Isabella frowned and jammed an elbow into Quilemna's side. "Breathing room, imbecile," Isabella snapped, trying to sound like her usual self, when in fact she just felt like curling up and dying.

"Adavis..." Quilemna said warningly. "Now would be an excellent time to put out our plan."

Adavis arched a queenly eyebrow. "Our plan?"

"Yours, of course," Vanima said hastily, glaring at Quilemna. "She meant your brilliant plan, Excellency." Adavis purred.

There was something funny going on, but Isabella couldn't quite put her finger on it. Adavis twisted her mouth to the side as she suryeved Isabella. "No, she won't do," she said decisively. "I want the other one, that little thief - Melody. Her and that nasty little girl, Madison. I want them both." She curled her lip. "Run along, little one, before you catch a cold," Adavis said sweetly, false concern dripping from her words.

Isabella ground her teeth. "I'm not a child," she said. "And I refuse to be treated as such. What are you planning with Melody and Madison?"

"Nothing you need to worry your little head about," Adavis said prettily. "We're planning a - surprise for them. Now don't spoil it for them, all right?" She patted Isabella's head lightly.

If there was one thing Isabella hated the most, it was being underestimated. But then again, underestimation had proved to be her ace in the hole on numerous occasions. People looked at her and saw a skinny, black-haired girl with a sour face and large, sneering blue eyes. They didn't see a Grand Chess Master - they didn't see a developing girl. They saw her as a child. So Isabella lowered her eyes and sighed. "Just don't hurt them," Isabella said, feigning defeat. "Besides, Melody would be able to kick your butt."

She knew Adavis was burning, but the Sue hid it well - a tribute to her Suethor. "Oh, really?" Adavis said, her beautiful voice squeaking ever so slightly. "What makes you think that?"

"Because she said so," Isabella said irritably. "A couple of days ago, in Moria. We were talking about you and she said she could kick your butt any day of the week and not even break a sweat."

"Is that so?" Adavis said. Now there was definitely a crack and a squeak in her voice. There was a vein pulsing in her temple. "Well, I'll have to speak with her about that."

Isabella turned and began trudging towards the palace, bare feet scraping over the cold grounds. Quilemna's hand strung her bow and notched an arrow before anyone could blink. "I can still get her from here," the redheaded Sue panted, aiming for Isabella's back. Adavis was watching Isabella's back closely, and she put a restraining hand on Quilemna's arm.

"No, don't," Adavis said quietly. "I want her alive. I think she'll do...rather well."

Michael lay on the grass, eyes closed. His body was drenched in sweat, hair standing in damp spikes, and his heart was hammering. Aragorn sat next to him, one leg outstretched, the other close to his chest. He rested his elbow on his knee, mug of water in hand, and looked at the boy with a little smile on his face. "Tired?" he inquired pleasantly. Michael opened one chocolate-brown eye and glared at Aragorn. He didn't even have the energy to swat the Ranger. Instead, he settled for an indistinct noise in the back of his throat, something like "Mmmmepmmh." Aragorn laughed. "It's only your first day of training," Aragorn reassured him. "You'll get better...eventually."

"Yeah, thanks for the confidence, man," Michael said, sitting up with a groan. "Man, I hurt in places I didn't even know I had." He tried for a scratchy laugh. "It's like having sex, I guess." Aragorn shot him a sharp, keen look that unsettled Michael.

"You have lain with a woman before?" Aragorn asked, sounding idle but interested. After all, Michael was an adult, and what else do adult males talk about? Nonetheless, Aragorn was subtly uncomfortable with the conversation. Michael didn't appear fazed.

"Nope. Well - no, wait, no." Michael said. His lightning grin flickered up the side of his mouth. "What about you?"

Aragorn looked at him incredulously. "I cannot believe you just asked me that," he said after a moment.

"Well, I did." Michael said, sitting up on his elbows. He looked at Aragorn. "So? You and Arwen ever get it on? Mmm?"

Aragorn sent Michael sprawling in the grass. Michael was strong, but Aragorn was tougher - plus, Aragorn wasn't completely exhausted. He pinned Michael to the ground - there was a spark of amusement in his normally flat gray eyes, but his mouth was serious. "I am going to pretend," Aragorn said firmly, amusement building in his eyes, "that you and I did not have this conversation. And I am also going to pretend that you did not just question my betrothed's honor."

Michael was grinning openly now, wriggling slightly under Aragorn's grip. "What about before Arwen?" he asked cheekily.

Aragorn hauled Michael to his feet. "Where I come from," Aragorn said conversationally, dragging a struggling, laughing Michael towards the pail of water the warriors drank from, "Young boys who gave cheek were paddled. Since I do not see a stick lying handy I will have to improvise."

And, without further ado, he plunged Michael's head under the water.

He came up a split second later, spluttering and roaring his hilarious indignation. Laughing ellyn gathered round to see Michael pouring the remaining water on Aragorn, the two of them wrestling playfully, dripping wet and shouting incoherent insults. The ellyn were laughing but serious.

"We drink from that," one ellon said. "There is no need to waste it."

His answer was a faceful of water. Before too long, everyone was cheering or wrestling, slippery with sweat and water and good humor. After all, they were men - or ellyn - and their honor was at stake. Or something. Eventually it dissolved into good, healthy fun between a bunch of testosterone heady males. Suddenly, there was a break in the match by a clear, amused voice breaking over the crisp air.

"I see that your training has made you all very adept at spontanious wrestling matches," said a sweet, beautiful, lilting voice. The ellyn scrambled to their feet, along with Aragorn and Michael, and stood stiffly at attention. Galadriel was there, her crystal blue eyes large and soft. "Lord Michael, may I speak with you for a moment?"

Michael, dumbfounded, allowed himself to be led away by the gorgeous elleth. "Look, that was my fault back there," he began, but Galadriel cut him off.

"I did not call you here to reprimand you, Lord Michael, only to warn you." she said, and looked straight at him. "The thing your fear most will come to pass. Lord Sauron is treacherous, vile, and cunning. He will use your deepest secrets against you."

Michael felt his gut roil unpleasantly. He couldn't say a word. Galadriel continued. "Secrets destroy the soul. They gnaw away at your heart until you no longer can think or feel. Secrets rift relationships, dig chasms, and open gaps between friends. Secrets that are told will be secrets no longer."

"I can't tell," Michael said, his voice hoarse and raspy. "I - they'll think I'm a murderer." He swallowed hard and tried to keep the tears back. "I am a muderer."

Galadriel tipped his chin back gently, her blue eyes sorrowful. "Her death is not on your hands."

"Yes, damn it, it is," Michael said, pulling away from Galadriel with a sharp jerk. Tears stung his eyes and it felt as though he had swallowed a stone. "It is my fault. You weren't there. She could have been alive except for me, okay? I - I'm not telling anybody." He stormed off.

Galadriel watched him go, sadly wondering why he insisted on bearing his burdens alone.