Elrond Peredhil would remember almost nothing of the hard ride to Lothlorien in the deep darkness of that night. Only the vaguest of impressions seeped through his healer's concentration upon the sleeping bundle in his arms: impressions of leaving the thickly-intertwined overhead darkness of Mirkwood for the star-and-moonlit Vale of Anduin, Ithil bending close like a benison and only the brighter stars - the beloved Elbereth among them - easiest to see in the sky.

At length, just as the faintest suggestion of Minuial was beginning to color the eastern sky, Glorfindel brought them to a halt at the fringe of Lórien. Exhausted past reason, Elrond tried to lift his head at the sound of voices, but could not get his head to cooperate. The uncertain light of not-night/not-day was obscured all around him; the bright white light of his healing power had cloaked itself about him once more, and the only thing he could see was the equally-exhausted child in his arms.

"Elrond, kinsman - my son, do you hear me?" came a deep, beloved voice, and Elrond squeezed out weary tears at the sound of it, for all the world as if he himself were a mere child again. Celeborn... we have made it to Lórien, then... He made some kind of sound, hoping his wife's father would take it for assent, and concentrated on keeping his knees tight about the horse and saddle, lest he fall and injure the prince. Elrond felt gentle hands upon him and murmured in bemused anxiety as someone made to take Legolas from his arms. The reassuring depth of Celeborn's voice came to him again, however, much closer this time.

"All is well, my son. Your riders reached us; we have been acquainted with all that has come to pass. Give the little one to me, and rely on Glorfindel for your strength - I but wish to take Legolas to the same place you are bound. Galadriel awaits you both."

Galadriel... Giddy with relief, he allowed Celeborn to take the child and let Glorfindel to assist him with the tricky task of dismounting when strength is nearly gone. Somehow he found his feet, though it was very hard indeed to actually stand; Elrond felt bereft, somehow, without the confiding warmth of the child before him. As if in a dream he allowed himself to be led carefully in Celeborn's footsteps, listening as they talked: Glorfindel explained that the twins were behind them by possibly as little as half an hour, and that Tinuvil had gone in search of Thranduil, who had yet to be heard from. Celeborn, curiously enough, replied that Tinuvil would only find his royal brother-in-law if he went up the eastern edge of Mirkwood, which (if his murmured exclamation of surprise was any indication) left Glorfindel as taken aback as Elrond.

"Galadriel has her ways of knowing what is afoot in Middle-Earth," was all Celeborn would say by means of an explanation. He gazed down upon the sleeping face of young Legolas, and smiled. "We were at Thranduil's court when this little one was born," he said, seeming to change the subject entirely. "It was an interesting day all around."

Inscrutable are the ways of Elven elders, Elrond thought muzzily to himself, and even more inscrutable their words. He wondered if he would sound like that, should he ever attain the great age that Celeborn and Galadriel had done.

Soon they came to a place Elrond knew well: Galadriel's private bower, which opened up onto the deep and mysterious garden where she kept her mirror. She was waiting, and as always, his breath caught in joy at the sight of her. It was not possible to come into the company of the daughter of Finarfin and not be somehow changed; Elrond had always felt in his heart of hearts that she had the most sheer presence of any being he had ever met. Dearly though he loved her as the mother of his wife, and despite the long years he had known her, Galadriel always made Elrond feel just the smallest bit awed.

Tall, willow-slender, with the ageless face of an Elf of great inner beauty as well as outer, she had the oldest eyes Elrond had ever seen - so blue one felt it might be possible to drown in their depths without even moving a muscle, and so immeasurably wise. Her hair, as golden as Celeborn's was silver, flowed down her back like a living stream of rippling silk, gently waved in places, and held off her face by a delicate diadem of finest mithril.

On her slender hand she openly wore Nenya the White, one of the three Elven Rings of Power - something Elrond had long since decided he could not comprehend and probably ought not to even try. Círdan the Shipwright, the Telerin Elf who was Master of the Grey Havens, had long carried the second, Narya, the Red Ring of Fire; he had passed it off to the keeping of another, though only he and a small handful of others knew to whom. Elrond himself was the bearer of the Blue Ring, Vilya, given to him from the hand of his beloved Gil-Galad before the great Elven-King's death. Though he occasionally took the Ring from its safe place and looked long upon it, it rarely occurred to him to don it, much less use it, except at great need.

Inscrutable are the ways of Elven elders, he reminded himself yet again, and settled in doggedly to await Galadriel's words.

She had risen from her carved bench at their approach, and every one of them felt the touch of her grave, ancient eyes - except Legolas, who slept obliviously on, safe for the moment in Celeborn's arms. When she did move, it was slowly and with great grace; she brushed the long fingers of one hand over the tousled blond head nested on her lord's shoulder, but did not look at the child, and it seemed to Elrond that the faintest arch of an eyebrow creased the perfection of her features. She lowered her chin and became - Ai, Elbereth, was such a thing possible? - even more focused that she had already been. But her steady, graceful progress did not stop until she stood before Elrond, who was suddenly aware of the sight he must present: bleary, vacant with exhaustion, hangdog and about to collapse. Not my best moment, he thought illogically, and lifted his eyes to meet hers.

"Lady mother -"

One long, white hand came up and a finger was pressed against his lips. Galadriel framed his face between her hands and looked into Elrond's eyes, long and deep, until he was certain she knew every move he had made, every word spoken, what he had had for breakfast, and every action taken since several days gone.

"The healing moves through you yet, my son," she breathed, and drew her fingertips across his forehead, making a shudder run through his entire body - but leaving in its wake a curious refreshment. Elrond was certain it would not last long, but was grateful, and thought: I must ask her to teach me that... "It is not prudent, kinsman, but I understand the need."

"Lady." This time she did not stop his lips, so Elrond squared his shoulders and continued. "The child is in peril of his soul, and is beyond my power to reach. I cannot sense any damage having been done to him so far - but the potions of the Adversary are vile, with many hidden evils. For all I know, something of it shifts the little prince already toward the abyss."

"Not necessarily so," Galadriel murmured. "The child's Doom has always been connected elsewhere - but that is not to say he will not suffer many other trials until that Doom comes to pass in the end."

"Please -" Elrond drew a deep breath, feeling a certain frustration. His wife's mother was sometimes as difficult to move along as an Ent! "Can you help the boy? There is far more here than meets the eye, Lady. After all he has endured so far, I would not lose this one to Shadow."

She had heard his thoughts; he knew it to be so. Galadriel's eyes locked with his, knowingly, and the faintest hint of a smile touched her lips. "The young," she murmured, stressing that word, "are always so impatient."

The White Lady took a deliberate step, then another; then she paused.

"Satisfy my curiosity on one thing, Elrond my son," she said, and completed her circuit about the chamber, coming to lay a loving hand on Celeborn's arm. Galadriel gently peeled back the cloak covering the sleeping child; she gazed down at the weary face, the bright eyes enmeshed in dreams, and the merest suggestion of sweetness came over her ancient eyes. She traced one delicate fingertip down the pale cheek. "Is this not the son of Thranduil?"

Blessed Manwe... "Yes, Lady, indeed it is."

"Thranduil." Galadriel's deep and dulcet voice caressed the name. "The very same Thranduil, of whom you have said great, giant spiders should devour the last of his line? With him watching, and next upon the plate?"

The Lady forgets nothing... Elrond gave a self-deprecating sigh. "I fear those were my words, Lady," he apologized, bowing his head. "I was - hasty in my youth."

She arched an eyebrow at him, and her tone was so bland it was most decidedly a rebuke. "Indeed."

There was a long pause. The child, perhaps sensing the tension, murmured from the depths of sleep and nestled closer to the soft material of Celeborn's robes.

"This would be the last of Thranduil's line, would it not?" Galadriel asked, and never had knife been twisted with more exquisiteness.

Elrond did not look up at her, but closed his eyes. "It is, Lady. Thranduil's youngest."

"Yes." Then, more sweetly still: "I take it you rescind the desire to see giant spiders consume the little prince?"

A thousand things he might say came instantly to mind, but Elrond had attained his own not-inconsiderable catalogue of years by refraining from foolhardiness. Instead, he dared a look at the Elder, and nodded. "I do rescind it, Lady. With all my heart."

"I am glad to hear you say it." She gestured, and Celeborn followed her into the bower; at the Lady's direction, he gently placed Legolas amid the pillows on the bed and took away the Elven cloaks. Galadriel half-turned, gathering Elrond to her side with a gesture; the others faded back, Celeborn moving to stand on the opposite side of the bed like a sentinel. The Lord of Imladris dropped to his knees and waited, hope in every line of his body.

"Legolas, Greenleaf," Galadriel murmured, caressing the syllables with her lovely voice. The prince stirred, something of wakefulness coming into his eyes; he mumbled under his breath and tried to turn away, but Galadriel took his hands, folding them on his chest, and put one of her own hands over them. "Wake now, little one, and heed me," she commanded in her flawless Quenya. Elrond gave a nervous frown, but she ignored him.

Legolas sighed wearily, yawned; one hand twitched under Galadriel's, as if he wanted to rub his eyes. The inability to move brought him fully awake, though, in light of recent experience; Elrond could feel him snap to still, wary attention, could all but hear the heartbeat quicken. Legolas turned to look at the White Lady, his eyes wide and anxious, and he gasped. His expression was a jumble of emotion: confusion as to where he was and how he got here; lingering panic, and stunned reaction to the beautiful sight leaning over him. The ocean-coloured eyes tried to slide sideways; he could sense others around him and felt a primal tactical need to know what was going on, who was involved, but Galadriel filled what remained of sense and comprehension, and he could not tear his gaze from hers. The sound he uttered was both musical and heart-rending, speaking as it did of his adoration and terror.

"There is no need to fear, little bird," Galadriel soothed, and traced the pale forehead with her fingertips. "All is well. You are safe now."

Tears welled up and spilled over; a tremulous smile came to the child's face.

"Blessed Vala, I thank you," he whispered, and it seemed far more normal that he should reply to her in Quenya, occasioning little of the surprise it had for Elrond to be so addressed back in the tumbledown hut. "I hope I may be accounted worthy - forgive me if I was not brave enough!"

"You were very brave," she reassured him, not disabusing the child of his belief that she was a goddess; Elrond did not think he had ever seen her look so ethereally maternal. "We are all very proud of you. Legolas, tell me of the Shadow, and I will make it go away."

The young face crumpled in pain. "It was the cup," he breathed, on the merest edge of audible, as if he feared even saying the words. "He made me drink. I did not want to, but I could not stop him!"

"If you will let me, I will heal you of the Shadow," Galadriel told him. "Do you trust me?"

"I am afraid," Legolas whispered, too frightened to be embarrassed at the admission. Galadriel smiled at him, and he forgot both fear and shame.

"You do well to fear, little prince. But do you trust me?"

Elrond wanted desperately to look away, so powerful was the emotion in those young eyes as Legolas nodded, mouthing his assent, unable any longer to make a sound. But for all his own hope of the Blessed Realms, the Lord of Imladris could not have looked away, even if Galadriel had commanded him to do so.

"Good," Galadriel purred. She brought up her free hand and encompassed Legolas' clasped hands within her own. Her eyes never left his; he could not have looked away to save his soul, though in the next heartbeat, it seemed as if his soul was decidedly in need of aid - for without warning, Legolas suddenly stiffened and caught his breath on an inhaled cry of pain. The White Lady said nothing, only slightly narrowed her exquisite eyes and gazed with yet more compulsion at the young Elf. Elrond felt his heart skip several painful beats; not certain of what he should do - or perhaps more to the point, what he should not do - he looked quickly between the frozen, stunned face of Legolas and the smooth, purposeful one of Galadriel.

But before he could do anything more, he felt powerful hands close on his shoulders, and sensed the unmistakable aura of Celeborn's seldom-felt but immutable power commanding him to remain where he was, to do nothing. Legolas had yet to breathe a second time...

"Do not interfere, my son," Celeborn said, gently quiet, and not for the first time in their acquaintance, Elrond actually feared to look up and back at him. He had never even seen the Lord of Lothlorien move from the other side of the bed. "Galadriel's mysteries are not for us to question."

"He can't breathe," Elrond whispered. Celeborn's hands tightened fractionally.

"She will save him from Shadow. That is what you asked of her."

Be careful what you ask for, Elrond thought, unaware that his own hands were tightening on the edge of the bed even as Celeborn's had on flesh.

The moment protracted, stretched out, and became agony for more than just Elrond. Elves are painfully aware of time, even as they move through it with apparent ease, and more especially when they do not. How long could an Elf hold his breath and not perish? Watching Legolas do so, unaware he was holding his own breath, Elrond discovered that to all appearances the boy could outlast him - for he needed to breathe, and that with some pain, long before there was any reaction from the prince. And still, child and Lady locked eyes in a battle of - what? Wills? Life and death? Some combination of either?

Elrond wondered if he might go mad waiting for this to resolve. We'll straighten this out, he told himself, then we'll all go do something terribly normal. We'll have dinner, perhaps...

Finally, Legolas took another inhale - never having let go of the first one - and another - each time on a weaker note of pain and panic. His small hands, strengthened by years of tutelage with bow and sword and knife, tightened desperately on Galadriel's; it was possible to see the outline of the supple young muscles under the pale skin of his forearms. His lips had gone nearly the colour of his eyes. His eyes... those trusting, innocent eyes, not nearly old enough, sweet and earnest - they had become something quite different, almost as if Galadriel carried her fabled mirror in her own eyes, and by looking into them Legolas had become the mirror.

Galadriel bore down once more, and finality shimmered around her like the light of stars through the mallorns. "Le nallon sí di-nguruthos," she exclaimed, her voice all the more harsh for its beckoning softness. "A tiro nin, Fanuilos!" And she clenched her long, fine hands about the boy's.

Whatever had held him motionless was released; Legolas cried out in a hair-raising combination of triumphant agony and terror, his back arching to the extent of all reasonable suppleness. If Galadriel had not held onto him, he might have exploded into desperate action. But hold she did. And before the echo of that wildly ancient cry had died around them, leaving the woods of Lórien utterly silent, the son of Thranduil had fallen back to the bed, mouth open in shock, eyes staring straight ahead, seeing nothing. He did not move; Galadriel did not release him.

He looked quite dead.

"Do not move," Celeborn whispered in Elrond's ear, his breath stirring the small hairs on the other's throat. "Say nothing. Do nothing."

Superfluous advice. Stunned, Elrond could barely nod his comprehension of the words; if he had attempted anything more, he had no idea what the outcome might be.

Legolas was dead.

They had saved him from Shadow; he had died at the hands of another Elf, not of Orcs or Nazgul. He supposed they had succeeded.

He watched Celeborn gently hold Legolas' eyelids and mouth closed until they might remain so on their own; Elrond squeezed his own eyes shut and let tears of exhaustion and grief leak down. The child... ai, Elbereth, the child...