The Halls of Mandos did not look as Legolas had pictured them from the dimmest years of his childhood. There was a hint of magnificent architecture high above him and way before him, hard to see for the dancing, swirling trails of mist and vapor that were everywhere. But even to his keen Elven eyes it looked like hours of weary travel to get there - and he was already quite completely tired. It was like standing in the very center of his father's cavernous Great Hall at home, back when Legolas was a mere baby, not even as tall as Thranduil's knee, when the ceiling seemed unattainable and the effort to walk to the thrones at the end of the vast chamber was incomprehensible. So he did what he had done back in those cherished days: he simply sat down, cross-legged, patient, and waited until something happened. Something always did.

He stared off into space, leaning forward to grasp his feet, and allowed his mind to wander. There were faint strains of music coming from somewhere, and he smiled. I am very glad there is music, he thought. What good, after all, was a heavenly realm of bliss for Elves if there was no music? The harmonies sounded familiar and yet not, and he tried to follow them, but he was weary, could not keep the patterns in his head for longer than a few seconds. Finally he bent double, still holding his feet sole by sole, and put his forehead on the smooth blue tile of the floor. Please, somebody be here soon...

Legolas...

He felt rather than heard his name, and opened his eyes, but did not move. If he looked as far to his right as he could from his curious position, he could just see the embroidered, beaded hem of a gown, pure shimmering white against the deep blue tile, and the littlest bit of a shapely pale foot peeking from beneath. Legolas sat up slowly; the gown came closer, making a soft, clicking swish against the floor that he found enchanting. He smiled and looked up.

Then he frowned slightly.

"Are you dead too?" he asked, and Galadriel laughed.

No, little bird. It is only necessary that Shadow think I am willing to be so. But you most decidedly are, and time is short. You cannot remain here.

Legolas felt suddenly very cold all over. "Was it because I was not brave? I'd really rather stay here - I do not know what any other place is like, but I am certain my mother is here, and I should very much like to see her again."

Galadriel looked deep into his eyes, dropping gracefully to one knee so that she could cup his chin in her hand. Who has told thee thou wast not brave? Legolas, thou may'st not remain because it is not thy Doom to die now.

Everything always sounded so much more correct somehow when said in Quenya. It occurred to Legolas that, when Quenya was said inside one's head by an adult of great power who did not even have to move their mouth to make the words come out, whatever the words might be seemed marvelously cosmic, with the force of Law and Tradition. He laughed, delighted, and when Galadriel took him by both hands he got to his feet obediently without asking any more questions.

Forgetting he was the great old age of twenty-three and a warrior to boot, he danced alongside the grave Elven elder as she led him by one hand toward what might have been a doorway, except that it was so completely suffused in bright light one could not see the outline of anything at all. The last time he looked up at her before they stepped through the door together, Galadriel was smiling down at him with great tenderness and satisfaction. He gave her a return smile of absolute adoration, then threw back his head and sang.

Elrond jumped, earning another dig in his shoulders from the watchful and insistent Celeborn, when Galadriel cried out in fierce anger and dropped her forehead to the tangle of her hands and Legolas' on the child's motionless chest. A powerful tremor shook the White Lady throughout her tall, slender form; she just as suddenly threw her head back, and her features were twisted with agony. Agony... and something else, something Elrond hoped to never see on her face ever again.

He did not have words to describe the mix of battle-fury, immense power, ancient skill, and determined focus that mingled with what was clearly a pain beyond reckoning. The bower felt as still as those moments before a furious summer storm, yet it also felt as if everything was in motion, swirling and raging. Elrond was reminded of the instant in which Isildur had sliced the finger and the One Ring from the hand of the Evil One, and braced himself. A similar, if far less global, wave of onrushing energy burst from Galadriel a heartbeat later, or perhaps it came from her hands and those of the dead prince, he was unable to tell as the wave hit him and passed beyond.

But this wave did not have the evil in it, though it had a similar force, and Elrond was stunned to hear Celeborn calmly speak into his ear: "Now, my son. Give Galadriel your healing, now!"

He wants me to heal? Elrond thought, stunned. He wants me to move?

But Celeborn had never been one to give a command lightly, so Elrond made himself move, forced himself to kneel behind his wife's mother and put his arms about her arms. Healing power such as he had seldom felt before came over him, sweeping away all weariness, all grief, all inability to move. It joined with whatever it was Galadriel was doing, and for what might either have been the most intense few moments of Elrond's existence or the most intense millennia, he knew nothing more than that something of incredible intensity was using him as its conduit. So this is what it feels like when the Valar inhabit your being...

Then there was silence, and presently, the birds began to sing once more. Galadriel was as still as death beneath him, collapsed bonelessly over the body of the child, with Elrond collapsed over her, but he could feel a strong pulse at the base of her neck, and so he did not try to do anything else other than hope this was finally over. Celeborn and someone else - Glorfindel, as it turned out - peeled him off Galadriel's back; he was handed a small cup of miruvor, which he drank gratefully. When his eyes focused, he watched in amazement as Galadriel unfolded herself gracefully to her feet, with only Celeborn's hand upon hers to assist. She came to stand before Elrond, cupping his face in her hands.

"I think," she murmured, "it is time we had some sustenance. We will all be very, very tired if we do not."

Dinner. Sweet heart of Elbereth, she really does want dinner...

"But the little one," he breathed, and all the grief came flowing back. "Whatever shall we tell Thranduil?"

"I daresay he has the wit to figure it out on his own," she said, and smiled.

Elrond was riven. "But Legolas is dead!" he insisted.

Galadriel laughed, a delightful sound that chased all the shadows out of the bower.

"Nothing of the sort. He is only sleeping, but that not for long. You know how it is with the young. And I am counting on his having a ravenous appetite when he does awaken."

With that, she drifted away with her Lord to tardily welcome Elrond's supporters back to Lothlorien, remarking how well Glorfindel looked these days, and went to give orders to her servants for refreshment. Elrond wondered whether he was even awake, himself.

He turned, stunned, to look at the still figure on the bed. He almost did not believe his eyes when he saw the slender chest rise and fall evenly, the breath of sleep. But when the child uttered a light, sweet sigh and blinked several times, then sat up, stretching and singing quietly to himself, it was no longer possible to disbelieve. Elrond watched Legolas look around, curious and confused, not recognizing where he was and seeing no one he knew; the Lord of Imladris rose, and came to sit on the edge of the bed. The prince gazed at him with the directness of the well-born young.

"Hello," he murmured pleasantly. "Who are you?"

Elrond smiled. "I am Elrond Peredhil, Lord of Imladris."

The eyes widened in recognition of the name. "I think my father knows you, my Lord."

"Indeed he does."

The child digested this. "Were you not a Vala once, too, Lord Elrond?"

"Not to my knowledge, no." To forestall any similar questions, Elrond asked one of his own. "How are you feeling? You have had quite a time of it, these last few days."

Legolas considered this, and looked up at Elrond with eyes as wide as plates. "I was a prisoner of Orcs, wasn't I?" Elrond nodded gravely; the child wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Orcs smell very bad. And they are very stupid." He glanced about. "I hope there are no Orcs here."

"No, no Orcs here."

"Good." The child smiled once more, content. "Why are you here? Is this Imladris?"

"No, Legolas, this is Lothlorien." Elrond looked about at the quiet dimness, the light-suffused beauty that was Lorien; he took a deep breath, delighting in the feel of it, immensely glad to be alive. "I am a healer; I went to find you and bring you away from the Orcs."

"You saved my life then, my Lord!" the child exclaimed, and Elrond was stunned at the encompassing warmth of Legolas' smile. Then, very child-like, the little prince said, "I am hungry enough to eat a whole bear. Are you?"

"Do you know what?" the lord murmured, leaning close, a confiding look on his face. Legolas stared, and shook his head; Elrond chuckled. "I believe I am hungry enough to help you do so."

The child laughed, a high and delighted sound. The Lord of Imladris beckoned; Legolas reached up and put his hand into Elrond's, and together they made their way out into the garden of the Mirror to join the others.