"The dwarves of Erebor are marching upon Moria. They intend to retake it."

Glorfindel stood before the dais of Lady Galadriel, looking up into the elf queen's beautiful, powerful face, bathed by the ethereal, silver light that washed Caras Galadhon. He had ridden swifter than the western winds, but now that he was here, he realised that it would be harder –– much harder –– to convince the Lady to help the dwarves than he had thought.

"I fear they will be destroyed," he went on. "Not by the orcs, but by the other evil that lurks within those walls."

The Lady of Lorien and her husband watched him silently, coldly. He was not their equal, not in power or wisdom or age, but he was a High Elf. He was one of the Noldor too, he reminded himself. He would not be daunted by Galadriel's gaze, by the dominance and unimaginable power in her eyes. Celeborn, her husband –– who seemed even less disposed to help him than the his wife, inclined his head. An invitation to go on.

"We must help them," Glorfindel urged them. She raised her brows. "They will be wiped out if we do not warn them."

Galadriel remained silent, but Celeborn spoke, slowly and a little hesitantly, as if he was not used to using the Westron tongue.

"Why would you wish to help them? They are not your friends, you have no reason to care for them, and yet you are so desperate for us to send aid." His eyes narrowed. "Who else travels with them? Who else is put in danger by this battle?"

Glorfindel swallowed as Galadriel continued to watch him as if she could read his mind, could see every thought and feeling and fear.

"The Taurhelim queen –– Arien Feathalion," he said at last. "The Taurhelim queen marches with them."

Galadriel spoke for the first time, and her voice was clear and musical, but deeper than a woman's was normally. "The Taurhelim queen marches with them?"

"Yes," Glorfindel made himself breathe deeply, evenly, a difficult task when the elf queen was watching every flicker of his throat. "Arien Feathalion is now part of the people of Erebor. She now loves the son of Thrain, the heir to the throne."

Galadriel looked away from him, her golden hair barely shifting with the movement. She frowned a little, as if concentrating hard. Finally, she said "Her path is hidden from me –– even now she falls into shadow. Her fate now stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and she will fall. They will both fall, for in all lands, through all time, love is now mingled with grief."

Something went through him then, a horror and fear of what was to come, of the pain and the grief and the rage.

"What do you mean?" he breathed, real terror pounding in his blood as Galadriel looked at him, and an image flashed through his mind. Of a scream of pain, a slowly spreading patch of blood across a tunic, a face pale and lifeless, cold as death, a face he knew so painfully well, a face that... that...

"No," he got out, shaking his head. "No, that cannot be."

A flicker of kindness and pity showed on Galadriel's features as she said, her voice losing some of its hardness

"It is what will come to pass, if the course remains true. But it is not a fate that is wholly bad, for perhaps... Yes," she said as if she had suddenly understood something. "Perhaps that is its purpose."

He knew better than to ask, knew better than to test the patience of the queen. Instead he said

"Then it is certain –– it is certain that this will come to pass? There is no preventing it, no saving those affected by it?"

"Even the wisest cannot tell," she said, as if she were speaking to a student –– an apprentice. "Nothing is certain, and even the smallest thread, the smallest break in the woven tapestry of our existence can change the course of the future."

He swallowed. He knew this. He was not a student, he was not a child. He was older than this earth as it was now shaped, he had been here long before Erebor, or Moria, or even Rivendell had existed, and yet to her... To Galadriel, he was still a child. She had been alive before the moon and the sun, when nothing but stars illuminated Arda, and the light of Laurelin and Telperion shone brightly. But... But that did not mean she could refuse to help Arien. Did not mean she could turn her back on this world, no matter her grudges and age-long dislike of the dwarves.

"We must help her," Glorfindel pressed, forcing the panic and fear down into a deep part of his soul where he would deal with it later. "She is our kin, though distantly."

Galadriel fixed her piercing gaze upon him, and her ethereal voice echoed in his head.

'Kin she may be, but she was the one who chose to ally with the dwarves. Do not ask us to do for them what they would not do for us.'

A bolt of horror went through him. She was not going to agree. She was going to send him away, cast him out, with no promise of aid, and that image, that fate she had shown him tearing through his mind.

"We do not know that," he argued. "If they were in our position, maybe they would help us. Prince Thorin is not stupid, and his heart is true. I am sure he would help us if he were in charge."

"But he is not." This time it was Celeborn who spoke for the second time. "And his grandfather is arrogant and proud enough not to send aid. Especially not to us."

"Please," Glorfindel said. "At least warn them of the Balrog if you will not fight beside them."

But Galadriel pinned him with a stare that seemed to strip him naked. And she did not reply.