Hello friends! Not the longest chapter but it was the birthday of a very lovely and faithful story follower and she asked for a chapter, so a very happy (slightly belated) birthday to ZabuzasGirl!

I know I'm a slow updater but I am going to try very, very hard to finish this story because I have the last scene written and I'm really excited for you guys to read it. Eventually. Someday.

Longer chapter to come.

Supper came and went; after wandering angrily about the fortress and discovering it really did look the same everywhere she went, she made her way back to Gimli and Legolas, who she found in the same positions in the same room doing the same thing, and they went down to the main hall together to join in the chaos of feeding a thousand hungry refugees.

Legolas had been perfectly normal. No lingering stares, no awkward dialogue or lack thereof, nothing to indicate there was anything out of place between the two elves. But he continued to avoid contact with her. Absent was the palm on her back that once would have guided her through the crowded hall, and so was the protective hand on her shoulder that was usually there to pull her away from drunk old men with sour breath who came too close. (That was usually for the men's safety, to be fair, but Miraleth found herself missing it all the same.)

Sitting down to eat only with Legolas and Gimli felt strange after all this time on the road with her companions. What first had been nine soon became eight, then three, then four again, and now here before her sat the remaining two. Aragorn was off half-drowned in some river, Gandalf was who knows where, Boromir was over the Anduín falls, and her hobbits…her little hobbits. Her periain. She knew Gandalf had settled things with Merry and Pippin and she knew to trust Mithrandir, but Frodo and Sam had braved the road that went beyond her line of sight. Would they have made it to Mordor by now? Had they lost their way? Miraleth had been fighting off the Sight for days now, but she hoped she would have felt it in her heart had something terrible happened to them. She would have felt it in the earth, at least; the wind would have whispered from the east.

But the wind had been eerily silent, lately, so Miraleth made do with nothing and hoped Samwise was taking good care of his Frodo while she was not able to.

Miraleth paced the small, stony room that contained nothing more than a bed, a wooden table, and a washstand for the 37th time. She was avoiding looking at the bed; as energized as she'd felt waking earlier that day, she was beginning to feel her recent sleepless nights in the heaviness of her eyelids, and to keep herself from sitting she replayed Gandalf's tired old face in her mind. "Remember, your dreams are not so harmless as everyone else's are."

"Yes, Gandalf, I know," she murmured, resting her hands on her hips and pacing the length of the nearest wall once more. For all the strife she had caused him, Théoden was kind enough to give Miraleth her own room. She tried not to think about the fact that this was only due to his being under the impression that as elevenkind, she might think ill of having to share a space with women of his own race. Éowyn said some of the women feared her, especially after Harulf son of Harund (or was it Harund son of Harulf?) had spread tales of the way she had grown two extra heads, a set of vicious fangs, and set a curse upon his house earlier that day. I should have chopped that fool's hands off and saved Saruman the trouble.

"That wasn't quite nice of you," a voice chuckled behind her.

"My apologies," she mumbled automatically. She must have spoken out loud, and must have been more exhausted than she thought if someone had been able to sneak up on her like that. She turned, drawing breath to berate them for doing so and maybe they would like to have a word with Harulf son of Harund to see exactly what happened to those who had the audacity to catch her unawares.

But the words died on her tongue as she froze, her breath turning to ice in her lungs.

She had not seen Boromir since he had laid dying on the Anduin shore, his front bloody and riddled with arrow shafts, but he stood before her now sure as ever. Grinning, chuckling, shaking his hair from his face the way she had seen him do so many times. She was even sure, for a moment, that she saw the Horn of Gondor hanging from his hip. She grasped behind her for the solidity of the wall, hands shaking. "Boromir?"

She blinked.

Not Boromir, but a man who looked almost exactly like him. Wavy hair, instead of Boromir's straight, shining locks, and a gentler face. A narrower chin, softer eyes—sadder, though. He was holding the Ring on its chain in one hand. And at his feet, the Horn of Gondor, cloven in two. "No," he said. "I am Faramir, son of Denethor. Are you the one who killed my brother?"

"What…?" She couldn't breathe. "No, no, I haven't killed your brother, I haven't, I'm sorry."

She blinked again.

Both men were gone. The bustle of the fortress outside her door had quieted. And in the middle of the room, as lovely and tall and solemn as she had ever stood, Galadriel, her hands folded at her middle. Miraleth could hear her own heart pounding. "My lady?" Her voice was weak.

"I'm afraid time is running out for us all, granddaughter." Galadriel's voice seemed to have infinite dimensions, folding in and out of itself. Hollow and full all at once.

Miraleth shook her head. She knew what this was. "No…no…no, no, no…" As it dawned on her she began to step backwards, away from the vision before her. As the stone walls took on a fuzzy quality, she stumbled over to the washstand; Galadriel watched her calmly as she stared hard into the mirror, gripping the edges of the table. Her features melted into those of Arwen; the mirror cracked, and in her mind's eye she saw the Evenstar do the same. Miraleth jumped back, horrified. "No!" She ran to the other side of the room where her blades were, unsheathed one, and without a moment's hesitation, dug it point first into the flesh of her palm. The initial pain blossomed and she bit her lip to hold back a scream.

Galadriel, still, was calm. Miraleth saw her languidly gesture to a chair that had not been there before. "Please."

She looked back at her palm. There was no mark. She dropped the blade, backing away and fruitlessly and frantically searching for a way out. "Valar help me." She brushed the walls with her hands, waiting for them to dissipate. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. "How can you be so calm?" The walls became images. Forests burning, armies in the hundreds of thousands, and again, again, Helms Deep soaked in a river of blood. Miraleth grasped her head in her hands. She felt like she was spinning. "Grandmother, please. He will See me." The chair next to Galadriel caught fire, and she found herself on her knees before the Lady of Light in a heap while around her, the world continued to fall apart. She felt tears at the corners of her eyes. "He will See me! He will See this place. Éowyn. Legolas. Please."

Galadriel tilted her head, shook it once. "No he will not," she said gently, as if Miraleth was a child again and Galadriel was explaining to her that the sun does indeed rise again every morning. She leaned down as the ceiling began to collapse and Miraleth felt a firm touch on her brow as everything faded to white.

"You are more powerful than he is."

She shot awake in bed, gulping in air, fingers fisting in the messy sheets. The walls were stone once again. Nothing was on fire. She was alone. She lay back, feeling her breathing slow. On her brow, it was warm where she could still feel Galadriel's touch. She rubbed at it with the tips of her fingers, frowning. Quickly, she glanced down and checked her left palm, feeling only slightly assuaged when the skin there was smooth and pale and unmarked. Her Sight left no marks. It left no bruises, bumps, cuts, or any other kind of physical evidence. But there, dead center in the middle of her brow, she felt as though someone had lit a fire.

With a sigh, she rolled out of bed and made her way to the mirror over the washstand, which, thankfully, was whole and uncracked. When she checked her reflection, she was still Miraleth. She grumbled a little under her breath before moving her fingers away from her forehead and peering closer, as if what she was seeing might change upon closer inspection.

It didn't.

The spot where Galadriel had touched her was…red. As if she had burnt her or bruised her. She leant back slowly, wondering if perhaps she had bumped herself in her sleep.

Sleep. That's right. She had been sleeping. She leant away from the mirror, beginning to pace the room slowly—again? Had she been pacing in the first place? Maybe not. She didn't remember falling asleep, she just remembered the Sight taking ahold of her. Forests burning. Armies, armies, armies, the usual nightmarish horrors she had come to expect—oh. She sank down onto the bed. Faramir, son of Denethor. Oh. Boromir's sweet baby brother. Boromir had talked about him only briefly on the road, he did not care much for speaking of his family, but she knew that he had loved him very, very much. She thought of the Horn of Gondor lying at Faramir's feet in two pieces and suddenly felt tremendously sad.

She forced herself off the bed and, grabbing her blades from the table by the door, whisked out of the small stone room to find a breath of fresh air. Walking through Helms Deep she realized it must have been quite late. The sky above was ink and her footsteps echoed off the maze of stone around her, but she walked past the soldiers' quarters and King Théoden's and even Éowyn's, slowing just the slightest bit in passing the latter's door to be sure that her breathing was even and deep. When she broke out of the stone maze onto a balcony overlooking the plains before Helms Deep, she placed her hands on the ledge in front of her and listened for the breath of the wind.

But when the breath came from behind her, she couldn't bring herself to be surprised. Miraleth listened for the presence behind her, waiting for a footstep or the sound of hair in the breeze. And then: "I thought you would be resting."

Miraleth paused. That was not the voice she'd been expecting. "After that? Hardly."

Galadriel stepped towards the ledge and stood beside her granddaughter. "Have you looked into the mirror?"

Miraleth stole a glance at her. "Of course I have not looked into the mirror," she murmured, fighting a small scoff. She looked at Galadriel again. "Why are you here?" She knew better than to ask how she was here, although a part of her was taken aback by how real Galadriel was before her. She thought at first it was just a projection, maybe, Galadriel's Sight working hand in hand with her own, but there was no mistaking the starlight reflecting off her skin or the brush of silken hair against Miraleth's arm.

"I have come to warn you."

That was unexpected. Miraleth peered over the ledge. Below her, two children fought with sticks, shushing each other between clatters. "Of what? You've come so far."

"Of what is to come if you remain here."

"Ah," Miraleth nodded once, pursing her lips. Suddenly she was tired again. "The armies. I have tried already to warn them, my lady, they are exceedingly—"

"I am not here to warn them," Galadriel interrupted her with little more than a twitch of her pinky. "I am here to warn you."

"Of what, then, are you here to warn me?" Miraleth continued after a pause. "You have shown me the armies, Aragorn is somewhere catching his death, Rohan's King is foolhardy, the Dark Lord Sauron searches for me in the darkness, and the one hope rests with a single Hobbit in the ashes of Mordor. I would be very surprised if there were something else to warn me about."

"And yet, I have traveled no small distance to do so." Galadriel's voice was sharp for an instant, but softened when Miraleth lowered her head, and she kept her head down when Galadriel turned to face her. "This is not our war." The words hit Miraleth like a tidal wave, and her heart jolted once before stopping. This is not our war. Truth itself laid bare in five syllables. "I am here to tell you the same thing I told your father, Miraleth."

"My father?" Miraleth faced Galadriel for the first time all night. "You've seen my father? When? Tonight?" How long had it been since she had seen her father? Her brothers? Arwen?

"Your father is the one who convinced me to pay you a visit. He is of the persuasion that I should pull you back to Imladris by the scruff of your neck."

"I have been in danger before and am no stranger to battle, my lady. Unless…" Miraleth stilled, the back of her neck prickling. "Is there something happening in Imladris?"

Galadriel seemed as though she was at a loss and she straightened, peering down at her granddaughter. "I hadn't realized the extent of…" She reached up and touched her on the brow. "You truly have been keeping yourself awake."

Miraleth stared at her, remembered the fire on her brow, and in her mind's eye, saw the Evenstar shattering once more. "No….no. So soon."

"Imladris is emptying itself," Galadriel folded her hands. "The last ships in the Grey Havens are sailing."

Miraleth slowly pivoted to stare back out towards the sky, clutching the stone ledge and wondering if she would survive if she were to hurl herself over it. "So soon," she breathed. She was supposed to have an eternity. She was promised exactly one eternity—no more, no less. But even now as she pressed herself to her stone ledge of safety, she could smell the ocean in the breeze coming off the plains. "Only Arwen? Or Elrohir, too? Elladan?" What was she going to do? "My father would not…" But Arwen? Her heart did not belong in Valinor. Breaths. Deep breaths. She needed to breathe, but the air was still salty. Where is Legolas? "And you, my lady? What would you have me do?"

"As I said," Galadriel pulled away from the stone ledge, footsteps ghosting over the ground. "I am here to tell you the same thing I told your father."

"What's that, my lady?"

The Lady Galadriel of Lórien paused at the threshold, turned to appraise her Lady Miraleth of Imladris and the way her ears twitched as her knuckles turned white on the stone ledge before her. So very, very young. But Galadriel was old, and she remembered. The trees had been silent for years now. The Istari, gone. Even Lothlórien, starlight eternalized, had begun to dim over the centuries, and Galadriel grew weary. "The world is changed. The time of the elves is over."

Miraleth turned, but Galadriel had gone. She cursed, slamming a fist into the ledge she still clutched. She shook off the pain, sending droplets of blood flying, and made her way back into the stone keep. The soles of her boots made quick, sharp notes on the floor that rebounded through the halls and off the walls and all the while, blood dripped steadily from her knuckles, making a trail of red leading from the balcony to the room she had been trying so hard to escape from.

After the door was shut, she sat carefully at the small, bare washstand turned vanity, raising her eyes to meet her reflection. She looked awful. The braids in her hair were ragged and loose, and there were dark half-moons below her eyes. Her skin was pale and sweating, and there remained the slightest red mark on her brow. She rubbed at it, feeling for a bump or bite or something abnormal, but there was nothing.

Casting it from her mind, she anxiously reached for her hair, tearing the ragged braids out to make way for new ones, trying to avoid thinking of Arwen standing behind her teasing her hands away, berating her. Miraleth didn't know which saddened her more: the thought of Arwen on the last ships to Valinor, or the thought of her remaining to die by Aragorn's side.

She saw the Evenstar shatter again and gritted her teeth to keep from gasping.

Braiding her hair back, Miraleth thought of the armies. Yes, she had known they were coming. They all had. But she could never have imagined the sheer magnitude of the armies she had Seen that night. Thousands—no, tens of thousands marched on Helms Deep and if they were coming from Isengard, they would be upon them very soon indeed. She could flee now and live, she supposed. This was only her war for as long as she was of Middle Earth. Valinor, though, shared nothing with Middle Earth but for an ocean.

Her fingers paused in her hair as she was suddenly struck by thoughts of Aragorn, Éowyn…her little hobbits. Of course this was her war.

"Oh," Miraleth finished her braids and took a deep breath. "I am sorry, Ada."

And she was.

P.S. Sorry for the lack of Legolas in this chapter. It's coming, I promise.