Disclaimer: I own nothing in this marvelous universe, it all belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien.

Dedication: To SilverArashi, because she requested a re-post of this story. Hope you enjoy ::grins::!

Note: It's been several years since I last forayed into the LotR fandom. SilverArashi sent me a lovely PM a few days ago, requesting I re-post this beloved relic of mine from the days when the LotR trilogy releases were the hottest anticipated movies of the year. This prologue is new, an as-yet-unposted chapter in Legolas and Aragorn's story, courtesy of my muse and the wonderful phoenixqueen's encouragement and awesome beta skills. I can't promise I will update this, once I get to the end of the story's current set of chapters, but I will most likely revise and edit these chapters (but not too much, rest assured!) as I go, in an attempt to assuage my writer's conscience ::winks::. Please enjoy your revisit and my trip down nostalgia lane!

Rating: T

Summary: Human and Elf, mortal and immortal, Gondor's King and Mirkwood's Prince—perhaps it was not so inevitable that they became friends, after all…(Book and Moviebased)

'Sindarin (Elvish)'

"Westron (Common Speech)"

Personal Thoughts (Italics)

These Bonds We've Forged

By Sentimental Star

Prologue: Prophecy of the Twain

(During the Watchful Peace)

Taking the vase of mithril and dipping it into the water, she filled it to the brim. Stepping soundlessly over to the Mirror, she poured the clear water of the fountain into the basin. When the basin was full and the vase empty, she set the vase on the ground at her feet and bowed her head over the basin.

He had often seen her thus: his beloved wife gazing into her Mirror. Scrying. Attempting to decipher the future if she thought it would be of any help.

He knew not what drew her here on this night, to her private gardens. Many of her ways still remained mysterious—even to him who had spent over half his life thus far with her. But he loved her enough to trust to those ways, as inscrutable as they were.

This night, as far as he could tell, was not unusual. Stars sprinkled the evening sky, their glow comforting and familiar. No clouds darkened Elbereth's banner, and no visible moon traversed the heavens, for the moon was at the beginning of its new cycle. The wind was gentle, barely rustling the golden leaves of the Mallorn trees in the woods of Lothlórien and Eärendil shone brightly overhead. Very brightly. Ah, he observed, what does the Skyfarer wish her to see tonight?

For Galadriel, Lady of Light and his wife, had taken a deep breath and was carefully centering herself, gazing upon the Mirror's shimmering surface.

Celeborn did feel somewhat apprehensive, though. As wonderful and awe-inspiring as her Mirror was, it was also dangerous. Even one as strong as she could be pulled deeply into the Mirror's depths and become lost among the images that swirled therein.

As her silent husband watched on, the Elven Queen of Lórien stared unblinkingly into the Mirror. Its clear transparency changed into silver opaqueness and pictures began to emerge:

In a voice not her own, Galadriel began to speak:

'A Shadow grows in the East. Bred from the borders of the White City, it spreads, swallowing the lands of the Horsemen, the Treeherders, the Singers, Aulë's Children, and the Little Folk. None on Arda shall escape it.

'In the wake of the Shadow, Two of Nine Walkers shall emerge, birthed from wombs of Light.

'Two hearts bound as one. Two races and two hearts. One bond. Forged by brotherhood's fire, purified in love and loyalty's waters, shadows will flee before it, and with it, these twain—one to teach, one to lead—shall erase all borders.

'Six other Walkers shall follow. Seventh will be a Maia, though his light be waning. Nine all told shall be Walking, though only Eight shall pass the borders of the Golden Realm.

'Walkers Nine—fear not the Shadow, so long as you remain true to one another.

'Hope and Greenleaf—fear not Ilúvatar's final Gift to Man, so long as your hearts' desires align.'

Coming out of her trance, Lady Galadriel found Lord Celeborn quietly watching her from across the Mirror. Only her husband's face betrayed his astonishment.

Galadriel wove unsteadily on her feet, her slim hand going up to touch her forehead.

Eyeing his wife's wearied state, the Elvenking glided around the basin set on its stone pedestal and gently took her arm. It was a few moments before either spoke, but when Celeborn did, he kept his voice soft, 'Galadriel, for whom did you prophesy those words?'

His eyes were intent.

She slowly massaged her forehead, 'I-I know not. Celeborn, I saw their faces but I…I cannot remember…'

He studied her quietly, before slipping his arm around her back and helping her away from her Mirror's secluded glade. 'Come,' he murmured, 'you need rest. Would you recognize their faces were you to gaze upon them?'

'I…I believe so, but…' she began.

Celeborn glanced at her, his concern edging up slightly. He had never seen Galadriel so tired before. That a prophecy had rendered her this exhausted spoke volumes of its strength.

He had not the same foresight his wife did, but he could tell, if the prophecy was indeed true, that it would shake Arda to her very foundations.

Tbc.