Bloom-obsessed crossover: Lord of the Rings x Pirates of the Caribbeans x Kingdom of Heaven x Troy x Zulu

The ones who aren't from LotR are:

Will, Elizabeth, Norrington, Anamaria

Balian, Sibylla

Paris, Cassandra, Odysseus

Brian

This story is the story that I should definitely not be writing, for two reasons: it proves I'm crazy, and I have already three stories I'm writing at the same time. So for this one, I will update like, at least once every two months? I can't promise better, but at least, the chapters are longer than anything I did before!

Oh yeah, and English is still not my mother tongue. And sometimes, there are those terrible things that aren't even mistakes, but rather typos. I do my best, but I don't have a Beta ( and I'm sure having one would be worse because I have a horrible personality ).

By the way, if something is in italic and between inverted comas, then it means it's not Westron/english ( that I assume are the same for the sake of convenience ), but in sindarin, french, greek, et caetera. Actually, the french will be in french, since, you know, I'm french...

Oh, and yes, I made greek gods into Valar. So Chronos, who is the god of time and doom, and Hades, who is the god of death, are Mandos and Mandos only, who is the Vala of death and doom. And yes, the part about Will being a descendant of Chronos comes from another fic of mine, and isn't canon.

Chapter 1: Falling apart

The Elvenking of the Woodland Realm was standing alone in a large cave of the Halls. His face was of ice, but the illusion had fallen off. The burns were visible. Yet the blind eye was staring at the bed before the elf, even though it couldn't see, even if it was no use.

Thranduil, son of Oropher, was standing before a bed where his wife laid, lifeless. Aeweryn was as beautiful as ever, and she seemed to be sleeping, but her eyes were closed. The smile on her lips was weak. She was not breathing anymore.

The Queen of the Woodland Realm was gone.

The Kind slowly turned on his heels, and was faced with a view even worse.

Four beds of stone were between him and the exit. On each of them slept an elfling. Babies, actually. Short brown hair, almost black. Fair skin, but that was a given, after all, they were elves.

They had their eyes closed.

All of them.

The four of them.

Thranduil caught his left wrist with his right hand, and started twisting it so badly the skin was white and his bones creaked. But the Elvenking didn't seem to care. He looked over the lifeless bodies, and all he could see was his failure.

Behind him, his dead wife.

Before him, children who had never lived.

oOo

A child sneaked past two guards and pushed a double door open. Behind him, the guards were busy with a berating Elvenking in an awful mood. None of them had seen the elfling pass by.

The door opened silently, and the child peered inside.

A hand grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back in the corridor. The door closed with an ominous and sharp sound. Thranduil looked the child in the eyes. His burns were apparent.

The King of the Woodland Realm was furious.

Both he and the elfling had blond hair and blue eyes.

oOo

Thranduil turned away from the empty deathbed of Aeweryn.

His eyes immediately fell on the still forms of four teenage elves. They had dark brown hair, quite wavy, which was rare amongst elves. Their faces were exactly similar.

Their eyes were closed.

oOo

On a great ship, a handsome young man was stabbed in the heart with a thin sword. The rain rolled down his surprised face, and his brown eyes were wide open. The battle was loud.

oOo

A knife tore open the young man's chest.

oOo

A chest with a heart inside, but a chest that wasn't a man's chest. A chest that was a box, and that held a beating heart. A chest that was given by the young man to a beautiful young woman.

The young man had a great scar upon his chest, where his heart should have been.

oOo

Thranduil's fist collided with the stone of a large basin, that had replaced the deathbed of Aeweryn, Elvenqueen of Greenwood the Great. The lifeless elves upon the stone beds were adults, now. They hadn't moved an inch.

The Elvenking's face was desperate.

oOo

A man who looked much like the one from the ship, though his hair was shorter, and he wore strange clothes. He was a bit older, too. He was running to a group of people on a beach. One of them was laying on the sand, screaming. His hand wasn't at the end of his arm anymore.

Then the screaming stopped.

The first man had joined the two who had not fled.

The injured man's throat was bleeding heavily.

Another man was there, and his skin was dark, and he was bleeding too, his ear having been injured.

oOo

The man who looked like the one from the ship was standing over the dark-skinned man, sitting against a dead tree in a desert. The dark-skinned man wasn't breathing.

oOo

The white man wasn't so white anymore. He had ecchymosis, bruises and blood everywhere on his face. His eyes were sad, and still, he didn't look hurt. There was no despair in his eyes, as if despair was something he was used to and no longer had a hold upon his soul.

oOo

The King of the Woodland Realm sat and thought. His seat was facing the basin, turning its back away from the four still figures laying on beds of stone.

He wasn't talking.

He had nothing to say.

And no one to talk to. None of the four elves had woken up from their lifeless slumber.

oOo

A young man who looked much like the two from before, though his hair was straighter, was holding a baby in his arms.

But the baby wasn't breathing anymore.

oOo

The young man looked up.

There was a woman in a tree.

There was a woman hanging from the tree.

oOo

The young man pushed another man in the fire.

When he opened his hand again, a cross had left its mark in his flesh and skin.

oOo

The man looked over a town of heat and sand. Behind the walls, an army had gathered.

People would die this day.

oOo

Thranduil sat next to the basin, and his face reflected no emotions. He had let go of too many, he had none left to show, or a least it seemed to be that way.

The four elves behind him hadn't moved. Their hair had grown over the centuries, and the Elvenking had gotten them clothes the right size, but they hadn't moved.

oOo

A man younger than the three from before, but who obviously shared their face too, watched as war happened on the beach of his city. He was a bit darker of skin than the others, but the place he lived seemed hotter.

oOo

A man died in a duel, and the young man cried.

oOo

The city was burning and people were running everywhere.

The young man aimed his arrow at the one who had killed the other man. He shot him twice in the vitals, and yet the warrior wouldn't fall. He shot one last time, and his arrow went to the warrior's heel, who fell to the ground, exhausted, and died.

A young woman cried and sent dark looks at the young man. He ignored her anger, and directed her to the exit.

oOo

The Elvenking was digging his fingers into his neck, and blood was drawn.

Thranduil ignored it.

He took a deep breath, wiped the blood clean, and left the room. The two guards in the corridor stiffened in his passage. They could see the scratched skin and the wiped blood. But they said nothing. Their king's face told them they'd better keep quiet.

An elf was waiting for the king, not far away from the room. He had blond hair, blue eyes, and yet the exact same face as all the men from before.

oOo

The cave with the basin and the unconscious elves was devoid of any presence.

The lifeless bodies looked like eah other, and like the elf from the corridor, and like the men from before. They had the exact same features as each other. And each one of them was even more similar to one man in particular.

The one on the far left had wavy hair like the man in the desert, though they were much longer. His face was heavily bruised.

The one on his right was a bit more tan than the others, like the man from the burning city. His wavy dark hair had been cut at just the same length.

The one on the far right had a large scar upon his heart, and an iron chest placed next to him. His hair were, surprisingly for an elf, as unruly as the man on the ship's.

The one on his left had the scar of a burning cross in the palm of his hand. His dark hair were longer than the man's from the assieged city, but they were still more disciplined than those of the other elves, and so couldn't be mistaken.

The only differences were that as elves, those four weren't bearded, while three of their human counterparts wore a short beard. But all in all, they still were the same.

oOo

A blond elf was captive, between the hands of orcs, and into an underground hideout.

oOo

There was no light.

TA, 1127

Imladris

Elrond's quarters

Elrond woke up with a start.

It took the good part of a minute for the Lord of Imladris to breath normally again. Dread was in his heart, and Fear upon his dreams, it seemed, for he had never before been this disturbed by a nightmare. But had it been a nightmare?

If this was a vision, would it be less of a nightmare?

It certainly seemed to be a nightmare for Thranduil.

The Half-elven lord couldn't say he knew much of what this vision meant, if it even was one, but he was certain of one thing: never before had he experienced such a direct vision. His dreams were usually cryptic. This one...

This one felt like shreads of reality. Moments. With no hidden significance. Truths.

Elrond sat up slowly in his bed, and held his head between his hands.

If he couldn't understand what it all meant, it was only because he had caught glimpses of the future, and no conversation, no actual background story. Still, the Lord of Imladris was far from stupid, and he had some ideas of what had been going on.

Aeweryn, dead. His heart ached, for the cause of her death had been obvious. The elleth had been fading until nothing was left of her life force.

Why?

Thranduil was alive. Her husband was alive. The blond elfling could only be their son, and he was alive. So why had she lost all will to live?

The four beds of stone.

Somehow, inexplicably, Aeweryn had had not one son, but five. As Celebrian had birthed twins, as Elrond's own mother had given birth to him and o Elros, Aeweryn would give birth to more than one child. If this vision came to be, Aeweryn would be the mother of quintuplets. Which in itself was unheard of amongst elves, and rare amongst mortals.

Yet, the five elves had the same face, even if not the same coloring. They had the faces of men from another time, another world maybe. Not even from the same times and worlds, it seemed.

Thoses men had the most chaotic lives, if what the Lord of Imladris had seen in those brief moments was right. He had seen their eyes, and he had seen their sorrow. He had recognized their youth, and yet he had found something amiss.

The youngest one had been carefree enough for a time, but it hadn't lasted. Elrond had seen the guilt in the man's eyes. And he had seen the craving for something more, something a mortal's life couldn't give him. Craving for beauty, harmony, perfection, cleverness. Time. And a life that couldn't give him what he needed. Maybe this craving had caused this guilt.

Then there was the killed man on the great ship. Never before Elrond had seen such a big ship, and let's not talk about the sea-altered monsters fighting in the background. The young man was what was important. Because yes, he was young, but he seemed to have seen more than what twenty years of life could afford. He had seen death, and not only in its happening. In the man's eyes, Elrond Peredhel had recognized the veil of those who had walked in the land of the dead. And unlike for Glorfindel, this veil was one of sorrow. Like the youngest man, this one seemed to have lived through terrific years.

As for the man with straighter hair, he seemed too calm, resigned in a way, yet determined to suffer through the worst torture to fight until the end. Even as he had killed the man and gained this burn in his palm, Elrond had not seen distress in his eyes. Disgust at himself, certainly, and ultimately, that was what mattered. But no fear, no anxiety. An utter lack of surprise, as if everything had already happened to him, and no misfortune could trouble him more than he permanently was. And maybe it was the case, for the Half-elven lord had seen the dead child, and the hanged woman. He had no doubt they were his son and wife.

All this left the oldest man, with his cuts and bruises and uncaring face. On that point, he reminded the Lord of Imladris much of the man with the burn. But the lack of surprise held something else than utter despair in this man's eyes. There, it was caused by something much darker... Like the absence of faith in his own kind. The eyes of a man who had seen everything and heard about even much more cruelty. Not even savagery, but cold and civilized monstrosity, that an elven person couldn't even dare to imagine, though they lived in a world that both Morgoth and Sauron had ransacked many times. Orcs, goblins, wargs, dragons and many others could be cruel and inhumane, but it was to be expected: they were twisted, cruel creatures. Yet what this man had seen, what was reflected in his eyes, was the deeds of men.

All of them had chaotic lives, Elrond could tell that much. Lives of cruelty, despair, misfortunes, and yet, love. Love that rarely ended well, and always suffered from many obstacles. Love, yet, so pure and strong it sometimes blew out of proportion, and endangered its very happiness. Love too great for one life, and too inhumane for one man.

A thought that had never occurred before to the Lord of Imladris entered his mind. A thought that shouldn't have had to be in the first place, because such a thing was impossible and simply unnatural. Yet, a thought that was perfect for those four men.

These were the lives of elven minds trapped in a human's life.

Those four men were Thranduil's sons, or at least, the souls of the sons the Elvenking might one day have with Aeweryn. They would be trapped, without knowledge of why they felt so unadapted, of why their lives were so unlikely to be, in other times.

And their true bodies, kept hidden deep into the caves of the Halls of Thranduil, kept away from the very eyes of their own brother, would never wake up. They would seem to be alive, and yet wouldn't open their eyes, not in centuries, probably, not in a thousand years.

And Aeweryn would waste away despite her apparent blessing, because out of her five children, only one ran happily in the caves of Greenwood.

And Thranduil would keep it all a secret.

And his son and prince would never know what was in the forbidden room deep in his father's city.

Elrond couldn't believe this vision, this future.

It was too grim for his mind.

And it didn't make sense at all.

Because such a thing couldn't happen.

The Half-elven lord of Imladris wished this had only been a dream.

Lothlórien

Caras Galadhon – Mirror of Galadriel

Celeborn paled uncharacteristically and rushed to the Mirror. If someone had seen him, they would surely be surprised, but the lord had a good reason to make haste.

"Galadriel!"

His voice was hurried with anxiety, but his wife didn't react to his call.

It wasn't surprising. The Lady of Lórien was leaning on the edge of her Mirror, her left hand dipping into the silver water. When Celeborn reached her, she was unconscious.

How many people had she warned not to touch the water?

"Galadriel!"

The Lord of Lothlórien sounded almost desesperate. It wasn't something that happened on a daily basis. And it didn't matter at all, because there was no one to see him, to hear him, to help her.

The elf laid his wife on the ground. She looked pale, but not fair anymore. It was something sick, something wrong, and not her usual light beauty that discolored her features.

Celeborn, for the first time in centuries, didn't know what to do. He couldn't leave Galadriel alone, not even to fetch a random galadhrim and get him to search for a healer. No one had touched the water of the Mirror since it had been created, and Galadriel had always said touching it would cause unpleasant things...

He knew she was breathing, and so he knew her to be alive, but he knew nothing more.

No one had ever touched the water before that day.

So he stayed there, and he looked at his wife, her hands in his own. He waited, waited and waited, and he couldn't say how much time had passed, but he waited there, sitting on the ground next to Galadriel. He waited for ours, unless it was only moments, he couldn't say.

To him, time had never quite mattered, because he was an elf, and seconds and minutes and hours were of no relevance in his life, when in times of peace. Of course, it wasn't the same in times of war, when one waited anxiously for news of more and more deaths, and, maybe of victory.

But this time, it wasn't the same.

This time, they were at peace, and yet Celeborn was here, waiting for his wife to wake up, to come back to him, to reassure him that she would be alright. No one knew what the Mirror would do to someone who had touched its water. Would Galadriel be alright?

Maybe she would start fading. Or her mind could be damaged. Her happiness, gone.

If it came to this, Celeborn would have to make it so that Lothlórien would have a new Lord. If he had to take his wife to the Grey Havens, he wouldn't come back to his beloved Lórien. He would see his daughter and her children one last time, and then depart to Valinor. He wouldn't let Galadriel leave on her own.

As for a Lord of Lórien, the only ones he could think of were his grandsons, Elladan and Elrohir, who were usually glued together and impossible to see without the other. Celeborn was certain they would work it out, if they had to share the leadership of Lothlórien, but he didn't want to see them burdened with suh a responsibility so young. The twins were only around a thousand years old, after all, and they craved travelling like he did peace. They wouldn't be able to live their life if they had to take the Lordship.

But they were the only ones. Celebrian would stay with her husband, and that was perfectly normal. Elrond was already the Lord of Imladris. And Arwen was even younger than her brothers.

As he kept thinking in circles about what he would do if he had to depart to the Undying Lands, if Galadriel was beyond help, Celeborn could ignore the other, terrible possibility. He didn't want to think about it. He couldn't bring himself to.

It was true that all elves were to be brought back to life after a time in the Halls of Mandos. But how much time was uncertain. Some said they wouldn't be freed before the end of time, and others said their soul had to be restored before being let free in Aman. Some said it tooks centuries. Others said millenia. Perhaps in Valinor ressurected elves already walked free, but they had no way of knowing that. When Galadriel had left Aman, no one had ever walked out of the Halls of Awaiting.

The first elves to have died had died long ago. And still no one had ever left the Halls in the First Age. If they really were to be freed one day, it most likely took millenia.

Some said they would be freed from the Halls at the end of time, because they would finally truly be dead, for the world, as well as time, would have ended.

Celeborn didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think that whatever had happened, it could be claiming the life of his wife. He didn't want to think about never seeing Galadriel again, nor to wait for long millenia for her to come out of the Halls of Mandos.

No matter the bliss of Valinor, what would Celeborn do without his wife? How could the ones who had departed to Aman even feel the famous bliss when they didn't have their loved one beside them? Celeborn knew of Valinor only what his wife had told him. He couldn't say he had ever felt the bliss, unlike Galadriel. But he knew that she had left, and he knew she had done so because in her youth she had not felt contented. Maybe it was only bad faith, but the Lord of Lothlórien couldn't see how a place that had not satisfied Galadriel could heal his heart if she came to die.

What if touching the water from the Mirror killed her?

It could.

After all, no one except Galadriel knew a thing about this mirror. She had always said it was as dangerous as it was wondrous, and had never quite elaborated. And every time she had offered someone to look into the Mirror, she had been there to keep them away from the water.

No one, before her, had ever touched the water of the Mirror.

Galadriel's hand clasped on his own, and the Lord of Lórien saw his wife open her eyes.

She was alive.

But her eyes were haunted.

"Galadriel."

The Lady of Lórien raised her face to her husband, and she blinked.

"Celeborn... I'm here again?"

Her eyes were still lost in a vision. But Galadriel could hear her husband again, and she felt so much better, she might actually have cried. She would have, if her body had been responding to her brain.

But for now, the best she could do was to talk. With difficulties and a weak voice.

"I was looking, and suddenly... I don't know. I didn't touch the water, but something forced me down, as if they wanted me to see... As if Lórien himself had wanted me to see..."

Galadriel was gaining colors again, and Celeborn felt better. He asked her if she could stand, and slowly but surely, they went to their home. Elves they met on their way looked terrified when they saw the state of their Lady, for it was her who kept Caras Galadhon away from prying eyes. Still, she walked straighter as they made their way, and soon enough she only looked a bit pale and tired.

As soon as his worries for his wife disappeared, the Lord of Lothlórien remembered her words, and worry gnawed at him once again.

What could possibly motivate a Vala to reach for his wife, one of the noldor who had walked away from Aman in defiance, all the way to Arda? The Valar never intervened on mortal grounds, though they had send Maiar to help the free people only a century ago. They sometimes acted upon the events in Arda, but it was a rare occurrence. The coming of the Istari had been the most surprising thing to happen in millenia... And it was unlikely they would interfere again any time soon.

Sure, to simply communicate with Galadriel through her Mirror wasn't much in comparison, but it still was more than what was usual.

"What did you see, melleth, that you seem so disturbed and tired?"

The Lady of Lórien smiled sweetly at her husband, and closed her eyes as her head fell on his chest.

For a moment, Celeborn thought she had fallen asleep, though elves did sleep with their eyes open, but her voice startled him after a few minutes of rest.

"Thranduil will suffer greatly."

"Is it decided?"

Maybe they could prevent such a thing from happening. Because whatever Galadriel had seen, she was still shaken from those sights. If the Elvenking was to suffer directly from what the elleth had seen...

Celeborn dreaded to think how misfortunes that had touched his wife so strongly would affect Thranduil. They had grown up in Doriath, both of them, and the Lord of Lothlórien had witnessed the childhood of the elf when he himself had been barely one thousand years old.

Thranduil could be infuriating now and then, but he didn't deserve to face a sorrow great enough that Galadriel herself had difficulties dealing with, when she certainly had less reasons to be pained.

"Nothing is fated to happen, you know that. But I fear it is too late to prevent what is coming. Aeweryn will fade after giving birth to five brothers. Four of them will never wake up, yet they will continue to grow up. Their souls will be trapped into men's bodies in Ages far ahead from ours."

"Is that even possible?"

The Lady sighed, and closed her eyes again. It was here, playing again and again in her mind. They were there, the glimpses of other stories, of sons lost through space, time and species. They hadn't left, the images of death and wars and destruction. They were still here, behind her eyelids.

"It shouldn't be, and yet it will happen, soon. Babies, five of them, but only one with open blue eyes. A faded Elvenqueen, and a broken Elvenking. And they will live the lives of ostentatiously unlucky men, unable to truly bland in their worlds..."

"I will have a messenger sent to Thranduil by tomorrow morning."

"And what do you believe he will do? If Aeweryn is already pregnant, he won't have his child killed, even to save his mother, over some visions. If she isn't, I doubt they will refrain from having children for all eternity. These visions don't have an expiration date..."

Galadriel's voice became softer and softer, and before anyone could tell, she fell into slumber, and not the usual sleep of the elves, as her eyes were closed.

Celeborn sighed, hoping his wife would feel better soon enough.

Greenwood the Great

Halls of Thranduil – The Elvenking's palace – Royal quarters

Thranduil lost his composure, for the first time in many centuries. His knees gave away.

Fortunately, no one was there and conscious to see it.

But he didn't care about his image, not now, not this time, not in this situation.

How could this be real?

The Elvenking of Greenwood looked at the sleeping face of his wife, and he hoped that he was himself sleeping, that it hadn't really happened, that it was all a dream. He hoped, and his hopes were crushed. Because if this was a dream, then why wouldn't he woke up? Why was he still here? The worst part of the nightmare had happened, now, and he was supposed to wake up.

But he wasn't waking up.

This wasn't a dream.

But this couldn't be.

It couldn't be!

The Elvenking went, trembling, to the bed where his wife rested. He sat next to her, and looked at the baby in her arms. The elfling was blond, much like himself, and he had blue eyes that twinkled as he laughed merrily. How Aeweryn could sleep through this, Thranduil had no idea, but the sound was charming.

Not charming enough, though, for him to forget about the four other babies, who laid still on the sheets of the bed, and weren't moving, and hadn't moved nor opened an eye for ten hours already.

Four sons of his, and they hadn't moved. They were alive, he could see it, but they weren't there.

Why?

Aeweryn had not woken up yet, and Thranduil guessed it was to be expected, after giving birth not to one child, not to two, but to five! Never before had he heard of such a thing happening amongst the elves, and from what he knew it was a rare event even amongst mortals, who had many more children than they did, since they didn't live long.

But they should have woken up, then, his sons, as the only blond one had. But they hadn't. Not the first one, not the third one, not the fourth one, not the fifth one. Only the second one had opened his eyes, and cried as he searched for air.

In ten hours, they had been as still as corpses, and yet, Thranduil had checked, their hearts beat. Slowly, too slowly, surely, but they beat. The midwife had checked, and they were alive, but somehow, they wouldn't wake up.

They weren't there.

The King of the Woodland Realm was desperate, but there was nothing he could do, beside looking at those babies, his children, and wonder why this was happening to him. Why was this happening to them? Why did he have to suffer such a curse? What had he done to make them all suffer such injustice? Valar! Why him?!

Why them?

The children had done nothing.

Thranduil brushed his fingers on his sons' faces, one after another, and only the second-born giggled at his touch. The others didn't react, yet he knew they were alive.

Out of these five sons, five unexpected gifts, four had his wife's deep brown hair.

And they wouldn't ever greet their mother?

What was he going to say to Eaweryn, when she'd wake up? What was he going to do with those children, his children, when they didn't seem to be alive?

The Elvenking had ordered the midwife to keep quiet for now, and wait for more orders. He couldn't let the word spread that he had five sons, when only one would ever walk the Halls.

Aeweryn.

She wouldn't be able to withstand that much infortune.

Thranduil wasn't sure he would withstand it, not even with one son, a gift he had wished for for decades now, when he'd know the others should have been laughing alongside their brother.

And this brother, would he truly be able to laugh, when he'd be old enough to understand? Would his secondborn be happy, even if that was the very nature of elflings, knowing he was the only one to be truly alive? Would the Elvenking himself be able to look at his son, and not think about the four others, lying still, as if in wait, but an endless one?

He stared at the beautiful blond baby, and he feared.

If the child's brothers never woke up, would he be able to give his only remaining son the love he deserved? He would love the child, Thranduil knew that. But it didn't mean he would be able to show it.

The King of Greenwood the Great didn't know what to do, and he didn't know what he would say to his wife when she'd wake up, and he didn't know what he would say to his son when he'd be old enough to understand, and he didn't know if he would even survive such a tragedy. Thranduil had no idea of what would his future be, and that as for once in his long life, he cared.

Imladris

Elrond was barely out of his room that a messenger from Lórien was taken to him and gave him a letter from Celeborn. Overly concerned after the dreams from the preceding week, he couldn't help a feeling of dread from cloudering his mind.

The Half-elven hurried to his study. If the message wasn't vocal, and the messenger himself hadn't been able to give any details, it must mean this was something important, something grave.

There, he sat at his desk, under the impression he'd need to be seated when he'd read Celeborn's letter.

He wasn't wrong.

Despair or horror, the Lord of Imladris wasn't sure, but it struck, and for a while, Elrond was reminded of darker times, of the First Age, of Morgoth, and later of the Last Alliance, and all the battles in between. Certainly not all evil had been vanquished, but even with the shadow of the Necromancer in Dol Goldur, even with the darkness that was slowly making its may into Greenwood the Great, the times were far from terrible.

Yet, why was misfortune so strong on some of them?

He had sent a messenger to Thranduil the day after his dream, and had yet to receive an answer. Visions weren't always meant to become real, but they did often enough, though not always as one might have believed. It was better for the Elvenking to know, even if there was nothing he could do. Elrond wasn't going to believe the want of children would simply fade away if Thranduil and Aeweryn refrained from having children.

It had been a while now, that he hadn't had news from the Woodland Realm. The roads were dangerous, and spiders had started to spread in the woods. He knew very well that Thranduil was yet adapting to the change of pace in his kingdom, and hadn't had much time to care about what happened outside.

And that wasn't a problem in itself, and it shouldn't have been one, but it was one.

For all Elrond knew, the Elvenqueen could already be pregnant.

And this letter from Celeborn just told him Galadriel had seen exactly the same fate for the royalty of Greenwood the Great as he had. Worst, even, since she had been almost pulled into her Mirror, as if by the will of the Valar, leaving her weak and sickly.

Elves didn't get sick.

Not unless they were touched by something evil; poison, spells, the great power of one such as Sauron or Morgoth... And when they were, they usually were on their way to death too.

Yet, Lórien had seen fit to endanger Galadriel's life and strength, even when she was the one protecting all the First Borns in Lothlórien, so the Lady of the Light could see this grim future.

His own visions had been way too straightforward, too.

What were the odds, now, that such a fate would not come to be?

Aeweryn, broken, fading, gone.

Thranduil, broken, cold, uncaring.

One child, and four children, who would never really know the warmth that should have been theirs by right, for their mother would be gone, and for four of them would be in another reality, other times, bound to death as mortals, and for the last one would never see the love and happiness in his father's eyes.

A light rasping noise on the outside of his study's door took Elrond back to the present, and the Hal-elven allowed whoever it was to enter, just not before he had put the letter away.

Erestor was there, and next to him was an elf from the Woodland realm, holding a letter in his hands. He seemed incredibly pleased with the news he was taking to the Last Homely House, and for a mere instant, the Lord of Imladris thought he had been wrong, and these visions were false, the letter from Celeborn wasn't real, and there was still hope for Thranduil.

One short instant only.

"What are the news from Greenwood the Great?"

The messenger's face lost some of its mirth, but it didn't last long. A great joy had been given to the Woodland Realm, and even the struggle of the warriors weren't enough to forget that.

"There are always more skirmishes with spiders and other evils, and for the first time in centuries our warriors have suffered injuries doing their duty. But for now we stand strong, and millenia will come to pass before the Woodland Realm shall fall. We will live on, and the birth of a prince the very day of my departure from our woods can only be a promise of more years to pass."

Four days.

Elrond hid his unease perfectly, and the messenger hadn't any idea of the turmoil in the lord's heart when he left him to rest after his journey, but that did not mean in any way that it wasn't here.

Four days since the messenger's departure.

Four days since the birth of Thranduil's and Aeweryn's child.

Their child.

Only one.

Four days since Elrond's dream and Galadriel's misadventure.

The Lord of Imladris read the letter, and even if nothing could be guessed from its perfect writing, the Half-elven could feel the disturbance its writer had experienced while writing this letter. The matters of politics and defense were the most important points, especially considering Dol Goldur. And at the end, there was a note telling him that Greenwood the Great now had a prince, Legolas son of Thranduil, Legolas Greenleaf.

Only one prince.

Elrond stayed still for what felt like hours, but were more likely only a few minutes.

Eventually, he got up from his chair and went to search for his family. Celebrian, Elrohir, Elladan and Arwen were happily discussing various subjects on a balcony when he found them. They were surprised by his sudden decision, but when Celebrian met her husband's eyes, she saw something there, something alarming and alarmed. She didn't ask, and only nodded.

The Half-elven then went to find Glorfindel to accompany him on a journey to the Woodland Realm, leaving Imladris under the care of Celebrian and Erestor. The Lord of the House of the Golden Flower followed the one he had sworn to protect with surprise as they rode out of the Last Homely House.

Lothlórien

Caras Galadhon – Galadriel's and Celeborn's talan

When Celeborn received Elrond's missive, five days had passed since Galadriel's torment.

He read the letter, and couldn't miss the similarities.

Galadriel was still weak and resting, but he went to her, and she confirmed his suspicions. Elrond's dream was her vision, figure by figure, moment by moment.

Then another messenger came, from the Woodland Realm, and the Lord and Lady of Lórien knew it was too late to prevent anything from happening. A prince had been born in Greenwood.

Their own messenger must have just reached the Elvenking, and to deliver news Thranduil already knew.

Galadriel smiled to her husband, and he helped her to walk to her Mirror. There, she took out a silver flask, and filled it with the basin's water.

"Say to Thranduil to have a stone basin made in the chamber where they rest. He shall fill it with pure water from the river, and then pour this water in it. Finally, he'll have to add a drop of his sons' blood and one of his own. It will allow him to see moments of their lives once their counterparts in the Race of Men come to life."

Celeborn agreed to his wife's demand, and set out for Eryn Galen with three warriors to accompany him on his fourney.

Greenwood the Great

Halls of Thranduil – The Elvenking's palace – Royal quarters

Aeweryn was nursing her son, and she felt content, but at the same time, she had a feeling something was missing. Her husband had been next to her when she had woken up, and he had asked her so many questions, the elleth felt something was wrong, but no matter what, he wouldn't tell her. Now, Thranduil had locked himself into one of the deepest cave, and he wouldn't come out, not even to see Legolas.

Legolas.

The Elvenking had stayed just long enough for her to name their child, and he had practically run away after that. For a time, Aeweryn had thought something had happened and needed the king's presence, but the guards had told her no such thing had happened, and that no one knew why, but Thranduil had asked for the deepest, most useless cave in the palace, and had had some things moved here, though no one knew what exactly.

The Elvenqueen smiled at her son, and her son smiled back at her, and she marveled into his existence.

But deep in her heart, she felt something was wrong.

As if she had forgotten something.

Something important.

Someone.

But try as she might, the elleth couldn't remember what or who it was, and she felt weakened, dangerously frail and pale. Since she had given birth, she hadn't been feeling well, and she couldn't understand why, and the healers didn't have the slightest idea of what was happening to her.

But it wasn't so difficult to understand, in fact.

It was simply that they weren't considering the right answer possible.

After all, why would the Elvenqueen fade right after her child's birth?

The cave

Thranduil was alone, alone in the cave, as alone as one elf could be when in the same room as his four lifeless sons.

Before him were two letters, one from Celeborn, the other from Elrond. Neither of the messengers had known what it was about, and as soon as they had told him so, the Elvenking had dreaded it had to do with his family's current predicament.

He hadn't been wrong.

The eld had been staring at the letters for a long time, now, and he still couldn't believe this calamity had befallen his family. Why him? Why them? Why not someone else, another family, but not his?

He knew the horror of such thoughts, the cruelty there was behind wishing for his misfortune to be another's instead, but he couldn't help it.

Four of his sons had never opened their eyes, and his wife didn't remember that she didn't have one, but five children. And she was fading, Thranduil could see, he could sense it.

Why them?

Galadriel and Elrond had seen it. They had seen his children grow up, but not woke up. They had seen men with the faces and minds of his sons, living other lives in another Age, thousands and thousands of years from this day. They had seen them in wars and despair, and never in happiness. The Lady of the the Wood and the Lord of Imladris had had visions, and these visions had told them his sons were to live as mortals in other realities, other times, other worlds. They would grow up without ever knowing their true father and mother, or even their brothers, and they would suffer lives of hardship, and in the end they would die of old age, if they weren't killed before that.

Thranduil and Aeweryn would never see them, speak to them, know them.

Legolas was young, he was only a few days old, and already his family was falling apart. His brothers weren't truly there, hidden away, a secret to keep for their father, who would never be able to look at him as he should, and a secret kept from their mother, who despite not knowing, still felt something wasn't right, and it was taking away her life, and it was stealing away their bliss.

Valar!

What had he done to deserve this?

Entrance to the Halls

Elrond was the first to arrive in the Woodland Realm, and before the surprised eyes of silvan elves, the Lord of Imladris rode into their kingdom, Glorfindel behind him.

No one knew why he had come, and even the Elvenking hadn't known, for the Half-elven hadn't wasted time in sending an envoy to warn him beforehand.

The Lord of Imladris dismounted his steed and entrusted it to one of the elves who had come forward. Then he turned to his fellow traveler.

"Do whatever you wish, Glorfindel. I have to speak to Thranduil, and it might take some time."

The last elf of the House of the Golden Flower bowed to his lord, and went his way, taking the unwanted attention to him and his golden hair. It was not everyday that the one who had come back from the Halls of Mandos walked into Eryn Galen.

The one who came to Elrond, however, was not the Elvenking, but his queen.

The elleth didn't miss how, instead of lighting up at the sight of the baby in her arms, the Half-elven's face darkened as his eyes fell on the sleeping elfling.

"Lord Elrond. We weren't expecting you."

He smiled apologetically, but Aeweryn could only see gravity on his face, and she feared what it meant. The Lord of Imladris had always had a serious personality, unlike her husband who was well known for his apparent arrogance, but this was something else. The Elvenqueen only saw in this a confirmation to her thoughts: something was amiss, and Thranduil was keeping it from her.

"I apologize, your majesty. But I couldn't waste time with sending a messenger to announce me, and I wouldn't be surprise if the king was expecting my visit."

"Please, Elrond, call me as you ever did. As for Thranduil, I woudn't know. He has disappeared as soon as we gave this child a name."

Elrond looked at the child, and he recognized the blond hair, so uncharacteristic amongst the Sindar, yet so characteristic of Thranduil. But that wasn't what he thought about. No, he remembered the child, and then the adult, who would wait for his father behind closed doors.

"Congratulations, Aeweryn. Your son seems to bring you a great joice."

And yet so much sadness.

The Elvenqueen, as if to confirm his thoughts, smiled sadly.

"To me, maybe, but not to his father, it seems. I guess you wish to speak with him. If you could, Elrond, would you get him to come out of the room he locked himself in and see us, Legolas and I?"

"There is no need to ask."

As she turned to lead him to her husband, the Lord of Imladris watched her.

Aeweryn was as beautiful as ever, and yet the lord could tell she had lost some of her radiance. Even if she didn't know why, she was obviously fading, and that made Elrond's heart ache in compassion. A mother truly knew about her children at all times.

She had all her grace, surely, and her wavy dark hair and her brown eyes were full of warmth, but her smile was lacking. The only times she had seemed truly happy were when she talked about the son in her arms, and even then, it didn't last long, as if she knew there were four other babies upon whom she should be able to look this way.

Aeweryn didn't see the Half-elven for the next three days, and she wondered what could be so important that neither the Elvenking nor the Lord of Imladris would come out of this cave.

Her surprise only got stronger when a galadhrim rode into the Halls announcing that Lord Celeborn was to arrive in a few hours. Him too looked with undisguised sadness upon her son, and the Elvenqueen finally understood that everything that was happening had to do with his birth, though she couldn't surmise how. She led the Lord of Lórien to the cave where her husband and the Lord of Imladris had locked themselves in, and she waited for them to come out.

They'd have to tell her, she thought, as she nursed Legolas.

He was her son too.

The cave

Celeborn entered the cave with a sad heart, and what he saw there didn't help him to feel relieved.

Elrond was there already, as Aeweryn had told him, and he was sitting next to a still baby, but he wasn't examining him anymore, his brow furrowed in thought and his face grave.

Thranduil was sitting too, but he wasn't looking anywhere, dread writing all over his face.

The Elvenking suddenly looked up, and when he saw the Lord of Lothlórien, his face lit up for a moment, as if hoping he, at least, would have better news from his wife and her Mirror. But soon enough, all light was gone from his eyes, and he feared there would only be bitter news instead.

"Celeborn. Anything you can tell me that Elrond hasn't told me already?"

And he gestured to the four babies who weren't moving, who weren't living, but who, as he had known for days now, weren't dead either. They just weren't there.

Celeborn looked, and unlike Thranduil who had had this sight to contemplate and despair over for days, and unlike Elrond who had dreamed of it, and unlike Galadriel who had been shown it, the spectacle before his eyes was new to him, and it filled him with sadness as not many things before had ever done.

"I told you already, Thranduil, that moving your anger onto me won't make you feel better. I can do nothing else, than to tell you exactly what I have seen, and I did that already, or to examine them. They are alive, as you already knew, but they aren't there, and there is nothing else I can do about that."

Elrond's voice was weary, so weary and tired, it seemed as if he was back to a time of greater evil.

But Thranduil was hurt, and both lords knew it. He wasn't trying to be unfair to them. He simply was.

"And what visions those were! My sons, living but as men in times far ahead from us, in times were there are no more elves and dwarves, no more orcs and goblins! Ages so remoted the Race of Men will have forgotten all of Arda's History! My sons, living only to die, as mortals! Men, taken away by wars and misfortunes! One city burning, another assieged! One son killed in battle, another left alone after what sound like murders! And to make it all better, the only son I have left, taken by orcs! What future is this, Elrond? My wife will fade before long, and I will be left with a son to whom I won't be able to prove my love, nor to explain why. Have I sinned as Fëanor did, that I have to see my flesh and blood suffer a fate worst than even his sons'?!"

Elrond said nothing. Celeborn said nothing.

The accursed sons of Fëanor. It was no surprise the Elvenking would talk of this cursed family, when such misfortune had befallen him too. Their fate was well known.

They could only hope Legolas' and his brothers' wouldn't be the same.

Thranduil let himself fall back on his seat.

"There is nothing to do. There is nothing you can help me with, Elrond, Celeborn. They are here, and that is all. They won't move, not in a century, not in a thousand years. I will look at Legolas, and I will think of his mother, gone with his birth, of his brothers, lifeless in this cave, of the family we will never be! There is nothing you can do to help me. You'd better go back to Imladris and Caras Galadhon."

Celeborn sighed, and gave Thranduil the flask with the water of the Mirror.

"Get a basin made in here, and fill it with the water from the river. Then add this water in it, and a drop of your blood, yours and your sons'. When the time comes, it will allow you to witness glimpses of their life, according to Galadriel."

Thranduil almost threw the flask away in anger, but in the end he couldn't do it. He didn't want to see their lives if he wasn't in it, and at the same time, he wished to know his sons, even if they would be human, even if they wouldn't know him, even if, in their times, they would have another father and another mother.

Elrond and Celeborn shared a look, and before they left, the Lord of Imladris said one last thing that froze the king's blood in his veins.

"Talk to Aeweryn, Thranduil. She is no fool, and she can see you're hiding something. She has already begun to fade. You owe it to her to let her see them, even if they are in this state. A mother always knows when there is something wrong with her children, and since Legolas is alright..."

Entrance to the Halls

The Elvenqueen, her son in her arms, watched as the two lords left the Halls, her husband by her side. At least, Elrond and Celeborn had managed to get him out of this dratted cave.

"Aeweryn, we need to talk."

"I had noticed."

Thranduil winced at the slightly accusatory tone in her voice.

He looked at her, and couldn't help but notice how tired she looked. This was worst than when he had left her with Legolas to mourn their other sons. He guessed every elf in Eryn Galen knew by now, that their queen was fading.

For an instant, the thought that he'd better say nothing, because she was already so weak, so drained of her life force, convinced the king.

But he couldn't lie to her anymore.

The Elvenking led his wife deep into the palace, and they arrived before a large double door.

Aeweryn held her breath. This was the room her husband and the two lords had locked themselves in for so many hours. This was where was kept Thranduil's secret, and she already knew she wouldn't like it. The feeling that it would destroy her was strong, and yet...

Yet she had to enter and know.

The double door opened, and they walked in.

The cave was dark, and Thranduil lighted the lanterns only when the doors were closed again.

A dim light pervaded the place, and the Elvenqueen saw the forms of four beds of stone.

On each was a baby, still as death.

Babies with Legolas' face.

Her sons.

She had difficulties speaking, but she had to ask.

So she turned to her husband.

"Are they Legolas' brothers?"

Yes. Aeweryn could see the answer in his eyes.

"Were they stillborn?"

The question burned her throat, but she had to know.

"They are alive, Aeweryn."

Alive?

"They're simply... not there."

"Elrond and Galadriel saw them, didn't they?"

"They did."

Thranduil wouldn't tell her about their fates as mortals in other times. He wouldn't tell her they'd live lives of misfortune and danger. Aeweryn didn't need to know that. And she wouldn't live long enough now to even know about the basin.

The Elvenqueen walked to the sons she'd never know, even if they were to wake up one day. She was no fool. She knew she was fading. And now, she knew why.

"They have my hair."

She smiled, and somehow, she seemed to feel better than before, and more tired at the same time. Thranduil's heart ached at her sight, but he smiled too, though his own smile was as sad as hers. Maybe that was it. She had let it go, and she'd fade faster now, because her reasons to live were drifting away from her. But she looked a bit more at peace, now, and he'd take what he could.

"Maybe they have your eyes too."

They did. Elrond had seen them as men, and he had told him they were exactly the same as what they would look like as grown-up elves. As handsome; only, with a beard for some, and not as light-footed as they should have been, and without the natural feint glow of the First Borns.

But Thranduil wouldn't tell his wife about the other lives their sons would have as mortals.

As he wouldn't tell her about Legolas being eventually taken prisoner by orcs one day.

He didn't want her to know of their suffering.

And so he couldn't tell her that four of her sons had her soft brown eyes, so uncommon amongst elves, who usually had pale eyes, grey, blue, sometimes green, and from time to time, dark eyes, deep blue, violet, or black.

Aeweryn turned to her husband, and her smile was genuine, though only a shadow of her old joy.

"Did you name them?"

"It is your role."

He hadn't wanted to, knowing he wouldn't even get to use those names. But he knew his wife would want to do it. So he let her do so.

Even if he hadn't, she'd have done it eitherway.

"Which one is the firstborn? Unless it is Legolas?"

"No, Legolas is our second son. Here. That's him."

And he guided her to a bed on her left.

Aeweryn gave him their only blond son to have her hands free, and Thranduil took Legolas in his arms as she brushed her fingers on their firstborn's face. The mother didn't say anything when the baby didn't react in anyway, but a shadow came upon her face. Nonetheless, when she looked back at her husband, she was smiling again.

"It is odd, but I feel his name should be Firlach. He would be one leaping flame, always evading death. A dangerous personality, for himself more than for others."

The Elvenqueen went to the bed of stone on the far left, and acted the same as she had with Firlach.

"Which one is he?"

"Our fourth son."

"Raudamon. Able to see far ahead, and too lucid for his own good. A tall and noble mind, looking from a high place upon the world, and despite his pessimism, who fight for what he hold dear."

Aeweryn then moved to the elflings on their right. The one near them looked as lifeless as the two preceding ones, but she still caressed his cheek lovingly.

"He is the fifth one."

The elleth nodded, and took a step back. Unshed tears were shining in her lashes.

"This one is Hirban. A benevolent lord if there ever was. Calm and composed. So unlike you, Thranduil."

The Elvenqueen didn't wait for a irate answer, and turned to the last child. Thranduil wouldn't have lashed out at her, anyway. Not in this situation.

"Our third son... This one is like you, melleth. Fierce, loyal, vindictive, but still wise, and a perfect lover. Determined. A true protector, like Hirban. Inasthol."

Then Aeweryn took Legolas back into her arms, her little hunter of the forest. Thranduil watched her leave the cave, and behind her, the doors creaking shut.

TA 1129

Greenwood the Great

Halls of Thranduil - The Elvenking's palace - The cave

"I lasted longer than I thought I would."

"It is no laughing matter, melleth."

Aeweryn chuckled lightly, but soon stopped, too weak to continue.

She had been bedded for the last four months, and now it was finally time.

Thranduil was sitting next to her on the bed, her hands in his, and Legolas on his lap. The elfling was almost three year old, now, and he knew something was happening, something terrible, but he still couldn't understand why his mother wouldn't get out of her bed and play with him. He knew she was ill, and he hoped she'd be better soon. But still, four months, that was long even for an elf, when he had not yet seen three winters.

"I'll say 'Hi' to your father when I reach the Halls, Thranduil. Take care of Legolas for me."

The Elvenking only nodded, unable to speak.

Why had Aeweryn wanted to pass away here? He couldn't bear the idea that his four other sons were just there, behind the curtain, and that if Legolas managed to get away, he just had to draw the said curtain, and he'd see...

But he had guessed she wanted to be amongst the children that should have been hers.

And he had let her do as she pleased.

As he always did.

As he would never do anymore.

Legolas' voice drew him out of his thoughts, and tears escaped from his eyes witout his consent.

"Ada. Nana closed her eyes. Why?"

TA 2289

Greenwood the Great

Halls of Thranduil – The Elvenking's palace – The cave

The midwife who had helped the birth of the princes of the Woodland Realm, in other words one of the three people who knew there wasn't only one prince, had accepted the Elvenking's offer to keep watch over the lifeless princes, in case a miracle happened. Her and a trusted guard of the king were taking turns when the king wasn't here himself, and that since the death of the Elvenqueen Aeweryn. They were the only two, with the king, who knew what had really killed the queen.

She had witnessed the construction of the large basin that held a few drops of water from the Mirror of Galadriel. She knew that, if anything should trouble its waters, she was to call for the king, by talking to one of the guards who stood outside of the cave.

So when the water began to boil, she did just that.

Only half an hour later, the Elvenking bursted into the room and she took her leave. On her way out, she saw the only conscious prince standing awkwardly in the corridor. That is, as awkward as royalty could get in Mirkwood. She looked at the floor not to stare at him. Unlike him, she knew why his father was so cold to his son, and why the prince more than anyone else was prohibited from entering the cave...

Thranduil went to stand before the basin, and the water stopped boiling as if nothing had ever happened. But something had happened, and the image the water showed him then wasn't his own face, but a woman with a baby in her arms.

The Elvenking stopped breathing for a moment, as he recognized without a doubt the features of the baby. Inasthol.

He had exactly the same face as when his elven body had been born, and, of course, the same face as his four brothers at the time. But Thranduil had spent so much time looking at each of them that he could tell them apart, and not only because they were always on a distinct bed of stone, or because there was only one who actually moved. He didn't know how, but he was sure this baby was Inasthol.

And the woman...

It was astounding.

The other mother of his son was a copy of his deceased wife. A bit less fair, maybe, because the woman semeed to have had a hard life, and she was only a Second Born. But she looked too much like Aeweryn for it to be a coincidence.

Maybe one of his descendants would wed a mortal, and his own descendance would be the one to bear the souls of his sons?

No matter.

A man came into the picture, and took the baby in his arms. Thranduil noted that the man looked quite a bit like Legolas, too, but with Aeweryn's coloring. What were the odds that two of his descendants had found each other?

For the first time in years, the Elvenking cried as he looked at the mortal life of his third son and at the two parents that were his, and yet weren't himself and Aeweryn.

TA 2981

Greenwood the Great

Halls of Thranduil – The Elvenking's palace – The cave

Thranduil had come many times to see the life of his third son in the basin, and the glimpses he had seen weren't kind to Inasthol, or William as they had named him. Funny how Aeweryn had been spot on with the name.

He had been surprised to see the Race of Men were still talking Westron, or at least a language that was mostly similar to Westron, in some part of a world that had changed so much he hadn't been able to recognize anything the rare times he had seen a map somewhere.

But he couldn't really bring himself to care about that, when his son had faced so much difficulties.

Thranduil had seen all that mattered.

He had seen the disappearance of the father that he wasn't. He had seen the woman that was a copy of his wife die of sickness. He had seen the first pirate attack on his son, and the sinking of the ship that was larger than anything he had ever seen, even in Mithlond. He had seen the love for the governor's daughter, which he had to admit was a true beauty, even if a beauty harder than that of any elleth's, and how his orphan of a son had been at first unable to say anything because of who he was. If they had known! He had seen the second attack, and he had often feared for William's life, that was already doomed to be so short... He had seen him steal a ship, and the cursed pirates, and the attemps to sacrifice Inasthol. He had seen the hanging of the pirate who had helped Will, and the aborted wedding. The search for Jack Sparrow. The cursed captain of the Flying Dutchman. The heart that beat but wasn't in the right kind of chest. The kraken. The locker and the sea of the dead, which he suspected was one of the way to the Halls of Mandos. Calypso, who was obviously a Maia under Ulmo, or, as they called him then, Poseidon. How Will's love had become Pirate King, though he had had a hard time figuring out why it wasn't Pirate Queen. The battle between the pirates and the East Indian Company.

And eventually, Will's death.

For the last seven hundred and two years, Thranduil had come once a week, and watched as moments of his son's life had appeared in the basin. He had seen the son of his son, the death of this son's mother, and the grief of his own son, now as immortal as an elf, maybe more, since the only way to kill him was by stabbing his heart, but more of a prisoner than Thranduil would ever been.

This week, he had come prepared to see some more minutes of Inasthol's despair.

But the basin was boiling, and the Elvenking rushed to it.

He saw a man he had never seen before, and in his arms, a baby he knew very well. In a white bed behind them was a woman who looked too much like Aeweryn and Will's other mother for it to be a coincidence.

Raudamon.

His fourth son.

Or Brian, as it was. Still spot on with the name, it seemed.

TA 2989

Greenwood the Great

Halls of Thranduil – The Elvenking's palace – The cave

The last eight years of glimpses hadn't been overly joyous. Inasthol was still a prisoner on his own ship, and Thranduil had a nasty feeling that Raudamon's other father was a bit too much like him when it came to discrimination. But him, at least, even if he didn't like dwarves out of principle, he wasn't saying they should all be killed or be his slaves, so he felt a bit better about that.

It was good that Brian's mother was still alive, unlike Will's or Legolas', but his father was difficult to live with, more so than the Elvenking with his other son.

From what Thranduil had understood, Brian's time was somewhere in Will's time frame, when the captain had been around three hundreds years old. And so he was a bit disturbed by how the basin was working. If it had started to show him Will some seven hundreds years ago, why hadn't he seen Brian when the boy had been born in Will's time?

And now, the basin was boiling again, and once again, the king saw the face of a baby he knew in the water, in the arms of a woman whose only differences with Aeweryn was that she was poor and not a queen or an elleth.

Of the other father, there was no sighting. He could have been dead, or gone. Or both.

Thranduil watched his fifth son in the arms of a woman that reminded him of his wife. Hirban was born, and she had given him the name of Balian. The Elvenking hadn't understood much else, because they were talking a language he had heard only once or twice in Raudamon's country. But from what he could guess, Aeweryn had once again been spot on with the name.

He had no idea how she could have done that, but she had.

TA 2998

Greenwood the Great

Halls of Thranduil – The Elvenking's palace – The cave

Nine years had passed since Hirban's birth, and Thranduil couldn't help but notice how Inasthol had been the only one to be shown to him so soon. Maybe it had to do with him becoming immortal at twenty-one years old, but how could the basin have known this would happen? There was something there, something meaningful...

And he had no idea what.

So he had looked into the basin, once a week, as usual, and he had seen, as always, Inasthol becoming more and more like himself, broken, cold, and that without the possibility to enjoy immortality as elves did, because everyone around him, besides the ghosts he had as crew members, died one day or another, and because he was bound to a duty that let him only one day every ten years to do whatever he wanted. He had seen Will sending to the Halls of Mandos many of his own descendants. He had seen the time pass, and not leave anything else behind other than despair in the captain of the Flying Dutchman's life.

So he had looked into the basin, and he had seen Raudamon grow more bitter as his mother had died in a shipwreck, and his father had tried to make him see how colored people were supposed to be inferior. Brian had a thing for History, and Thranduil had learned more than he would be able to forget about the cruelty of Men in the Age his sons lived in.

So he had looked into the basin, and strangely enough, he had seen Hirban grow up in a world that seemed a lot like the Men's in this Third Age. Balian had a half-brother that hated him more than anything, and people looked at him badly because he had no father. He had seen Balian's mother pass away from sickness, and he had wondered if Aeweryn's clones were doomed to have a life as short as hers, considering she had been an elleth, of course, and not a mortal.

Lately, he had heard with surprise that Hirban was going to follow the same path as Inasthol, blacksmith. He wondered if, even if Aeweryn had compared the later to himself, and said that Hirban was very different from him, in the end, the two weren't more alike than she had thought.

Then again, she had never got the chance to know her sons.

And after all that, it left only Firlach, his firstborn.

Those were Thranduil's thoughts as he looked at the boiling basin in front of him.

He came before it.

And the water showed him a woman who looked older than any of the other Aeweryn-clones, but who had definitely their features too. She had a baby in her arms, and many other children were looking at her. The Elvenking was surprised to see how many of them looked a bit like her. She couldn't possibly have had twenty children, could she?

But his eyes fell back on the baby, and this was surely Firlach.

A man came in, who wasn't very young either, and had some kind of resemblance or another with every child in the room. If he was the father, he had been busy. There were at least fifty children, some who looked close to thirty years old...

The man talked about a seer and the mother's dream, and Thranduil narrowed his eyes. This language was one of the old times according to William, and Brian had learned it in school... Ancient Greek. The Elvenking could almost understand everything.

He had to say, he didn't like the sound of the dream, nor did he like the fact that in the end, the parents decided they had to kill his son. Sure, if the dream was anything like Elrond's and Galadriel's visions, his being born was to be the doom of their city... But still, it was his son, and Thranduil knew from experience you can't do anything to trick a vision into not happening.

Paris was the other name of Firlach, and apparently, Aeweryn had outdone herself on this one. Flaming torche, wasn't it?

TA 3017

Greenwood the Great

Halls of Thranduil – The Elvenking's palace – The cave

Thranduil was thinking, and how many things did he have to think about!

There was the issue of Sauron gaining power again, of course.

And the spiders in his forest.

But for now, Thranduil wasn't thinking about those.

No, he was thinking about Will's fate as the immortal ferrymen of the dead, about Brian and the death of all his friends in his last investigation, about Balian who had been revealed to be Baron of Ibelin and had been loved by a queen and had saved the people of a city instead of the city istelf, about Paris who had found back his family and fallen in love and started a war that had killed most of his incredibly large family.

Now that he though about it, Helen of Sparta had been way too beautiful to be a simple mortal. What was the myth, according to Brian's lessons? Helen of Sparta... Daughter of Zeus. Who sounded an awful lot like Manwë. And apparently, Paris' father Priam was the son of a Maia.

If anything, the Ainur had been pretty busy in the time of Ancient Greece.

That made his sons' ancestry quite a mess, if Thranduil was right in his assumption.

Let's see...

They all had two fathers and two mothers, two of which were Elvenking and queen of the Woodland Realm.

Legolas was most likely Paris' ancestor, Paris had to be Balian's, Balian William's, and William Brian's. And they were all brothers, and not in that order, since Paris was the firstborn, followed by Legolas, William, Balian and finally Brian.

Why so many "a" and "i", by the way?

Aside from that, Pâris was a Maia's grandson.

And if he ever had a child with Helen, this child would be Manwë's grandchild too.

And let's not forget Will, who, if the rumors were true, was a descendant of Mandos, known in the blacksmith's time as Chronos or Hades, and who worked for said Vala in sending the dead mortals to the Halls. And all that through a Maia who was most likely one of Ulmo's.

Balian had nothing to be ashamed of, still, because his other father had been a Lord, and that wasn't just anything. And, considering the timeline and the fact that Valar and Maiar seemed to have had a good time during the Antiquity, Will's ancestor that was a mortal child of Mandos was most likely Balian's too.

As for Brian, well, being the last of this old family that seemed to continue through their various mothers, he had blood from each of his brothers' unlikely ancestors. Oropher, Thranduil, Aeweryn, Legolas, a Maia, Paris, Manwë, Mandos, the Lords of Ibelin, Balian, and William.

This was becoming terrible for the Elvenking's head.

If someone asked him at this precise moment, Thranduil might have said that the Valar had brought this curse upon his family only so that they could mess with his family tree.

The King of the Woodland Realm sighed and went to the basin that held the secret to his sons' lives.

He still had no idea how the basin worked, and why it was showing him Inasthol', Raudamon's, Hirban's and Firlach's lives not in the chronological order. But it was better than nothing.

For the last centuries, he had had hours to know Legolas, and only glimpses of the others.

He took what he could.

Thranduil looked in the basin.

He saw what had happened in the last week of his children's life through glimpses.

Will's were rare, for the captain's life had been quite repetitive during the last centuries. Most of the time, the only things interesting were when Will saw one of his descendants amongst the dead at sea. Their descendants had a things for the sea since Bill Turner, it seemed. Maybe a resurgence of the elves' sea longing? It was a bit macabre, Thranduil had to say. But at least it wasn't his son mourning over his wife and immortality.

Oh, and the Elvenking had to admit Inasthol always made sure his day ashore was worth it. He knew every single point of interest of this Age, at least until the year 2463 of his calendar.

Brian's were rather depressing too. But the young man had finally finished his father's grave. That had to mean something.

And the detective was still heavily bruised in the face, and his son and ex-wife still didn't want anything to do with him, and all his friends were dead, so Thranduil guessed Raudamon had every right to be pessimistic.

Balian's were disappointing, when the elf thought of his son's time as Lord of Ibelin. But Hirban had finally wedded Sibylla, and they were happy, if poor enough, back in France. Better than anything.

Paris', finally, were alarming.

Troy was at his worst, and from what the Elvenking could see, the Greeks had used a ruse he knew well because of Brian's myths books to enter the city. Blood and fire, death. After Hector's rather gruesome demise, the myth of Troy had gone from tragedy to slaughter. Priam had died, and he wasn't the only one of Paris' family to have passed away. Right now, Thranduil could see Firlach shooting arrows worthy of Legolas' upon Hector's killer. The young man then took his crying cousin Briseis to security, and the Elvenking had no idea how he had remembered all of the family tree of Paris, because it was hell, as they called it.

The image of Firlach disappeared.

A face Thranduil knew, but that had never before been in the basin, appeared instead.

Legolas, in the hands of orcs.

After that, it was only flashes of different stories.

Cassandra, sister of Paris, after Hector's death. Paris, running with Briseis. Odysseus, on a ship.

Balian, blacksmith in France once again. Sibylla, in the most expensive clothes, back in Jerusalem.

The commodore Norrington, wounded and left for dead on the Dutchman. Elizabeth Swann, before the battle with the East Indian Company. Anamaria, back in Tortuga. William, on the Dutchman.

And Brian, bruised, sitting at a table in a coffee shop.

Legolas forcing himself not to scream as orcs took his blood.

Then everything went black.

And Thranduil rushed out of the cave.

Legolas was nowhere in the Halls, and some said he had gone out with the patrol.

Three hours later, he learned that his son had been taken.