Part Five
Galadriel, most powerful of all elvenkind, descended the long staircase of her talan, intent
on reaching her glade, where her mirror lay. She carried with her the silver pitcher that
would fill the mirror with water and let her look deeper into the matters that troubled her
now.
She had been very young when Amroth had been king of Lórien. Galadriel did not smile as
she remembered those days. They had been days of peace, and they had passed. Peace
would never come to her again in Arda. This she knew. It saddened her, but it was a truth
she could not deny and a destiny that would not be changed, though many destinies might
be. They would have a few more centuries at most here, before the time came to sail into
the west.
She wondered, deep in her heart, if it had been a good idea to resurrect him from the
waters. She did not have to look into her mirror to know that his coming would cause
many problems. Already she sensed the jealousy of Celeborn. It was futile, and she knew
not why he burned so angrily. She belonged to her lord, and would always. She had
chosen Celeborn, not Amroth. She had loved Celeborn beyond all reason once. In many
ways, she still did.
But had she not also loved Amroth?
She searched her heart but found no answer. At one time, she had felt that she did, but she
had been so young. Even she was not exempt from the foolishness that romance could
create in the heart of every young elf. Celeborn had been younger still, and had not yet
come into her notice. She had been powerful even then. It was this power which had
attracted the attention of the elven elders. It was this which had suggested a match might
work between her and Amroth.
Galadriel had known from a young age that she would be Queen of Lórien. Amroth had
ruled for so long that wedding him had seemed plausible, possible, and likely. She had
allowed her heart to wander in his direction. Yet soon enough she had known also that he
would never feel more than a shadow of affection for her. They had suited well, but he had
always and only longed for Nimrodel. She had taken Celeborn to her heart then, and borne
him a daughter, Celebrían.
There were those who thought Celebrían to be the child of Amroth, but Galadriel knew
otherwise. Celeborn himself even questioned his paternity. Because of this she had at first
refused to wed him. Celebrían grew to maidenhood and was promised in marriage to Lord
Elrond of Imladris. Elrond, like Amroth, had loved Nimrodel, but he married the daughter
of Galadriel when she chose Lord Amroth instead.
When he left Lothlórien to sail for Aman with Nimrodel, Amroth had passed the crown to
Galadriel, and she had finally married Celeborn. At the time, she had believed that she was
marrying for love, and that nothing would ever come between them. Her mirror had not
spoken to her of the passage of time, of jealousy, of restlessness. She bore the erosion of
what had once been a strong bond as nobly as she could. They both took lovers as they
desired, Celeborn more frequently than she. They spoke not of these indiscretions. They
meant nothing on her part, and happened only when her need was too great. It had been
many years for her now, she reflected, and the need was growing once more.
Celeborn was jealous of her affection, but never of those she took to her bed. It was
strange, she mused. Sometimes she wished he would be. Still, she never pushed his limits.
She knew she might have had Haldir, her Marchwarden, if she wished. She knew that
Haldir had refused Celeborn. Still, she cared for the Marchwarden too deeply to put him
into the path of a storm. He did not need an enemy in his lord. He might make that on his
own, she reflected sadly, now that Celeborn was turning his eye to Orophin and Rúmil.
Haldir would interfere in this.
She wondered if she might warn Celeborn to find another path for his lusts, but she feared
that this would only make him desire the young Galadhrim more greatly. It would break
the unspoken taboo that they should never discuss their lovers together. She hated this
barrier that lay silently between them, but would not the pain of such admissions of
infidelity be worse?
And then there was the path on which Orophin’s feet lay. This was part of what she
wished to examine in the mirror. She knew he was one who would also suffer in the
revival of Amroth. She had learned this too late to have stopped him from bringing the lost
king to her. Had she known he would so quickly fall in love with Amroth, she might have
sent another in his place.
Sometimes knowing so much and seeing so deeply into the hearts of others was a burden,
she reflected as she reached her sanctuary. She took a deep breath as she entered the small
glade. The scent of flowers and water and earth and sky greeted her, comforted her.
Whatever disturbing visions might come to her here, it was still a place of solitude, safety,
and consolation.
Galadriel stroked her silver pitcher tenderly. It was an old friend. She
checked the inside to make sure Rúmil had not dared to borrow it and fill it with wine
again. It was shining and clean and pure. She smiled, then brought it to the mirror,
dipping, filling, pouring. A light mist arose. She set the pitcher aside and dipped a finger
into the rippling waters, stirring... stirring...
The wind lifted her long ripples of golden hair and teased the tendrils. She watched, and
opened herself up to the vision. She knew there would be joy and pain and great sorrow,
and she prepared herself to feel these emotions, which she knew only when she chose to
scry. Long ago she had closed herself to knowing them, and each time she looked into the
mirror was the opening of a wound.
Images flooded her. There was more than what she saw within the glass. The vastness of
her power opened her up for much, much more, and she gripped the sides of the basin to
keep her feet. One after another, possible paths for the future opened before her. None of
these paths were carved in stone, she knew -- they were simply possibilities. The events
that might result from her revival of Amroth, the lost king of Lórien, were so vast and
varied that she could barely process one when the next hit her.
She had to let go of the edge of the mirror. It was too much. Tears streamed down her
face, and she dropped to her knees. Galadriel screamed, a terrible howl that seemed not to
come from herself, but from dark place deep within the earth which she dared not think of
or look for. The tears blinded her, and she sobbed freely, without shame. She needed this
blindness, this release from what she had seen.
“My lady!”
Galadriel could barely recognize that the voice belonged to Haldir. Without words she
told him that he might enter the glade, for he stood with respect at its edge, not daring
enter without her permission. This was good. This was as it should be. Rúmil would do
well to learn from his elder brother. Haldir rushed forward, gathering Galadriel into his
arms. She allowed him this, as well. He put his arms around her and she laid her head on
his shoulder. Tentatively he stroked her hair. It felt good, to be held.
“My gallant Marchwarden,” she whispered.
“I heard you scream,” Haldir said softly. “Many did. There was fear. Even now they
gather outside.”
“Let them wait. Do not rob me of this moment,” Galadriel said.
“Yes, my lady.”
“Where is Celeborn? Why did he not come, if so many feared my scream?”
Haldir was silent for a long moment and Galadriel knew that the Marchwarden wondered
the same. He continued to stroke her hair absentmindedly.
“I know not. I am sorry.”
She wished fervently in that moment that it had been her husband who had come in her
moment of need, but she knew also that this might never be, never again. Again it crossed
her mind that there were other ways which Haldir could comfort her. No, she must not,
she chided herself gently. She knew what lay in Haldir’s path, and it was not her bed. He
would have a greater destiny to face than that.
“I saw much in the mirror,” she said, still resting her head against his broad shoulder.
“It must have pained you deeply,” he said with concern.
“You wish to know what I saw.” She read it on his heart.
“I...suppose I cannot help being curious.”
“Your curiosity mingles with your sense of duty, Haldir. You wonder if what I saw was
danger. You fear the orcs who raid closer and closer to our borders, the goblins, the
whispered tales of creatures even more strong, more deadly.”
“Not fear, exactly--”
“You cannot hide your worries from me.”
“I do worry. I worry for all those who patrol the borders. For my brothers.”
“But not for yourself.”
“No.”
“Be brave, but be wise, Haldir.”
“Was this what you saw, then, lady?” Haldir asked.
Galadriel let go of him and looked at him. She took his hands in hers and rose to her feet.
He rose with her. His eyebrows were lifted in question over his clear blue eyes. He held
his chin high, and his nose was long and straight. He had a fine profile, full, soft lips that
were wasted night after night, for he took lovers even more seldom than she did. Haldir
was bound up in his family and his duties as Marchwarden.
“All this is about to change,” she said. “The battles ahead lie not on the borders, but in the
very heart of Caras Galadhon.”
“Orcs will not find their way in!”
“No, Haldir, not orcs.”
“I do not understand, my lady.”
“The Lost King has risen, and when the dead awaken, so does the past. The presence of
Amroth will touch many of us. Look to your brother Orophin. He will need you
supporting him in times to come.”
Haldir nodded, realization coming into his eyes. He knew that Orophin already felt love
for Amroth, and he knew what it meant. “I will.”
“You must also guard your own heart, Haldir.”
Haldir chuckled. “Do not worry. There are few who seek it.”
“Those who do will bring you both great joy and great sorrow. Prepare yourself.”
He nodded, and Galadriel knew that he did not believe her. He thought himself too hard
and too jaded to fall in love. He was utterly wrong, but this would be something he must
discover on his own, she thought with an inward sigh. Perhaps she ought to take him to
her bed. He might make an enemy in Celeborn but it would save him from what lay in his
path.
“Take me to my chamber,” she whispered.
Surprise and wariness flitted across his face before he masked all emotion. He wondered if
she meant more than the simple meaning of her words, she saw, but he pretended
otherwise.
“Of course, my lady,” he replied. He tucked her arm beneath his and escorted her out of
the glade.
