"Caledorn?" The voice came faintly, as if Caledorn were underwater and the voice came from above the surface, just beyond his reach. He attempted to respond, but his lips uttered no sound when he parted them. He felt disconnected, as if he was watching himself from afar.
"Caledorn!" The voice was more insistent now, and seemed slightly clearer. It carried a tone of urgency with it, and it was this that caused him to finally open his eyes.
"What? What happened?" He asked, his eyes darting around his surroundings in confusion. Taliel, whose voice had called him back to consciousness, gently pushed him back down.
"I do not know, but I heard a cry of pain and found you lying here, unaware. Your sword was a short distance away, as if you had thrown it."
Caledorn put a gloved hand to his head. "I... I do not remember any of it. But I feel as if someone hit my head with a rock."
"Well they didn't," Taliel replied, the hint of a wry smile tugging at the sides of her mouth. "But they might as well have. You would still be unconscious if I hadn't found you."
"I am in your debt," Caledorn said as he slowly sat up. "I do not know what ails me. I have not been myself of late."
"Perhaps the Lady of the Wood will know," Taliel shrugged, helping him to his feet. "Come. I think the company is ready to move once more."
============================
Gerithor and Haldir stood a short distance from the rest of the company in quiet discussion. The sun had set many hours earlier, and the pale moonlight lit the faces of the two warriors in an almost eery light. Haldir's warrior had returned from Caras Galadhon with words from the Lady on how they must proceed, and it was these words that they discussed now.
"All may enter," Haldir stated, though it was clear that he thought it a bad idea. "The dwarves must be disarmed first, however. Their weapons will be treated with the utmost care, the Lady promises them this. She also wishes for you and I to travel ahead of the company, for she desires to speak to you in solitude. It is a rare honor that she bestows upon few, especially now. Treat it as such."
Gerithor gave the elven warrior a slight bow before nodding his head toward the dwarves. "It would be better if one of their own tells them of the Lady's orders. I shall speak with their leader."
"As you wish," Haldir replied. "I and my warriors shall wait until you are all ready. But I must warn you: The forest, though it is the purest of all of Middle Earth's havens, is no longer safe." At this he pulled Gerithor close and his voice lowered to an urgent whisper. "Orcs were spotted crossing over the Nimrodel at dusk... Orcs that were unusually large and wore strange armor. They were tracking your company."
"Ai! That the filth would defile such pure waters!" A nearby elf exclaimed in dismay, seemingly overhearing their conversation. Several other elves began to murmur among themselves at this ill news.
Gerithor nodded in understanding. "We won't be long."
He departed from Haldir and made his way through the dwarven ranks. Several of them grumbled in annoyance as he passed.
"Why are the fairies makin' us wait so long? Huh?" One dwarf said impatiently.
"This forest is evil!" Another exclaimed.
"Aye, cursed by that elvish witch it is!" A third agreed.
Gerithor ignored their comments, seeking only for one dwarf. To his surprise, he found Kalan deep in conversation with Edhael of all people.
"You see, the strings are different thicknesses," Edhael explained as he pointed to his lute. "This allows them to resonate differently when played." He strummed the lute slowly, drawing an approving nod from the dwarf. "They're then tightened to produce different pitches."
"Ah! What a piece of craftsmanship indeed!" Kalan exclaimed, clapping his gloved hands together with barely suppressed glee. "I'm surprised that such skill exists among the elves!"
"Well you see, I acquired this one from a merchant in Gondor but-" Edhael stopped when he noticed Gerithor watching them. "Ah, Gerithor! How goes the negotiations?"
"Worse than I hoped, better than I expected," Gerithor replied with a sigh. "They will allow the dwarves to pass."
"I guess I judged 'em too soon!" Kalan said with a laugh.
"But they must enter unarmed," Gerithor finished. Kalan's smile immediately faded at these words.
"Well, I'd be willin' to compromise in that way I suppose... But I can't say the same for my lads. They're not gonna be too happy about this, mark my words! It's like pokin' a bee's nest with a blunt sword... Bloody stupid and not very helpful!" He shook his head as he stood from the stump he had been sitting on and stalked away to speak with his soldiers. Edhael shrugged his shoulders.
"That one isn't so bad. The rest... Not my type of fellows," he said as he began to tune his lute. "Too greedy and proud for their own good."
"Well if you want my two pence, your people share the proud bit," Gerithor replied wryly. "It's just a different sort of proud."
"I can agree there, my friend. Dwarves are proud in the sense that they think they're the best at what they do... Which is justified in a way. Elves are proud in that they think they're infinitely wiser than the other races of Middle Earth. Also somewhat justified. But what they fail to realize is that Men are far more adaptable than both... And if Middle Earth continues to exist unharmed for more than the next year or so, Men will be the rulers of it. Not elves or dwarves. They shall fade into the mists of obscurity, their stubbornness causing their downfall." Edhael leaned against the tree behind him and closed his eyes lazily. "But what do I know? I'm just a minstrel."
"Even minstrels have a purpose, mellon nin. And for what it's worth, I think that you're far wiser than you show," Gerithor said. Edhael merely smiled wryly and began to play several chords on his instrument, his expression betraying nothing of what his thoughts were on the compliment.
================================
Without the rest of the company to care for, Gerithor and Haldir arrived at Caras Galadhon quickly. Though it was dark, the city was lit with a pale light and was visible from far away. The boughs of the trees did little to hide the otherworldly magnificence of the elven city, and Gerithor looked upon it with wonder. Elves descended down spiral staircases that wove among the trees, like angelic beings descending from heaven. A road lined with white stones led to the foot of a massive tree that stood at the middle of the city, a giant that Gerithor thought must have stood tall since the earth first formed. It seemed to the ranger that he was looking through a window into another time, one where the elves were still in the height of their power. His thoughts wandered to that age, when all of Middle Earth was at peace. Perhaps that age never truly existed, but a place of such purity was a vision of what such a time would look like.
As he looked upon the city he felt a sudden joy, a feeling of peaceful bliss that took his mind and body far from the world of darkness he had been in just hours before.
Haldir followed Gerithor's gaze up the trees, his mouth turning up in a wistful smile. "Under normal circumstances, I would give you a tour of the city. But the Lady was quite urgent in her request, and wishes to speak with you immediately."
"I understand. Perhaps I shall return under better conditions some day," Gerithor replied, his eyes not leaving the ethereal city.
Haldir nodded. "Come, the lady awaits."
=======================================
The two companions ascended one of the many staircases, a transcendent light illuminating their path. Though it was dark outside, Gerithor could see many elves moving about on the ground below. There seemed to be an unusual number of them, and it appeared as if they were moving hastily. The ranger dismissed the odd commotion for the moment however, focusing on the path ahead.
They soon reached a large platform that was nestled in the uppermost boughs of the tree. It was designed like a pavilion, with a large roof that let in the starlight from above. The room was lit with the same light that the stairs had been, though Gerithor couldn't see a source that it came from. Two guards stood at either side of two white thrones, silent and standing as still as ancient statues.
Suddenly, from a door in the back of the room emerged a lady. She was clad in purest white, and her flowing blonde hair framed an almost unnaturally beautiful face. Indeed, Gerithor thought, she was easily the most stunning woman he had ever seen. Her beauty must be unmatched in all of Middle Earth, even all of Arda itself.
Her sapphire eyes landed on the ranger, and he immediately felt as if she were in his very mind.
"Welcome, Gerithor son of Gerimond. Long have I watched your journey, child of Elendil." Her voice came as if from afar, yet her lips did not move and it seemed that nobody else heard her words. The voice was startlingly familiar; the deep but melodic tone, the almost perfect enunciation of every word.
"And long have I heard your words in my visions," Gerithor replied in thought rather than speech. At this the lady smiled faintly, though still she spoke into his mind.
"I know what you see... for your visions are not only your own. I too have seen the desert of black serpents.... the warrior of light. This is but a portent of what is coming, Gerithor of the North. Your heart is pure, purer than most men, but what is to come will test even you. Your path is clear, but also narrow. On one side lies the abyss of death, on the other, failure. Should you falter even a little, your quest shall be for naught. The Ring draws nearer to its place of origin... but its fate depends on your success. Fail, and all of Middle Earth will fall into eternal shadow."
"I am not alone," Gerithor replied in thought. "My friends will keep me on the path."
"Beware of them, Gerithor. Do not trust them overly, as they too struggle in ways you cannot see. Even the strongest among them face great tribulation."
Suddenly she spoke aloud, a mysterious yet welcoming smile on her face. "You wish an explanation for your visions, do you not? I shall provide one for you... rather, my mirror shall. Come."
She held out a pale hand, and Gerithor took it hesitantly. He did not know what she spoke of, for surely no real mirror could hold such power. Without any further explanation she led him through hallway after hallway, a seemingly endless path that changed little in appearance. Some of them held elves, though most were empty and would have felt forlorn if not for their heavenly appearance. Suddenly however, the hallways opened up into a vast moonlit garden. A narrow staircase led down to a grass path surrounded by a lush array of plants and flowers. The scent of a thousand different plants reached the ranger's nose, and the aroma was unlike anything he had ever smelled before. Fireflies flew lazily among the plants, their lights illuminating the garden as they moved about it aimlessly. The light of the moon spilled onto the garden path, a pale white light that seemed ethereal and unreal.
"It's beautiful," Gerithor murmured, more to himself than to anyone in particular.
"You like it?" Galadriel asked, giving the ranger a coy smile. "It has been here for many years. Before your forebears set foot on the shores of this land, this garden prevailed. It is a piece of Valinor upon this Middle Earth, a remembrance of my home." The two descended into the garden, and Galadriel absently touched an ivory white flower.
"These come from the Halls of Nienna. They are called Nirnaeth, for they are said to have been watered by Nienna's tears. And these," she said, looking upon a cluster of scarlet roselike flowers. "Are Oromethond flowers, from the Woods of Orome. As red as the blood of his prey."
"I have never seen such flowers before," Gerithor said in wonder. "And I am well versed in herbcraft."
"Indeed, for these flowers grow nowhere else in the land of the mortals. The soil from which they sprout is from Valinor, and it is there that they flourish naturally." Galadriel turned to face the ranger slowly, her white dress flowing behind her. "But you did not come to my realm to discuss botany. Take my hand, and I shall show you your path."
Gerithor took her hand once more and she led him deeper into the garden, until they finally came upon a clearing. Few plants grew here, though a tall hedge surrounded the area. Stairs climbed up the far side of the clearing, and Gerithor assumed that they must have lead back into the city. A small stream ran along one side of the clearing, and the water looked pure and cold.
But it was not long before he noticed the centerpiece of the clearing. In its center stood a large silver pedestal, shaped in a fashion akin to tree roots intertwining together. The pedestal held a shallow silver bowl, which was empty save a small amount of water at the bottom.
"This is my mirror. I have brought you here so that you may look into it, and see what you may see."
Gerithor leaned forward, looking uncertainly into the bowl. "Can you tell me what I shall see?"
Galadriel smiled faintly. "I can tell you what you may see. You may see your home, the rugged western lands that your heart yearns for. You may see your friends, the ones who have helped you come this far. But you may also see war, and rumor of war. You may see famine. You may see suffering and pain. For in the twilight of this Third Age, much that is evil has been unleashed upon what was once considered pure."
Gerithor took a step away from the mirror, his hand outstretched in front of himself defensively. "If that is what I shall see, I wish not to look."
Galadriel slowly shook her head. "You may. I did not say you will. It is your choice to look. But should you refuse it, your quest may become even more difficult."
Gerithor nodded reluctantly, his eyes fixed on the mirror. "I will look, then. But I do not feel that it is wise."
"Wisdom can take many forms, young ranger," Galadriel said as she filled a nearby pitcher with water. "Do not always assume that the safest path is the wisest."
Without further words she filled the bowl with water, and when she had finished she stood beside it.
"Do not touch the water. It must not be disturbed or the visions will fade."
Gerithor nodded and stepped slowly toward the pedestal. The water within looked perfectly still, almost unnaturally so. But all the ranger could see was his own reflection. He looked up at Galadriel uncertainly and raised a questioning eyebrow. Rather than answering, the Lady merely nodded and looked down at the water.
What Gerithor saw when he followed her gaze surprised him. Instead of his own reflection, the face of his cousin looked back at him. Upon Aragorn's brow sat a crown of pure white, with wings like those of a seabird upon either side. Seven gems adorned it, and Gerithor immediately knew that it was the Crown of Numenor.
Slowly the face began to disappear, and in its place was a farm. It was neither small nor large, and looked quite comfortable to Gerithor. The landscape nearby looked similar to the lands surrounding Fornost, and they were lush green with the coming of spring. Crops sprouted in ordered rows in the newly tilled earth, and the sun shone happily down upon them.
Suddenly a small child ran by, her small legs only carrying her a short distance before she fell into the grass. Close behind her followed a man, his hair auburn and his clothing that of a nobleman. He picked the girl up as she let out a happy giggle, and he lifted her up into the air. It was then that he recognized the face of the man.
It was his own.
He looked slightly older perhaps, but little else was different. Same hair, same eyes... a slightly more orderly beard, but the resemblance was still unmistakeable.
Before Gerithor had a chance to understand fully what he was seeing, however, the vision faded. Instead, he looked upon a dark battlefield. It looked as if it were night, but somehow he knew in his mind that it wasn't. Countless bodies were strewn about as far as he could see, many of them mangled beyond recognition. But a lone figure stood amongst the corpses, motionless and phantomlike. He wore a black cloak, and upon his head was a crown. Before him was a man... no, it was a woman. Gilian.
Gerithor wanted to cry out, but knew that it would do no good. To his growing horror he saw the cloaked figure draw a sword, and in one swift motion he cut the ranger down.
The scene altered once more. It was the same battlefield, but now it was daytime, or what seemed vaguely like it. Strangely armored soldiers searched among the corpses, while an exotically clad warrior sat atop a white steed and surveyed the area stoically. Some of the soldiers looked like Haradrim... or at least what Gerithor imagined they'd look like.
It seemed that they were looking for something, and suddenly one of the warriors raised up a hand, signaling that he had found what they were searching for.
Before Gerithor could see what it was, the vision changed a final time. It was dark again, and he could see himself standing atop a ruined tower, his eyes glowing blue. In the distance he could see a great fire, and lightning streaked down from the heavens. A corpse lay motionless at his feet, though who it was he could not tell.
The scene began to slowly fade, until nothing was left but his own reflection. He stared at himself for a moment, stunned and confused by what he had seen.
"I know what you saw," Galadriel said, her voice a mixture of comfort and sorrow. "We shall speak of it soon, but you must rest first. The mirror is not used lightly."
Gerithor nodded absently and looked down at his shaking hands. What had he seen?