Chapter Eighteen: The Mirror of Galadriel

Late Winter, 3017 (Third Age)

She woke suddenly in the deep chill before dawn, wrapped in thick furs and woollen blankets. Her bedchamber was pitch dark, for there was no moon out tonight; it was wreathed in cloud, its pale light veiled.

She had been dreaming, she realised. Dreaming of a place – and a people – she had not thought about for a long time now.

It had been nearly two years since her brief visit to Mirkwood with Lord Celeborn, Haldir and the others, and by now the trip had become a little hazy; the memories fleeting, the details obscured. But the faces in her dream had been oddly stark and clear: the pinched smirk of that haughty guard captain, Feren… the Elvenking's ice-blue eyes, cold as a mountain river… and his son, Legolas. Those shadowed cheekbones and dark, sweeping brows.

A mild sense of shame accompanied her recollections of that time. She hadn't forgotten her foolish misjudgement, the hasty assumptions she'd made, despite her attempts to put it all behind her and move on. And now this dream had brought it back to the forefront of her mind. She lay for a moment, staring up at the carved ceiling of her bedchamber, and felt sleep slip rapidly away from her. The cold was like a slap to her bare face, jerking her to full alertness.

It had been a long winter, and a hard one. Snows had blown down from the Misty Mountains, coating the Golden Wood in white, and there were still patches of it lingering in the hollows and between the roots of the mellyrn, sheltered from the sun's weak rays. Though they were past midwinter now, the nights were still frosty, and harsh winds had been swirling in from the north and east, occasionally bringing sleet. It had been a particularly difficult season for the marchwardens, who returned from patrols wind-scoured and shivering, grumbling about the freshwater wells freezing over and lamenting the long wait for spring.

Tugging her furs tighter around her, Cadhríen sat up in bed and lit the candle on her bedside table, warming her numb fingers over the wavering flame.

Why had she dreamed of Mirkwood this night, of all nights, and after such a long time?

Disquiet stole over her, and she found herself wondering how the Elves of the Woodland Realm were faring, nestled as they were so deep within that murky forest; so close to the shadow that had been inexorably extending its reach these last few years. She thought of Tauriel – of the brief companionship they had enjoyed – and wished there was some way to see her and the others; to reassure herself that all was well in the north and that her dream had not been some dark premonition.

As she sat there, gazing out at the still, silent wood beyond the open arches of her bedchamber, a small voice in the back of her mind said, There is one way…

Cadhríen shook off the idea. For one thing, the Mirror belonged to the Lord and Lady of the Wood, who, above all the Galadhrim, had the wisdom to decide when and for what it should be used. And for another, she and her fellow ladies-in-waiting had been warned on more than one occasion about the Mirror's mysterious and often unpredictable revelations. It was no toy, and certainly no simple scrying pool to be used on a whim whenever one felt like it…

She wriggled down into her furs again and closed her eyes, but now that the thought had seeded itself in her mind, it was near-impossible to shake. What if this wasn't some mere whim? What if her dream had been a warning? Surely, in that case, it would be better to know now?

She tossed and turned for nigh on half an hour, unable to get back to sleep, until eventually, with a sigh, she sat up again and frowned for a moment into the darkness.

Then she untangled her limbs from the furs and blankets and climbed out of her bed, into the cold.

The wood was utterly silent and empty. Only a handful of the silver lamps lining the walkways and curving stairways were still lit, and they bathed the grey mellyrn in a dim, slightly eerie glow.

The forest floor was shadowed, but Cadhríen's keen eyes easily picked out the grassy path down to the southern slopes of Caras Galadhon, where a high hedge enclosed the Lady's garden. She hesitated momentarily at the top of the long flight of steps that led down into the dark, grassy hollow, but then recalled her dream – the clarity of it; the urgency with which she'd woken – and began to descend.

The garden was bare save for the murmuring stream that ran down from the hill above her and the ornately carved pedestal at the centre of the lawn, on which sat the wide silver basin and shining ewer she had come for. Ears pricked for any sounds of approach, she took the ewer and filled it, as quietly as she could, from the stream. And then she poured the water, cold and clear as crystal, into the basin, and peered in.

For a few long seconds, she saw only the wavering, distorted reflection of her own face, a pale smudge in the night surrounded by a halo of dark hair. Then the image slowly changed.

She recognised the rising slopes of Cerin Amroth; the rings of trees that stood at its crown. The mound was carpeted in vibrant green and speckled with niphredil and elanor, and a fierce sun shone – it looked like high summer. As she watched, a little elf-girl appeared and hurtled down the hill, her brown hair streaming out behind her, her arms flung outwards and her mouth stretched wide in a laugh that Cadhríen couldn't hear.

A willowy elf-maid with hair as black as night was crouched at the bottom of the slope, her own hands held out, beckoning, and Cadhríen felt her stomach drop as she recognised her own mother.

The girl barrelled into her mother's arms and the two whirled in a circle together, laughing. Something dripped into the still water in the basin and it took Cadhríen a few seconds to realise it had been a tear. Putting a hand to her face, she found her cheek wet and chilled, and she scrubbed at her eyes as the vision swirled and reformed and grew darker, its tones shifting from green and gold to deep black and navy.

What she saw next was fast-moving and confused. Darkness. Rain. Stone. The glint of moonlight on wet blades and armour. Men. Elves. Orcs. People running, fighting on crowded battlements in the deep of night.

She saw the pale profile of an Elf in Galadhrim armour, sodden hair plastered to his head, and with an icy clench of her insides she recognised him. Haldir.

As she watched, bending closer over the basin now, her fingers gripping its sides, she saw Haldir shout something and gesture with one arm. In his other hand he was holding a wickedly sharp Elvish blade, dark with blood and slick with rain. Her eyes roved the wavering image, her heart in her throat; but then, as suddenly as it had come into being, it dissipated, leaving only the blank, lazily rippling surface of the water.

She drew back slightly with a frown, her mind in turmoil, but a second later something moved within the pool again. It seemed the Mirror was not quite finished with her yet. She stared down at it in trepidation, a little frightened, now, of what it might show her next.

A scene painted in dun browns and dull greens appeared, with two figures moving at its centre. As the water calmed and the vision resolved, Cadhríen saw a tall man bent over, hiking through what appeared to be marshy lowlands. He was weathered and dirty, his face streaked with grime, and he was leading another, smaller figure; tugging it behind him on some sort of leash.

Cadhríen leaned forward. The creature was dark and skinny, all bony limbs and stringy hair. She had never seen its like before, but something in the creeping, skulking way it moved made her think suddenly of Mithrandir's tale, told to her on the road south from Mirkwood two years ago.

Gollum.

She saw now that the man was Aragorn – she recognised his Ranger's attire, his tousled dark hair. He had captured Gollum.

As the water in the basin cleared and stilled, Cadhríen staggered back a few steps. Her breath was coming fast now, sending white puffs spiralling into the chill air.

Aragorn and Gollum had been alone – she had not seen any sign of Mithrandir in the Mirror. She remembered now what the Wizard had said to them, his words echoing in her head despite the many months that had passed since they'd all sat beside that campfire in Rhovanion's bare hills.

If the Galadhrim should see anything – any sign of this creature's passing – you must come and find me…

The Mirror had shown this to her for a reason, she was sure of it. Mithrandir's absence from the vision meant he likely didn't know Gollum had been found; and, of course, Aragorn had no way of contacting him.

Cadhríen trembled, and not just from the cold, as she brushed herself off and hurried out of the garden, taking the steps up to Caras Galadhon two at a time.

Seeing Haldir in the Mirror had troubled her, and she hardly knew what to make of the battle that had been raging around him – the stone ramparts that had looked far more Mannish than Elvish in construction – but she tried to put it out of her mind.

That final vision was the most pressing one. And she now had a rather difficult confession to make to the Lady of the Golden Wood.