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This fic was written for the lovely art by Arcxus. Check out their other art as well, it's so amazing! I was really glad to be working together!
It was a late summer afternoon; the sun was fading in the deep-blue sky, yet the air was still warm. Gossamer threads drifted through the air and caught upon the tall blades of grass, which bent and swayed in the wind. It was the hour of dreams, when hearts soared high and thoughts wandered far; a golden hour, when one might feel the sun upon the skin and not be burned, the wind in one’s hair and not grow chilled; when the spirit might roam freely and yet remain present enough to draw in the fragrance of ripe apples and lavender with conscious delight.
Galadriel rode upon a palfrey borrowed from Lórinand—a white mare, whose long mane felt soft beneath her fingers. The horse had an easy gait, and the lightest pressure of the knee was enough to guide her. Not even the armour Galadriel had donned weighed heavily upon her, so smooth was the mare’s pace, and the sword that hung at her side lay still and quiet.
She felt herself a warrior once more, as she rode her high steed—something she had not felt for a long while since her coming into Middle-earth. Long had she lingered in Imladris or in Lórinand, touching neither sword nor armour; weaving enchantments instead of swinging a blade, sleeping in the garden like a butterfly in its cocoon, instead of breaking free to seek the open air. Peaceful days—days soft as butter. Days when she could scarce bring herself to rise from Celeborn’s embrace when dawn broke in clouds of rose, when it was far too easy to lie still and listen to the golden leaves of the mallorn-trees whispering overhead.¹
But such days must come to an end. She had felt it—how slow and indolent she had grown, how her eyes had beheld only Celeborn and the Golden Wood, and nothing else from dawn till dusk, and how she had not wished to behold aught else. After all those years, she had started up from that fair dream in sudden disquiet, realising that her heart had begun once more to beat restlessly. A voice had called her to step forth from Lórinand, to leave Amroth’s hospitality, and to seek instead the open spaces. And here, beyond the Wood, she felt her strength returning, her courage rekindled—her resolve set to ride new roads, rather than tread the old familiar ways, and to take again in hand the ancient sword that had long lain dust-bound in her chambers. The weight of the blade at her side was like a memory—no longer the twilight of slumber did she seek, but the blinding light of the sun. At last, she felt the wind in her hair again, absent in Lórinand’s stillness; at last she heard something other than the nightingale.
The crickets chirped softly; the blackbirds sang their merry songs; and somewhere in the distance, amidst the grasses, came a most undignified cry of pain.
Galadriel drew up her palfrey and narrowed her eyes to see ahead, but the tall grass, bending and swaying in the wind, hid all movement from sight. She dismounted. Her armour gave a faint chime as her feet struck the ground, and the mare flicked one ear backwards in curiosity. Galadriel soothed her with a hand upon her neck, and then led her onward on foot.
Her foreboding told her she need not go far. In less than five horse-lengths she halted, let the reins of her white mare fall, and set her hands upon her hips. "And what have we here? A bird caught in a snare?"
"More like a hare caught in a trap, if truth be told."
Celeborn sat upon the ground, the grass pressed flat around him, rubbing his ankle. His boot lay aside, and Galadriel saw that the flesh between foot and shin was flushing red and beginning to swell.
Pity for him stirred in her, though alongside it came the powerful urge to say, I told you so. He seemed to sense her inner struggle, for he raised his slender hand in a gesture of surrender. "Go on, give your lecture. I shall listen."
She needed no second bidding. "I told you to take a horse, my dearest. But no—you could not simply ride across these wide and lonely lands; you must go afoot, to appreciate the grass beneath your feet and the trees over your head."
"Ay, but it is true. One cannot feel the earth unless one walks upon it."
"I would sooner feel the soft leather of my saddle than the pain you are feeling now." She smiled at him tenderly—half in sympathy, half in mischief. Then she knelt and helped him ease his boot back on, drawing it gently over the sprained ankle. She helped him to his feet, and after leaning on her a while, he managed to stand unaided. Galadriel smiled inwardly; seldom had she heard her husband complain of pain, for he always pressed on, whatever hurt might hinder him. In that, he was much like herself.
Celeborn took a few steps and gathered up the reins of the mare that Galadriel had dropped. "Help me up onto the horse," he said, patting the smooth white neck.
"And what would you do on my horse, my lord?"
He turned to her, a wordless reproach in his silver-grey eyes. "It is plain that I am injured. I should have the comfort of riding, while you go afoot, my Lady Protector."
"If I recall aright, it was you who would not bring a horse at all." Galadriel arched her finely shaped brows, yet obeyed his request and lifted him easily onto the palfrey. Her strength had returned, and it cost her little effort—enough to draw a triumphant smile from her. Celeborn let his injured leg hang free upon the mare’s left side, yet took the reins and sought to guide her.
"And you did not warn me that I would fall and twist my ankle, though you foresaw it with your gift of foresight."
"I did not foresee it," said Galadriel, holding out her arms in a gesture of innocence.
"No?" Celeborn leaned down from the saddle so that he might look down upon her. His silver hair fell about them like a curtain of silk, his eyes glittered like silver coins, and a rare smile played upon his lips. "Why then did you choose my favourite horse, and not your own, when selecting a mount?"
Galadriel, struck momentarily speechless, tilted her head to look up at him, their faces only inches apart. He smiled sweetly, as if to kiss her, but then turned away and sat upright once more, a self-satisfied look upon his face.
"Where now, fair warrior? You may lead us."
"May I so?" None else would have dared speak thus to her—not even her brothers would have presumed to order her about like a squire. But with Celeborn, it was different. He never meant it in earnest when he gave her commands, and she exchanged an amused glance with him as she took the mare by the reins and led her on. "What would the Noldor in Lórinand say, if they saw me serving you thus?"
"That you are at last doing what you set out to do," Celeborn replied from behind her. "Was it not your wish—to ride forth and prove your knightly virtues? And what could be more knightly than aiding a noble lord in need?"
"It was more than that, and you know it," she said, leading the mare in a curve about a small hill, so that Celeborn might avoid the discomfort of steep climbing. "Too long have I lingered with you in the Golden Wood, and in my absence things have fallen into disorder. I sense a shadow stirring somewhere in the East, among the dark oaks of Greenwood. I must seek it, until I have found that which clouds my dreams."
“I have kept you too long abed.” His voice held something almost like remorse—but only almost. “And now I must pay for it, by being sent on strange adventures to slay some fell beast, or banish some lurking shadow.”
Galadriel caught the irony in his tone and chose to tease him in return. “You need do neither the slaying nor the banishing. I would not have begrudged you, had you remained in Lórinand with Amroth.”
“And be parted from you again? No.” She heard him lean forward over the horse’s neck, and then felt his cool fingers brush a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch grazing her cheek. “I would sooner face all the shadows of Morgoth again.”
She took his hand, still poised beside her cheek, and pressed a kiss upon his ringless fingers. Their separation had been hard for her also, and the days had been dark when he was not at her side—not only for the uncertainty, but because she had sorely needed his counsel. Much might have turned out differently, had he not been away, she thought, and her thumb traced the adamantine ring upon her middle finger. When at last she had found him in Imladris, she had been near faint with joy, and they had long held each other fast, until both were certain the other would not vanish again.
When evening came, they halted at the edge of the forest that Galadriel had named Aldalómë, Tree-twilight. The trees here stood closer than in Lórien or Greenwood; the light was dimmer, the air thicker, as though the gnarled trunks and branches had pressed it together. Fangorn, the Sindar named it, though Galadriel had never asked them why. She had never ventured far into it.
After she had helped Celeborn from the horse, she set about preparing their sleeping-place, and fetched from her saddlebag the lembas she had baked for the road. Celeborn meanwhile bound his ankle in a firm wrapping to keep down the swelling. When she returned, he looked at her inquiringly and stretched his leg far out before him.
“Where do we go on the morrow?”
“We shall cross the river and then make for Greenwood,” she answered, seating herself opposite him. “I would see the old fortress Oropher abandoned.”
She heard him give a low, throaty hum. “I mislike that. We should first visit Thranduil—seek his leave.”
“How diplomatic you are, my lord.” Galadriel could not keep from smiling. She herself would never have thought of asking leave before entering the Great Greenwood—least of all when they were so far south, and Thranduil’s folk dwelt in the north. The detour would take longer than a journey to Amon Lanc and back to Lórinand.
“All princes must be diplomatic, to balance the tempers of their wives.”
“When last I looked, it was I who balanced your tempers.”
“The incident with the Dwarves?” Celeborn inclined his head, silently conceding the point. “I will admit they sometimes stir my wrath to the most irrational degree. But in the matter of Thranduil and the Wood-elves, I think I have a surer hand than you.”
“You display your anger more openly than I,” she chided.
“Ah, but it will not be wrath that stirs the King of the Woodland Realm against us. It is your arrogance and your hunger for power that he most abhors, and if you would have this end in peace, then I must speak with him first.”
She studied him with searching blue eyes, trying to read his true thoughts. Never would she trespass into his mind unbidden, and now he had closed it to her on purpose. Yet there were other signs—an anxious furrow upon his brow, or a sad glimmer in his eyes.
“You do not need to speak with him,” she said at last, slowly, as though testing a guess. “You wish to.”
He sighed. “Oropher was my friend. His son looked up to me. It is time to heal the old wounds between us.”
Galadriel busied herself with the straps of her armour, removing a vambrace that had grown wearisome. It was all very well, she thought, to don her old war-gear again for remembrance of past deeds—but even mithril grows heavy in time. “Oropher and Amdír—two friends of yours now gone. What of your own wounds—do they not need healing?”
“We Sindar do not dwell in the past, nor give way to such passions as you Noldor. I shall manage,” he said curtly—but after the hard words, his brows drew together. “Forgive me. The foot pains me more than it should.”
She forgave him. “Then we shall go to Thranduil’s halls before I set foot in the fortress. But first, I wish to visit the southern eaves, where the Men dwell. I would know if they have sensed aught.”
Celeborn agreed, and they lay down to sleep. So near to the forest’s edge, breathing the dense air of the wood, Galadriel felt something of the magic that dwelt in Aldalómë. She could not discern its nature clearly, yet she thought she sensed the influence of Yavanna, and that brought her both comfort and unease. She desired to know what lay in this forest, whose life-force was so great that she could feel it even here without. Celeborn seemed to sense nothing; he slept in perfect quiet, his brow smooth, while Galadriel turned often, striving with her eyes to pierce the dark.
At some point she must have slept, for she dreamed of trees—mighty ash and beech rising above her as tall as giants, bending over her like guardians over a child in its cradle. They seemed to stretch their branches toward her; yet before she could take hold of them, she awoke, her mind strangely clouded with mist and haze. She rose and looked about.
The horse still stood where they had left it, cropping quietly at the grass that fringed the forest, yet it came nowhere near the leaves of the young trees, as Galadriel noted. All else—saddle, bridle, their cloaks, her armour—remained as it had been the evening before. Only Celeborn was gone.
She felt no fear; she knew her husband could look to his own safety, even with a sprained ankle. Yet her brows knit in puzzlement. It was not his way to vanish without telling her, least of all when she did not know his purpose. In thought, she called to him, and at once there came an answer—not in words, but in feeling. Celeborn sent her images of joy and love, assuring her of his well-being and telling her where she must seek him. In the forest, of course.
No one loved the dark woods of Middle-earth as he did. She herself preferred Lórinand, with its golden mallorns and elanor upon the hills—a timeless garden of blossoms and sunlight, that brought to mind the gardens of Yavanna and Estë. But the wild, tangled, denser forests—such as Fangorn or Greenwood—had never held for her the same charm they did for Celeborn. He did not shrink from the darkness between the black trunks; he seemed to revel in it, while Galadriel longed for the light of Sun and Moon. The farther a place seemed from Valinor and the Light of the Trees, the more readily Celeborn would retreat thither, content if only to glimpse the stars through the canopy. So she knew she must look for him where the forest stood thickest.
She left the silver-white mare where she was and entered Aldalómë alone. Celeborn guided her in thought, so that she never strayed from the path she should take. He had gone far for one with an injured foot—deep into the forest—and she wondered how long he had been gone.
She found him seated upon the great root of an oak, his injured foot stretched upon the ground, his back resting against the trunk. He looked like a fallen star in the wood, a silver light that had stolen into the shadowed gloom, casting its glow upon the trees before him. Celeborn was speaking, but not to her. His face was turned upward toward a tall tree with gnarled boughs, and an equally gnarled voice was answering him.
“Hmm… your lady of the Golden Wood is here, my friend.”
Celeborn turned to her as she stepped into the small clearing and smiled. Galadriel looked about with curiosity, seeking the source of the deep, rumbling voice she had heard. She found it far above, in a face wrought of bark and moss, gazing at her from deep brown eyes glimmering with a green that brought to mind overgrown forest pools. It was the tree itself that had spoken to her husband, and now it shifted, as if to better take her measure.
“Fangorn, I presume,” she said, not in the least surprised that a tree had addressed her, and inclined her head before one of the eldest beings born in Middle-earth. “My husband has never spoken to me of your acquaintance.”
A low, rolling rumble issued from the depths of the tree before her, and for a moment she thought he was displeased. Then she realised it was his slow, deep laughter.
“Acquaintance?” he rumbled. “Aye, one might call it that. For your husband made me acquainted with all that I now feel and utter. He awakened me when I was yet a young oak, and taught me the tongue of the Elves, in which we now speak.”
“Did he so?” Galadriel asked, studying Fangorn closely. Yavanna’s creature, without doubt—yet there was in him something strangely wild and earth-bound, leaving her in no doubt that it was the Elves of her husband’s kin who had stirred his kind to wakefulness.
She looked from the ancient being to Celeborn, who met her gaze with only a mysterious smile, and then she seated herself beside him upon the root. There was no anger in her look—something deeper rather: admiration, perhaps, or love renewed. “You have your own kind of magic, my lord.”
“Magic?” Celeborn regarded her with amusement. “No, what you have is magic. For all of us born here, it is natural to speak with every living thing in Middle-earth.”
“Hooom… ahh. But are not speech and language also magic?” Fangorn tilted his great head from side to side, and a fall of leaves drifted to earth at Galadriel’s feet. His beard of lichen rustled. “My roots are old—older than my tongue or my thought—yet of the time before I have no memory. The first thought I formed were the words he whispered to me. Celebrillam, we named him—silver-tongue. Hmmm… only his true name escapes my memory.”
“Near enough,” Celeborn said easily. But Galadriel, prouder than her husband, met the deep-set eyes of the tree-giant squarely.
“Celeborn is his name—silver-tall.”
“Silver… tall,” Fangorn repeated slowly, drawing out each syllable. “The silver I see—but the tall?” He bent his trunk in the middle, so that he might gaze down on them at a steeper angle. “You both seem very small to me. Yet it has been long since I saw any of your kind.”
“I can assure you that we are both exceptionally tall for our kind,” Galadriel replied, chin lifted. “But we shall promise to visit you more often—and bring others, if you permit it. Then you may compare who is tall and who is small.”
Fangorn—ancient, unyielding, yet not unwilling to enjoy a little silver-tongued company—rumbled with satisfaction at this. “Welcome are your kindly words, Galadriel. We shall meet again.”
“He knew my name,” said Galadriel, as they set out eastward from the forest’s edge the next day. “I did not give it to him.”
Celeborn, seated like a prince upon the horse while she led it as his guard, cast a loving, reminiscent glance back toward Fangorn. “Perhaps I told him much of you, when we met in the forests of old.”
“But at that time I was not yet called Galadriel.”
“No,” he said, turning back to her. “To the Noldor you were Artanis, to your brothers Nerwen. But to me, you were Galadriel from the very first moment I beheld you.”
Galadriel remembered that day. She had been clad in armour much like that she wore now—wrought in Aman by the apprentices of Aulë himself. The suit she wore today was far less splendid and unadorned with gems, yet no less fine. The mithril was light, the workmanship flawless, the silver sheen as fair as the glittering stones she had worn in Tirion. It was merely less Noldorin, Celeborn might have said. But in those days, he had seen her arrayed in jewels and Noldorin finery.
It had been in Doriath, where she dwelt with her brother after first coming to Beleriand. She and Finrod had been sparring somewhere in the gardens of Menegroth, and—as in her youth—she had worn her hair bound up, braided into a crown upon her head. There Celeborn had first seen her, and he had called her Galadriel—maiden crowned with a radiant garland.
“You looked radiant,” he said now. “Shining—glowing with life after your training. I thought I had met a Maia of Tulkas.”
“I thought you most impertinent,” she replied with a smile. “No one had ever dared to call me by any name but my own.”
Celeborn smiled back. “And I feared not your wrath. Indeed, I was rather wounded by your hasty response.”
“That is why I grew to love you.” She recalled lying wakeful in her bed, thinking of him until she could not sleep; and how she had given him armlets and circlets to remind him of her—only so that she might have an excuse to ask something of him in return. “Because you never agreed with me blindly—not once, not even when others gave way to my anger. But neither did you seek to control me.”
“Perhaps I should have,” said Celeborn, with the faintest upward curl of the lips.
She made a face. “As if you could.”
His smile softened. “As if I would.”
They made their way to the edge of the Great Greenwood, keeping to the south in order to reach the settlements of Men who lived in the Wilderland. Galadriel had never seen one of them before, never entered their villages, and yet she knew exactly where to seek them. It was in the way the grass grew there, threaded through with stalks of wheat and rye, and in the way the birds avoided flying over the area, instead circling around it to pass directly through the forest.
“How do you intend to greet them?” Celeborn asked, craning his neck and narrowing his eyes ahead. From his higher vantage point on horseback, he must already have been able to see the roofs of the primitive wooden huts long before Galadriel noticed them.
Galadriel took the reins of the white mare in her left hand so she could walk close to his right side. “Not at all. They will hardly think to notice we are here.”
And she cast a spell over them—a veil of light, the same she had once seen Melian use to conceal the borders of Doriath; far weaker, of course, but still effective. She herself felt nothing of its working save a tingling in her finger, where the ring shone white and bright, but she heard Celeborn sigh in contentment, as though she had wrapped him in a soft cloth.
Thus they passed through the fields and into the settlement. The Men’s village consisted only of a single road, lined on both sides with their low wooden houses. It stretched for only a few dozen yards, perhaps holding eleven or twelve families before the fields gave way to the forest’s edge.
It was summer, and midday; the people were outside before their homes, busy with their work. Galadriel had expected her spell to be strong enough to let them pass unseen, yet most of them lifted their heads the moment the horse’s light-footed steps sounded on the ground. Unperturbed, she went on, leading Celeborn behind her on the mare, while she reached into the spirits of the Men to find out why none of them let them pass unnoticed.
What she found almost made her withdraw her probing senses. Awe overcame her spell—part of it reverence, but there was also that coarse, earthbound fear that made the Men sharper, more alert. They saw through her enchantment, unravelling it thread by thread with wide, piercing eyes, and beheld behind it the Lord and Lady walking through their village.
Curiosity seized Galadriel, and she looked through the Men’s eyes to see what they saw—two tall figures, one mounted, one on foot, both shimmering in white light. She in her armor, blazing, as if one looked bare-eyed into the sun; he on horseback, cold as a light in the darkness that lured the traveler onto the wrong path. Not only their visions, but their thoughts reached her mind, words hurriedly whispered behind trembling, guarded hands:
It is the Witch of the Golden Wood with her consort, the Erl-King! You see them? Sun-haired and serpent-eyed is she, moon-haired and mirror-eyed he.
Her eyes pierce you through your soul, seeing and seizing everything; his reflect your own fear. Do not look at them, do not pretend to notice them.
Galadriel let her gaze sweep over the people, but every one of them avoided her eyes—from the smallest child to the oldest greybeard. Hastily they returned to their work, watching only from the corners of their eyes, their hands busying themselves with frantic little gestures and tugs at clothing.
My grandmother saw the witch once. Said she spoke in a voice not meant for mortal ears.
He—her Lord—he does not speak. Just watches, like a spirit from the old world. I’d sooner run into an orc than look in his eyes.
You mustn’t look at her too long. Not if you want to sleep again.
If he touches you, you forget your name. If he speaks, you forget your children.
She doesn’t curse you with words; she just looks at you until you forget who you were, and remember only what she wants.
Don’t let the children watch him ride past—he doesn’t need to touch them to take them, only to see them and wish them gone.
Do you not know the old poems?
"But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror’s magic sights…"²
"The father now gallops, with terror half wild,
He grasps in his arms the poor shuddering child;
He reaches his courtyard with toil and with dread,—
The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead."³
It is them! Hide, but do not run! Go slowly, do not alert them to your presence.
Their thoughts chilled Galadriel. How terrible they appeared to these people—great and magical and fearsome. Child-stealers, mind-binders. No wonder Men feared them if such tales were told about them. She looked to Celeborn, who could not hear their thoughts, but could see their faces, and who followed with curious wonder the averted and fear-stricken eyes. He had known the Men who once lived in Menegroth—Túrin Turambar, Morwen, and Nienor—but these here were of far lesser nobility.
These are not the Men you remember, she told him silently, feeling his agreement in return. The Men of the West would have greeted us with joy, not with trembling.
And they would not have spun old wives’ tales about them. Again she caught snatches of whispered and half-thought words, echoing in her ears like curses.
You think it strange, her in armor and him on the horse? You shouldn’t. Iron is the blade that chains the fae—and she wears it like a crown to keep his wildness at bay. It bites the Erl-King’s flesh; her armor is both cage and weapon. She is both his protector and his captor.
This was spoken aloud, not merely thought, and Celeborn, with his keen hearing, caught it as well. “Do you see their faces? They think you have me captive.”
His voice held a trace of indulgent amusement at these simple folk, but Galadriel could not bring herself to laugh with him. “That is not funny,” she said softly. “They do not know what they speak.”
“And what do they think?” he whispered back.
She sent him some of the fragments she had heard, and he clicked his tongue. “Sun-haired and serpent-eyed? I like that. They see you as I first saw you.”
“Fearsome and cruel?”
“Beautiful to the point of despair.” He bent down to her and brushed a kiss into her bright hair. At that, the Men fell silent, and some of them went back inside their houses, daring only to peer from the windows. Galadriel and Celeborn passed through the street unhindered, and came out the other side of the village, now on the eastern edge of the Greenwood.
Galadriel stroked the silky neck of the palfrey, trying to soothe her own unease as much as the horse’s. In the Men she had found no trace of the shadow she sought. The folk of Rhovanion feared neither the Greenwood nor the old fortress upon Amon Lanc—they feared the Golden Witch and the Erl-King, whom they had seen only dimly at the borders of their land in the enchanted forest.
“Let us ride on until we have circled the forest far enough that they can no longer see us,” she said, guiding the horse northeastward.
Celeborn glanced at her sideways, the way a curious crow does when it spies something shiny for the first time. “It troubles you, what they think,” he observed in surprise.
She rolled her shoulders so that her armor gave a metallic sound, but did not look up at him. “Not for myself. Let them fear the Sorceress of the Golden Wood; let them admire Galadriel of the House of Finarfin and tremble before her. But to think of you as some child-stealing lord of the fae, a dreadful creature—that is absurd! You have always wished only good for Men. No one should fear you.”
She knew that behind her back, he was furrowing his brow—she knew him that well. Her right hand rested on the horse’s neck; now he laid his over it.
“And should they fear you?” he asked quietly.
His fingers brushed hers, but when he felt the ring on her middle finger, he drew his hand away. Galadriel clenched her hand into a fist, feeling Nenya pulse and a power course through her such as she had rarely felt before. All shall love me and despair! She did not know whether it was the Ring whispering, or herself.
Then she shook her head, striving to banish such thoughts like a dark cloud from a summer sky. “No. Only the Enemy need fear me.”
Yet unease would not leave her, and that night, when they camped between the forest’s edge and the wild grasslands, she dreamed.
She was upon a cold hill. It was not summer—or if it was, then it was early morning—for the air was icy and the grass was thick with dew and frost, so that the green ground seemed covered in a transparent, gleaming veil. Mist rose around her, and the hill, in its billowing swathes, felt like an island in the sea. Out of the mist came pale figures—kings and princes and knights—all clad in silver armor, shimmering like water. The green of the hill reflected in them so that it seemed to her almost as if she could see straight through them. And ghostly they seemed indeed, with their death-pale faces, white hair, and glassy spears and lances.
Galadriel called to them, but they did not answer, only moved around the hill in a slow procession, drawing nearer and nearer, until she could make out the wan faces one by one. With each step they took, the fog thinned, until there was a clear path from her hill to the forest’s edge.
From the dark forest—was it the Greenwood? The trees were far gloomier, their branches twisting like serpents—rode a figure upon a tall horse. The steed was as pale as the knights, lily-white with black eyes, yet its soft gait reminded Galadriel of the mare she had brought for Celeborn. Upon it sat a figure tall as silver, wrapped in a grey cloak that fluttered behind like moth wings. The shadows of the forest seemed to follow it, clinging to its clothes and to the horse; like tendrils of smoke they crawled after it.
The figure halted, half shrouded in the forest’s shade, half revealed in the cold white light of the hill. It was a king or lord, his crown woven from alder twigs, his hair long as willow branches and silver as the moon, with tears like pearls upon his garments. His face was pale and beautiful—Celeborn’s face, but the eyes were silver and flat as mirror glass, the pupils white within them. The Erl-King, Galadriel thought, the lord of the fae, as the Men saw him.
And he turned those wild eyes upon her—but there was no recognition in them, no love. Only a cruel indifference, and danger to any who dared to look within them. He had become the Erl-King, Galadriel realized in horror—the very image of what Men feared—and she recoiled, fleeing down the hill into the pale ranks of knights and princes. In their armor now she saw her own face reflected, half twisted with fear, but also with dread majesty, for an expression of evil, cruel splendor had come upon her own form. Just as Celeborn had become what they feared, so had she. Or was it what she herself feared? Had the Ring made her so?
She fought against it, forcing herself to wake, for she knew it was a dream. Nothing but a dream—no prophecy, no foresight. A thing to be forgotten upon waking.
When she did, she felt herself start up, digging her hands into the dew-wet grass upon which she had slept. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, and feverish drops stood on her brow, yet her breathing was calm, almost as if still in sleep. She turned to Celeborn, having heard him sigh.
He still slept, but his face was paler than usual, his brows drawn in anguish. From beneath his closed lids, tears welled forth. With a shocked gasp, Galadriel bent over him. She had done this—sent her thoughts into his while asleep—so that he felt all she had felt, endured all her fears, and yet could not wake, for it was her dream and he had no mastery over it.
She drew him to her breast and tenderly kissed his eyes four times, brushing away the tears with her lips. Her touch woke him, and he blinked up at her. His eyes were still silver, but now with the warm hue of the moon, no longer with the coldness of the hill.
“Ay, my lady, what dreadful dreams you have,” he said.
“Not mine,” she answered, “but the Shadow’s. Of that I am now certain. He is here somewhere, hiding from me, and he fears me.” She gazed into the Greenwood’s darkness. It was early morning, and the sun had yet to light the green boughs.
“Then we must find him,” Celeborn said, starting to rise, but Galadriel pressed him back into the soft bed of grass.
“Not yet. Sleep now, and rest your ankle. I will watch over you.” No nightmare would ever again be allowed to breach their small refuge—she would see to that. Already half-asleep again, Celeborn let his silver head sink to the ground and murmured into the cold morning air, “I love thee true.”
And Galadriel lovingly placed her bare, ringless hand upon his cheek.