[Coire 1, the year 97 of the Third Age of Middle-earth. The private garden of Galadriel, Lady of Lorien]
The barest of hushed breezes gently tickled the golden leaves of the mallorn trees, their gilded hue faintly reflecting the brilliant jewels of Varda's starlight in a way only keen Firstborn eyes could perceive. This night a sole pair of such sharp Eldar eyes surveyed the delicate illumination of the forest, the invasion of visions halting any further chance for rest.
Bare feet effortlessly glided over the chilled softness of the moss-strewn forest floor; stealth achieved although totally without need or reward. The Galadrim were happily lost in their tree-top dreams, leaving Galadriel alone to ponder the troubling visions of her own disconcerting reverie in silence.
The dreams....
This was certainly not the first time visions far too real to ignore had haunted her resting hours, but mercifully she had been spared that burden in the years of peace since Sauron's defeat. For them to return now seemed doubly strange and ominous. And yet, these dreams were far different from the ones which had plagued her peace of mind in those dark, desperate years. But alas, then, as now, she had to face them alone. Her husband was currently absent from their bed and from her confidence, accompanying Amroth, Lord of Lorien, to the Haven of Edhellond to wish safe passage to more of the Sindarin refugees headed West, to a home which had been promised to them in ages past by the High Powers, but which none of them had yet seen, in their centuries of tarrying in Middle-earth. Will no ship bear me West, home to where the Two Trees once blossomed?
Delicate eyelids slowly shut, then squeezed tightly, wringing out each nuance of memory from Galadriel's past. Yet even as she savored the unworldly beauty of Valinor, she could not prevent the horrific shifting tableau of the first slaying of Elven kin from replaying as well. Her kin, slaying those of her husband, taking the graceful, sleek swan ships by force, by blood, in the hastily sworn name of an oath which had led to naught but ruin for all of their line who had pledged to its completion.
Her steps halted suddenly, the proximity of the answers too terrible to contemplate stealing the breath from her lungs. With the greatest reluctance she opened her eyes, and stared in awed silence at the mithril basin perched so innocently upon the stone plinth the Galadrim had constructed for her private use. Although she and her family were not of Lorien, their stays in the fair forest had been increasing in both number and length over the course of the Second Age, and the Galadrim, and their Lord, considered she and Celeborn as among the leaders of their land. With the Lady's protection, may they never be without their true Lord, or his heirs which are surely to come. A shiver traveled the length of her lithe, gown-draped frame, a fortifying breath hushedly drawn inward, then, finally, her hands hesitantly reached for the silver pitcher she dreaded filling.
Dipping the pitcher into the cool waters of the fountain, Galadriel allowed the clear fluid to fill the perfectly polished metal before withdrawing it. She turned toward the basin and, after one last hesitation, poured out the splashing stream. She had not dared gaze into the prophetic waters of her dwarf-crafted gift since the end of the last war. Such horrors, such loss, had the First Born of Iluvatar, as well as the Second, endured in that terrible time. While her husband had been numbered among the leaders of the Alliance, she and their daughter had remained for a time in the safety of Imladris, then had risked the dangerous journey back to Lothlorien, back to the whispering trees and the silver-tongued tree-dwellers they so missed. For if the Alliance fell, not even the Valley of the Bruinen would offer them sanctuary at last. If the end was to come, Galadriel and Celebrian both wished for it to find them among the beauty of the wood and the people who had embraced them as surely as any of their own kindred.
As the silver tongues of the wood still bittersweetly sang, in the end the blackness had been defeated, but not without exacting a terrible toll. Yes, she had witnessed far too much of it reflected in Durin's gift, even before the tragedies had come to pass, impotent to prevent the deaths of so many she loved and respected, including those she named kin. She had even borne the foreknowledge of the death of her King, her cousin, had seen the radiant star of the Noldor extinguished by the flame of the Evil One's fire on the plains of Mordor. She had witnessed the anguishing scene weeks before it had unfolded in reality, and had fleetingly contemplated sending an emissary to the front with word of what she had seen. Yet the burdensome restraint of wisdom had stayed her hand. It would have served no purpose to risk the life of a messenger on such a futile mission. She could have not saved Gil-galad from his fate, not without endangering the lives of many more, and perhaps risking the very success of the Alliance. Admitting prescience later would have caused naught but pain and ill will, and suspicion in future diplomacies, especially with Imladris, whose Lord had lost far more than merely a King that fateful day.
For among the many visions the deceptively calm surface of the water had gifted -- no, plagued -- upon her had been a secret ceremony, where the High King and his Herald had been joined as one before the eyes of their closest confidants, and the all-knowing vision of the Valar.
No, she had told no one of what she had seen, not even her husband, and silently shared the pain she and all those with eyes had seen in Elrond's tormented expression in the time after the Alliance's victory. So much had been lost, even in the final victory. Imladris had lost an ally and its very heart, Greenwood the Great had lost its king, as had Lorien. Gondor had lost its king, not once, but twice, if the fall of Isildur be counted. The visions haunted Galadriel to this very night, as perfectly fresh and as painstakingly vivid as they had been the moment they had been revealed in the aqueous mirror.
The surface of the water stilled, shimmered, and then a possible pathway of the Third Age unfolded before Galadriel's horrified eyes....
She had regretted accepting the visions the mirror -- the Valar, she believed, in reality --had shown to her in those dark times at the end of the Second Age. Tonight she just as deeply rued her unwilling knowledge of what the Powers had deigned to show her in this age, although in a far more personal way. Tonight she had not merely witnessed the destruction of distant lands, of soldiers cut down at the height of their bravery upon the unforgiving field of battle. No, tonight she had witnessed the permanent sundering of the Eldar, and the Faithful of Men, at the hands of an evil more insidious but just as real as the utter blackness of Mordor.
The end of hope, and the end of love. The end of the line of Luthien in the worlds of both manner of Iluvatar's children.
She had found herself inexplicably drawn to the mithril basin by the dreams -- terrible, haunting dreams of what would befall her home, her land, her people... all peoples... if the line of Luthien were to come to dust and memory. For although the bloodline of Dior, heir of Luthien, still ran true in the race of men, in the Faithful of Numenor's demise, it threatened to end in its Eldar strain. For in taking the High King of the Noldor as his mate, Elrond Earendilion had closed the door on the possibility of continuing Luthien's bloodline through his loins.
Now, with the High King in Mandos' care, although one door had closed, another had opened; namely the possibility of Elrond's taking a wife and passing on his precious blood to another generation of the First Born. With the Valar's grace, and my kin's consent, Galadriel uneasily reasoned. That the Valar would bless any union which continued on the Elven line of Luthien, Galadriel had no doubts. That Gil-galad would consent to an eternity in the Halls of Mandos with no chance for reprieve, or reunion with his beloved Herald, well that was far from certain.
Galadriel had also seen the end of her own line reflected in the pitiless portents of the water, if the free spirit of her only child could not be tamed and channeled toward more domestic duties. Celebrian was far more enamored with the woods and the stars than others of her kind. She had caught the eye of many, but had seriously returned the attention of none.
The mirror had shown her a future which was unspeakable, yet, perhaps, avoidable.
Two lines could end...
Or...
Two lines could unite.
Thus she returned her gaze to the glassy surface of the water, now hoping the mirror would gift upon her a vision of the outcome should that alliance be realized. The mirror did not disappoint her. As the images unfolded her emotions ran the gamut from joy, pride, fear, sorrow, and finally, and most importantly, hope. Hope for Middle-earth, but not for her daughter. Sacrifices would be demanded of all involved -- the Lord of Imladris, the silver Lady of Lothlorien, and their children, in whom Luthien's image, and her choice, would again return to the First Born of Iluvatar.
But first, choices would have to be made, beginning with Galadriel herself. Should she share this vision, this burden, with her only child, whom she would eventually lose if all she had seen came to pass?
This particular choice was taken from her in the passing of a single breath.
"Mother? Is something the matter?"
Shaken from her agonizing ruminations by her daughter's apprehensive voice, Galadriel forced an ironic touch of a smile to her lips and turned to face the question, and its source. "All is fine with me, my child." Closing the several steps which separated them, Galadriel reached out a hand and gently smoothed the sleep-mussed silvery hair, much as she did when Celebrian was merely a child. For a moment she forgot that her daughter was no innocent elf maiden, having seen much of the Second Age, and all that had so far transpired in the Third. Instead, Celebrian appeared to her as simply her daughter, her child. Her hopes, and her fears, and those of Middle-earth, wrapped in one inscrutably self-confident package. "Why do you forsake your bed?" Galadriel tenderly whispered, her fingers lingering in the contact with the spun silver of her child's hair, a treasured trait passed down through Celeborn's line.
"'Tis dreams, they would not give me peace."
Nor I. "What manner of dreams, my beloved child?"
A curtain of confusion visibly drew across Celebrian's face. "Dreams of Imladris, although I have not seen it with my own eyes since the War."
A sad smile of reluctant understanding crossed Galadriel's face, as she gently cupped her daughter's chin with one hand. "Dreams of Imladris... and its Lord?"
"Yes," her daughter answered with palpable surprise. "He has always been most kind to us, but no more so than he has been to all who seek the solace and safety of his valley. 'Tis strange that he should occupy my dreams."
Releasing a melancholy sigh, Galadriel kissed her daughter's forehead. She had known the heavy yoke of duty, as one of Feanor's House. Now it was time for her daughter to be given the choice to accept her own burden. "Come, my beloved child. I have much to show you...."
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