Note – text within italics at the beginning and end of this story from ‘The Fellowship of the Ring: The Mirror of Galadriel’ by J.R.R. Tolkien.  This story takes place in that infinitesimal moment between these two excerpts, and is wholly imagined in the mind of one character, yet it is a complete story in itself.  A story of what might have been.

I

‘You are wise and fearless and fair, Lady Galadriel,’ said Frodo.  ‘I will give you the One Ring, if you ask for it.  It is too great a matter for me.’

Galadriel laughed with a sudden clear laugh.  ‘Wise the Lady Galadriel may be,’ she said, ‘yet here she has met her match in courtesy…I do not deny that my heart has greatly desired to ask what you offer.  For many long years I had pondered what I might do, should the Great Ring ever come into my hands and behold! it was brought within my grasp.’

In her mind she pictured that small band of gold, which to any unlearned eye would have seemed the most innocent of things, a wedding trinket perhaps or some token of love, resting upon the Hobbit’s palm.  Yet Galadriel sensed that it was not love emanating from the Ring; rather its opposite – hatred of exile, of being parted from its master and creator, mingled with the subtle contempt for all things good and living that the Dark Lord poured into it when it was wrought.  As she pictured it, she thought she heard a whisper, not in her ear or on the wind but in her mind, just as she oft heard the thoughts of others.  The soft voice spoke her names and titles with a seething, wicked tone, like the taunts of a child for whom there is no hope.

‘How would the Dark Lord writhe within his tower,’ murmured Galadriel, ‘if his weapon were used for good?’

A throaty hiss came from the Ring at this, still mocking and challenging her, yet she sensed the slight hesitation.  It knew she could tame it, she thought to herself.  It knew that if she wanted to, she could make it change the world, and build up the Realms of the Firstborn to withstand the blight of Sauron.  That very weapon he would have used to smite the Eldar from the world would be his undoing. 

‘Yes,’ she thought, ‘I have long debated this, and dreamed of what might be the sweetest outcome, should this Ring come before me.’ 

So many plans and visions haunted her nights, until at last that group of strangers from all races crossed the closely guarded borders of her land. Once she even thought to take it, when all were sleeping and the elves were high amongst the trees.  Who would stop the Lady of the Golden Wood if she were to step down to the soft forest floor and steal quietly to the camp?  Who would ask her her business if she was seen, lingering by the sleeping figures?  For they all knew her to be wise, and knew that she had ways they could not understand, that she travelled often on the whim of a thought that none could discern and she would not betray.  None would stop her if she reached down, quiet as a leaf falling on the grass, and took it.  Then truly she would be the Lady of the Wood, powerful and worthy of awe. 

Whether these thoughts stemmed from some weakness in her being or from the foul influence of the Ring, Galadriel soon pushed the dreams from her mind. Yes, she had often wondered what she might do with that power in her grasp, but she would not succumb to that power, like the sad Stoor who once possessed it.  She would conquer it and take it by whatever means she saw fit, rather than listening to its vile whispers that begged her to do evil.

Now it was offered.

She would not descend to the level of the Dark Lord if it was given to her willingly.  And would she not serve the Halfling well to relieve him of this burden?  For surely it would be the undoing of him.  Galadriel had seen as much, in her brief glimpses of the future.  Would she not be wise to take it from him, as he asked, nay begged her to do?  And she would accept it, not as a token of power or a prize, but as a burden, one that she would take on her own shoulders, knowing she was more apt to conquer it. 

‘Altáriel,’ she thought she heard it whisper.  ‘Métima hína Arafinwëo…Last of the Line of Finarfin…’

It would bend to her will, and do good, despite its protests and malevolence, she thought. 

Was that not the only way it could be? 

After all, not even Elrond held much hope for the Quest.  Such a long journey lay ahead of the Halfling, across treacherous lands, past untold dangers.  What guarantee had they that he would succeed?  And if he failed, what then?  That would surely be the end to all things.  If Frodo failed, the world would fall to Darkness, and the elves would be no more. 

And even if he succeeded, would that outcome be better?  Even if the world could sit in peace at last, the fading of the Elves was nigh.  ‘What then of Galadriel,’ she thought, ‘who cannot sail into the West?’

But if she took it, there would be a new fire amongst the Eldar in Middle-earth.  And with that power, the world could be liberated just the same, yet all would pass into a new era.  The Fourth Age of the Sun would not need to be the Age of Men after all.  The Eldar loved this world and had forsaken so much for that love.  Why should they fade and leave the lands they had fought for?

‘The Elves could be renewed,’ Galadriel thought.  ‘And if I cannot pass into the fairness of the West, I shall have my bliss upon these shores.  Here shall be a blessed realm, made strong and fertile by the will of Galadriel.  That power which keeps the Golden Wood full of light and laughter shall spread, with this added weight, to warm the world.  Once more shall there be great halls, the like of those in Elder Days, and so shall they be filled with songs and the plucking of harps.  With this power in my grasp, I shall reach out across Middle-earth and embrace all races to my breast, and will fulfil all obligations set upon me by this burden.  I shall be their light and their protector.  I shall make them safe against the Dark Lord until that time as he is defeated.  And when we choose to march upon him, it shall be my sword that strikes him down, while all others march beneath our banner.  We shall be invincible.  We shall rid the world of this Shadow.’

‘Yes,’ she muttered under her breath.  ‘I could do it…’

~*~

Celeborn sat alone on a small talan above the larger platform he and his Lady would normally occupy.  He held a sword in both hands, letting it rest on his lap with the polished steel catching the golden glimmer of the lanterns.  Not a trace of Orc blood remained upon the blade, though Celeborn remembered how the sword had cut a swathe through the servants of the enemy. 

A bitter cold morning, filled with mist and the sound of trumpets calling the retreat.  The smell of burning was as thick on the air as the screams of those trapped within the city.  What had started as a sortie ended as a massacre, with only this small band of elves still alive and still defending the high walls of Ost-in-Edhil. 

He did not understand why he should think of that day, or what brought him to the talan to cradle his ancient weapons.  Yet he was unsettled, more so than he had been in days.  The atmosphere in Lórien had changed, and he did not like the feel of it.

Returning to the main platform, he found two elleth-servants waiting with water jug and bowl, in which he washed the crumbs of bark from his hands before he settled in his chair to think.  He dismissed the ellith and listened to the distant songs drifting from the trees of Caras Galadhon.  Something was wrong, he concluded.  Their tone no longer pleased him, as though some cold barrier stood between him and the rest of his kin.

‘What has happened?’ he thought, his thoughts reaching out like water over a cracked, dry riverbed until he found Galadriel, and sensed that telltale spark that meant their minds had touched.

Strangely, though he felt comforted as his thoughts met hers, she did not answer.  Even more odd was that her mind felt closed to him.  He could sense her presence, but he knew nothing of what passed through her head.  Such a reaction was rare enough to make him rise and head up the twisting, delicate stair to the talan where they slept, and where Celeborn found his wife gazing towards the ever-moving leaves. 

His heart pounded as he stepped off the stairs and made to approach her.  As if a heavy palm had set against his chest and pushed him back, Celeborn found he could not go forward.  Every nerve within him tingled and warned him not to get too near.  Something was incredibly wrong.

Then he realised that it was not the beauty of the mellyrn that captivated Galadriel’s attention, but something she held in her palm, something she toyed with, consumed in contemplation.  In that moment he knew what had happened.  Without looking, he knew what Galadriel held. 

For a moment he held his breath and the world was silent.

‘As once his master snatched the culmination of Fëanor’s craft, now we have his most prized creation,’ Galadriel intoned darkly, sensing Celeborn behind her.  ‘We have his power, and when Sauron sees it next, it will be at his undoing.’

So matter-of-fact was her tone, that Celeborn paused for a long while, unable to think of a reply.  Her mind was still closed.  Though his intuition somehow warned him that the Ring was with them, still he could not determine her thoughts.  ‘Was she afraid of what I might say, if I knew her intentions?’ he wondered.

‘For love of those Noldorin treasures, your kin were willing to sacrifice all,’ he said at last, choosing every word with the utmost care.  ‘And Sauron, though his power is yet weak, shall do no less to recover that thing.  It is not safe to keep it here.  You said as much yourself.  Why now the change?’

‘Decisions must be taken,’ replied Galadriel.  ‘And their consequences must be faced.  We can no longer ask others to take on our responsibilities.  It was our people who crossed the grinding ice centuries ago and began the war against Sauron’s Master…’ 

Celeborn drew in breath to protest, and retort with ‘not our people’, yet he knew better than to do so.  Galadriel seemed to hear the rejoinder anyway.  She inhaled deeply, taking a long moment before she continued.

‘It was our folly that allowed Sauron to be welcomed among us. It was our people who could not see what Sauron truly planned, and could not know that this Ring was forged.  How can we now ask those who ought not to be in such danger to take on our burdens?  War rages in the east and in the south.  Sauron may not be fully strengthened, yet his forces attack the lands of Men.  How can we send the Halflings through that battleground?  It is our destruction Sauron craves, or our corruption.  So it must be our might that opposes him.’

Celeborn studied her, still unmoving.

‘You fear it?’ Galadriel asked him. 

‘I fear what it might cause us to become,’ Celeborn answered at length.  ‘Though Sauron is diminished, we are still but children in his shadow.  That thing was made to house his will, not yours, and thus it will never willingly yield to you.’

‘That is why I need you,’ said Galadriel, coming towards him.  As she drew her gaze from the Ring at last and set her eyes upon him, Celeborn inhaled sharply, so intense was the look.  ‘I know I have a battle before me, yet I will not falter.  I am afraid, in my heart, for I know the long road that lies ahead.  We shall have to offer yet more sacrifices to ensure the safety of Arda.  And many may die in our cause.  Yet I know it is a chance I must take, to save our people and our world.  Is that not worth a struggle?  A world free of pain and the torment of Sauron’s creatures?  A world where our daughter would not have been at risk upon a simple journey and parted from us by the Seas?  A world, though bought with blood indeed, that would be our own at last.  All the Free Peoples of Middle-earth in union at last?  Is that not worth it?’

Celeborn frowned.  ‘When I was bound to you, I gave an oath that I would love you.  I will not let you come to harm.  I only fear the day you no longer need me.  What then?’

‘That day will never come.’

‘With that power in your hands, can you be certain?  Can there be space in Galadriel’s life for those lesser beings she once loved?  When this blessed realm of yours is wrought and you sit upon its golden throne, beloved by all around you, will you remember my name?  Will you remember our daughter, though she will never be a part of your new world?’

‘If a day should come when I forget those who stand by me or those whom I have loved, then shall I have been corrupted, and my life is forfeit,’ said Galadriel, still holding his gaze.  ‘Yet shall I swear an oath, that this will never be.  For I have sworn not to be Sauron, and I do not crave dominion over Middle-earth, rather I shall defeat him, and set the world free for all to enjoy.’

Galadriel watched him for any flicker of emotion.  She knew the furrows on his brow like the pathways through the wood.  She felt the confusion swirling around his mind and saw how his gaze slowly trailed away from her and fell upon her hand, where the tiniest glint of gold could be seen through her curled fingers.

‘Or would you rather have that power yourself?’ she asked him suddenly.

Celeborn stepped back as an instinct and glowered at her.  For a long while he said nothing and stood as if frozen with his hand almost raised from his side to reach for her. Galadriel held her breath, and it felt as if the world around her did the same.  She could not fathom him for a second, then she stopped trying.  She kept her mind distant from his, not wanting to see the longing there, though she knew that, even if it were only for an instant, he would think about her offer and would want The Ring.  If only for an instant.

Finally Celeborn turned away, sighing deeply.  ‘Now you have asked, and I have given my answer,’ he said, then headed towards the talan’s edge.  ‘Whatever path you choose, I will follow you.  I made that vow the day we were united and I shall honour it until death, or until the end of Arda.’  He glanced over his shoulder and added, ‘you know this.’

Galadriel slipped the fine chain on which the Ring had been strung around her neck and let it fall beneath the white fabric of her dress, out of sight.  For a second the touch of it sent shivers through her skin, but she concentrated and soon the feeling eased.  She crossed to her husband and set her hands upon his shoulders, keeping some distance from him at first, then when Celeborn placed a hand upon hers she moved in closer, letting their bodies touch.

‘This road will be long,’ she whispered.  ‘And arduous.’

‘That you knew when you took on this burden.  You are no innocent halfling, with no knowledge of the world.’

‘Then answer me truly,’ said Galadriel.  ‘Tell me what you are thinking and hold naught back.  I rely upon you not to guard your thoughts or your opinions for too often they are my salvation from a foolish course.’

‘Truly I do not know what to think, Artanis,’ replied Celeborn at length.  ‘In truth, I cannot believe as yet that this has happened.  So many long days have passed since the Wars of the Jewels, when our kind were great.  Yet I have said it; I will follow you, if this truly is your choice.  If you would bear this burden I will help you.’

He turned to face her and she took him into her arms.  ‘One day,’ she said, ‘I will embrace you in a world that is free of pain.’

Celeborn said nothing, but closed his eyes and buried his face in her golden hair.

~*~

Aragorn sat upon the wide-splayed roots of a mallorn tree and sang quietly under his breath, no match for the gentle voices high above in the telain.  His heart roamed over old memories and forgotten places, while at the pit of his stomach something gnawed at him, a faint instinct that something was amiss.

A snapped twig made him look up sharply and fall silent.  Boromir stood by the broad trunk of the mallorn, leaning against it, yet there was nothing nonchalant about his manner.  For a while he and Aragorn simply stared, gauging each other, then Boromir drifted closer.

‘The night is cold,’ he remarked, sitting on the root by Aragorn’s side.  He knitted his fingers and fidgeted distractedly.  ‘For the first time, I feel winter in the air.’

‘I do not feel it,’ said Aragorn with a slight shrug.  ‘Though there is something strange in their voices – the song is not what it was.  It changed this night, though I do not know why.’

Boromir shook his head and wandered from one root of the tree to the next, a distance of a good few yards.  He ran his fingers thoughtfully through his unkempt dark hair and frowned.  ‘Did you sleep tonight?’

Aragorn shrugged lightly and continued to examine his hands.  ‘As yet I have not tried.’

‘I could not,’ Boromir went on, as if the question had merely been a way of broaching this subject.  ‘My dreams were strange.  I saw a lush country of fields and golden wheat, and in the distance, mountains that could have been those that bound my land.  Yet in the distance there was a grey cloud, travelling upwards from the southeast towards me.  Then in my dream I travelled, heading closer to that cloud, until I saw that it came from a great blaze that burned across the land.  The field of gold turned black and the lush, fertile land was left barren.’

‘So will it be if we fail,’ muttered Aragorn beneath his breath.

‘I looked on,’ Boromir continued, ‘seeking some hope amongst the chaos.  I wished to see an army perhaps, coming to combat the blaze, yet there were none.  And in my mind I knew they were not coming because all were slain.  This was a dead land.  Then I saw in the distance a white gleam against the mountains, and I beheld Minas Tirith, though she was no more.  A crumbling wreck, falling quickly to the ground, the last flames licking at her bones.  And I knew they were all of them dead.’

He stared for a while at the hazy spaces between the trees, then forced a smile.  ‘But ‘tis only a dream,’ he said, without sounding in the least convinced.  ‘Is this then the sorcery of Lórien?  Not swords and arrows, but trickery of the mind, that makes us doubt our senses?’

‘I thought you would have seen by now that there is no peril for us here, save that which we bring ourselves?’

Boromir regarded him strangely for a moment, then nodded.  ‘Aye, perhaps.’

~*~

Samwise prized the bandage Aragorn had made him away from the wound and winced with every movement.  It did not hurt as much, but the anticipation of its sting made him flinch and dread peeling the rag away.  Yet it needed washed, and he had a quiet moment while Frodo slept in which to do so.  That’d be a scar to tell tales about when they got home, he thought as he dabbed the wound with a wet cloth and washed the grime away from its ragged edges.  He pictured himself as old as Bilbo, seated by the fire with his grandchildren at his feet, gazing, awe-struck, as he told them of the first orc he slew. 

‘If only it’d be the last,’ he muttered under his breath as he debated whether to replace the bandage or if the cut was healed enough to be left alone.  It had started to itch around the edges, which the Gaffer always said was the first sign of healing.

Though for a moment his own problems distracted him, Sam managed to keep one eye on Frodo all the while, watching him sleep and hoping that the restful expression would remain on his features for a long time.  Ever since the Lady Galadriel had taken the ring from him, Frodo had seemed exhausted beyond measure and had slept for many hours. Sam hoped it was a good sign, that the struggle was over and that, once they were on the road to the Shire, they could work on finding themselves again, if that was indeed possible.

So strange to think of going home, though he had thought of little else since crossing the borders of the Shire.  Odd, thought Sam, that it didn’t feel right.  But then they had been set upon a longer journey than this.  He ought to be relieved that they no longer had to think of going into Mordor, a feat they knew, somewhere at the back of their minds, that might claim their lives.  Sam knew he should be glad that Galadriel, one of the wisest and most powerful beings in Middle-earth, would now fight the battle for them, their champion against the darkness.  Yet he wasn’t glad, and a sick feeling lay in his stomach like a coiled serpent.

Though he was pleased that Frodo no longer carried the ring.  That alone lifted Sam’s spirits.  His friend could be his old self again and things would be as they were before this darkness touched them all.  Galadriel was old and wise, and she would know what to do.  From here on they would be safe.

But, he wondered, was this what Gandalf had wanted?  Was this what Gandalf died for?  Frowning, Sam imagined what the wizard would have said, had he been there at the mirror that night.  Would he have trusted Galadriel?

‘It isn’t your place to question,’ Sam muttered, shaking his head.

‘Question what?’ asked a voice behind him. 

Sam glanced over his shoulder, a little startled to have been interrupted in his reverie, but as Pippin ventured nearer, Sam let out a sigh scratched his head.

‘Oh, nothing,’ he replied.  ‘I was just thinking out loud.’

‘About the Shire?’ Pippin asked.  ‘Merry and I were just talking.  It feels so strange to be finally going home.  It almost isn’t real.’

Coming to sit beside Sam, Pippin cast a thoughtful look towards Frodo. ‘Is he well now?’

Sam shrugged.  ‘He’s been sleeping for the most part, which ought to be good I reckon.  Strider thinks it’s so, at any rate.  Though he said there’s no way to ever be rid of what he carried, even now it’s found another bearer.  A part of that thing will always be upon his shoulders, no matter where we go, or where the Ring goes.  So no matter what happens now, in a way the darkness has won.  For things’ll never be the same.’

‘Merry said the same thing a moment ago.  That even if we do decide to go back, the Shire can never be the same.  Not without Bilbo and Gandalf.  There’ll always be something missing, and probably we will be the only ones to know for certain what it is.’

‘What do you mean, if we decide to go back?  You don’t want to go home?’

‘I’m not sure.  I don’t know what to do, or what is the right thing to do.’

Sam considered the other Hobbit for a moment.  ‘Neither do I,’ he admitted.  ‘Though I know I should get Mister Frodo home, somehow it doesn’t feel right to leave.’

‘It doesn’t feel like this is the end,’ observed Pippin.

‘I hope it is though,’ said Sam.  ‘For I do want to feel at home again.’

II

Boromir followed his Elven escort along a path strewn with golden leaves.  If his mood had been better, he might have found it pleasing to behold, but the Captain of Gondor scowled at everything around him, unable to shift the uneasy feeling in his chest. 

Finally the elf, who spoke not a word of the Common Speech and so had said nothing to Boromir for an hour as they walked, darted over a copse and down into a ditch below.  There they found the Lord of Lórien kneeling on the leaves with his back towards them.  The escort whispered something in his native tongue, then left, giving Boromir a wary look as he passed.  Though the elf disappeared from sight, Boromir hoped he had not gone far, since he would be needed to get them back to Caras Galadhon once this meeting was over.

As Boromir approached, Celeborn glanced up with a distant, mournful look in his eyes, echoing Boromir’s sentiments precisely – a resigned expression of one who knows evil is coming his way and that he can do nothing to stop it.

‘I hope I am not disturbing you,’ Boromir began warily.  ‘I was told you might give me counsel on a matter which has troubled me these past few days?’

‘In these unsettled times, my advice may prove of little use, for I no longer see the path as clearly as I once did.  Yet I will try to help you if I can,’ said Celeborn.  Something tugged at Boromir’s heart to look upon the Elven lord.  For a moment he remembered his father, years ago when he and Faramir were children, and Denethor had sat upon his bed with his head low just as Celeborn’s was now, two days after Finduilas breathed her last.

Shaking off the memory, Boromir paced around Celeborn.  ‘When I left Rivendell I knew what I must do.  My loyalty to my country and my city guided me, as did the advice of Elrond and of Gandalf.  Yet Gandalf has fallen, and now we no longer have that purpose which Elrond entrusted to us.  Now I am not sure which way to turn.’

‘Which road does your heart prefer?’

‘In my heart I long to return to Gondor,’ Boromir told him.  ‘I dream each night of the White City and with each dream, my sleep grows ever more disturbed.  I see visions that are the stuff of nightmares, but hold more terror for they seem real.  I see my city burning, my father and brother slain, my land nothing more than a field of corpses over which the orcs of Mordor trudge on their way to conquest.’

‘Now that Lórien holds the power of the Enemy that may come to pass,’ Celeborn admitted quietly.  ‘For the Dark Lord will surely look to us now as his adversary, and will be set upon besieging us until his treasure is back in his possession.  Before Gandalf and his company slew the dragon of the Lonely Mountain and brought some safety to the northern lands, Sauron would have used the drake to attack us and Imladris.  Now he must rework his plans.  He will most likely travel north out of Mordor with his host, and will perceive Gondor as an obstacle in his journey to war, a land he must conquer if his armies are to reach this realm.  He may also bring in Men from the East, therefore Gondor and Rohan shall be in greatest peril.  I hold no hope for either land.’

‘The men of Gondor will not surrender.  Till the last of us, we shall fight.’

‘And the last of you may fall.  Sauron knows he faces an enemy of wisdom and power.  He knows that the line of Finwë, which battled his master Morgoth, lives on and now challenges the Shadow again.  The old ways of Beleriand have returned to us, and if the North unites, he will be defeated by his own power.  Therefore he will stop at nothing to attack Lórien before the northern kingdoms can be fortified.’

Boromir stared at the Elven Lord.  ‘You speak so calmly of all this, yet what you describe is the annihilation of my people!’

‘I speak calmly because you sought advice, not to know my innermost fears.  Those, though sincere, would be of no use to you now.’

‘Yet it is not your land that will be squashed like an insect underfoot.  While the Elves sit safe, with Sauron’s power to guard them, what care you for fragile Men?    Why must Gondor fall so that your people can rule supreme?’

‘We seek no such thing, Boromir, son of Denethor!  Gondor would be in danger no matter where the ring went or who bore it.  Sauron has long desired the destruction of Men.  His plans have not changed since Galadriel’s decision, they shall merely be expedited.’

‘But given time and warning we might have prepared…’

‘True, yet that reasoning is also of little use,’ said Celeborn, rising.  ‘His attacks on Gondor have most likely begun by now.  He will not waste time.’

‘Then I cannot delay either,’ said Boromir after a pause.  ‘I must go to Gondor.  I must go to my people.’

‘Even if it would mean death?  You would be welcome to remain here if you chose.’

Boromir glowered and shook his head, then turned and climbed back to the copse.  He did not think Celeborn had been serious in that suggestion, yet he wished to make sure his reply was clearly felt.

‘Do not think,’ Celeborn called after him, ‘that I am pleased with this outcome.  Do not think that I am apathetic to your plight or to your people’s danger.  Yet there is little now that I can do to change the course of things.’

‘Perhaps there is little I can do,’ replied Boromir, turning to look back.  ‘Yet I will not sit here idle while my city is ravaged.’

~*~

Faramir grabbed the roots of a tree to haul himself a little farther along the ground.  His bones ached, his leg was a flaming mass of pain, yet he kept moving, yard by agonising yard, without knowing where he was headed.

Though he no longer heard fighting, the clamour of battle still rang in his ears.  So many of them, coming so swiftly across the river!  Yet even if they had spotted the orcs in time, the outcome would have been the same, for they were outnumbered at least twenty to a man.  Never since the bridge was broken seven months before had Faramir seen such a force sent out of Mordor.  Orcs leapt at him from every direction.  His body was splattered with blood both black and red, and he had soon lost sight of his men in the chaos.  The world was a mass of flailing steal and inhuman cries.

How he had escaped, he did not know.  Perhaps he had been left for dead.  But Faramir had awoken in the mulch on the riverbank, his clothes sodden and his body broken.  He had been able to twist around enough to catch a glimpse of his legs and saw bone pierce the wounds; it hurt to breathe and he tasted blood on his lips.  But he was alive and therefore only one thought came to him.  He began to crawl, hoping to make it, somehow, back to Minas Tirith to raise the alarm, in case he truly was the last survivor.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard creatures screeching, as terrifying as an eagle’s cry, yet harsher and more piercing.  Slowly, as he crawled, he heard those cries grow louder and nearer, though whatever made them did not appear as yet.

He had no idea how far he had travelled, but after only a short time he was exhausted.  He clawed at the earth and pulled himself across the dirt, but then his strength gave out and he lay, catching his breath.  All manner of nightmares crossed his mind, as if they had been waiting for him to pause before attacking.  What if, he thought, the enemy had not been delayed by the rangers’ efforts, and now pushed on towards the heart of Gondor?  Was Minas Tirith under siege?  He did not know how long he had been unconscious.  There was a chance the battle could be over and Gondor lost.  The thought of it sickened him and made his heart pound. 

With renewed effort, he dug his fingers into the soil and pulled himself along, gasping as his injured leg scraped across a stone.  Again he halted, frozen for a second by the pain.  He had no hope of reaching Minas Tirith in time, if indeed he could manage to stay alive, but he had no choice.  At least this way he would die for a purpose.

As he fought to control his breathing and readied himself for the next assault, however, Faramir heard the leaves rustle behind him.  A moment of silence followed and he waited, but no blow came.  Instead he felt a pair of strong hands on his shoulders and heard his own name spoken in a whisper.

‘Lie still,’ said Damrod, ‘and do not make a sound.’

Both men stayed immobile, whilst in the distance, harsh voices barked across the air.  At least five or six orcs, Faramir thought.  The voices grew louder and he heard the creatures thrashing through the trees, but soon the noise faded again as they passed by.  Only when there was silence though did Damrod move again.

‘I thought you dead,’ he said, tearing a strip from his green cloak to bind up Faramir’s wounds.  ‘I thought us all dead.’

‘How many survived?’ asked Faramir, rolling onto his back once Damrod had done his work, though it took a great effort.

Damrod shook his head.  ‘I know not.  I saw some of our people heading north, and I tried to go with them, but the orcs kept coming.  I managed to kill those who attacked me, but by then I was alone.  I have found corpses, but you are the first living soul I have seen.  Osgiliath and Ithilien must be lost.’

‘Do not say so,’ Faramir replied. 

‘I say so, for I cannot see that it could be any other way.  There had to be ten thousand of them in that attack alone.  The Enemy has finally made his move.  In the months since the bridge was broken he has built up an army to sweep over Gondor and finish what he tried to do when Elendil was king in Arnor.  Now is the reckoning for the Dúnedain.’

‘Only if we surrender to that fate,’ said Faramir breathlessly, as Damrod helped him to sit up and offered him a water skin.  ‘We must make for Minas Tirith and warn them, finding any survivors we can along the road.’

‘If Minas Tirith still stands.’

‘So long as there is life in me, the White City shall not go unguarded.  And so long as but one of us still breathes, Gondor shall not fall.’

‘We have known this day would come.  He hates our kind, and will not rest until we are destroyed.’

‘Then we cannot make his task easier by our submission,’ said Faramir.  ‘Let me rest a moment, then you must help me make it back to the Citadel.  They must be warned, if they do not already know of the danger we face.’

The two men struggled to stand, Faramir leaning heavily on his companion, but they travelled less than a yard before Damrod flung them both back to the ground, yelling out a warning.  The cry from above drowned out his words and seared through Faramir’s brain as though something inside his head had broken.  The beat of monstrous wings sounded in the skies and a thick shadow swept over them.

The Nazgûl’s beast swooped so low they might have reached up and touched its belly, but it paid them no heed.  Once it had flown past, Damrod lifted Faramir once again, and both watched as the creature overtook them.  Looking upwards, they saw three more, circling in the distance.

‘Osgiliath,’ said Damrod.  ‘I knew it.  The Enemy moves like brushfire over the land.’

‘Then we cannot afford to delay,’ Faramir told him.  ‘But I rely on you to get us home.’

~*~

The messenger from Dol Amroth walked up to the Steward’s chair and all but collapsed at Denethor’s feet.  He bowed, pulling the rolled up parchments from his satchel while he caught his breath, having run from the lowest tier to the Citadel.

‘What news?’ asked Denethor, leaning forward and watching the messenger’s every move.  His noble brow was furrowed yet he remained composed, and even when he read the contents of the letters he showed no signs of panic, unlike some of the advisors and officials lingering around the hall.

‘Imrahil has his fleet ready?’ asked the Steward.  ‘I cannot send any more men to his aid.  The Enemy has crossed the river, and Gondor’s armies must be ready to hold them back.  Already I am told that Ithilien is overrun, and that the Southrons have massed on the borders of Lebennin.  Imrahil must hold the coasts against the Corsairs, for if we are forced to do battle on three fronts, we are lost.’

‘My Lord,’ muttered the messenger, bowing.

‘Have this man taken to the guesthouse and given food before he returns to Dol Amroth, but understand you must leave by morning with these orders,’ Denethor instructed as the messenger left.  ‘What reports come from Osgiliath?’

‘The battle continues on the west bank, but orcs are moving southwards through Ithilien and will soon join the battle,’ replied one of the courtiers.  ‘They are coming down from the Ephel Dúath, and crossing the river unchallenged now, holding all the lands around Cair Andros.  And Sauron’s black riders have now been seen with them.’

‘Send out our messengers across the land.  I want reports from all quarters, that all our able-bodied men are mustered, and ready the city’s defences. I wish to be ready to hold Minas Tirith against the enemy by the morrow.’

‘But My Lord…’

‘Once the realm of Gondor was taken by surprise with the armies of the Dark Tower spilled from Mordor.  Never again shall he have that advantage.  Obviously he intends to bring war to our doorstep.  Well we shall be waiting for him.  Ready the army.’

‘My Lord.’

Denethor considered his court gravely.  ‘And my sons?  There is no sign of either of them?'

After a pause, the courtier replied, ‘There has been no news, My Lord.  We know nothing of Boromir, and as for Faramir, so far no survivors of that battle have been found.’

Denethor nodded and sank into a sombre meditation.  Then with a sudden flurry of movement he swept out of his chair and strode off past the empty throne and into the stairwell on the northern side of the Tower Hall.  Snatching a torch from a holder on the wall, he climbed the spiralling steps into the upper chambers, then took to the central stair for the arduous journey to the very top of the tower. 

Waiting for him there, in the uppermost chamber, were a chair and a lone table draped in black cloth.  Denethor sat for a while considering this table before he finally pulled off the covering and revealed the object beneath.  The stone sphere sat in the middle of the table, showing nothing but his distorted reflection on its polished surface.  But then as Denethor concentrated and set his palm upon it, he felt the palantir’s power in his mind, like a sudden, overwhelming fear.

He closed his eyes for a second, focussing his thoughts on the task at hand, then let his mind look over the realm, grimacing as he received the images of battle.  All Ithilien seemed ablaze with fighting, the land black with orcs, while to the south, he saw the Haradrim swathed in dark greys, trudging over the countryside of Lebennin, amidst fires and screams.  In Dol Amroth, the lighthouses smouldered, reduced to blackened stumps sticking out of the ocean, while fire still raged in the town itself, ships burning in the harbour and fiery arrows darting across the night sky. 

‘Gondor is no more,’ said a voice within his mind.  ‘It is finished, Caretaker.’

‘By the might of Elendil were you cast down,’ Denethor rejoined.  ‘And by the swift thought of Isildur was your power taken.  Men have bested you before and we shall do so again.’

‘Gondor will fall.’

‘Your armies will never breach the walls of Minas Tirith.’

‘You have no army that can contain the might of Mordor.  Dotards hiding behind crumbling walls…’

‘I will destroy you,’ thought Denethor.

‘You will perish.’

‘With my last vestige of strength I shall fight you.’

‘Your sons will perish.’

Denethor hesitated, but then redoubled his concentration.  ‘You cannot break our will.  For we believe in our fight.  While we know we are on the path of righteousness, we have hope, and while that hope remains you cannot subdue us.’

In his mind, Denethor saw the White City, yet the surrounding plains seemed to be covered in an ocean of deep greys.  Only as he concentrated did the Steward see that it was an army of orcs, moving ever closer to Minas Tirith, which lay in ruin and flame.  Denethor winced at the thought, but held steady and forced one idea to pass through the channels of the palantir.

‘It shall not come to pass, so long there is but one of my line still alive.’

The stone then showed him the Citadel, and an overwhelming sense of mockery hit Denethor.  Orcs filled the courtyard of the fountain.  Some hacked at the white tree, while the rest busied themselves with the slaughter of the Citadel guards.  A small group huddled over something near the edge of the courtyard.  They worked amidst the chaos for a long time, then finally stepped back and lifted a wooden frame until it was vertical, looking down over the city. 

Denethor’s eyes widened.  Lashed to the frame was a bloodied mess, unmistakably a body, in the armour he had commissioned for his son.

‘Boromir…’

‘The age of Men has ended,’ rasped the voice, much as Denethor fought to block it from his mind. 

He pulled his hand back from the stone and immediately was alone.  For a long while he sat trembling, a cold sickness in his belly.  Each time he visited the chamber, it grew harder to push aside the vile thoughts seeping through the palantir.  Each time he found himself more exhausted than the last.  How long before he was too old and too weak to battle any longer?

He took a moment to convince himself that the visions had been nothing more than taunts.  They were not true predictions and they meant nothing.  Boromir was safe in Rivendell.  And the White City would not be taken.  It could not be taken.

Dejectedly he sank back in the chair and stared at the wall.  He had not found Faramir, nor had a hint as to his fate.

Yet he had gleaned a little of the Enemy’s intentions, even if it was only a vague impression.

Something had changed.  There was no time for planning or slow invasions out of Mordor.  Something had forced the Enemy to move. 

Sauron needed Gondor.

Once the aftertaste of his ordeal had faded, Denethor left the chamber and headed downstairs to the Hall once again, only as he reached the doorway, he spotted one of his guards, a man named Beregond, hurrying across the tiled floor towards him.  From the look in the man’s eyes, there was no good news on the way, the Steward thought.

‘What is it?’ he asked as he came out to meet the servant in the Hall. 

‘My lord,’ replied Beregond with a bow.  ‘Faramir and…’

‘Faramir?  Where?  He has returned?’

The attendant looked grave.  ‘The Houses of Healing, My Lord.  Ioreth said…’

Denethor swept past him and strode out of the hall, a few of his aides following along hesitantly behind.  Though once they had descended to the lower tier and reached the door to the Houses of Healing, Denethor curtly dismissed them all and headed in alone. 

Inside, all was dark and warm, torched flickering along the corridors.  Ioreth, eldest of the women in attendance there, stood by one of the many doorways, looking into the room.  She glanced up as Denethor closed the outer door and she offered the Steward a faint smile.

‘My Lord,’ she said quietly, coming to meet him.

‘Where is my son?’ Denethor demanded.

Ioreth gestured towards the room she had been standing by and then stepped aside to let him enter.  At the far end, Denethor saw a group of healers gathered around one of the beds, and with them stood a man in the green raiment of the Ithilien rangers.  On seeing the Steward, this man hurried forward and bowed.

‘My Lord Denethor,’ Damrod began.  ‘We have…’

Denethor jostled past him and went to the bedside, gazing down with a troubled scowl.  Faramir’s dark hair was caked with sweat and blood, his face ashen and his eyes tightly closed.  The healers subtly nudged Denethor out of their path as they worked, but Ioreth stayed by his side.

‘He has been too long in the cold and his wounds have bled unhindered,’ she explained.  ‘Though kept warm and with some rest, he ought to recover.  His leg is the gravest concern.  The bones are smashed, and much of the wound has grown poisonous.  If the flesh has rotted too deeply, it may be necessary to remove the limb.’

‘There must be some other way,’ said Denethor.

‘Believe me, My Lord, we shall try all within our power.  Yet it may come to that, if we are to save his life.’

Denethor breathed deeply.  This was good news, he told himself.  For days he had expected to see his son brought back to the city as a corpse.  But Faramir lived.  Whatever injuries he might have, whatever ill fate might linger over him, he was alive.  If only Denethor could have been sure that he could now protect his son.

‘Do whatever you must,’ said the Steward.  ‘But do not let him die.’

He withdrew to the door and stood there in the shadows, watching the healers with a dark expression.   He wished he could drag a stool to the bedside and remain there until Faramir awoke, like any other father.  But as always, duty would soon call him away.  So many times, he had stood by the door of Faramir’s room, watching the nurse as she tended his cold, or his fever, or whatever illness afflicted him.  So many times Denethor had watched his children, staying there as long as he possibly could, before returning to his advisors and his councils.  Strange how, when the world was on the brink of such chaos, some things remained forever consistent.

After a while, Ioreth broke away from the others and came to his side.

‘Will you stay, My Lord?  I can have a chair brought in for you, something to eat perhaps?’

Denethor sighed and shook his head.  He felt the last seconds slipping from his grasp.  ‘I must return to the Citadel.  You will inform me if there is any change…’

‘Of course.’

As Denethor left the building, he saw a group of soldiers pass, and felt the city’s bustle all around him.  Already Minas Tirith was making ready for war.  Denethor returned to the uppermost tier and wandered to the parapet to look down upon his city and, in the distance, the fields of Pelennor.  Across the river the land looked darker than before, though it took a moment to realise that the shadow there was moving.  Just how many of the Enemy’s forces were gathered at the feet of the Ephel Dúath, Denethor could not be certain, but there were enough to send a chill through his bones.

So long he had planned for an attack of this scale.  With Boromir and the lieutenants, he had plotted the best positions for Gondor’s armies and thought of every possible situation.  Yet somehow the day seemed to have come unexpectedly, creeping up on them like an assassin in the dark.

So much history lay in the stones of the city, history bought by blood and courage.  Could this truly be the end of it all?  Would the name of Denethor be remembered as the last ruler of a forgotten realm?

With a deep sigh, the Steward returned to his Citadel, as all around him, weapons were brought out of the armoury, smiths kindled their forges and the White City prepared for what might be its last siege.

III

Sam awoke slowly, his feet cold and his back achy.  The breeze kicked up a few of the deeply golden leaves around him and he breathed in the damp air.  The mornings had grown colder since their arrival in Lórien, and with the dawn came a faint but chilling mist.  What’s more, he had more and more trouble sleeping as the days wore on.  Though Frodo had told him not to pay heed to the visions in the mirror, those images refused to leave him and returned each night with greater ferocity.  He did not truly want to leave the Wood, or face the journey across the mountains again, but at the same time the Shire pulled at his heart, the folk he knew there dancing round his head like ghosts across the barrows.

It was in the mornings, after those dreams, that Sam missed Gandalf the most.  Gandalf would know exactly what the signs meant, and would tell them what to do.

Sam got up and glanced down at the ground, where Frodo’s blanket lay crumpled and abandoned.  Merry and Pippin sat a few yards away, tending a small cooking fire and chatting quietly, showing no signs that anything was amiss, but Sam still felt his heart leap and frowned about the wood, looking for some trace of his companion. 

Pippin glanced over and waved.  ‘Do you want some?’ he asked, gesturing towards the pan.  ‘It’s some Elvish thing, bit like oatcakes.’

‘There’s only four left,’ added Merry, giving his cousin a slightly chiding look.

 ‘Where did Frodo go?’ Sam asked.

‘For a walk, he said,’ Pippin replied.  ‘He went off that way.’

Sam nodded, frowning, and followed Pippin’s directions off into the trees.

‘Don’t you want any breakfast?’ Merry called after him, but got no reply.

Sam walked a long while and was a fair distance beyond the wall of Caras Galadhon before he caught up with Frodo.  He spotted his friend up ahead, moving slowly with his head low, and immediately Sam broke into a run.

‘Mister Frodo,’ he shouted.  Frodo turned and looked blankly at him.

‘What’s the matter, Sam?’

Sam hesitated.  ‘Well, nothing I suppose.  Just I wondered if you were all right, what with you leaving so early and all…’

‘It’s not so early!  And I’m fine, Sam,’ said Frodo.  ‘I just needed to think.’  He let out a quiet laugh.  ‘Hard to do that with your snoring…’

‘I don’t snore,’ Sam protested.  ‘Anyhow, the others’ve made breakfast, not that there’ll be much left by now I reckon.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Me neither,’ sighed Sam, following Frodo as he wandered farther into the wood. 

‘You’re not?’ Frodo asked him, looking slightly surprised.

‘I just wish if we were going home, we’d get going.  Now you don’t have the ring, there’s no reason for us to stay here.  There’s nothing more we can do here.  And what I saw…what the Lady showed me…if that’s true, then we ought to be getting back to the Shire.’

‘Things have changed, Sam.  We’re not on the same path as we were…’

‘Doesn’t mean there’s not trouble back home,’ said Sam.  ‘And I can’t sit here eating Elvish oatcakes and singing songs while I know there might be bad things happening to my folk.’

‘We can’t go alone.’

‘I know.  But I thought we could ask Strider.  He said he might go to Rivendell and ask Elrond what he’s to do.  We could go with him, just like Gandalf told us to.  And maybe the road’ll be safer now.  The Black Riders oughtn’t to trouble you.’

‘No,’ mused Frodo.  ‘I suppose not.  Perhaps things will be safe now that the Ring is here.  Though I will be sad to leave.’

‘At least that ring has someone now who can tame it.  I don’t claim to know about Elf magic, Mister Frodo, but what I saw that night showed me there’s a lot of power here, such as we can only imagine.  Better if we just go and leave them to it, and we can make a start at getting back to normal…’

‘Listen, Sam!’ Frodo whispered, raising his hand to stop Sam’s next barrage of persuasion.  Sam edged forward and tried to follow Frodo’s gaze, but all he saw were trees and flowers, merging into a haze in the distance.  But then after a while he discerned a shadow that seemed out of place, something moving cautiously from bush to bush, but still too quick for Sam to make out its true shape.

‘The creature has returned,’ said a voice, seeming to come from nowhere.  Both Hobbits jumped a little in fright, as the elf Haldir stepped calmly between them.  Neither one had heard him, or his two fellow wardens, approaching.  ‘We have watched it for a while.  It seems to be circling the city, edging closer.  I must compliment its persistence and its agility.’

The undergrowth fell still and silent.  Gollum, skulking somewhere about ten yards away from the group, had evidently spotted his pursuers.

‘What will you do with him?’ asked Frodo.

Haldir sniffed at the air.  ‘Lord Celeborn has given orders that he be captured and brought back to the city to answer questions, now that Aragorn has told us what the creature is.  Beyond that, his fate will be in the Lord and Lady’s hands.’

Haldir gestured to the other elves and the three spread out, eventually disappearing into the woods.  Frodo remained rooted to the spot, watching the place where Gollum had last been.

‘I shouldn’t like to be that Gollum,’ remarked Sam.

Frodo didn’t answer.  He gave the woods one last, heedful glance and then turned away, heading back towards the city of the trees.

They made their way slowly back to Caras Galadhon, though only Sam kept up the conversation on his own for the most part.  Finally when they returned to the pavilion, they found Merry and Pippin gone.  Shortly after they stepped into the clearing, however, Sam and Frodo saw another figure approaching along one of the woodland paths.

Legolas smiled faintly in greeting, but his expression generally was one of preoccupied concern.  He headed directly for the stairs that coiled around the trunk of the nearest mallorn.

‘Will you come?’ he asked them.

‘Where?’ asked Sam.

‘To the Lord and Lady.  We are all summoned.’

~*~

Frodo thought instantly of the Council of Elrond as he stepped up onto Galadriel’s talan, though the assembly of elves there seemed far more austere and imposing.  Whereas Elrond had commanded respect and attention in a subtle, almost gentle way, the Galadhrim seated in a ring around the Lord and Lady’s chairs drew the eye more by their severity.  Several amongst them wore gilt armour, and Frodo found himself thinking of all the stories he had heard, either in the Shire or since he started on his journey; tales of ancient battles when the Elves fought the evil things of the world.

Merry, Pippin, Aragorn and Gimli were present also, though Boromir was nowhere to be seen.  Legolas strode directly to his place, but Frodo and Sam, feeling incredibly conspicuous as they arrived, last of their group, slipped over to their fellows and tried to settle into their chairs as noiselessly as possible.  Frodo threw a glance towards Aragorn as if to say ‘what is going on?’ but Aragorn simply gave a wary look and concentrated again on the two empty thrones.

Finally then, the murmur of conversation died down a little and Celeborn entered, sombre like the rest of his kin.  He gave Frodo a respectful and knowing nod as he sat down, then moments later Galadriel came to his side.  Frodo was not sure what he had expected, if he thought Galadriel might have changed or not, but her appearance stunned him nonetheless.  She seemed far larger than before, even though she had towered over the Hobbits when they first arrived.  Though the radiance all Elves seemed to possess still shone and gave a lustrous quality to her skin, somehow Frodo had the impression of solidity: that Galadriel had grown more real since their last meeting.  Glancing around the company, he could not tell if the awe they showed was the same as when they were first introduced to the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood, or if they too could see the change.  Perhaps it took one who knew the burden to recognise its effects upon others, he mused. 

He could not see the Ring, but Frodo noticed a light silver chain about Galadriel’s neck, disappearing beneath the white fabric of her dress.  He knew in his heart that the Ring was there.  His skin prickled, the same way it did when one of his lesser-loved relatives was in the room. 

‘Many tales have been recounted these past days,’ said Galadriel with great deliberation, ‘and the glory of the Elder Days has been often on our lips.  Yet now is not the hour to muse upon the past.  Too long have we sat about and wept for lands and days that are lost.  Too long have we mourned those who died, whether for a cause or for none.  Now is not the time to pity ourselves and think how sore our lot is.  It is the time to consider how we are to live.  By now you all will know what Frodo Baggins brought past our borders.  Know now that I have it.  I make no secret of that fact.  It was offered to me and I accepted.  For no longer can we sit in the shadow of the trees and hope that the world will right itself some day, or sit content in the knowledge that we may flee into the West if things grow too uncertain.  Not all of us have that luxury.’

She cast a glance towards Celeborn, then rose, clasping her hands gently in front of her.  ‘We have thought since the beginning of this Age that our time had ended.  No realm suffered greater in the battles of the Second Age than those of Amdir and of Oropher.  Sorely we know how diminished are our numbers!  Yet we need consider ourselves a scattered, powerless race no longer.  Too long we have feared the Shadow, knowing that with a stroke he might destroy what little remained of Elvendom in Middle-earth.  Things, however, have changed.  His power is no longer in the grasp of some cowering creature in a cave, or a man easily deceived.  It has found its way to a hardy folk, who braved the perils of the wilderness and brought it safely here, where it might be controlled.  Tamed.’

Frodo listened, finding his eyes drawn to the silver chain.  If he looked hard enough, he could almost make out the shape of the Ring beneath the fabric of her dress, moving with her as she breathed.  It took great effort to tear his gaze away.

‘Yet,’ Galadriel continued, ‘to think ourselves strong and safe simply because this thing has come to us would be folly.  The Ring was not made for our kind to wield.  It does not want to be used for good, and pines for its master.  And he will not rest knowing that his enemy of old possesses it.  Sauron’s forces have already left the boundaries of Mordor and are moving across the South.  If the Men of Gondor and Rohan can withstand him, then we will have time, but he will use whatever power he has, whatever servants he can spare, and will consider naught but their destruction, so that he might bring his army to our doorstep.  We must be ready.’

Aragorn straightened slightly in his chair.  For a moment he lowered his gaze, with an air of mournful contemplation.

‘There are too few of us to think of open war,’ Galadriel went on.  ‘With all the might of Númenor behind us, with the hosts of Rivendell and Lindon at our sides, still we scraped but a hollow, hard-won victory.  We cannot arm ourselves and go to Mordor, thinking to destroy Sauron yet.  Moreover, were we to confront the Dark Lord, his Ring would engineer some way to return to him, and then all would truly be lost.  Instead we must think back to the old ways, to the days of Menegroth and Gondolin.  We must fortify the north against his incursion, make safe these lands and only then can we think to build an army bold enough to tackle Mordor.  But before our defences can be wrought, we must be sure that the shadow is fully gone from our lands.’

‘Dark things still move in my father’s realm,’ said Legolas.  ‘Spies of the Enemy abound.’

‘Already the Dark Lord thought to coax the dragons in the north into his service,’ added Celeborn.  ‘Any defences we set here would simply be eroded by his servants out of Mirkwood.  He would use them to spy upon us and find our weaknesses.’

‘Agreed,’ said Galadriel, ‘that is the first matter we must deal with.  Years ago, Gandalf the Grey spoke to our council and bade us bring war to the darkness that is in Mirkwood.  Years ago we thought we had forced the evil out of that stronghold, yet the shadow has remained.  Some part of Sauron’s malevolence still broods there and until it is defeated, we cannot think to face the forces of Mordor.  Dol Guldur, therefore, shall be our first battlefield.’

‘You think to attack again?’ asked Legolas.

‘Legolas Thranduilion, your journey has already been arduous, yet we would ask but one more thing of you.  If you would take this letter to your father: I ask that he would muster what arms he has and join with our people in this assault.  We would not think to set ourselves apart from our kin, now that this power comes to Lórien.  It is not for Lórien alone, but for all the free folk of Middle-earth.  King Thranduil would be most welcome as our ally in the new age that will come.’

‘My Lady,’ answered Legolas.  He stood up and bowed, before taking the letter from Celeborn.  ‘I will do as you wish.  But as you said, my father’s people suffered the greatest losses when that Last Alliance went to war.  We are few and the older ones still remember how their hearts broke when their kin were slain.  I fear it will not be easy to rouse them from their caves and bring them to war again.’

‘So we expected,’ said Galadriel.  ‘And none shall think ill of Thranduil, if he chooses to remain within his halls.  But it is our hope that others might come to aid us in this cause.  For it shall not only be the Elves of the wood that benefit, should we make the north safe from the Shadow.’

She glanced at each of the assembled company in turn, but looked to Gimli for the longest time.  He shuffled in his seat and seemed (as far as Frodo could see at any rate) to turn a little redder around the cheek. 

‘Though our people have their differences,’ Celeborn began with an air of awkward reluctance, ‘we are all at peril from this foe.  We would not think to make safe the lands of the north without extending that protection to all folk.’

‘What you’re asking,’ said Gimli, ‘is if my people would fight for you?’

‘Whatever ills have befallen us in the past,’ said Galadriel, ‘they matter little to those of us who live now, and who must act now.  As I have said, we do not wish to dwell on past things, but to sculpt a future that will be secure for all of us.  I will not lie to you, Gimli, son of Glóin, the aid of your people would be invaluable in this fight.  All I ask is that you would take my word to your king in Erebor, and let him weigh the arguments himself.  If he should favour an alliance with us, we shall set aside all grudges, and shall commit our hearts instead to forging this peace for us all.  I do not ask you to be my advocate, nor should you feel torn between allegiance to your kin and the friendship you share with some of my people.  I would simply ask that you carry this letter.  I place no greater bond on you than this.’

‘If Sauron thinks to attack all free folk in his path,’ Gimli replied, ‘so let him try!  And if we are to go to war, to me it would make sense to fight together.  But it is not up to me.  I will take whatever you wish to Erebor, and gladly.’

Galadriel offered him a glowing smile.  As Frodo glanced towards the Dwarf, he thought he saw an even redder tinge come to Gimli’s face.

‘So be it,’ she sighed, looking as though a great weight had just been taken from her. Though soon after, her smile faded and she paused, bringing her hand to her chest as if to rub at her heart.  A faint shadow passed across her face for an infinitesimal moment.  She then recovered her composure very quickly and straightened, standing tall and bold once more, though Celeborn still regarded her with grave concern, his brow furrowed.

‘Would that there was more time to make plans,’ Galadriel went on.  ‘But the Enemy will not wait and nor should we.  Therefore I have already arranged escorts from amongst my people, who will offer some protection for you on your journey.  If the spies of Sauron discern our plans they will put all effort into preventing you.’

Legolas nodded solemnly.  Frodo looked about, wondering if that was supposed to be the end of the council.  He recognised the same look in his friends’ eyes.  All four Hobbits exchanged glances, all waiting to hear the most important news of all.

‘Excuse me, Lady Galadriel,’ said Pippin at last, ‘but what is to happen to us?’

Galadriel cocked her head to one side and regarded them with a faint smile.  ‘Do you wish to return home?’

‘That’s just it,’ said Merry.  ‘What’s to happen to our home, if all the Elves are to make some stronghold in the north?  We’re a part of the north too, but we’ve no armies or war horses to lend to your cause.’

‘We have debated this,’ Celeborn replied.  ‘Your lands sit between Rivendell and the Havens.  Were the Enemy to find some way into the Shire, he would drive a wedge between our people and Círdan, and would bar any aid that might come from the sea.  So too would he prevent those who wished to make the journey from travelling to the Havens and sailing West.  Therefore you must understand that the safety of the Shire is of paramount importance.  We would not leave you to battle alone.’

‘But when you say you’ll strengthen the north,’ said Frodo, ‘how would that be done?  Would you build great walls or delve caves?’

‘Neither one, I hope!’ exclaimed Sam.  ‘Not in the Shire!’

‘The beauty and freedom of your fields would mean nothing were Sauron to cross its borders,’ said Celeborn.  ‘Great walls or deep tunnels might not be to your liking, but that at least would keep you alive.’

‘But if the Shire were to change,’ said Pippin, ‘then what would be the point in fighting to keep it free?  If we have to hide all the time…’

‘No one would seek to destroy that which you hold dear,’ interrupted Galadriel.  ‘I do not seek to make the Shire a fiefdom of my kingdom.  I will not echo the Dark Lord in his conquests.  I shall endeavour to be a silent guardian for you, to post watchmen at the borders and keep all evil things out.’

‘But whatever happens,’ sighed Pippin, ‘it will all change…’

‘Such would have happened, no matter what choices were made,’ Celeborn answered sharply, but still spoke each word as if it pained him.  ‘And without the protection we now offer, there would be no guarantee that your Shire would survive at all.’

By Frodo’s side, Sam squirmed slightly and frowned, his mind once again thrown to the predictions of the mirror. 

‘And what of Gondor?’ asked Aragorn suddenly.  ‘Are they to be left to the wolves while we ensure we are all safe?’

‘Boromir is ready to depart,’ replied Celeborn.  ‘We wish we could spare more arms to aid his cause, but we shall need all our army to secure these lands.  As it stands, Gondor has a chance to succeed, if the Steward and his men can hold their cities.  If we were to divide our already thin-spread forces all the more, and Sauron claimed the Ring victorious, then Gondor would surely fall.  Though it is by no means the ideal solution, it is the only choice we have.’

‘You have said you will return to Imladris,’ Galadriel carried on before Aragorn had a chance to say any more.  ‘My Galadhrim will go with you.  I intend to send messengers to Elrond and to Círdan, to inform them of these plans and to help mobilise their forces.  They will also be your escort, for you and the halflings.’

She stepped towards Aragorn, holding his gaze intently.  ‘Your path may no longer seem clear to you…’

‘I only wonder what has become of Elrond’s council, that the ring should be destroyed for none can wield it.  I worry, my lady, that if Elrond dared not try to harness its power…’

‘Elrond was a babe when I had seen an Age in Middle-earth.  If I feared failure, I would not take this burden upon my shoulders and put all others in my charge at risk.  Did Elrond and Gandalf not say that they might consider taking the ring to use for good?’

‘Gandalf said he might, and use it for good at least at first,’ Frodo told her.

‘Then he doubted himself.  I do not.  I have given grave thought to this matter, and I can see but one sure way to make our world safe.  And that is not to send an innocent into the fires of Mordor, or to rob him of his life and family.  Now we can be sure the Dark Lord cannot reach his Ring of Power, we can strengthen our forces, build our armies and make plans for the day when we are bold enough to destroy Sauron utterly.’

‘Then that is your plan?’ asked Aragorn.  ‘To fight?’

‘In time.  Your part in this need not be finished.  We fight for the freedom of Men as well as Elves, and Men will need a leader.  Take council again with Elrond if you will, but consider what it might mean to become the ally of Lórien.  Find your scattered people, your birthright, and join us in the final battle.  Like the Eldar, your people will need time to regroup and find their strength again.  We shall give you that time and offer protection while you are still weak.  Think on it.  But decisions need not be reached on this today, nor tomorrow.  Take the halflings to Rivendell and see them safely on their way home.  From there, your path will be yours to choose.’

~*~

Only seven days passed before the company was ready to depart.  As they left Caras Galadhon, the elves sang encouraging lilts and wished them well, but Frodo did not want to look back.  In his mind he pictured Galadriel waving to them, as she had done when they walked out of the city, and he saw the plain band of gold on its chain about her neck.  As he trudged through the fallen leaves and breathed in the freshly laundered spring air, he felt as though he had left all his belongings behind, and had to force himself to walk on without turning back.

Little conversation passed between them, and their grey-clad Elven escort marched ahead with militaristic rigidity, setting a brisk pace, until after a few hours they came to a clearing and the Elves formed two separate groups, each looking towards different paths.

Frodo stayed beside Aragorn and the other Hobbits, whilst Legolas and Gimli faced them and Boromir stood alone.

‘This is where we must say our farewells,’ said Legolas.  ‘I pray that you make it safely home, and that all things are well when you arrive.’

‘And you,’ replied Aragorn.

‘Don’t have a care for us, lad,’ laughed Gimli.  ‘I shall see these Elves steer clear of trouble!’

‘I do not doubt it,’ said Aragorn.

‘Who knows what the future may hold,’ Legolas continued.  ‘Yet if all goes well, I would be honoured if you would come to my land one day and would be my guests at our halls.’

‘Of course,’ said Merry.  ‘We’ll look forward to it.’

‘And it won’t be too long before we all meet again,’ added Pippin.  ‘All this’ll be over before we know it, won’t it?’

Legolas smiled, but did not answer.  Aragorn turned away.

‘Come then,’ he told the Hobbits,  ‘before we lose the light.  Boromir, do you travel with us or shall you also take your leave?’

‘I carry on alone from here,’ Boromir answered.  ‘Though perhaps it would be safer to cross the mountains and head south through the Gap of Rohan, I can make the journey in less time if I take the river.  Lord Celeborn has offered me one of his Elven boats.  With luck, I should reach Minas Tirith before it is too late.’

‘Then may the blessing of the Valar be with you,’ said Aragorn quietly.  ‘And Manwë’s winds carry you swiftly to your cause.’

Boromir nodded, and the company regarded him sadly as he set off.  Frodo wanted to wish him luck, but somehow it didn’t feel right, so though the others called out their farewells, Frodo stayed silent and simply waved.  Boromir returned the gesture and Frodo knew from his expression that he understood that silence.  Neither knew exactly what lay ahead, but both accepted that it could not be good.

‘That’s the end of it then,’ muttered Sam.  ‘Our part in this is finished, and we can go home and think no more of it.’

‘I hope so, Sam,’ replied Frodo, though he did not sound convinced.

IV

The curtain of the stars pulled back, allowing a new day to pass across the sky.  Clouds gathered, thick and white, blotting even the sun from view, and the crown of the mountains disappeared into their haze.  Cold winds danced around the stones and lifted the fine dusting of snow that lay atop the ice.  Another day of weakness and of suffering began, and the figure lain upon the peak of the mountain braced himself to count the hours once again.  Painfully the days passed and even more so the nights, when the bitter cold was all the more increased.  Despite his having been born of a race well used to the great stretch of time, each day seemed to last an eternity.  Yet he watched the skies with continued hope that one day something might come to alter his circumstances, even if it were Saruman’s orcs bringing a second death.

And then, that day, the Valar at last remembered him.

Staring at the white cloth of the sky, Gandalf beheld a speck, drawing nearer as he watched.  When the shape was close enough to make itself known, the wizard smiled weakly and, if he had had the strength, would have waved to the great bird swooping down towards him.  Whether sent by Radagast or perhaps by Aragorn or Elrond, the sight of Gwaihir brought a warm hope to Gandalf’s heart.

The eagle’s claw scratched against his skin, yet the grip was not uncomfortable and, as they took to the skies, was reassuringly firm.  It would have been easy to let sleep come, thought Gandalf, once they were on their way to Lothlórien, to release his mind for a while.  With luck he would sleep for a long while, lulled by the songs of the Elves, with Celeborn and Galadriel’s skills to heal his newly acquired form.  So fragile were these hroar, he mused, and he resolved to take better care of this new body, if he had the chance. 

For although the battle he had fought in Moria proved more taxing than any feat he had met in Middle-earth, Gandalf knew in his heart that greater deeds lay ahead.  A more perilous road twisted away from him and yet he could not see its end, nor indeed in which direction it led. 

Strange notes had entered the music of the world.  As he had lain, unclad, upon the mountain, Gandalf had no other companion but the natural rhythms of the world.  He had not listened to their song in a long time, for his human form made it more difficult to hear, but he had taken comfort from the voices of the rocks and land around him.  Though he noted the subtle change in their tune.  It was not enough to change the theme, not even enough to cause a discord, but it was there nonetheless. 

‘How I look forward to seeing the fences of Lórien,’ he said.  ‘My body needs rest, but my mind will only follow suit when I know where the pieces lie upon the board.  What news have you of Frodo?’

‘When last I saw the halflings,’ replied the Lord of the Eagles, ‘they had taken the road West.’

‘West?’

‘To Rivendell.  I saw them as I searched for you.’

‘Then they have turned back,’ mused Gandalf, his heart sinking.  A black mist seemed to fill his chest.

‘Perhaps they do not wish to fight in the Elvish war,’ said Gwaihir.

‘What Elvish war?’ asked Gandalf.  ‘Gwaihir, before we come to Lórien, you must tell me all that has happened.’

~*~

Celeborn had not felt the weight of armour on his shoulders for more than three thousand years.  Standing beneath the trees, alone in a clearing with the golden leaves drifting down to gather on the ground, he raised his sword and practised his strikes, as his body grew accustomed once more to being so heavily laden.  Annoying how sluggish his muscles had become.  No doubt to an outsider, the change would have been indiscernible and he would seem as sleek and fast as any Elven warrior, yet Celeborn felt the slowness in his movements.  It had been too long, he mused. 

Then with a sigh, he thrust his sword into the ground and walked away from it. 

‘Muilin dairador,’ he breathed.  ‘Will you not show me which is the proper path?’

He let the breeze wash against his face for a moment as he listened to the songs amongst the trees, though for once there was a drumbeat beneath the elves’ voices.  Celeborn grabbed his sword and swept towards a flight of wooden stairs, heading back up to the telain.  He passed over delicate walkways and hurried from platform to platform until he found himself above a clearing where part of the army had assembled. 

He came to the edge of the talan and stood with his arms folded, watching the young captain, Faelvallas, rap out his orders with unwarranted zeal.  They practised their formations and drills, trampling the leaves into the ground. 

Seeing Celeborn above the training ground, Faelvallas paused and saluted, though Celeborn waited a moment before returning the gesture, and he turned away immediately afterwards.

Heading up the next stairwell to the upper telain, Celeborn listened to the sound of regimented feet crushing the leaves.  Memories crystallised on the air before him.  Rarely had Lórien gone to war, but those few occasions were all too vivid in his mind.  Except that Celeborn did not remember the shining armour and the rousing chants quite so much as the carpet of death that covered the hills.

He did not dare look to the future any more, for he found it hard to separate those images of the past from his imaginings of days to come.

~*~

Faelvallas appeared suddenly before the Hobbits, having moved soundlessly through the woods to their pavilion.  He stood with his helm in the crook of his arm, his face far sterner than the others of his kin they had met in Lórien.  All but Frodo looked up at him with tired, slightly anxious expressions as he surveyed the group like a crow picking out a scrap to eat.

‘I am in command of your escort,’ he announced.  ‘Lady Galadriel has charged me to protect you, and see you safely back to your Shire.’

‘That’s very kind,’ replied Merry, with a dour yet respectful nod.

Faelvallas almost seemed to flinch. It took a moment before the Hobbits realised he was trying to smile. 

‘If you would gather up your things then,’ he said.  ‘The rest of the guard is waiting.’

He turned with military abruptness and disappeared into the trees.  After exchanging a few glances, the company gathered up their packs and followed the same path, with Aragorn walking slowly at the rear, his head low.  Sam, once or twice, gave Frodo a slight nudge at the elbow as they walked along, and then smiled encouragingly, but Frodo looked frequently over his shoulder as they drew farther away from the city.

‘I wonder,’ Pippin said conversationally, ‘how easy the journey will be with an escort?  I’m hoping it’ll be quicker, with less to challenge us.  I mean, if we have a couple of Elven soldiers with us to see anything nasty off…’

‘Not a couple,’ muttered Merry, as they reached a clearing amongst the mellyrn.  Ahead was a field of gold, or rather it was a pincushion of gold, for nothing moved.  Perhaps two hundred elves stood in tight ranks, completely still, their faces more emotionless than corpses.

Sam stared open mouthed.  Merry whistled and shook his head.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘that should see us home safe.’

‘Are they all for us?’ asked Pippin, looking up at Captain Faelvallas, who stood with an icy aura beside the group.

‘Of course,’ replied the captain.  ‘Lady Galadriel will honour her promise and ensure that you get home.’

‘Seems a large part of the army to send with only five people,’ remarked Aragorn.

Faelvallas made another smile-grimace.  ‘The Lady sets a high price on the liberty of the Shire,’ he replied.  ‘Come.  We have many miles to cross.’

‘Which way will we be going?’ asked Pippin, hurrying to keep up with Faelvallas, as the captain marched to the fore.  ‘We can’t go through Moria.’

‘I am aware of that,’ snapped Faelvallas.  ‘We will take the high passes.  We know the way, and the safe routes.  You need not trouble yourself.’

He barked orders in his native tongue and walked away.  Pippin watched him go and suddenly was surrounded by noise as the soldiers jerked into life.  Aragorn stepped up behind him and set a hand on his shoulder, muttering a quiet reassurance as he led the Hobbit back to the others.

Still, as he turned away, the Ranger threw a wary glance towards their ‘allies’.

~*~

Legolas strode across the stone bridge, with the Forest River gossiping gently below.  He had almost reached the steps on the far side when he realised he was alone.  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Gimli standing by the edge of the bridge, looking at his feet with a sombre frown.

‘What is it, friend?’ asked the elf, almost bemusedly.  ‘We have been on the road for days, and taken longer routes than we could in times of peace, and now we have only a few more steps to endure before we are in warm halls full of light and laughter.’

‘Aye,’ muttered Gimli, ‘there is that.’

‘Then what halts you?  Come, my father’s scouts spotted us ere we entered the wood, and will have told him we are coming.  There will be a feast already laid for us.’

Still Gimli did not move. 

‘What is it?’ Legolas asked him again.

Gimli took a deep breath.  ‘I’d hardly like to offend.  It was a kind thing to offer me hospitality here.’

‘A kind thing were we strangers,’ laughed Legolas, ‘but for companions, this is a duty!’

‘But I would not want to put you in bad stead with your father,’ Gimli admitted, then mumbled into his beard.  ‘I hear he does not have much liking for Durin’s folk.’

Legolas smiled and shook his head.  ‘Such things are rumour, spawned from mistake.  I know of what happened with your father, but I thought that matter had been settled.’

‘Aye, so it was,’ said Gimli.  ‘But since then I have heard stories.’

‘And they were naught but stories.  For even if my father might distrust your kin, he has faith in his own.  Whomever I call friend, he will welcome.  Now come, and then you can return to Erebor with tales of the friendship of the Elves!’

Gimli took a cautious step onto the bridge, as if it was made of paper.

‘There is venison,’ said Legolas.  Gimli glanced up.

‘And mead,’ the elf continued.  ‘And several different sorts of wine.’

The Dwarf overtook him and walked on towards the grassy plateau and the great gates of Thranduil’s palace.

A pair of guards in pale green robes met them at the entrance and led them down a narrow passage into the Great Hall.  Gimli stayed close to Legolas’s heels.  He peeked out from behind his friend and saw a wide, pillared chamber and up ahead a throne, where sat a figure with long silver hair and a crown of autumn leaves.  He rose and approached them, opening his arms to embrace his son.  No words passed between them, but Thranduil and Legolas hugged briefly and held each other’s hands for a moment.

‘Welcome home,’ Thranduil said quietly at last, then with the remnants of the glow from his reunion still on his features, he looked down at Gimli.

‘This is my friend,’ Legolas told him.  ‘Gimli, son of Glóin.’

Thranduil nodded.  Gimli stared back, seemingly undecided as to whether he should glower in defiance or implore for a welcome.  But after considering him for a while, the Elvenking gave a slight bow with his hand against his heart.

‘Then you shall be our honoured guest, Gimli son of Glóin, and again such errors that were made in years gone by might be set aside.’

‘Very kind,’ muttered Gimli, blushing slightly as he realised the Elves all around the hall had turned to look at him.

‘Bring food,’ Thranduil ordered, then turned to Legolas with a slight shadow in his eyes.  ‘And we shall talk, for I feel there is little time to waste.’

Legolas bowed, then followed his father to the throne. 

Another elf stood waiting there, arms folded and a stern but not unpleasant frown on his face.  He remained still until Thranduil and Legolas reached the throne, then he stepped down to meet them, patting Legolas gently on the arm.

‘Well met, brother,’ he said.  ‘And once again, the Valar are to be praised for your safe return.’

‘We may need prayers yet, Sadron,’ replied Legolas.  ‘I come with grave news from Lórien.’

‘There have been rumblings,’ mused Thranduil.  ‘Strange whispers from the Golden Wood, tales of our cousins and mysterious armies.’

‘They are more than whispers.  Lady Galadriel holds that which was thought lost.’

Thranduil’s eyes widened slightly and he quickly finished his wine, before calling a butler across for more.  ‘How?’

‘In Imladris, I was shown it.  I was charged to aid the bearer in his quest to destroy it.  At first our purpose was to travel to Mount Doom and there see it returned to the fires, but in Lórien that purpose changed.  Lady Galadriel feared for our success, pitted against the armies of Mordor, and after much debate has chosen to bear the burden herself.  When I left they spoke of fortifying the north against the Dark Lord’s incursion.’

‘It cannot be done,’ said Sadron.  ‘With spies and minions behind every tree.  They would eat any alliance from within.’

‘So Galadriel said,’ Legolas continued.

‘Much credit must be given,’ added Thranduil, with a solemn glance towards his elder son.  Sadron looked thoughtfully back.  ‘The Lady is no fool, and will have made plans.’

‘She has,’ Legolas told him.  ‘At this moment she is amassing an army to march on the enemy’s fortress, his sanctuary within this wood.  But she has sent me here to seek aid from you, and my friend Gimli will tomorrow leave for Erebor to seek aid from the Dwarves too.’

‘It will be no easy battle,’ said Thranduil, shaking his head.  ‘Dol Guldur may be a pimple against the vastness of this forest, but in that pustule is concentrated evil, foul things that are the stuff of nightmares, and strong magic.  We are few, Legolas.  We do not hide in this cavern because we love to live as Dwarves; we hide because we must.  Your grandfather led us when last we went to war, and ne’er returned.  Nor did most of our kin.  We are not strong enough now to oppose Sauron.’

‘But we would not be alone,’ argued Sadron. 

‘Amdir’s legions were cut down in great number too.’

‘But they have the enemy’s power,’ said Legolas.  ‘And if we attack in concert with them, then the enemy’s forces will have to divide.’

‘It will require greater thought than this,’ concluded Thranduil.

‘I am willing to lead,’ Sadron told him.  ‘If it means freeing the Wood at last, and shaking off the darkness…’

‘We must think,’ Thranduil insisted, taking both his sons by the shoulder.  ‘We cannot decide to go to war on the basis of one conversation.  I will need my council, and my friends, and Legolas, you must come and tell us all you know of Galadriel’s plans.’

~*~

Fires flickered all across the mountain ledge, throwing soot-black shadows against the grey stone, like bloodstains on the rock.   Merry, Pippin and Aragorn sat around a meagre campfire, with Frodo and Sam a short distance behind them, sitting against the boulders.  Pippin glanced frequently at the far larger blazes where the soldiers cooked their food.  Then he looked down at the pathetic flames licking at his pot.  At the same time, a cold breeze whined around the pass and stung his ears.

Luckily the Elves had kept their promise, and had chosen a fairly easy route so far, in that nothing had attacked them and they had kept to the more sheltered paths, avoiding the thick snows that capped the mountains.  Yet the ledges were narrow and crumbling, and Pippin could not help but wonder if the precarious passes were truly up to the thundering march of hundreds of Elves.  Still, he thought, Legolas had been light footed, so perhaps these Elves, despite the noise of their chants and songs, moved gently as well.

Only Faelvallas did not rest, or at least sit by the fire.  He wandered around the ledge, which sat between two peaks, so that the high walls gave some shelter from the wind.  His hands were clasped behind his back and he scanned the many faces, his gaze lingering particularly over the Hobbits.  Perhaps he had not seen their kind before, thought Pippin, but it was still unnerving and just a little rude.

Faelvallas, in return, noted the dark tinge to the Hobbit’s look and moved on through the shadows, constantly listening for sounds amongst the rocks.  He breathed out and his armour moved like a second rib cage.  Once again his hand returned to the hilt of his sword and he imagined the clear, pristine sound the weapon would make as it was drawn from its scabbard.

‘The scouts have returned,’ reported a lieutenant in Sindarin, rising from his campfire as he saw the captain approach.  ‘We should be in Imladris in good time, and with luck the road to the Shire will be equally unhindered.  Perhaps we shall not be needed there…’
 
‘I doubt that,’ replied Faelvallas.  ‘There will be many battles ahead of us.  We are not singled out from the fray.  We are chosen to tackle a fight of our own, one that will decide the fate of Middle-earth perhaps.  There will be glory to be had.  Our names will be carved beside those of Fëanor and his kin for this.’

The lieutenant glanced towards the Hobbits.  ‘And them?

Faelvallas shrugged.  ‘All they care about is their precious Shire.  They cannot see the greater good that land might serve.  But what does it matter?  When the first blood is spilled on their lush green fields, they will fight.  I guarantee it.’
 

~*~
Notes

Muilin dairador – Doriathrin – ‘Shadowed is the land beneath the trees’.