Middle-earth belongs to Tolkien.

Prologue

Even her step was a caress. Elanor and niphredil bowed on their slender stalks and received her footfall like a blessing. Behind her, the blades of grass unfurled again, touched, but not maimed. Her passage was silent, yet a memory of half-forgotten songs seemed to float through the air. Surrounded by a gentle shimmer of golden light, Galadriel walked under the mellyrn of Caras Galadhon until she reached the base of one of the greater trees. She made her way up the winding stair to a large flet that held a fair and lofty bower. With a faint rustle of her white garments, she entered.

Inside, a group of maidens sat on silken cushions bent over fine needlework. They lifted their heads as their lady appeared. Galadriel looked at each in turn. Aerwing, the eldest, rose to greet her. Beside her the sisters Maedhvel and Parvelui moved their slender fingers in a work of delicate embroidery. Salabeth with the ebony hair put the scissors aside. Belegwen, Gathgael and fair Faenchiriel regarded their lady with silent attention. Lindhris, who had been singing when Galadriel arrived, halted her song.

“I have a task for you, my fair friends. Eight travellers have come to Lothlorien on a quest that will decide the fate of all Middle-earth. What power we have to aid them, we shall give.

For many long hours we sat by the loom together, weaving a cloth fine and yet strong, such as no other people in all of Middle-earth can accomplish. Your hands are as nimble with needle and thread as they are with the shuttle. Make cloaks for the travellers after the fashion of our own people. One for an elf, one for a dwarf, two for men with the stature of great warriors. The other four will be worn by halflings, barely the size of an elfling of fifteen years. These eight cloaks you must finish before seven nights have passed. Today you shall meet those who will wear them. You are wise. You have eyes that see much and ears that can hear words both spoken and unspoken. Use the time well, that the cloaks may fit their minds as well as their bodies.”

The elf maidens bowed their heads.

“The cloaks shall be made as you command, Lady Galadriel,” said Aerwing.

oOoOo

When the stars faded and pale sunlight trickled down to the forest floor, the eight elf maidens returned to their bower and set to work. With smooth, silent movements they spread out the cloth, marked out the shapes and cut the fabric with their shiny scissors. When they sat down in a circle, each with her portion of the light grey cloth, Aerwing said:

“We are honoured to be thus chosen. These cloaks will be our part in the great story of this Age. Let us put into them all that is in our power to bestow.”

“They will be beautiful, yet hard-wearing,” said Gathgael.

“They will be light and yet warm,” said Lindhris.

“They will hide them from unfriendly eyes,” said Maedhvel.

“All this they will,” agreed Aerwing, “but there is yet more that we can give. Into each cloak let us sew a blessing to grace the fate of him who will wear it.”

The others bowed their heads in agreement.

“Let us think of a blessing for the cloak I am making,”  Salabeth began...

The First Cloak

“He who will wear this cloak has deep roots. His soul is entwined with the land of his home. Now that he has left it, he feels uprooted. He thinks that any strength he ever had was drawn from that land and his heart trembles when he remembers what he has left behind.”

Lindhris folded and pinned the hem for her cloak. “And yet it is not so,” she replied. “His strength comes from his country, but he carries it with him like an unquenchable fountain. I wonder at his meekness.”

 “Indeed he is humble,” said Faenchiriel. “He does not know his own power. His life is ruled by deference to those he deems above him. Yet he has his own might, for his heart is fortified with great love. Few I have met whose love is so steady and so selfless.  The vigour of it will make him stand by his friends, come what may.”

“Not only does he love his friends,” said Aerwing, “but he loves things of beauty, and in this he resembles our own kind. His mind is open wide to perceive all the loveliness of mountain and wood, of story and song. Much power is given to one who can love so fully. He believes himself to be a grower of crops and flowers only, but indeed he is a grower of peace and of happiness.”

Salabeth run her hand over the cloth on her lap. With careful stitches she began to work on the seam. “You speak true. I sensed no greed in him and no meanness. All things that live thrive under the loving touch of his hands. He desires not possession; his whole reward is to see blossom and fruit.”

“And yet he must go on such a quest ... “ whispered Faenchiriel, her face filled with compassion.

“Into the barred lands he must go, indeed,” said Aerwing, “and his love for his friends would not suffer any turning back. But will his strength last under the shadow? Or will he truly become like an uprooted tree and shrivel in the wastes of hatred and darkness? It would grieve me greatly, if such a thing came to pass, for even in this short space of time, he has become dear to me.”

“Let that be the blessing then,” concluded Salabeth, “that his strength will not leave him. May his spirit be fed by the memories of goodness and beauty, no matter how dark the shadow or how deep the despair. May hope grow in his heart like a mellorn tree, with strong roots and flowers untouched by winter.”

“May it be as you say,” said Aerwing. Seven heads bowed in silence, while Salabeth murmured her blessing over the cloak. The whispering of their tree seemed to echo her words.

The Second Cloak

“What will you wish for the wearer of your cloak, Aerwing?” asked Maedhvel.

“I do not know yet. It ought to be easy, but it is not. So much depends on him!”

Belegwen, calm and grave, passed the cup of wine around, and they each took a sip. Their minds turned to the second cloak, which Aerwing had begun to sew with thread as fine as gossamer. The wine made their thoughts flow freely, and images of the past came to the mind of each maiden.

“Do you remember,” said Lindhris, “when we first met him in Imladris?”

“He was so very young, barely more than a boy.” Gathgael smiled in reminiscence. “You laughed at him, Parvelui, when his steps were so clumsy in the dance.”

“I was very young then, too,” replied Parvelui.

“So you were,” said Belegwen, “and you still are, by the measure of our people, while he has grown into maturity. A bashful youth he was, I remember it well. But even then, there was something about him that set him apart from all other men I’ve ever met. Something high and noble and at the same time tender and warm. It was hidden then, like a sapling under deep snow, but it was there nevertheless. Of course it was so much clearer to see by the time he came here.”

“That was the first time I met him,” said Salabeth, “and I perceived about him then a greatness I did not know men could possess.”

“You were not the only one to notice,” said Gathgael, and smiles spread on every face in the room. They would not name the lady, but they all knew. They had seen the light in her eyes, and in his.

Aerwing refilled the cup and sent it round again.

“Indeed, he is great not only among men, but among all who live in Middle-earth. And he has grown in many ways. Short years they may appear to us and barely enough to make Parvelui seem more than a girl, but they have shaped him into a man of strength and wisdom beyond the usual share of his kind. But now his mind is troubled, and he is close to despair.”

“Who could blame him?” said Faenchiriel. “He did not expect to be the leader of this company. Lending the strength of his sword to Gondor’s struggles is what he set out to do, trusting that the ring-bearer would be guided by another. Now that this other is gone, all responsibility rests on him and he is bound by duty to lead them. But he knows that his own plight must not be abandoned either. He has two roads to follow and whichever he chooses, he will blame himself for not taking the other. I fear he will attempt to travel both.”

Parvelui shook her head sadly. “To defeat the armies of Mordor and reclaim the throne of Gondor seems already a task beyond the strength of any man. How can he take on Mithrandir’s burden, too?”

“It seems impossible,” said Maedhvel quietly. “I do not see how he could prevail.”

“No, neither can I.”

“Nor I.”

“Nor I.”

They cast down their eyes, each contemplating the enormity of the quest. The sun was setting and long grey shadows touched the floor. At length, Aerwing seized the cloak and held it to her cheek.

“This will be the blessing: That he will find another way. May he discover a path, where none other can. May roads that lead into darkness guide him into light.”

Dusk crept into the room and their hands rested.

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A/N: Arwen would not have travelled to Imladris on her own. I think it is feasible to assume that some of the maidens might have been part of her escort.

The Third Cloak

When the light returned, the elf-maidens continued with their task. The morning was bright and crisp and they worked with good cheer. Ere long their thoughts turned to the blessing of the third cloak.

“It seems fitting,” said Gathgael, “that you should be the one to make this cloak, Parvelui.”

“I cannot imagine what you mean,” replied Parvelui with pretended scorn. “Youth is not a vice. Besides, they all seem like children to me.”

“Your eyes are clouded then.”

“I was jesting, Belegwen. I am not blind to the merits of the halflings. They are a worthy people. But Gathgael spoke well. A lady of greater dignity might look with disdain on the exuberance of a youthful spirit. To me, though, it does not seem quite so close to folly. A cheerful nature will make up for lack of prudence at times.”

Salabeth shook her head. “That is all very well, Parvelui. But he is still called to the same quest as the others, and a youthful spirit may well be broken by the terrors that lie ahead.”

“True, a cheerful nature may not be of much use,” said Aerwing, “but loyalty and steady friendship will help. They have brought him this far, in spite of his fear.”

With a slender hand, Faenchiriel smoothed out the fabric of her cloak. Her brow was furrowed.

“I do not know how much further he can go, Aerwing. He doubts himself. He doubts whether he did right in coming. As the journey draws closer to the darkness, he begins to understand that he may burden his friends rather than aid them. This is the greatest fear I saw in him. And he is right to fear. I agree with Salabeth that the quest might break him.”

“But it shall not!” exclaimed Parvelui. “It would surely break his spirit if he deserted his friends or was sent back. He has chosen to go and go he must! If you think the challenge is too great then I will make this wish for him, that he will grow and gain the strength to face it.”

“He has been foolish before. He may do foolish things again.”

“Then may they turn out for the best, however foolish they are! I value your judgement, Salabeth, but even the councils of the wisest can lead to disaster. I do not - “

She stopped when she felt her sister’s hand on her arm. Looking around, she saw grave faces turned towards her.

“It is not for us to decide anyway,” said Maedhvel gently. “I will not doubt the wisdom of Mithrandir and Lord Elrond, who have seen it fit to let him go on the quest. But I will say that you have chosen a good blessing for him. As the shadow grows, so let him grow able to meet it.”

The other maidens bowed their heads in agreement. Parvelui’s features softened. She took a long breath and slowly stroked the fabric of her cloak.

“So be it,” she said.

The Fourth Cloak

Fresh from the clear fountain where they had washed, the eight maidens returned to their bower. Their morning meal awaited them, soft white bread, golden honey and dried apple rings infused with sweet spices. They ate swiftly and turned to their task. For a while nothing was heard but the rustling of cloth and the snipping of scissors. Then Lindhris sang, filling the room with images of cool lakes in the mountains and snow under a rising sun. When she has finished, Gathgael smiled and said:

“You have put me in the right mood for what I wish to think about today. Were you trying to give me a hint?”

“Perhaps. But it is a song I have loved for many long ages, and you have all heard it from me before.”

“We have,” said Gathgael. “However, hearing it today has brought sharply to my mind the puzzle that I have to solve.”

“A puzzle?” asked Maedhvel.

“Indeed, a puzzle. What shall I wish for him, the axe-wielder, the mountain delver? I am loath to bless him, so a curse will have to do. May he loose his boots in a quagmire and never find them again!”

“How can you say such a thing, Gathgael!” cried Belegwen aghast.

Parvelui laughed at the appalled face. “She does not speak in earnest, I dare say.”

“Indeed, I do not,” continued Gathgael, winking at Belegwen. “Peculiar his people may seem to us, and long have our races been estranged from each other, but lack of knowledge is not a good counsellor. We like to believe that the dwarves care about nothing but gold and jewels. Yet that is not what I see in his heart.”

“He spoke fair words to our lady.”

“And she spoke fair words to him,” said Faenchiriel, “that soothed his troubled mind. His thoughts are darkened with loss. The loss of his kin and the loss of the dwarf realm’s former splendour.”

Gathgael snipped off the thread of the seam she had finished. In a voice more serious than the others were accustomed to hear from her, she said: “The lady’s words reminded us that the dwarves, too, love beauty, however different their tastes may be from ours. She showed him that she knows what he holds dear and why. He begins to understand that the elves need not be his foes. This is where I find the answer to my puzzle. If the quest does not fail, then a new age will emerge and many wounds will need healing. The rift between our peoples is one of these, and I wish that friendship between elves and dwarves will be forged through him.”

“You may find that your blessing will work faster than you think,” said Aerwing with a smile.

“Whenever it happens, it won’t be too soon.” With the usual twinkle back in her eyes, Gathgael flourished the cloak and spread it out in front of her.  It shimmered gently in the morning light, dark like the surface of a clear mountain lake.

The Fifth Cloak

Another pale golden dawn lay on Caras Galadhon. Lindhris came to the bower before any of the others. She stood still in the circle of cushions and regarded the half-finished garments that lay spread out on the floor. Her thoughts dwelt on the previous evening and on the words she had spoken with the one who would wear her cloak. She sighed.

“You are early,” said Aerwing from the doorway. She came into the room and laid a hand on Lindhris’ shoulder.

“Are you thinking of the blessing for your cloak?”

Lindhris bowed her head in silence.

“We will think about it together, my friend,” said Aerwing.

By and by, the other maidens came into the bower and picked up their needles. Lindhris sat quietly, not inclined to talk or sing. The others left her in peace until after the midday meal, when Gathgael spoke up: “Oh, this is hard on you, Lindhris, after all those years that you have held your head high and kept you heart untouched. What ill fortune, to be caught out like this!”

“Don’t tease her,” said Aerwing. “It could have happened to any of us, even to you, Gathgael. You are unkind to mock her thus. Let us help her to choose a wish for her cloak.”

“What is there to wish for?” said Salabeth. “He brings so much to the quest already. Courage, wisdom...”

“Endurance.”

“Keen senses.”

“Steady heart and steady hand.”

They all looked at Lindhris, who cast down her eyes.

“If it were permissible,” she began, “I would give him a blessing not for the quest, but for himself. He is troubled by that which saddens so many of our kind. Sameness, indifference. Countless years he has spent in the woodland realm, with no challenge to his powers and no deeds to his name. That is why he is glad to be on this quest, strange as it may seem. Should he have to return to his same old life, he would be grieved. I would wish for him to find something new to set his heart on.”

“You desire for him to change?” asked Belegwen. “That is a dangerous wish.”

Lindhris was silent.

“Dangerous is may be,” said Faenchiriel, “but I believe Lindhris is right. He has gone too far now to return unchanged. If the quest succeeds, he must come out of it with a new horizon to seek, or else he will grow restless and discontented.”

“Let her make this wish then, though it may turn out different from what she thinks,” said Aerwing.

“That is true for all our blessings,” replied Faenchiriel. “No amount of wisdom can foretell what has not yet come to pass.”

Lindhris looked from one to another, and found consent in every pair of eyes. So she lifted her cloak and bestowed her blessing on it, and if there were more wishes in her heart than on her lips, none of the others blamed her.

The Sixth Cloak

The sun was low and the light in the bower began to fade. With a gentle incline of her head, Maedhvel lifted the cloth closer to her eyes and continued sewing. She was hemming the collar with even silvery stitches.

“This cloak is for one who has strength of heart and of thinking,” she said. “He comes from a firm-minded people. I could see that he has sought knowledge beyond the confines of his country and he knows how to order things well. He plans and arranges, instructs and decides. He is destined to be a leader among his people.”

“And yet I saw fear in him and doubt,” said Salabeth.

“That is so. He is out of his depth,” said Belegwen. “The firm ground he has always stood on is beneath his feet no more, and he is like one who has dived into a river and found it deeper and stronger than expected. He sees himself swept away by wild waters.”

Aerwing nodded. “I saw that, too, Belegwen. But the day has worn out and it is getting too dark for sewing. We will end our work and have a sip of wine while we talk.”

They folded the garments and tidied away their needles and scissors. Parvelui rose to fetch the flask and poured out the sweet smelling wine. Moving softly on unshod feet, she lit the lamps one by one until the room was filled with a glimmering of gold and green. The others stretched their arms and rubbed their eyes.  Around them, voices emerged, some nearer, some far. The city of Caras Galadhon was ringing with songs, but Lindhris sat in silence.

“What do you think about your cloak now, Maedhvel?” asked Salabeth.  “What will you wish for its wearer?”

“What can I wish for someone who feels washed away by a flood? It is not only the quest that has done this to him. It is the might of his companions that makes him feel smaller even than he is. All the time he is forced to look up, after he has been used to being a figure of some authority. This smothers his confidence.”

“He won’t be so easily drowned,” Faenchiriel said. “Wherever the current may take him, I would have him return to his people with his head held high.”

Maedhvel put her hand on the cloak that lay folded by her side.

“So would I. With all that is given to me, I wish him courage, when the right time comes, and strength to do whatever deed must be done in the hour of need. If my blessing on this cloak is not in vain, then he will gain honour and renown.”

They sat for another while, listening to the voices among the trees. Then one by one they glided out of the room and made their way to their sleeping chambers, passing through the night like wisps of cloud.

The Seventh Cloak

It was a dreary morning, with heavy clouds almost touching the canopy of the Golden Wood. A fine rain infused the air, and mist rose from the ground. Parvelui and Maedhvel pulled sheets of gauze across the windows to keep the room dry. The light in the bower was dim, barely bright enough for needlework, and none but Elven eyes would have been able to sew in this gloom at all.

Belegwen passed a new thread throw the eye of her needle. She held it up against the window to make use of what little light there was. When she bent over her work, the braids of her dark hair falling down the sides of her head seemed to cast a shadow on her face.

“My mind is heavy,” she said to her friends, “for I am making this cloak for one who is consumed by anguish and by dark thoughts.”

The others were quiet, so quiet that the dripping of the rain from leaf to leaf could be heard.

“He has much to worry about,” said Aerwing eventually. “He knows that his people are fighting a losing battle even now, and he fears they will not hold out when the real strike comes.” She smoothed out the creases in a hem she had just completed.

“That is not all,” said Faenchiriel. “He dearly loves his father and brother and he is anxious how they will fare without his help. The one he deems too careworn and the other too trusting to withstand the onslaught of the enemy. He is impatient to return to them and fulfil the duties he has in Gondor.”

Salabeth frowned. “He resents the quest. Submitting to the judgement of others is not to his liking. He is a prince in all but name and accustomed to lead, not to follow. More than once he has felt that his advice had been disregarded, his vote overruled, but most keenly does the very destination of the journey irk him. He thinks that he knows better.”

“Better than the wisest of this Age?” said Gathgael with scorn. “What can a mere man know about such things?”

“Don’t condemn him. He has his share of wisdom, though it may seem folly to us,” said Belegwen. “Gondor has always relied on strength and on valour, and this is their way of thinking. It has served them well, and many are living in the shelter of their swords. Can you marvel that he believes strength will be the answer to the menace of these days?”

“I do not marvel,” said Aerwing, “but I am uneasy. If he resents the quest, and if his loyalty is divided, then there is a danger that he will use his strength unwisely. I cannot foresee what shape that danger would take. Could he force the whole company to go to Minas Tirith or persuade Estel to take them that way?”

“I do not think he could, but he might try,” said Salabeth.

In the silence of the room, they pondered on images of flashing eyes, of raised voices, of swords drawn between friends.

“Can we not prevent him, or warn the others?” whispered Maedhvel.

“It is not for us to interfere,” replied Aerwing, “and the Lady Galadriel will know all that we have seen, and more. If a warning can be of any use, she will give it.”

“That is true,” said Belegwen. “There is only one thing that we can wish for him: that he will remain faithful to his companions and not be turned aside by his delusions.”

She took the cloak and held it to her brow. The drizzle had turned into a downpour and the Golden Wood was filled with the sound of rushing water. Inside the bower, all was hushed and dim.

“But what if your blessing fails?” said Salabeth at length.

“It must not fail,” said Belegwen.

The Eighth Cloak

Bright sunshine made the gloom of the previous morning forgotten. The cloaks were nearly completed. Seated in their circle, the maidens put on finishing touches. They stitched around the edges of the buttonholes at the neck, where the cloaks would be fastened with leaf-shaped clasps. Underneath the buttonhole, they embroidered a single letter to mark the owner of the cloak.

“All cloaks have been blessed but one,” said Salabeth, while she deftly adorned her cloak with the letter S.

“This will be the hardest choice,” replied Aerwing. “There is so much to wish for.”

They thought for a while, each searching her mind to decide what the perfect gift would be. Their eyes, though open, saw not the bower and the clear sunlight on the leaves outside the window, but looked at a road stretching ahead into darkness. On that road they beheld a group of grey travellers hastening forward, bearing a danger and a hope so great that the whole world seemed hushed in anxiety. Meagre and weak their blessings appeared to them in the face of that shadow. However frail their hopes were, though, they would give a blessing to this last cloak, too, and choose it wisely.

“He will need endurance,” began Salabeth, “for the road may be longer and harder to travel than any of us can foresee.”

“Determination would serve him well,” said Gathgael, stitching the outline of the letter G, “because there will be many discouraging moments and he might wish to lay down the burden that is placed on him.”

“The inner strength to resist the power of evil,” murmured Belegwen.

“Luck has helped him along the way so far,” said Lindhris, her eyes fixed on the needle that formed the letter L. “May luck stay with him.”

“I would wish him resolve to go on, come what may, and to - “

“Have you no mercy!” cried Faenchiriel.

Seven faces turned to her in surprise. Faenchiriel met their gaze, her eyes burning. She clutched the cloak to her chest and a single tear ran down her cheek.

“Have pity on him,” she whispered. “He is willing to give everything, to give his very life for the good of us all. He has been hurt already, and he will be hurt much more, in body and in soul, ere all is over.”

“But dearest Faenchiriel,” said Aerwing, “that is why we want to give him those blessings. Anything that would help him fulfil the quest - “

“No! It is not the quest that we should be thinking of! Don’t you see how selfish that is? What else is all this than a desire that he should sacrifice himself for the good of others? Yet there is nothing we could ask of him that he has not already resolved to do. If we wish these things for him, it is a sign that we regard him as nothing but a tool, that we think of him only as far as concerns his plight. With all that he is willing to give, yea, that he has given already, don’t you see that he deserves better than that? We should think of him with an attitude of compassion, not of demand.”

There was silence in the bower. The rustle of leaves and the voices of other elves could be heard beyond the windows. The other maidens were looking at the floor. Even Gathgael had cast down her eyes, and colour had risen in the faces of Maedhvel and Lindhris.

“What will you wish for him then?” said Parvelui at last.

Faenchiriel spread out the cloak on her lap. With gentle fingers she caressed the soft grey fabric.

“He is doing this for us and for all of Middle-earth. It is beyond our power to make him prevail. What will be, will be. But if he overcomes and escapes with his life, he will be deeply wounded. I will wish him healing, when all is over. May he find peace, and wholeness, and a lasting home.”

Slowly, as if they were coming to their senses after a long sleep filled with troubling dreams, the others nodded their agreement, and as they did so, the image of a grey ship appeared, they knew not how, and drifted through their minds and was gone.

Epilogue

The day of departure had arrived and the eight maidens had come out to the hythe to bid the travellers farewell. On the green grass they stood behind their lady’s chair, Silverlode to the right, Anduin the Great to the left. The fellowship was already attired in the cloaks their skilful hands had crafted. In the cool, clear light of a winter’s day, the fabric shone in hues of green and grey, of silver and brown. One by one, the companions stepped forward to receive gifts from the Lady of Lothlórien. And unheard, but with all the strength of their silent will, each maiden bestowed her blessing once more.

Keep hoping...

Find the way...

Grow to maturity...

Seek new shores...

Bring friendship...

Have courage...

Stay true...

Be whole once again...

And then the moment came when the three boats glided away from the hythe and joined the current. Grey figures in grey vessels, the eight travellers would have been quickly lost to the sight of all but the elves, who watched them until they had disappeared around a bend in the river. Then they turned to walk back towards their city, but Lindhris remained by the river bank. She stood like a flower bent by rain, still facing downriver, though her eyes were closed. Faenchiriel saw her standing thus and retraced her steps and approached her friend. She took her hand. “Come, dearest,“ she said and gently pulled her away.

oOoOo

Noon had passed when Galadriel returned once more to the bower. The room was quiet and empty, for the maidens had been sent to refresh themselves in the gardens after their toil. Pale golden light  fell on their eight cushions and on the tools of their craft: scissors, thimbles and spools of thread. Here and there on the wooden floor lay scraps of grey cloth. The Elven tailors had fulfilled their task well, albeit with no time to spare.

A gentle smile lay on Galadriel’s face. In her mind, she saw the maidens at their work as clearly as if they were there in the flesh. She knew the cloaks would provide more than warmth and concealment. None would be in the confidence of the Lady of The Golden Wood who did not themselves  possess powers of perception and of benevolence. These eight had her trust and they had not failed her.

Still, her heart was heavy. Her eyes fell on a piece of fabric that lay in a corner. She knelt down on one knee and picked up what remained of the bale of cloth. She held it up to let the light shine on it and reveal the hues of green, brown and silver. A long while she regarded it till at last  with a sigh she let the fabric fall. There would have been enough for one more cloak, and she herself would have sewn it. Without the one who should have worn it, what hope was there for the company? Yet with or without hope, she had sent them forth from her realm with such blessings as she still had to bestow. She knew that her power was waning. No matter if they failed or prevailed, her doom was sealed.

That night, she climbed down again the long flight of steps into the deep green hollow by the silver stream. Nothing but starlight shone on the quiet garden. She took the ewer, filled it from the stream and poured it out into the silver basin. Bending like a blade of grass she leaned forward and breathed on the water. But when the surface cleared and even before the mirror showed any image, she recoiled. Slowly she set the ewer down on the ground. Her hand trembled.

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Thanks to you all for the encouraging comments - it was great to write a story quite so popular!

It could be argued that the maidens know too much of both the past and the future. One would have to assume that Galadriel has chosen them for their powers of perception, or else that some of her own mental powers have rubbed off on them. I hope nobody feels I have taken away from the canon characters’ achievements by attributing some of their merits to the maidens’ blessings.

There is a definite AU element in this story, though it may escape your notice as it initially escaped mine. When I reread FOTR in preparation for this story, I found only a very vague indication of the time they stayed in Lorien. So I chose seven days as a feasible time, both for the companions to rest and for the cloaks to be made. I had almost finished the story, when it occurred to me to check the appendix in ROTK, and then I found that they had actually stayed a whole month. I didn’t want to change the whole story to fit that, so I just thought to myself: “Oh, come on, Professor Tolkien, a whole month is way too long. They have an urgent mission!” Feel free to agree or disagree.