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.’