Projections
By: Yeslek25
A/N: This is just a small little thing that I wrote when I had writer's block during Blood-Stained. I'd appreciate some reviews on this, because I'm not sure it made a lot of sense and I'll understand if you don't get the ending that well.
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The night was calm, cool and serene; the Fellowship could hardly spend a moment on their guard in the beautiful tree-city of Lothlorien. Many of the eight members slept the peaceful night away, whilst those awake still mourned and grieved over the death of Gandalf with teary eyes and broken hearts.
He fell into shadow.
Not one member had completely torn the memory off their bodies and minds; one doubted if he ever would again seem so happy and naive as he once had been before the Council of Elrond. If anyone was still mysteriously silent it was Boromir, the Steward's son of Gondor; he sat beneath a very large tree, his sword tilting this way and that in his hands as he thought. Though his body ached for sleep, he knew that on this pure, clean night it would not come.
It was Gandalf; Grey Pilgrim. He fell into shadow.
The son of Gondor felt his eyes tear slightly as he thought of this. When he looked up, time itself seemed to stop for him and display the beauty about him in a wide arc across his vision, and for this attempt at cheering himself up he was glad. He saw the hobbits sleeping soundly nearly beside him, their chests rising rhythmically as they carried on through the land of dreams. He envied them; they could sleep soundly now, though one of their own was lost. They showed remarkable courage in the face of danger, and it left him wondering where he himself stood.
Gimli, son of Gloin was not to be found in the small pavilion that had been laid out for the Fellowship, though Boromir heard his voice far off into the distance. He sighed, closing his eyes and concentrating on the voice, but soon it was lost into the melodious chorus that was the fair elven voices of Lothlorien, singing to the departure of a much beloved soldier of good. In these dark times elves and dwarves had come together, but not in happiness. They mourned together the loss of someone in common, someone who had long stood between the two parties and prevented them from killing one another in their hate. Together, on this brilliant night they would join in song, grief and prayer for lost souls, as they should.
Aragorn, heir to Gondor, slept soundly as well, though the trials of the day could be seen upon his weathered and worried face. Boromir had to respect him; the Ranger had seen and been through more troubling things than he had, and still managed to keep his head held up high. Though Gandalf the Grey departed into the deepest parts of Moria, he still retained that twinkle of life in his eyes, the spark that told the world that he may have lost the war, but he would still keep on kicking.
A slow, mournful song interrupted Boromir's thoughts. He looked up, and time seemed to bring itself back into normal speed. Legolas, son of Mirkwood, stood on the edge of the pavilion, facing the tall trees. His arms lifted up in what Boromir thought looked like prayer, and were accentuated by the soft words draining through his mouth. The soldier listened, and he could hear others respond in kind to Legolas' song, and others who joined on in on it. He wondered if he should ask the elf what it meant, but the seriousness of his voice told him not to disturb him. After some moments he took off again, wandering through the grassy patches and up winding staircases, still singing strongly to the world, and to Lothlorien. Words took on power and shapes, ringing through the dell like nothing Boromir had ever heard before. It brought another tear to his eye, and he wiped it away furiously.
"Why does Gondor cry?" A voice interrupted Boromir's soft sobbing. He looked up, only to see the Lady Galadriel staring at him intently. Her eyes searched him, and he found his gaze glued to hers with the same power behind it. When he opened his mouth to speak, however, she simply put her finger to her lips and beckoned, her long white skirts flowing behind her on the steps as she descended. Boromir followed soundlessly behind her; it was as though some of her magic leapt into his feet and made him as quiet as the elves, and he was glad - he did not want to disturb the others when they had the pleasure of such sleep, under such circumstances.
He found himself at a raised pedestal of pure milk white, and the Lady was pouring a glassy sheet of water into the bowl placed there from a similarly grey jug. He looked at her questioningly, wondering why she had brought him here. He had seen Frodo descend these steps only hours before, and when he had come up from his visions he had seemed frightened, scared, alone...yet utterly determined underneath it all. He had said nothing more of Gandalf after that, and Boromir had a strange feeling that the little hobbit would get over his grief faster than the others.
"Will you look into the Mirror, Boromir of Gondor?" The Lady asked him, holding the jug to her body with the same penetrating stare she had earlier. Boromir felt himself swallow slowly, as though it hurt or pained him to do so, and he found his feet moving forward ever-so-slowly. She backed away from the Mirror and watched quietly, the look in her eyes very disquieting. Boromir said nothing, stepping up to the pedestal and looking into it intently, wondering what he would find within it's depths.
He waited.
The grey mists took him; he fell into shadow.
The mirror turned from it's reflection to the stars into what looked like grey mist, swirling up and around itself as though it were contained within the mirror. Boromir thought that he could feel the cold and dampness of the mist, but he found his eyes locked onto it, as though it were of something of great importance to his soul. He could scarcely hear Galadriel breathing at his side, and everything else seemed to be shut out of his mind except for the mists.
After a few more moments, the mirror returned to it's normal state. As Boromir looked up, very confused, he noticed that the Lady was crying. And it was not of happiness that she shed tears; sorrow lined the smooth skin of her face, and she tried hard not to make sound for fear of waking her elven kindred. The son of Gondor searched her face, looking for answers to what he had seen, but nothing came to him. She simply beckoned for him to leave, and he did so very quickly. Retreating up the stair, he looked back but found that the Lady had disappeared. Nothing remained but the gurgling of the small fountain, and the light that shimmered off the surface of the mirror. Returning to his small alcove against the tree, Boromir recalled what Galadriel had told the company when they had first arrived; Tell me where is Gandalf, for I very much would like to speak with him. I cannot read his mind; it is but grey mist to my eyes.
He shuddered, suddenly overcome with sudden cold. He leaned back against the tree, closing his tired eyes for the final time before he fell asleep that night. Before he fell into the darkness of sleep, however, he was ever more disquieted by the visions of grey mist, dancing just beyond his reach, just beyond his eyes.
The sweet sounds of elvish voices floated through the night, high above in the treetops; songs were uttered in a language that none could now understand, but whom all would carry with them until the end of their days.