She is known from before she is born.
It is a moonlit night when he tells her, and as much as she loves moonlight it can be nothing to her but a shadow of the light she once knew. But it is often at night that he comes to her, and she wonders if the light of the moon means something else to Mithrandir, the Grey Pilgrim.
"Before time began," he says, and his voice is gravel smoothed by running waters. "Before all ages, in the first harmony, I heard you."
"Did you know so soon, then?"
"I knew as soon as I heard you that I could love you. I did not know that I would."
They have argued since she was a child, over everything and nothing.
The first time they fight is when she leaves him.
"This," he says, "is a mistake." The tone is calm and prudent and reasonable as ever, never parental, always patient. It is the tone of someone who would dearly like to be convinced, if only you could leave off being tiresome and convince him.
Galadriel is in no mood for it. "No. Bringing us here was a mistake. The Elves were never meant to be here, to be children playing at your feet to amuse you. It's time for us to grow up."
"You grew up long ago," he says, and for a moment her anger is calmed, and he is once again her friend and counselor. Then he adds, "If you had never come here, I should never have met you," and ruins it all.
"Then maybe we should never have met."
She does not think of him, crossing the Grinding Ice, and she does not regret her words. She thinks of the frozen wastes grinding under her feet, and of the blood that stains her hands brown, and of her people as so many fall into darkness.
She doesn't really expect to see him again, after she makes the long journey to Middle-Earth. So she's not surprised when she doesn't.
Many things about the new lands don't surprise her. They are filled, she finds, with much the same joys and sorrows as she had known before: eating and drinking and making merry, wisdom and courage and those times when neither wisdom nor courage is enough, weddings and namings and red-faced babies laid in the arms of the dying.
This is something that surprises her: that she sees Olórin in the faces of all about her, his wisdom in the eyes of children, his merriment in the aged. She hears his voice on the winds and the waters, in the tears of her people and in the garlands of weddings.
This is something that does not surprise her: she does not miss him.
As she dwells in Doriath, she meets an elf, and his name is Celeborn. His height is hers to the fraction of a measure, and his face is merry but his eyes are grave. He is not like Olórin, nor are they unlike, and when Galadriel looks at him she sees no one but who is before her eyes.
They go together to a mountain stream to draw water, and there in the wind and the water she kisses him. She is not a poet, to call his lips sweet like honey, but he is warm and wise and she would not ask of him to be anything other than what he is.
There is no one waiting for her when she returns to the house she has built with her own hands. No one then, and no one for many days after; and yet, somehow, it does not surprise her when she turns one day from combing her hair and sees a face untouched by years.
"Hello," she says.
"Hello," he says to her.
"You came."
"I missed you."
Wine from the cellar, cakes on the table, and they talk as old friends will, all laughter and remembrances. They speak of the tribes of Elves and of the Moon and of the Sun, and of the grain-crops and the fruit-crops. Old quarrels are revisited, old jokes retold, and at last the talk turns to Celeborn.
"I like him," says Galadriel, the red wine at her redder lips.
Olórin says only, "I know."
"I like you, too."
"I know."
"Does that bother you?"
"Not if it's what you want."
Galadriel watches him with piercing eyes. Unselfconscious, he butters a scone. He gives it his full attention, but when he does look up at her, he does not avoid her eyes.
Somehow, that decides her. "Olórin?"
"Yes?"
"I do like you. When you're not being an ass."
His hair is grey, ancient locks flecked with crumbs. She reaches up and cards her fingers through it, curious to feel the texture. When he lets her, she tangles her other hand in the long strands.
He is gone in the morning.
The years that follow are not exceptional in her long life. There is grief and pain and sorrow, and she loses those she loves, and those she knew and cared for, and those she didn't care for but who didn't deserve to die the way they did.
Sometimes she wonders if they should ever have made the long journey across the sea to Middle-Earth. But when she looks about her at the lands that are wide and free and hers, she counts the blood in which the fields were tilled well-spent.
Celeborn stands at her side and looks out over the plains and the rolling hills. "All this," he says, "is ours."
She smiles, because she knew the thought before he spoke it.
The last time in this life she sees her most beloved brother, she has journeyed on foot to Nargothrond. Finrod meets her, as he always does, with laughter and dancing among all his merry company.
When the two of them are alone together, he asks her, "And what brings you to these far reaches, sweet sister?"
She closes her eyes tightly, because she knows that what she knows is not hers to tell, nor his to hear. When she can look at him again, she is weeping.
Finrod embraces her, and murmurs in her ear. "You have seen aught of me, then?"
Galadriel cannot speak, but she lays her head on his shoulder. She breathes in his scent, and tries to remember it, so that she will never forget.
"Do not mourn me, lady." His voice is strong, unfaltering. "Whatever may come for me, I would not change one deed I have done. I go forth gladly to the fate I have earned."
"It would be no love to deny you that," she says, but nevertheless she weeps for the last of her brothers.
When the news of his death reaches her lands, she looks westward and sees an old man walking the dusty road, leaning on his staff. She goes into her house and shuts the door.
The expected rap at her door is too loud, wood on wood. Olórin is knocking with his staff, which is less endearing than he thinks it is. If he breaks the door, she will have to fix it.
"Why are you here?" she snaps.
"Your brother died," he answers from the other side of the door. His words are gentle and pitying, and the tone fans the flames of her anger.
"Yes. He did."
She can hear him taking a deep breath, breathing out slowly through his nostrils. "Are you going to tell me why you're angry with me?"
"Are you going to tell me why you weren't here when my other two brothers died?"
"I was busy."
"Olórin?"
"Yes?"
"You're an ass."
He is so silent, then, that she thinks he has gone away. Then he says, "Galadriel-"
"I can't," she interrupts. "Olórin, I am sorry, but I can't do this."
"Do you want me to go away?"
"Yes. Not forever, but for a time, yes. Give me a time and a space of my own. Come back tomorrow, or in ten years or a hundred. When I am whole in myself, then perhaps I will have room for you as well."
"I will," he promises, "come back."
She listens to the sound of his footsteps in gravel, and waits for him to be gone. She is not healed yet, not whole yet, but she will be.
When he returns, it is many years later, heralded only by the knock of a staff on her door. (She will never break him of that habit.) She lets him in, this time, and pours him good rich wine. She and he and Celeborn speak of small matters for a time, and then Celeborn bows and smiles and excuses himself.
When they are alone together, she asks him why he is there. "What ill news brings you now?"
"None ill," he says, "but none I think you will be glad to hear."
"Tell me," she says.
"Please," he says smiling, "don't shoot the messenger."
"That depends on if the messenger's going to be an ass."
"The messenger will try not to," he answers, and she can't tell if he's earnest or laughing. Knowing him, it is probably both.
"Go on, then."
"They - and I am emphasizing the 'they,' I did not support this decision - want you to come back to Valinor."
"Please tell me this is not-"
"Because you were not involved in the Kinslaying, yes."
"I think we've discussed my views on that." She is still angry at the judgement of the Valar. The Kinslaying was an act of anger and desperation, and, to her mind, the Valar were more to blame than any tribe of Elves. It does not please her that they think her only redeeming feature is that she has never killed her people with her own hands. There are things she would rather be remembered for.
"I think we may have." His mouth twists into a wry smile, netted with beard and wrinkles.
"Olórin?"
"Yes?"
"We are going to go find out if you can get drunk. And then I shall probably kiss you. Would that be all right with you?"
"Indeed."
And so they do.
The thing about Wizards is: they don't stay in one place for long. It's something she's always known about Mithrandir. He is not of Arda, and he cannot be bound to the lands therein. She would have to be a fool or a child to think a kiss would change that.
The thing about Galadriel is: she is of the land and in the land, and born and brought into the world to be the guardian of the land. And as surely as the Grey Pilgrim would become less than he is if he left his wanderings, Galadriel would diminish if she left her lands.
So she kisses him for luck and sends him on his way, and when he is out of sight she does not look after him.
She sees him next in Lindon, where she first bears the title of Lady. He comes among them garbed as a wanderer, his light veiled, till few even among Elves could glimpse it.
But he has never been able to hide from her, and so when she sees him Galadriel takes his hand and kisses it, and leads him to her chambers.
"And where have you been?" she asks him, as she takes off her shoes and her jewelry and looses her hair.
He watches her, and it is something wonderful to know that he does not watch her for fear or for curiosity but for the pure pleasure of it. But it is something even more wonderful that she can command answers from a man like this, who does not freely give account of his comings and goings.
"In all Middle-Earth," he tells her, "coming and going, and teaching those who will learn."
"Have you been too busy teaching to visit?"
"Sometimes," he answers, "and sometimes I have chosen not to come."
"Why?"
"How does Celeborn feel about this?" It may irritate her when he answers a question with a question, but there is no mistaking his meaning.
"We discussed it."
"And I have no doubt that the discussion involved both of you speaking and expressing opinions, rather than Celeborn standing in silent terror as you explained to him exactly how things were going to be."
"It's my right to take what consorts I like," she says, not quite exasperated.
"And I certainly have no interest in denying you that. I only worry about the poor man. Not everyone can handle the full force of Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin."
"It doesn't bother him." She smiles her most brilliant smile.
"If you say so."
"You really don't have to worry about him."
"I am sure there is no need."
"He likes to watch."
A panoply of emotions play over the face of the Maia, and Galadriel, amused, finds she likes to watch, too. At last, he settles on a simple "Ah."
"Yes," she responds, and kneels to undo his shoes.
Mithrandir is gone in the morning, as he always is. Galadriel, as she always does, remains.
The next journey she and Celeborn make is to the land of Eregion, Hollin as it is called by Men. It is rich and bountiful under the reign of Gil-galad, who gives them a place to live and a people to rule over and then leaves them be. (Galadriel approves of him.) It is not yet the land that she sees in her dreams, where the trees are silver and their leaves rain gold. But it will suffice for a time.
Dwarves come and go in Eregion, for trade or profit or pleasure, and she finds them to be a fascinating folk, full of strange customs and a torture of the good Common Tongue which hints at a secret language all their own, though she has never heard it spoken. She sends an ambassador to dwell among them, and while he calls it a heavy burden, she privately considers it an honor.
Galadriel goes to the market sometimes, to buy or sell – she has a quicker tongue and gets better prices than any of her courtiers – and when she does, she always lingers over the tapestries, learning the patterns by heart and guessing at techniques. It is there that she sees one day a group of dwarves, and one figure in dwarven garb who is twice the height of his companions.
She goes to him as quickly as caution may, and catches him by the sleeve. "Good evening, Master Dwarf."
"Good evening," Mithrandir returns, moving away from the crowd to speak in privacy.
"Are you going to explain to me why you're-" She finds she does not have words, and instead gestures expressively.
"I wasn't really intending to, no."
Galadriel, who knows fabrics, touches his robe and frowns. "Isn't that meant for a female -"
"Yes, yes it is."
"Perhaps," she suggests, "we should never speak of this again."
"Perhaps that would be best," he agrees.
She lets his sleeve go, but before he can move, snatches at the other. "Your place or mine?"
"I do hope," he says, "that was a rhetorical question."
It is, of course, her place, and there he dwells with her for a time, and she is glad to have him with her in the golden halls of Eregion. And when the time comes, as it always does, that he must leave again, she wishes him godspeed and hurries him on his way. She cannot have a wizard hanging about forever. He does have a tendency to interfere with the smooth running of a household.
(Galadriel still has not gotten over the time she found him introducing her ladies-in-waiting to pipeweed.)
It is not long after (as she counts time) that Galadriel and Celeborn depart from Eregion. They journey through Khazad-dûm, and she looks into the waters of Kheled-zâram and wonders. And when they stand again in the light and the open air, Celeborn kneels at her feet and draws up water from Kibil-nâla and gives her to drink. Galadriel folds her hands about his and lifts the earthenware to her lips and drinks with him as from a loving-cup, and resolves that she will remember all these things in the years to come. The kingdom of the Dwarves is not her kingdom, not the kingdom she has seen that is to come for her, but it is fair and terrible and hard-won, and to see it as she has is a gift.
So it is that even when she stands first among the mallorn, and breathes first the sweet air of Lórien, she thinks of the cold dead halls of Khazad-dûm and the lights in them, and she knows as only Galadriel can know that these places are tied to her own fate.
Then Celeborn asks her with gentle words what troubles her, and she only laughs and kisses him, there under the golden leaves of Lórien.
And so it comes to pass, as winter follows spring, that she is with child by him, and she bears him a daughter, and they name her Celebrían. "She comes in the fullness of time," says Celeborn, "here in Lórien in the lands you foresaw, where it is given to us to dwell."
But Galadriel turns her face to the wall, and says, "The child is come early, and I fear she must also leave these lands before her time." And all Celeborn can say to her is but cold comfort.
Galadriel waits for old familiar footsteps on a swinging ladder, and the wise words of one who bears the burden of foresight as she does, but even in Lórien days become weeks and weeks years, and her lover is a long time coming.
They meet at last among new flowers that bloom on Caras Galadhon, and she smiles and kisses the Grey Pilgrim on his cheek. "It has been a long time, my Mithrandir."
"Yes," he says, with no hint of apology, and, "I do like your new kingdom."
"Quite a time," she repeats, to give him a fair chance.
"I've been busy."
"I have a daughter now," and that should be a spur to guilt, but Mithrandir only nods and smiles.
"That would be why I'm here."
"Is that so?"
"To see the baby, of course."
"Indeed?"
The Wizard coughs, and studies the grass stains on the hem of his robe. "I have done something wrong, haven't I."
"Yes."
"Are you going to tell me what it is?"
"Would you like to meet the baby?" Galadriel asks, smooth as still waters.
"Yes, but I can't shake the feeling that you're changing the-"
"She's one hundred and fourteen."
"Ah."
"Yes."
"I'll sleep on the couch, then, shall I?"
She lets him, because really, he has brought it upon himself. And if in the stillness of night she leaves the warmth of her coverlets for another, more ancient warmth, there is no one dwelling in Lórien who would begrudge their Lady that.
With the first light, she takes him out among the trees, showing him rocks and valleys and rapids and the dwelling-places of her people, telling him her plans for this lands she has longed for, showing him where the work is already begun. She has the finest craftsmen in seven kingdoms at her bidding, and at her word they tend flowers and build fastnesses, guiding the young trees into patterns which will not be finished for a thousand years or more.
And because she is Galadriel and this is Lórien, where a thousand years can stretch as long as a summer's afternoon, she is not surprised to find herself walking with Mithrandir again, many years later, showing him the fruition of her endeavors.
She has borne, then, for many years, the heaviest and the sweetest of the burdens she has ever been asked to bear, and she has changed for it. How easily had she said yes, so many years ago, when the offer was made. Nenya, whose light she hides in the ways she knows, whose power is woven with her own blessing throughout all her lands, warding and keeping them. Every moment she tastes the strength of it on the back of her tongue, and she cannot choose whether to cast it off or to long for more.
Mithrandir knows, of course, knows better than any other (better than Celeborn ever can) the wonder and the terror of it. Knows, because his hand on hers bears the twin of her own ring, set with a stone redder than sunsets.
"What you have done with these lands," he tells her, "is a marvel beyond any I have seen."
She laughs at him. "You think it's hot."
"Possibly," he concedes, and his hand that bears the ring pushes back a lock of her hair from her face. She closes her eyes, and tries not to imagine how it would feel to wear his ring as well, if only for a little while. (Too much. Too much. Not enough.)
She says yes again, when she is asked to be in the White Council, because she fears what she may become without a company to keep account of her doings. Mithrandir cannot always be there for her, and though Celeborn stands always at her side, he has never had the power to stay her.
The meeting is filled with loud dull debates and men puffing out their chests like birds in mating season, and afterward she walks with her Wizard and speaks of the happenings of the day.
"You put me forward for head of the Council?" he asks, when she comes to tell of her negotiations with the White Wizard and with her son-of-the-heart.
"Of course." She cannot comprehend his surprise. After all these years, he does not know this of her?
"Then I cannot imagine why I was turned down."
"Elrond thought my judgement was biased."
"And was it?"
"Never."
"I think that was an insult."
"I think you would not love me half so much if it were not the truth."
The words after that are not of business matters.
They part ways, as they always do, and she returns to her kingdom among the trees. Mithrandir does not come to her, not for a great span of years, but she knows from him (after her own fashion) of his wanderings and of his findings. She does not need to see his face to hear his voice, and she is the first to know of his most secret fears.
The Necromancer. She hears the name dreaming and waking, from the voice of Mithrandir that speaks in her heart and from her own foresight. A great shadow looms over Middle-Earth.
She calls her couriers to her and gives the word, a command set long years ago and never yet spoken. The borders of Lothlórien are closed, a cloud set about the trees, and the ring unseen on her finger works changes in the rivers, making them more than they were before. A chill more than the cold of icy waters will settle on any intruder who braves the waters of Nimrodel.
There are other safeguards put on the lands, and a mighty sentinel who bears no bow keeps watch over them. But none know of that save Celeborn, who holds Galadriel when she wakes in the night, sweating and crying out.
That the Council is called does not surprise her. She wishes it surprised her that they delayed so long, but she has seen too much of Elves and Men and the ways of the wise to find anything strange in their indecision. To save themselves a choice, they wait to choose until the choice is past and only the darkness remains. They have stayed too long already, and still they will not act until it is too late.
She goes to Imladris anyway.
Elrond is courteous and polite and startlingly young, and experimenting with the world's most ridiculous hairstyle. "For Elbereth's sake take out the knots, Elrond," she tells him, as he gives her his arm. "Your hair has never curled, and you will only make a fool of yourself tying it up like that. You look like a child of two who has tried to braid his own hair."
He sighs, and Galadriel knows that this elf who has seen ages thinks that she has grown old and prudish. But he undoes the knots.
"It has been a long time," she says to Mithrandir, when he arrives at last (late, as ever, after the fashion of Wizards).
From behind the wizard, Elrond arches an eyebrow, in that particular fashion he's had since he was a boy.
Mithrandir must know - he has a way of knowing what he cannot see - but he trusts her judgement. If Galadriel thinks that what lies between them need not be hidden from Elrond, then Mithrandir will not seek to hide it.
"Age may have changed me," he says, bending his silvered head, "but not so the Lady of Lórien."
At that, she lets her smile flow over him like moonlight on water. To the eyes of Men and Elves she may not age, but Olórin, who has known her from girlhood and has eyes to see what other men cannot, knows better than any what years weary her, what sights have burdened her spirit. If he still offers this to her - a reverence not owed but freely given, a promise of other things to come - then truly time has been kind to her.
Elrond smiles, and it's the same smile he gives to children shyly holding hands for the first time. The comparison, she finds, is not one that bothers her.
The Council itself, aside from some amusing gossip about Radagast, is an exercise in politics. Saruman makes a great show of prudence and skepticism, Elrond insists on being the neutral voice of reason, and Mithrandir lets them both goad him into a state of utter frustration. Galadriel herself, for the most part, only watches and listens, hearing at once the words of the Council and the motions of all Imladris.
She stays long enough to speak with Mithrandir alone, but no longer. What news is of real interest will come to Lothlórien in time, as all things do.
The news that comes is of a burning lake and a black arrow and a stone counted more precious than many lives, and after it comes Mithrandir, travel-worn and weary. Galadriel calls for food and drink to be brought to her chambers, and the two of them rest there and take their pleasure, and afterwards they speak of many things that have come to pass. He tells her of the gold-madness that fell on Thorin and of the deaths he still grieves, and when words fail him at last, she looks into his eyes and feels out the half-formed fears of darkness to come.
"Tell me," she says, turning to lay her head in his lap, "is there no fair news of any sort from your journey? What of the Elves of Mirkwood? How lies it with them?"
Mithrandir touches her hair absently, calling his thoughts to him. "Do you recall Tauriel, of whom I spoke?"
"Legolas' lady-love?" she asks, smiling.
"According to his father, at least. It was not my impression that there was anything of the sort between them."
"The bonds of arms are often mistaken for other things."
He makes a rough noise of agreement. "Indeed. Well, I suggested to Thranduil that she might overcome this unfortunate infatuation if she was sent to train in Imladris for a time, and he seemed inclined to agree."
"I know."
"Is there anything you do not?" he laughs, stretching his long legs on the cushions.
"She is getting along charmingly with my granddaughter."
"Really."
Galadriel raises her eyebrows, affirming. "According to Elrond, they spend a great deal of time practicing sparring together."
Through a sudden fit of coughing, Mithrandir manages, "Was that a euphemism?"
"I certainly hope so."
"Ah, for the follies of youth," he murmurs, eyes half-closed like a great cat. Galadriel nudges him with her knee.
"You old hypocrite. You were never young, nor foolish neither. And you could never bear to dally in fond embraces as the young do. Where are you off to next?"
"Minas Tirith, I think. I would learn more about that ring of Bilbo's. I fear it may not be what it seems."
"Or rather," Galadriel corrects, "that it may be exactly what it seems."
"I cannot be sure even what it seems. There are many curious things in Middle-Earth, and not all of them made by a dark power. I myself cannot name all of what Fëanor crafted; this ring may perhaps be among those works."
"Plain gold, unmarked and unadorned?" she says softly. "That does not ring of Fëanor to me."
"Perhaps not. I must learn more."
"You must act, " she presses, but she knows it is hopeless. The Wizard is set in his ways. Already his thoughts are a thousand miles distant, moving among ancient libraries and dusty tomes, while she remains here under the trees.
"When you are weary," she tells him, "come back to me."
"If it is as you fear, I cannot guess where else I might be safe."
"If it is as I fear, even my lands will not be safe forever. Make haste."
Mithrandir, as he will, makes haste slowly. He lingers for another day, speaking to the Keeper of the Tales, then sets out again. The journeys he makes are long, all the more so for an old man going on foot, and Galadriel's thoughts turn to him only rarely. She takes little note of his comings and goings, for her own lands fill her days and darker things her nights, but she knows when at last he visits an old friend for more than dinner and pipeweed, and she knows the betrayal of Saruman like a knife cold in her side.
The Wizard has ways of taking care of himself, but she is allowed to worry, so she climbs to the top of a tree and whispers words into the air, words borne on the wind to where the Eagle Gwaihir makes his high and lonely nest.
When she leaps down from the low branches, Celeborn is watching from below, an eyebrow half raised. She kisses the laughter from his lips, and thinks no more of Mithrandir save to take note of the Nine Walkers when they set out from Imladris.
And so it is, until the day comes that her hand falls from her weaving, and a cold fear strikes the heart of Galadriel. For a voice in her heart has grown still, and a light fallen into darkness.
When the Company come bearing dark news, she sees the blow fall heavy on Celeborn. For herself, Galadriel is too numb to feel stricken by grief at what she already knows. She swallows the tears heavy in her throat and gives what gifts she can to her guests, and when they leave, a sorry band on a doomed quest, she watches them dry-eyed.
She is still as stone, looking after them, long after they are out of sight among the waters of the Anduin, and her attendants have departed. Celeborn only stands beside her, waiting and watching.
"You are grieving Mithrandir," he says at last.
Celeborn's fingers brush back a lock of hair from her face. She turns to face him; she has no tears to hide. "You have always known my thoughts," she says softly, "but I think it takes no great wisdom to know this. I grieve him as I would grieve you."
"Like, and yet unlike. Your love for us was always equal, never the same."
"What difference does it make, when the beloved is dead? All walk equal in the halls of Mandos."
"If I were dead," he says, "I think you would weep for me. But you have not wept for him."
"No." She is silent for a time, and he waits in the same silence to hear her thoughts. At last, she says, "I do not think I will. He held me in his heart since time began, and I shall hold him in mine until it reaches its close. But it is a matter for songs, not for weeping."
"Will you sing for him, then?" Celeborn asks, taking her hand.
And so she does, and after a little time Celeborn's voice joins hers, twining and harmonizing and sending their shared grief with the waters of Anduin down to the ocean where Ulmo dwells, who hears all the sorrows of the world.
After that day, there is little of singing in Lothlórien, for the days have grown dark further than winter warrants, and all her people begin to feel the power in the South. The strange battle Galadriel wages to keep her borders from that power becomes more terrible with each passing day, and if the prints of her nails lie marked in Celeborn's palm, he does not speak of it.
When Galadriel walks under the mallorn trees, now, she does not think (as she once did) my land, my people, my home. Now she touches silver trunks and wonders for how long the mallorn will stand on these lands, how long until it withers under foul winds or is felled for fouler purposes. One of those who once protected Middle-Earth has fallen already, and her own days are coming to a close. She has seen it in the waters of her mirror, has heard it in the air: she cannot remain what she once was, and the day is coming when she must pass into the West, if she is to remain Galadriel.
Nor does hope come to her from the other free lands of Middle-Earth, such as they remain. The news which comes to her borders is each day darker, rumors of Rohan enslaved, of Fangorn falling, and always the fear in the heart of Elrond, who fights a battle of his own, keeping the Last Homely House. His dangers may be distant, but his fears touch her too, not least his fears for Arwen and the terrible choice before her. Galadriel cannot be glad at the thought of her granddaughter choosing a mortal life, but she herself has known too much of love to gainsay the girl. She does think, briefly, of a lovely captain of the guard and of red hair mingled with black and how much simpler things could be for her kin. But the choice is not Galadriel's to make, and in times like these all paths may lead into darkness.
She overhears Haldir, trying to comfort his brothers, as they keep watch from a high tree. "The night is always darkest before the dawn," he says, his clear voice carrying farther than he intends. It is intended as comfort, but to her it is a bitter reminder of how naïve even her warriors are. They have never seen a great light taken away forever, as she has seen the Trees fall to the treachery of Morgoth. They have only known the little deaths of night and winter, which rise again without fail to morning and spring. It strikes a strange terror into her heart, to know that she is the only one among so many who knows how to be properly afraid.
Long are the days, and longer the nights, and when she looks up at the stars for solace she sees only the thin dull light of the moon. And still she starts sometimes, thinking she hears her name spoken behind her shoulder by a voice now grown silent; but when she looks, there is no one there, and she has seen enough of grief to know the dream for what it is.
When she hears his voice in truth, it is altogether different – unlike anything she has ever heard, and yet so dear to her heart.
Galadriel, Galadriel. Her name, and nothing else, spoken with the strange accents of Valinor. The voice calls, and falls silent, and then calls to her again, ringing in her ears. Galadriel, Galadriel.
"Mithrandir," she whispers, to an echoing silence. Then, casting the name out into the silence of her heart, Olórin?
She thinks there will be no answer once again, but it comes to her, echoing as from a great distance. Galadriel.
Within her, something stirs that she thought had died with him. Galadriel finds herself laughing, laughing till she chokes and gasps for air and the tears she hadn't known she was holding back fall softly to the ground. Then she cries out to the four winds, and sends her voice winging among the birds of the air, to send for Gwaihir, greatest of Eagles, mighty windlord.
Galadriel waits until she hears the beating of wings loud overhead, then runs to tell Celeborn the glad tidings.
The body which Gwaihir bears to them is not the one she has known so well and so sweetly, but it is Mithrandir, unmistakable and naked and laughing like a man mad. She kneels at his side to touch him and assure herself that he is real, and gasps when he captures her wrists in one swift move. His broad hands grip as tight as ever, but his eyes are so empty she is really afraid he will do her harm.
Then she hears him again, though the words are not spoken aloud. Galadriel?
"Olórin," she answers, and at once his grip slackens and his eyes meet hers, though only for a moment. Then he laughs again, hysterical, and she nods to Celeborn to give the proper thanks and farewells to Gwaihir. Eagles stand on ritual, and she has no patience left.
Another outburst of laughter returns her attention to the man prone before her. There is a naked and possibly insane man on my terrace, she thinks briefly, before dismissing the situation as no stranger than the rest of her life, really. Ruling a country for as long as she has brings you in touch with all sorts.
"Sleep now, my love," she murmurs, passing her hand over his staring eyes. She puts such grace as remains to her in these late days into a kiss on Mithrandir's forehead, and whether by her gift or that of Lórien or by something else entirely, when she kneels upright again he is still and his breathing steady.
Gwaihir is gone, and Celeborn returns to her, looking down on Mithrandir's form. "Is he asleep, then?"
"I think so, yes." She takes Celeborn's offered hand and pulls herself upright.
"I have never been able to tell. It would be easier if he closed his eyes in sleep."
"He would be pleased to know that. Did he ever care for making things easy?"
"Never," Celeborn laughs, all his relief in his voice. "Our bedchamber?"
"If you'll help me carry him, yes."
Between them, they manage the Wizard with little difficulty. He is lighter than she would have thought, light enough to frighten her. Whatever happened has ravaged him, mind and body.
With Celeborn's help, she lays Mithrandir's limp limbs out on the bed, swathes him in fine cloths, presses cool waters to his lips. He does not move as his mouth fills and water trickles down his cheeks to leave a dark spot on the white linen, but swallows, sudden, when she touches his face.
There's not much to do, after that. Mithrandir stares at the ceiling, asleep as far as she can guess, and Galadriel is reluctant to wake him. Instead, she sits by the bed and watches him, motionless.
"You should go out," Celeborn says, some time later. "You cannot stay here until he wakes." His words are careful, but it is not hard to hear their real meaning. We do not know if he will.
"He will want me to be here, when he does."
"He knows me well enough. There is much you must do."
"What is there any of us can do, in days like these?" Galadriel asks.
Celeborn's answering voice is strong and firm. "There are three sentinels wounded from the last raiding party that passed by. You had spoken of visiting them."
"It does not bode well that orcs will now pass so close to the very heart of these lands," she says, and like that her mind has returned to the business of the realm. There is new masonry laid down which must be tested, and no new shipment of honey has come in from the North for some time. She must send out a messenger, with friend-gifts – and ask after the fletcher whose husband has taken gravely ill.
"Go," says Celeborn. "I will stay with him. Go now."
She goes.
It is not until the sun has set that Galadriel has a moment's rest to return to her chambers. When she does, she sees that Mithrandir has awoken. Someone has brought a platter of cakes, and Celeborn is feeding the Wizard like a child, bringing morsels of food to his lips and speaking to him softly.
Rather than disturb them, she stands by the door and waits silently. Celeborn has his back to her, and his attention is fixed on the task at hand, breaking wheatcakes in his hands and moistening the fragments in a dish of milk. Mithrandir, on the other hand, is placed to see her, but his eyes roam over the room without stay, making no distinction between her and the blank wall beside her.
When the food is finished, she comes in and sits beside Celeborn. "How is he?"
Her husband shrugs. "No better and no worse. I had hoped that he would know you if not me, but if it is so, he shows no sign of it."
"He sees everything, though," she says softly. "Look how bright his eyes are."
"Can you reach him at all?"
In answer, she takes Mithrandir's wizened hand and calls to him in her mind, speaking his most ancient name. Olórin!
Mithrandir freezes, eyes fixed on the wall a span to her left. Gently, she puts her hand to his face and turns his head till he looks into her eyes. It takes a moment, but slowly he smiles, and reaches out in return to cup her cheek, mimicking the gesture.
"I suppose that answers my question, then," Celeborn says, his voice laced with relief.
Sleep now, Galadriel says to the Wizard, and goes to snuff the candle.
The next morning, when she returns from her daily rounds, she hears quick-spoken Valinorean coming from above. Sure enough, when she climbs to her bedchamber, Mithrandir is pacing in circles, talking at a brisk clip. Perched on the bed, Celeborn looks half-amused, half-annoyed.
"How long has he been like this?" she asks.
"Since he woke this morning," Celeborn answers, sighing. "I cannot make out a word – I know a little of this tongue, but he speaks too fast for me."
Galadriel pauses and listens, translating in her head. "It is only an old tale," she says at last, "the Ainulindalë. Of the beginning of all things, and the music of the Ainur."
"Not only an old tale to him, then," Celeborn says.
"No." She goes to Mithrandir and takes him by the shoulders, stopping him where he stands. "Olórin, stop now. You are safe here, among friends. Nothing can harm you, here in Lórien."
At her last word, he goes still under her hands, and his eyes find hers. "Lórien," he repeats.
The gladness in her is too great to hold. "Yes," she says, "this is Lórien, my home and yours, for as long as you will stay, and I am Galadriel."
"Galadriel," he says, and then he kisses her.
When she has to breathe, she pulls away, and looks at Celeborn, who is smiling broadly. Mithrandir's eyes follow hers. "Celeborn," he says, soft and uncertain.
"Yes," Galadriel says, and embraces him again.
Words return to him slowly, but before too many more days pass by Mithrandir seems whole again, if not the same as he had been before. Galadriel can still hear the accent of Valinor heavy on his speech, but Celeborn cannot make it out. The Wizard is tight-lipped as ever about the time between his fall and his sudden return, but his mind is as sound as it has ever been, and on the third day Galadriel sends messengers to Imladris bearing the glad news.
That noon, Mithrandir comes to find her by the river. He is clad in new white robes, made for him by Galadriel and her handmaidens, and he has acquired somewhere a heavy staff. It is the new shoes that tell Galadriel what she needs to know, though, and she is not surprised when he tells her he is leaving.
"Only for a time," he says, leaning on his staff. "I will see you again before I leave these lands at last, Galadriel daughter of Finarfin, never fear."
"May the hills bear you lightly," she says, "and the roads turn ever homewards when the day is done."
"So be it indeed," Mithrandir says, and whistles for his horse.
The days that come are even darker than those she has seen before, but hope is never far from Galadriel. She has only to close her eyes to see Mithrandir, a spark far in the distance lighting a raging fire.
Then she wakes in the night with a scream, and all about her there is silence. Silent and empty her mind – and then she knows that the war is won at last, and the Shadow has passed away from Middle-Earth.
There is singing in Lothlórien that night, as the word passes about and bonfires are lit, and in the light of the fires she dances with Celeborn, and in the light of the moon she sings for the joy of her people and for the passing of an age.
Many days come and go after that, and the South Wind blows clean and new leaves bud on the mallorn. And at last the messenger comes for whom she has waited, and she set out to Minas Tirith to see Arwen wed to the new King.
At the wedding, a certain red-haired elf with a bow at her side stands in Arwen's honor guard. Her smile is the blade of a rapier, slim and steely and glinting, but there is laughter in her eyes. They all worked it out in the end, then, Galadriel thinks, and surprises herself at not wanting to know just how. Maybe, after all these years, she's getting old.
They do not stay long, and when she leaves, she says farewell to her Wizard, as she always has, with a kiss and a blessing.
"Mithrandir?"
"Yes?"
"The next time you come, come for me."
He rides off with the Company on his silver horse, the like of which will never be seen again. She takes Celeborn's hand in hers, and begins the long journey home to set her affairs in order.