Opening scene refers back to Through a Glass Darkly, Chapter 9. Erestor and Glorfindel find the Glass in Phellanthir and the Balrog is drawn to the Mirror- Maedhros drawn by Erestor. He fights the Balrog and defeats it, but his own corpus (by this I mean the entity that Maedhros is in the Dark) is wounded so his fëa is dispersed, his particles/ Song/astra are dispersed.
Astra: particles
Raitafintë- the closest idea we have to this is programming although the Elves have a more organic and deeper understanding than ours is currently. Their great inventors and thinkers just live so much longer and at their prime- although of course most have been killed over the various wars
.
Bauglir- Morgoth.
For an explanation of how Maedhros has come to be Eru's Watcher in the Dark, his champion and guard against Morgoth, please read my very short one-shot, Nelyo.
These next couple of chapters are really the same one sequence, but it was so very long, I had to cut it into shorter segments, but the next one will be out very soon.
Thank you to my lovely beta, Anarithilien.
Chapter 55: To the Everlasting Darkness Doom us
(Oath of Feanor)
Astra floated disparately in the Dark. It was not a comfort, not the warm blanket of Sleep. No. It was Discord. The opposite of the Song. Each of the astra that had composed his corpus floated disparately… It was an incomprehensible anguish in the Dark; to be torn apart like this…Each astra or particle was a single note in the Song of the whole and apart, it ached, yearned to be one soul, one Song, one corpus again.
And so, his astra floated and some were caught in the winds that howled around the Dark, blown to the furthest points. But they sought each other desperately, yearning for their whole. It was only when a beacon was thrust out into the Dark that they were able to find each other, like a magnet draws iron filings or the notes of a Song plays in harmony. They knit and bonded joyfully, climbed together and constructed a long helix, and then another and another… A shoal of silver-blue sparks drawing together, magnetized and rejoicing at finding each other once again. One corpus. One Song.
The beacons were small pools of twilight, the grey lightening in the Absolute Dark. Something within, or beyond the pools called him inexorably, like a heart note. Like blood calling to blood.
One syllable was always on his lips as he came back into being. Every time. It lingered in his mouth, on his lips, his tongue, in his heart, in the beat of his blood as if it had been left in the darkness around him each time his corpus was dispersed. It was Eru's gift that he always remembered. At first the syllable was nothing but a meaningless echo of sound in that vast emptiness… And then…like a breath, he would find his mouth, his lips and tongue curling around the sound…
…Fin…
Slowly his fingers found that scrap of silver-blue fabric clutched between them. He did not recall his name, or history. But the small rag of silver-blue held him together. And the sound that resonated, lingered in the Darkness around him.
Fin.
Fingon. Beloved, beloved Fingon.
And in that moment, he became.
Remembering.
Man of Steel. Eru's champion. His watcher in the Dark.
Maedhros.
0o0o
Slowly, memory returned. Not in a linear fashion; there were glimpses of people, places, times. Different times with the same people, same times with different people. He analysed this much as he analysed the stretch of muscle and bone, and he wondered what it meant that his corpus, his Song, was knit together again. Now. Here.
He lingered near the twilit places, where the Veil between the Abyss and the World was thin. Now he remembered that there had been another such place where the darkness was thin, and that somehow, he had seen Nármö, little Närmó, and Laurëfindë… who had died. But that had been long, long ago had it not? And before that, he had seen Tyelpë. Or had Tylepe been after Närmó? It was hard to hold onto memory.
Was this the same pool of twilight?
He protected those twilit places, hoping and fearing that someone would appear on the other side, hoping beyond all hope that one day, perhaps, if he waited and hoped long enough, it would be Fingon who reached into that strange viscous grey light and touched him.
But there was nothing. Just the anguish of the Dark. The unbearable oppression and suffocating emptiness.
Except for the far off roar now and again of some beast. A Valaraukar. Or sometimes a fire drake mourning its loss, yearning for the stars.
The infinite vaults of the Dark were great enough that they need not encounter each other. Unless they hunted.
As the Valarauki hunted. There were no stars in the relentless Dark but the fire of the Valarauki hurtled through Space in pursuit of him at times. Once he had been pursued so far and so fast that he had teetered on the edge of the precipice of the deepest places of the Night; the Abyss where was Bauglir.
It was hard to comprehend the Abyss. Harder still to comprehend Bauglir.
The Abyss was colder, darker, an absence of light and sound that made a soul scream and become mad with grief.
Bauglir was a Presence that moved monumentally in the endless, endless blackness in the depths of the Abyss. Colossal… never ending… Leviathan.
Bauglir's monumental regard was tangible.
Oppressive.
Though Maedhros struggled in the Dark to remember sunlight and love, he had no trouble at all remembering Thanogodhrim:
…When he had first been taken into Melkor's Presence, he had still thought he was Nelyafinwë Maitimo Feänorion. Until Melkor's merest touch crushed him so he felt his chest was caving in, his ribs crushed his heart and his blood pounded so hard in his veins that he thought they would burst. Melkor's touch was fire racing along his sinews, bunching his muscles so hard he thought he would explode.
There was nothing like it. It touched his very core, his being, his memory. Who he was. And changed him forever. 'Nelyo' fled from the laughing accusation that he could no longer be Nelyo. Third.
Third what? Morgoth's laughter like thunder.
For you are not First. You are not your Grandfather, Finwë, who led the Noldor into Valinor. Who ruled the third people of the Eldar. Who sat at Manwë's hand. Whom I killed with my own hand so his blood ran over me, and at this Melkor flexed his great fists like boulders.
And you are certainly not the Second. Nor are you Crafty or Cunning, your father. The greatest of all elves who ever or will ever live. How could you possibly be him? A shadow of him is all you can ever hope to be! He who thrashed my Balrogs and thought he could overcome them; fire and flame! 'Twas only there were so many of them that they slew him, pounded him into the dust!
Nelyo hated him and Morgoth knew it. Revelled in it. Savoured it like a rare wine.
So you cannot be third. Third what?
Nelyo, Maitimo did not care. He loved them both, Finwë and Fëanáro and Morgoth saw them through his eyes and wept. With laughter. And then he leaned close and it was like a Mountain had moved, leaned down and looked him in the eye.
Nelyo, Maitimo then if he could not be Nelyo, saw…stars, whirling in the firmament. Spirals, galaxies. Distances unimaginable. Fire burning at the heart of the Universe. Darkness - a pinpoint of darkness that swallowed worlds.
Little elf. You are nothing.
He was crushed like a pebble beneath the mountain's granite fist. Crushed into grit. Dust.
If you are no longer Nelyo, are you Maitimo? Fair one? Well-made one?
You are no longer Maitimo.
Sauron did for that.
Long, long russet-copper hair that floated on the breeze, that an elegant and eager hand once stroked, was pulled from his head, cut, pulled, torn. It did not matter which after a while. Pale skin unblemished like silk, once touched by a beloved mouth so he had shivered delightfully and turned to look with molten-hot silver eyes. Sauron did for all of that. Mottled that silken skin with burns and wounds and infections. Would have cut off his lips and ears and eyelids had Morgoth not stopped him.
You are no longer Maitimo, said Morgoth.
He knew that was true. He was an ugly, misshapen thing. Like the orcs that did for him. They tended his wounds and then inflicted new ones. They fed him and starved him alternately. They gave him water and urinated upon his wounds. He hated them. And hatred fed his every waking moment.
Morgoth was amused.
Who are you now? he asked the ugly, misshapen firstborn, not Third. Not Beautiful or Well-made. But still immortal. Still Feänorian. Still burning with something that Morgoth lacked, or had mislaid, or lost upon the way. Who are you now?
The ugly misshapen firstborn Fëanorion tried to stand upon its broken feet, tried to straighten its bent spine from being cracked in chains and racked, tried to speak from its bruised lips- for it still had lips. For now at least.
I am Maedhros, it said in a weak and quiet voice. Maedhros. And I will prevail. I will always… prevail.
And though he was beaten and starved and then fed so he could be beaten and tortured more, every time Morgoth brought him forth, he said the same. And each time, he stood a little straighter. His eyes, which Morgoth had stopped Sauron from ripping out, still burned.
Morgoth had a plan. He turned him loose. After a fashion.
You will bring down your house more completely than I could ever do, he said. Hang him from high Thanogorodhrim and set no guard. See how long he lasts. See who comes for him…And then see what happens. Watch as I crush every hope, every dream, every piece of love. Watch as I thread his bones on a spit of despair, as I drain every drop of blood into a cup of misery. Watch as I crush his very bones until nothing is left but ash….
And he had.
But I am Eru's champion, Maedhros reminded himself as his corpus coalesced, solidified. The Watchfire in the Dark. Bauglir's nemesis. I will keep watch as I did upon the battlements of Himring.
0o0o
There had been War; he knew because of the influx, a tidal wave of twisted, misshapen things fled through the Night, terrified, aware somehow of what had befallen them and hunted by the Balrogs, who tormented them brutishly. Savagely. And devoured them.
The Wraiths were different; not the scuffling, bowed things that were hunted and devoured. They were not without Power, he saw. The Balrogs were less certain of the Wraiths too and let them be. Maedhros watched from afar, kept guard.
He recognised something in the sorcery that bound these Wraiths.
Sauron.
But that was no surprise. Everything that had come from Outside into the Dark for…. aeons…. had been touched by Sauron.
The Wraiths had clustered by one of the thin pools of twilight, where the Veil was thin, peering in, grasping each other with greedy skeletal fingers, shoving at each other to get closer to the pool, the skein of viscous silk that separated the Dark from the World.
Maedhros did not like the creatures of Sauron to find the pools; he was afraid that Bauglir would notice and be curious. He would discover what they were. A window onto the World.
He realised that something on the Other Side had been keeping the Wraiths there. They could see or touch something that was sustaining them somehow, and they were stretching the Veil, pushing against it though he knew it would not break. He had not been strong enough at first to disperse them and could only watch. And then, a blast of crimson light had bowled the grey twilight inwards like an implosion of Power and surged into and around Maedhros. But he had not felt pain or dispersal; instead, Power charged him, strengthened him so that he was able to attack the Wraiths from behind, to join with the crimson power that blasted through the darkness and to drive the Wraiths away from the grey pool. They had run before him like smoke blown by the wind but they had gathered again like a fog, far enough away from him but close enough to observe.
He had guarded the grey pool against them. And then suddenly something new had been sucked into the Dark, a furious, terrified thing that fled out into the Night and the Wraiths had pursued it, shrieking hatred, revenge, betrayal. He knew they had caught it for the howling went on for a long, long time, a wrung out torture that brought tongues of fire hurtling through the dark towards the Wraiths, for the Balrogs are always hungry. They would have fought the Wraiths for their prey.
Maedhros was quite happy for them to tear each other apart and the roaring and shrieking of their battle gave him quiet satisfaction.
With the Wraiths gone, he drifted quietly, anxiously near the thin pool of twilight. He was curious about the charge of crimson power that had strengthened him. There was a familiarity about it that pulled him inexorably, towards the pool of grey light. His heart, his heart, for he felt a physical sensation, surged with a swell of emotion that he remembered as love, and grief. Could it be that there were those on the Other Side who called to him?
Fingon? Fingon!
No… It felt different and he scrambled around in his fleeting memories that were still hard to grasp.
An image of a small chubby hand reaching up to his.
Caranthir? he thought first. But it was not. Two sets of little grubby hands that had been drawing in the mud. I used to show them…he began a thought but he could not remember what he had showed them. And he could not remember 'them'… Ambarussa? No…Then who?
Who… Like Ambarussa but not…
Ah. His heart swelled with love that he thought he would never feel again after Fingon was slaughtered.
Elrond. Elros.
His face was wet and he remembered rain.
0o0o
'Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also.
Galadriel's lips did not move but even so, she silently recited the dreadful curse, her eyes were closed but she could see it, hear it as if it were happening before her. The Doom. And she was condemned to remain forever in Middle Earth with the way barred to her, her child forbidden her.
She had refused the pardon granted to those who renounced Endor and returned after the War of Wrath. She was no penitent. As she had refused to turn around at the bidding of Eonwë*
'And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after. The Valar have spoken.
The Valar will fence Valinor against you and shut you out.
Even her Mirror was shut out and she could not even see her child in Valinor. Did not even know if she healed.
She could not bear it.
No. She could not.
She would not.
She put her long hand over her eyes and leaned against the cold stone of the tower. The door of the cell in which the Glass was contained was before her. She had cast a veil over her Power so that the Glass might not perceive her. But she felt Nenya tremble at its nearness, at the possibilities.
'And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after.'
It was such a little thing she wanted. And after all she had given, all she had rejected, it seemed so unfair to deny her.
It was with this thought that she awaited her two companions, with a wild mix of despair at the Doom and hope, for Khamûl was vanquished. And for some reason, she felt, and the Hyellë-Vírin knew, that this somehow changed everything. Her heart beat wildly and her Will was of steel.
Nenya spun and clicked around her, keeping her energy low, keeping her charge. We will need it, Galadriel agreed.
Khamûl is gone.
What does that mean?
We do not know. It has not happened before.
It puzzled her, these allusions to what had gone before.
Elrond must see Maedhros. It will secure him.
Galadriel glanced across at the sealed door of the cell behind which the Mirror was contained. Surely Maedhros was not truly trapped in the Dark? She had heard Erestor's story but he had always fancied himself Feänorion and was not beyond a fabrication if it suited him. But Nenya seemed to suggest it might be true…and there was no doubt at all that Angmar had indeed been feeding off Legolas Thranduillion somehow.
She shuddered at the horror of it, remembering the sweetness of that child of the Forest when the Fellowship had blundered into the Wood, lost and afraid with Mithrandir gone.
And now that they were come to this, the knowledge that the Eternal Dark really was behind the Glass made her belly flutter with fear. Behind the Glass was the Eternal Night. Bauglir.
She had never seen him. But once, she had visited Finrod in Tol Sirion before he had built Nargothrond, and she felt his Presence. Morgoth had been aware of her and she had been left breathless with fear even for the sense of his regard had been oppressive, like being slowly crushed under a weight of rocks.
She glanced at the door of the cell behind which the Glass was the thinnest barrier between her and Morgoth. Her pulse bounded in her throat, and she felt her breathe quicken in short gasps.
What am I doing? she asked herself in horror.
But Nenya suffused her bearer with Power and showed her again how easy it had been to open her own Mirror and to stand on the edge of the Unverse, to gaze out at the distant stars and whirls of galaxies, to reach out and take it.
How can Morgoth oppose you? Nenya murmured soothingly. Release Ontanë so he can stand with you, together you can rule Time and Space. He will show you. This time, we will succeed. This time Ontanë will be freed.
She stared into space for a moment; what do you mean, this time? she asked, as she had before. But now she received an answer where before, Nenya had silenced.
There was a flash and Nenya said, Look.
Galadriel saw:
….a sudden movement in the doorway and a long shadow falls over them.
'Saphadim.' Elrohir steps forth from the shadows.
It is Mithrandir who steps forwards then. 'Unclean one, what do you want?' he demands, his voice resonant with power.
Elrohir's feet shuffle forwards, moved unwillingly by Khamûl's possession of him. He stumbles to a point in front of the Glass, hand upon the hilt of Aícanaro and loosens the sword in its sheath. 'Saphadim. I will use Aícanaro to break the Glass and release my Masters and their slaves. All of them. The Dark will be emptied. The Great God will return.'
Their faces are blasted by his threat. He is delighted.
There is a sudden movement and someone appears behind Elrohir, someone who has just burst into the cell. 'You will not!' a clear voice cries.
A hiss of steel drawn and Aícanaro slashes wildly.
Blood spurts over her white dress and a scream of agony pierces the air…
Legolas stares at the bloody blade in his chest, lifts his eyes to Elrohir who stands aghast….
And in his heart-broken fury, he lets Aícanaro slips from his grasp and the Glass is shattered into a million rainbows…..
Nenya flashed on Galadriel's hand, the brilliant adamantine glitter caught her attention and she broke from that other possibility… No, that is no longer possible for Khamûl is gone, she remembered. She drew a hand over her eyes and noticed she was trembling.
And then, another shift and it felt like the stone floor had tilted, like the Tower was falling…
Elrohir steps between Galadriel and the Glass.
'No! No! You don't understand,' she cries. 'I will take us back to when your mother was free, before she was shattered into little pieces of glass. Don't you want that?'
Elrohir stares, Aícanaro drawn and dark in his hand. He is very still.
Look, Galadriel sketches in the air, brushes over the Mirror and the darkness ripples, resolves into the lovely face of Celebrían. She is laughing, leaning over someone, her eyes soft with love.
Don't you want her back? Like this?
Elrohir gasps. Yes. Yes I do.' His hand wavers. The yearning in his eyes, the way he strains towards the image of his mother, the invisible thread between mother and child reflects in both his and Galadriel's eyes.
'If you break the Glass, you will unleash the Dark,' Mithrandir speaks gravely. 'It will be the Dagor Dagoreth.'
There is a flash as of lightning and Legolas Thranduillion has burst in through the door behind them. 'You would deny me?' he asks Elrohir miserably.
Elrohir looks from him to the image of his mother and back again. 'But we will still meet,' he cries in an agony.
'You cannot know that,' Legolas replies. His head is bowed.
Elrohir is distraught, he covers his face in his hands. But Khamûl has been waiting for his guard to slip and he suddenly possesses Elrohir fully. He brings his hands down and his face is cruel and twisted. He laughs and turns and Legolas sees what he has become.
'You will not have him!' he cries and leaps towards Elrohir… His blood is vivid against her dress and she cries out, throws out her hands to stop them but too late…always too late…And then in despair, Elrohir cuts the Glass.
The torches in their sconces streamed in the wind that came up the stairs as someone flung himself through the door of the Tower and rushed up the steps toward her. He tore up the stone steps, furiously.
With a gasp, she turned, hand held out before her palm up, ready to strike. If it is Elrohir then all is lost!
'What have you done?'
It was not Elrohir, Aícanaro brandished before him to strike open the Dark. No. It was Elrond.
What had she done? She turned her head, eyes wide and confused. She half expected to see the body of Legolas Thranduillion slumped in Elrohir's arms, splinters of Glass scattered over the floor and the hordes of Darkness squealing and roaring through the gaping hole in the Mirror.
No. Those had been...memories, possibilities only and were passed, she realised. In both of those past memories, she realised, Aícanaro was drawn, Elrohir was there. Legolas had been there too. And died. She cast a swift, searching gaze about the Tower and saw that they were yet alone.
'To those Men?' Elrond was demanding.
She blinked and turned back to him, her lips parted gasping.
It was not real. It had not happened.
Not this time. Khamûl is gone! Ravéyön is freed. This time Yôzâira has survived…
They must not come here…
The Three whirred and exchanged alarca. Nenya buzzed and popped, scanning. No. He is not here. Yôzâira must not come here. He will die.
Elrond caught at her arm and demanded again. 'What have you done to the Guards? They are Aragorn's Men!'
She blinked, confused.
'We must not have interruption,' she murmured obliquely. She stared at the door of the cell as if her gaze penetrated it, still seeing the blood, hearing the moment that Song, the sweet notes of the forest that were Legolas', dispersed into the Air as he breathed his last.
'No one else must…' She paused and licked her lips. Her mouth was dry. 'Just the Three of us,' she repeated. She looked around, coming back to herself; that had been a vision. It was no longer in this reality, she thought. Khamûl has gone.
'The Tower Guards.' She blinked again, and repeated, 'It is momentary. To allow us to work undisturbed.' She realised then it had been a mistake to stun them as she had, to leave them standing useless, thoughtless, for they might prevent Elrohir from entering if he did. And Legolas.
No. It no longer matters, surely? Khamûl is gone. They are no danger.
But even now, she was not certain. Elrohir still had Aícanaro. And the sword could break the Glass, shattering her dreams of turning back Time. Unleashing the Dark. He had done it in those other realities, those possibilities, she thought.
Elrond shook his head angrily. 'Release them.' He still spoke of the guards she had bespelled.
'I will, I swear this.' She met his angry gaze with an anger of her own, and took Elrond's arm. He was stiff and resistant 'I know you have hidden it, she said softly of the book. 'You think to betray me?' She slid him an oblique look. 'It will not stop me. And you are not so unstained. You wanted this too. You encouraged me to hope that we might succeed and bring back Celebrían.'
Suddenly sharp footsteps approached and she knew it was Mithrandir. She gave Elrond a bitter smile that promised a reckoning, and turned to greet the last ring bearer.
'Mithrandir! My dear friend.' She held out both her hands to him and he clasped them, humbly, delighted. She stepped closer to Gandalf, warmth in her heart for her steadfast ally, long time friend. Surely he would not betray her now?
'We are all here,' she said triumphantly, sweeping her dress back and stepping slightly to one side so that he could see Elrond already there, his face was stony, defiant.
But she would not let Elrond's sudden reluctance ruin this. 'It is done! Khamûl is gone. We are free! Is it not momentous? The Three finally reunited and free?' She laughed, and wound her arms about Gandalf's neck then and gazed at him, his eyes, his lips. As if she might kiss him. She smiled.
'It is!' exclaimed Mithrandir joyously. The old Man's flesh seemed to slip away from him and Ólorin's beautiful face looked out at her. She knew he was smitten with her, loved her…but enough to obey her, do the bidding that would break every rule by which he had lived?
'Elrond, my old friend,' Mithrandir turned to their companion, who stood silently, watching cautiously. At Elrond's serious expression, Mithrandir grew concerned. 'What is it?' he asked.
'Ask yourself, Mithrandir, why have we met here, at the very door of the Night?' said Elrond seriously. 'Is this an act of the Wise?'
Galadriel's lips thinned. 'It is as you planned,' she said sharply, glancing briefly at Mithrandir, who returned her gaze with puzzlement. 'Only yesterday it was your intention too.' She would not allow him to lay all of this upon her. She curled her lip in contempt. 'You allowed me to think you were with me.'
He had the grace to look away and avoided Mithrandir's gaze too. 'That is fair.' Then he looked up. 'But I have repented of it. I cannot deny all that we have accomplished…' He paused and met her defiant gaze, appealing. 'Just think what we have done. We have defeated Sauron. Restored the King of Gondor.'
'And exactly of what have you repented?' Mithrandir asked more curtly than she expected.
She watched Elrond, wondering if he would betray her further. His mannish blood was asserting itself; he could not help it, she thought. He had not crossed the ice, felt the bitter cold settle in his bones. He had not watched the faces of their people pinched and starved and frozen, fill slowly with hatred for those who had betrayed them. Hard. Bitter as when she stood upon the shores of Endor for the first time and the light of the Trees in her eyes, standing with Finrod and Fingon, thin and hard all of them, swearing revenge upon Fëanor and his sons. Bitter with cold and loss. Furious at their betrayal and abandonment. Fierce with revenge and lust.
Elrond was glaring at her, waiting for her to speak, to confess all to Mithrandir, she realised. She almost laughed. 'So you are reconciled to the Present? You will not seek to change it then. And the fading? Are you reconciled to that too? Or do you intend to sail?'
His face told her all. She saw that he had already decided; he would sail, and abandon these shores, go instead to Valinor, the promised haven for the Elves. She laughed once. It was such an irony that this child, reared by the sons of Fëanor who had striven so hard to leave Valinor, should be in such haste to return there.
But he would find his beloved wife there, her daughter. And relenting, she reached out to stroke his cheek tenderly. 'You will hate it there. You will find it sterile in Valinor, will he not, Mithrandir? Limiting.' She made a dismissive gesture with her arm. 'The Vanya will bore you. The Teleri frustrate you. And the Noldor…so lessened. The flower of the Noldor are gone.' She smiled slightly at Mithrandir's huff of surprise; he had not seen her like this before. Perhaps he did not remember that she was, in fact, Artanis.
Nenya reached out, curled about Vilya lovingly, wound about Narya and the Three smoothed and curled about each other, clicking and whirring. The light of the Three waved and rippled about them. She felt like she was standing in a pool of light, the adamantine brilliance of Nenya mingled with Narya, whose crimson light softened into amethyst in Vilya's deep blue. Ah, so Vilya might yet be with her, she thought with interest.
Mithrandir leaned on his staff and looked at her thoughtfully. 'What is that Elrond repents of and yet you, Artanis, do not?'
Ah, so he has not forgotten, she thought.
She ran her hand over the door to the cell, feeling the thrum of energy from the Glass within. 'I want to know. I want to understand.' She turned to him earnestly. 'I want what I have always wanted. Power. Knowledge.' His eyes watched her intently and she saw Ólorin clearly, his alienness was stark in that moment; he may look like an old Man, human in all his thoughts and emotions, but he was not; his interest at that moment was almost scientific.
'You have no idea what they can teach us,' she said, watching him back and wondering if he could yet be persuaded. Curvë was something the Valar had wanted too she realised.
'Who? Or should I say, what?' He narrowed his piercing blue eyes at her so she thought he must perceive everything about her. But it did not matter now for she had revealed to him her secret desire, her longing.
'Aren't you curious?' she asked. 'Do you not wish just to look? To see what lies beyond the Circles of the Earth? Are you not a servant of the Secret Fire?'
'That is not for your eyes,' he said sternly. 'Nor mine.'
'Why not?' she demanded. 'Who decreed what I should know? Is that not what Feanor fought? And how he was punished! Are you still punishing us for curiosity?
'Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains,' she said bitterly, facing Mithrandir accusingly. 'And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret…Where will I go, Mithrandir? Will I fade like the song of a bird that disappears into the Wood so that only an echo remains?' She stood tall, defiant. There was dread at what was to come: the fading, but she would not beg. She would never go back as a beaten prisoner, admitting she was wrong, admitting defeat. As some had at the end of the War of Wrath. 'I will not bow my head in penitence. I will not simply return to the tall towers and polished halls of Tirion, the sterile boredom where a woman cannot rule,' she said defiantly. She crumbled a little then. 'I want my daughter back. My brother.' She dragged her eyes from the sympathy that cracked his face. Yes. Finrod was there too. Dearest Finrod. Never to see his beloved face again. Ever.
Mithrandir looked at her sadly, as if he knew that whilst that was true and she would never admit defeat, there was too the murmur of the Sea, its rush and sweep, the white gulls tossed up by the wind.
For in spite of her defiance, it was still Home. She longed for it as much as she fought the shame of return. Celebrían was there. A sharp pain stabbed her womb. Her child. She clenched her fist to her womb and bowed her head, fought the loss and yearning.
'We share grief,' she said to Elrond desperately. 'But you do not share the eternity of it.' And she could not help the bitterness, the resentment then. She flung out a hand towards him, Nenya flashed and whirled, alarca spinning into the space between her and Vilya. Vilya reached and caught it, spinning it into her own Raitafintë, and sending it back reformed, rephrased.
'That is not true,' he said quietly.
She stared at him, and then remembering, closed her eyes. 'No. You are right.' She bowed her head. 'I am sorry…' He was losing his daughter too. 'How will you bear it?'
Elrond looked away. 'It has not been an easy reconciliation,' he admitted. 'But I would not deny her her own happiness, any more than I denied Elros his.'
'And what of your father?' She loaded those words with bewildered pity. 'To be condemned to the Eternal Night?' She looked at his face, searchingly. 'The injustice of the Doom. How can you not feel that?' She let her own anger suffuse those words and he flushed. 'When you sail, will you simply abandon Maglor? And leave Maedhros trapped in the Dark so easily?' She watched him carefully, like a wolf trots alongside its prey in the woods, watching easily, seemingly unthreatening. Waiting. 'If what Glorfindel says is true.'
She laid a hand upon the cell door and cast a look at each of them. Elrond opened his mouth in protest and Mithrandir raised his hand as if to stop her. But they were too late and she pushed the door open.
Inside a light glimmered. The Mirror stood in the shadows. Taller than Elf, about eight feet it stood, elegant and still. The bronze frame was etched with the particular signs that Celebrimbor had sketched upon every door he had ever made; the curling scrolls were the branches of trees and the single star of Feanor appeared at the compass points. And calma, for Celebrimbor.
Silver-blue light glimmered in the Mirror and the Glass seemed to tremble at her approach.
0o0o
*Galadriel was one of those Noldor who followed Fingolfin, and Feanor away from Aman to Endor and so came under the Doom of the Noldor. She also refused to return after the War of Wrath. So she has every reason to suppose that Valinor is closed to her still. I have decided that she is less willing to diminish than Tolkien makes her.
