AUTHOR NOTES: The first genuine notes of Eowyn appear in this chapter.
Chapter VII - Smoke Off the Mirror
The basin was dark, shimmering with the reflection of the bright stars above the Golden Wood. The water swirled in a way water was not quite meant to move-it pooled and rippled like mercury, beautiful and undulating. Slowly Legolas stepped forward until he saw his own face. It had changed little. A small, healing cut under his right eyebrow was the only new physicality. And yet aught *had* changed indeed: his own eyes frightened him. He seemed centuries older than he really was-but not just older. What had happened? How came he to look so tired and torn?
With effort, Legolas pulled his eyes away from the Mirror and saw Galadriel observing him. He noticed that his hands were gripping the sides of the pedestal, and the knuckles were white. Embarrassed, he relaxed his hands. "Do you advise me to look, Lady?" he asked in a whisper, though he already guessed her answer.
"I cannot advise you in this matter, Legolas. It is your path. Though it forks before you, only *you* can select the road."
He frowned and gazed off into the distant tree line in thought, recalling what she had told him moments before.
*It shows things that were:* what memories might he see? Early on in his life, perhaps? He had seen his mother only in his dreams, and those featuring had come less and less frequently. To see her again, if only as an illusion-perhaps that was more than his heart could handle. A simple word her lips had formed. A single flicker of her eyes. Her laugh! Had he forgotten it? Would it make his heart split in two?
*It shows things that are:* he could see his home now! What was his father doing? Was he well? Selfishly, Legolas wondered if Thranduil missed him as he did. And the encroaching darkness he had left? Was it abated? Would it ever be? His heart stopped. What if his father had taken an injury...or worse? Legolas did not think he would be able to carry on the quest knowing his father suffered without his son by his side.
*And some things that have not yet come to pass....*
No. He could not. The third option was too perilous for his sanity alone. Beyond his own fate, he did not think he could bear to see the final outcome of the quest were it to appear. Or what of the Dark Lord himself? He shuddered.
"This is no palantir." Her voice was suddenly cold, cutting the night air with a new quality. "He cannot see you. One day, maybe. He knows of you. But He cannot see you, not here, not while Nenya protects you."
Legolas looked up swiftly. "He knows of *me*?"
Galadriel lifted her chin. "I guess His mind. He knows there are nine. He knows that one is Elven. Indeed, He even knows that the King of Mirkwood's one child has gone abroad and has not been spotted among the Wood-Elf hosts."
Legolas' mouth opened slightly in disbelief.
"Indeed, He knows you. He has kept his Eye on Mirkwood, too. It is because of He that darkness has fallen under the once-noble boughs of your home. The Spiders grow in number by His will, an evil stirring as it has not since they days of Ungoliant the Black. He has been waiting for *you*, though, as He waits for Isildur's heir, as He waits for the last of us, the Elven Ringbearers. He knows that you are the last son of our people. Because of that, you are His symbolic target."
"What?"
"If He can seize you then it is a message to all our people. Undómiel is out of His grasp, for now. You, however, are heading straight toward Him. Elven blood is worth much to the Dark Lord. Rarely is He given a chance to spill it since the days of the Last Alliance. Beware, Legolas Greenleaf. His arm has grown long." She paused. "Will you look into the Mirror?"
It still glistened wetly before him. He licked his lips and paused one last time. He felt the weight of this information deep within his chest. The wind whistling through the treetops was suddenly very cold.
"He has never touched it," she reminded him.
And so Legolas leaned forward and gazed into the shadowy depths of the Mirror of Galadriel.
* * *
A forest, dim and crowded with trees, humming with the sounds of the wood- and something else, like an ancient, deep voice, low as the center of the earth. An old man in gray, stained rags hobbled between the boles. Stopping, he threw off his tattered hood. Legolas' heart leapt to his throat.
"Mithrandir?"
The image faded, replaced by a long field of tall grass, rippling in the wind like a pale green sea. The sky was dark, a deep navy. Blue stars burned high above.
Then he felt something familiar and altogether evil. Its malice slowed his breath. He felt the pain and nausea that had come upon him when afflicted by the Black Breath. A Nazgûl was doubtlessly approaching, or more than one. Perhaps the entire Nine. His heart was filled with cold fear as a dark shadow crossed the night sky, blocking out the stars in a horrible, endless moment. With its passing, he once again felt an unsteady peace. And then...
The hoof beats of a horse, like the beats of his heart: they were measured to each other, a perfect rhythmic match.
From the dim horizon, a pale gray horse came galloping across the field. Its mane flowed out in the wind like a silver mist. Upon it rode a maiden, Elven-fair. Her golden hair looked like mithril in the moonlight, flashing as it was combed by the wind. Her skin was white, and her face was beautiful and stern. Though she seemed as though she would be cold to the touch, there was a clear, ice blue fire flickering in her eyes in which he sensed a spirit that would melt iron.
He caught his breath, realizing that he found her beautiful, then stopped breathing altogether as another revelation came upon him in afterthought:
"She is mortal." He said it aloud.
The beautiful maiden leaned forward on her horse and rode on, a maiden of the moon, a mortal servant of Varda, so beautiful, so noble. He wanted to touch her glassy skin. He wanted to hear the whisper of her hair.
The elation passed. He chilled again as the previous Shadow returned. He wanted to cry out to her: it followed her! Could she not see it looming overhead, blotting out even the moon? How could she not feel it as he did, a vice upon his heart and lungs? It was gaining. It would consume her soon, her dazzling light swallowed up into its senseless dark.
Without a word she turned her horse to face it. She rose in the stirrups and turned to the evil thing. Under her piercing, unclouded gaze, it disappeared with a silent wail. Legolas let out a loud sigh of relief. And then something remarkable happened.
She noticed him.
The maiden turned to face him as he gazed at her. Without a second thought, he reached out his hand to her. Steadily, she approached.
* * *
"Do not touch the water!"
Legolas snapped back into reality. Lorien. Evening. Silence. His hand was hovering inches above the steaming surface of the Mirror, and he quickly pulled it back in surprise. He noticed cold sweat beaded upon his temples, and a fluttering feeling in his heart. Fear flooded over him as he looked upon Galadriel, realizing she had seen what he had seen, and perceived something growing steadily in his heart, as though he had discovered an amazing idea.
"Who is she?"
The Lady smiled. "I do not need to tell you. You will know her, as your heart has always known her. When she appears before you real, not just in your reveries, you will have no doubt."
"And she is-"
"Yes, Legolas. She is of the Edain." He realizes that they were not speaking aloud, but had lapsed into the mind-speak gifted to their kindred. "Do not fear your heart's words Legolas, but beware. It is late. Go to your companions and rest with them. They will provide you with comfort." He looked at her, unbelieving. "I promise you that by the time you reach the pavilion you will find peace of the mind and spirit. Farewell." With another knowing smile, Lady Galadriel turned silently and disappeared into the night.
Legolas stood alone for a moment, listening to the hard ministrations of his heart. *A mortal maiden,* he thought. His breath became suddenly short, but he was happy. He was euphoric, overwhelmed with the beauty of the night, the gloriousness of the entire world. *I think...this must be...* He stopped and smiled up at the stars.
He had never been in love: not true love, not the thing he heard of in songs and stories, the glow that he had seen when Silindë used to kiss Duilwen, when Aragorn and Arwen's arms became a tangle, an unbreakable knot. This went against all he had ever known, all that his *people* had ever known. Never before had an Elf felt as strong a tie to a mortal maiden as he now felt. Never. Of that he was certain. Indeed, some of the elders had spoken of something more between the long-gone Aegnor and Andreth. It did not seem the same, nor as certain. For in that instant, in the silence canopied by the leaves and the stars beyond, Legolas knew that whoever the woman was, he would find her. He needed her. Of that he was certain.
He finally walked away, but felt as though he were in a dream once more, as though he were back inside the slow, swift world of the Mirror. Finally coming to his senses, he realized he had wandered back to the pavilion of the Fellowship. He found the cot set out for him, between Boromir and Aragorn. Boromir was fast asleep, with his mouth slightly open. He had a look upon his face like a sleeping child-the most at ease that Legolas had seen him for many days. The Elf smiled.
Settling into bed, Legolas noticed Aragorn looking at him. "Frodo and Sam are gone," Aragorn said. The Elf looked to the Hobbits' beds and found that two were indeed empty. "Have you seen them?"
"No, but wherever they are they will be able to find their way back." He lay down and folded his hands on his breast. But Aragorn's eyes were still upon him. "What is it?"
"Are you alright, my friend?"
"I am."
"You seem...different somehow."
Legolas exhaled a long, quiet breath with mock irritation. "I'm fine. Now go to sleep, Aragorn, or we will wake Boromir with our talk."
Gimli let out a snore.
Trying not to laugh, the Elf and the Man gradually fell asleep in the ways of their people. Each had a dream of the woman that enchanted them upon first sight, each held similar fates: for in both of their stories, the Quendi and the Edain were joined as one.
-Fin-
Reviewers go to heaven.
Continued in Chapter VIII - The Mark of the Shadow, a scary chapter with more action.
Chapter VII - Smoke Off the Mirror
The basin was dark, shimmering with the reflection of the bright stars above the Golden Wood. The water swirled in a way water was not quite meant to move-it pooled and rippled like mercury, beautiful and undulating. Slowly Legolas stepped forward until he saw his own face. It had changed little. A small, healing cut under his right eyebrow was the only new physicality. And yet aught *had* changed indeed: his own eyes frightened him. He seemed centuries older than he really was-but not just older. What had happened? How came he to look so tired and torn?
With effort, Legolas pulled his eyes away from the Mirror and saw Galadriel observing him. He noticed that his hands were gripping the sides of the pedestal, and the knuckles were white. Embarrassed, he relaxed his hands. "Do you advise me to look, Lady?" he asked in a whisper, though he already guessed her answer.
"I cannot advise you in this matter, Legolas. It is your path. Though it forks before you, only *you* can select the road."
He frowned and gazed off into the distant tree line in thought, recalling what she had told him moments before.
*It shows things that were:* what memories might he see? Early on in his life, perhaps? He had seen his mother only in his dreams, and those featuring had come less and less frequently. To see her again, if only as an illusion-perhaps that was more than his heart could handle. A simple word her lips had formed. A single flicker of her eyes. Her laugh! Had he forgotten it? Would it make his heart split in two?
*It shows things that are:* he could see his home now! What was his father doing? Was he well? Selfishly, Legolas wondered if Thranduil missed him as he did. And the encroaching darkness he had left? Was it abated? Would it ever be? His heart stopped. What if his father had taken an injury...or worse? Legolas did not think he would be able to carry on the quest knowing his father suffered without his son by his side.
*And some things that have not yet come to pass....*
No. He could not. The third option was too perilous for his sanity alone. Beyond his own fate, he did not think he could bear to see the final outcome of the quest were it to appear. Or what of the Dark Lord himself? He shuddered.
"This is no palantir." Her voice was suddenly cold, cutting the night air with a new quality. "He cannot see you. One day, maybe. He knows of you. But He cannot see you, not here, not while Nenya protects you."
Legolas looked up swiftly. "He knows of *me*?"
Galadriel lifted her chin. "I guess His mind. He knows there are nine. He knows that one is Elven. Indeed, He even knows that the King of Mirkwood's one child has gone abroad and has not been spotted among the Wood-Elf hosts."
Legolas' mouth opened slightly in disbelief.
"Indeed, He knows you. He has kept his Eye on Mirkwood, too. It is because of He that darkness has fallen under the once-noble boughs of your home. The Spiders grow in number by His will, an evil stirring as it has not since they days of Ungoliant the Black. He has been waiting for *you*, though, as He waits for Isildur's heir, as He waits for the last of us, the Elven Ringbearers. He knows that you are the last son of our people. Because of that, you are His symbolic target."
"What?"
"If He can seize you then it is a message to all our people. Undómiel is out of His grasp, for now. You, however, are heading straight toward Him. Elven blood is worth much to the Dark Lord. Rarely is He given a chance to spill it since the days of the Last Alliance. Beware, Legolas Greenleaf. His arm has grown long." She paused. "Will you look into the Mirror?"
It still glistened wetly before him. He licked his lips and paused one last time. He felt the weight of this information deep within his chest. The wind whistling through the treetops was suddenly very cold.
"He has never touched it," she reminded him.
And so Legolas leaned forward and gazed into the shadowy depths of the Mirror of Galadriel.
* * *
A forest, dim and crowded with trees, humming with the sounds of the wood- and something else, like an ancient, deep voice, low as the center of the earth. An old man in gray, stained rags hobbled between the boles. Stopping, he threw off his tattered hood. Legolas' heart leapt to his throat.
"Mithrandir?"
The image faded, replaced by a long field of tall grass, rippling in the wind like a pale green sea. The sky was dark, a deep navy. Blue stars burned high above.
Then he felt something familiar and altogether evil. Its malice slowed his breath. He felt the pain and nausea that had come upon him when afflicted by the Black Breath. A Nazgûl was doubtlessly approaching, or more than one. Perhaps the entire Nine. His heart was filled with cold fear as a dark shadow crossed the night sky, blocking out the stars in a horrible, endless moment. With its passing, he once again felt an unsteady peace. And then...
The hoof beats of a horse, like the beats of his heart: they were measured to each other, a perfect rhythmic match.
From the dim horizon, a pale gray horse came galloping across the field. Its mane flowed out in the wind like a silver mist. Upon it rode a maiden, Elven-fair. Her golden hair looked like mithril in the moonlight, flashing as it was combed by the wind. Her skin was white, and her face was beautiful and stern. Though she seemed as though she would be cold to the touch, there was a clear, ice blue fire flickering in her eyes in which he sensed a spirit that would melt iron.
He caught his breath, realizing that he found her beautiful, then stopped breathing altogether as another revelation came upon him in afterthought:
"She is mortal." He said it aloud.
The beautiful maiden leaned forward on her horse and rode on, a maiden of the moon, a mortal servant of Varda, so beautiful, so noble. He wanted to touch her glassy skin. He wanted to hear the whisper of her hair.
The elation passed. He chilled again as the previous Shadow returned. He wanted to cry out to her: it followed her! Could she not see it looming overhead, blotting out even the moon? How could she not feel it as he did, a vice upon his heart and lungs? It was gaining. It would consume her soon, her dazzling light swallowed up into its senseless dark.
Without a word she turned her horse to face it. She rose in the stirrups and turned to the evil thing. Under her piercing, unclouded gaze, it disappeared with a silent wail. Legolas let out a loud sigh of relief. And then something remarkable happened.
She noticed him.
The maiden turned to face him as he gazed at her. Without a second thought, he reached out his hand to her. Steadily, she approached.
* * *
"Do not touch the water!"
Legolas snapped back into reality. Lorien. Evening. Silence. His hand was hovering inches above the steaming surface of the Mirror, and he quickly pulled it back in surprise. He noticed cold sweat beaded upon his temples, and a fluttering feeling in his heart. Fear flooded over him as he looked upon Galadriel, realizing she had seen what he had seen, and perceived something growing steadily in his heart, as though he had discovered an amazing idea.
"Who is she?"
The Lady smiled. "I do not need to tell you. You will know her, as your heart has always known her. When she appears before you real, not just in your reveries, you will have no doubt."
"And she is-"
"Yes, Legolas. She is of the Edain." He realizes that they were not speaking aloud, but had lapsed into the mind-speak gifted to their kindred. "Do not fear your heart's words Legolas, but beware. It is late. Go to your companions and rest with them. They will provide you with comfort." He looked at her, unbelieving. "I promise you that by the time you reach the pavilion you will find peace of the mind and spirit. Farewell." With another knowing smile, Lady Galadriel turned silently and disappeared into the night.
Legolas stood alone for a moment, listening to the hard ministrations of his heart. *A mortal maiden,* he thought. His breath became suddenly short, but he was happy. He was euphoric, overwhelmed with the beauty of the night, the gloriousness of the entire world. *I think...this must be...* He stopped and smiled up at the stars.
He had never been in love: not true love, not the thing he heard of in songs and stories, the glow that he had seen when Silindë used to kiss Duilwen, when Aragorn and Arwen's arms became a tangle, an unbreakable knot. This went against all he had ever known, all that his *people* had ever known. Never before had an Elf felt as strong a tie to a mortal maiden as he now felt. Never. Of that he was certain. Indeed, some of the elders had spoken of something more between the long-gone Aegnor and Andreth. It did not seem the same, nor as certain. For in that instant, in the silence canopied by the leaves and the stars beyond, Legolas knew that whoever the woman was, he would find her. He needed her. Of that he was certain.
He finally walked away, but felt as though he were in a dream once more, as though he were back inside the slow, swift world of the Mirror. Finally coming to his senses, he realized he had wandered back to the pavilion of the Fellowship. He found the cot set out for him, between Boromir and Aragorn. Boromir was fast asleep, with his mouth slightly open. He had a look upon his face like a sleeping child-the most at ease that Legolas had seen him for many days. The Elf smiled.
Settling into bed, Legolas noticed Aragorn looking at him. "Frodo and Sam are gone," Aragorn said. The Elf looked to the Hobbits' beds and found that two were indeed empty. "Have you seen them?"
"No, but wherever they are they will be able to find their way back." He lay down and folded his hands on his breast. But Aragorn's eyes were still upon him. "What is it?"
"Are you alright, my friend?"
"I am."
"You seem...different somehow."
Legolas exhaled a long, quiet breath with mock irritation. "I'm fine. Now go to sleep, Aragorn, or we will wake Boromir with our talk."
Gimli let out a snore.
Trying not to laugh, the Elf and the Man gradually fell asleep in the ways of their people. Each had a dream of the woman that enchanted them upon first sight, each held similar fates: for in both of their stories, the Quendi and the Edain were joined as one.
-Fin-
Reviewers go to heaven.
Continued in Chapter VIII - The Mark of the Shadow, a scary chapter with more action.