A/N: This is a standard disclaimer. I don't own the world created by Professor Tolkien, and I don't own the people he created to fit in that world. In fact, I don't really own the characters I created for this story either. Constructive criticism is welcome, as are flames, because flames are amusing. Also, I believe the Elvish translation for the title is Reflection in the Mirror. I say 'believe' because I perused the volumes of Sindarin lessons at for a couple hours and Galad I Cenedril was what I came up with. I'll be doing a bit more research on it.

Okay, enough rambling.

Galad i Cenedril

Chapter 1

It was a beautiful night. The sky was clear and bejeweled with a billion sparkling white specks; the moon was bright and full. A faint breeze moved cool fresh air around the leafed trees, which gently rustled in the soft wind. The air was fresh with scents and cool against heated skin.

It was a beautiful night. Somewhere else.

In the particular tree where one Elf was perched, it was not a beautiful night. Rain pounded down from the thick dark clouds that loomed overhead. The droplets were cold and hard, splashing against his soaked fabric. The rain turned at angles as harsh gusts slammed about the forest trees. Just when it seemed about to let up, the rain came harder.

"All that is missing is thunder," came a bitter mutter.

As if to answer its call, lightning flashed and thunder cracked soon after.

Sighing in defeat, the Elf wrapped the cloak tighter, though it gave no protection against biting wind and cold wetness from the skies.

"Ulmo himself created this storm," came another rueful mumble.

The thunderstorm intensified. The wind blew harder, rain fell faster, and even hail began to fall. The pellets of ice dropped through the leaf canopies and pelted the Elf. Muttering curses, he pulled his hood over his head, but it offered little protection from the biting wind and bruising hail.

Just then, a brilliant flash and stunning crack of thunder exploded in a nearby tree, sending chunks of burnt wood flying in all directions. The Elf had jumped from the lofty perch to a branch of another tree several feet away. It took several minutes of steady breathing for him to regain composure. It was then that the Elf realized that the hail had grown larger and was beginning to hurt with each impact. Getting as close as possible to the large tree's trunk, he tried in vain to avoid bruises.

Yes, it was a miserable night.

(OoO)

The first shouts of terror echoed through the small village. Flaming arrows began leaping over the wooden walls and taking to roofs and wooden houses. Other arrows flew back and forth over the wall, seeking a victim. The shouts became screams and cries as some poisoned shafts found a body.

A child, followed shortly by an adult, emerged from a house, both cloaked and secretive. They crept along the street, to the wall, far from the activity along the southern gate. They reentered a building by the wall. The adult bent to open a trap door and the two dropped into a small tunnel. The door was closed and they moved swiftly in the pitch-black passage.

Coming to the end, he pushed another door up and open. He grabbed the boy and lifted him up and out of the shallow tunnel, only to be faced with an arrow bent and ready for flight. A soft twang sounded and the arrow pierced the child's heart.

Crying out, the man cradled the dead child to his chest. A sword came from behind and sliced through his neck, severing his head.

The first Orc bent over and retrieved a soft leather pouch that was clutched by the child and found what he was looking for. A small ring of braided silver dropped into his palm. The Orc slipped the ring back into the pouch and then into a satchel tied on his back. He silently signaled his companions into a slow jog. East, toward tall mountains.

(OoO)

It was a dream, yet it was not a dream. It came as it usually did, in reverie. It was a vision of importance, sent by silent prayers of one, or a group, in need. Flashes of images were sometimes all that was received, but strong minds sent much more. Pleas, silent or spoken, images played in length and detail.

It was a gift; it was a curse. It was what made Goldir leave the comforts of sheltered habitats and take to the trees and wilds of Middle-earth. It was a choice, but then it was not. He could ignore the visions and leave those in need to their suffering, or he could do something, anything, to aid them.

The vision he had had that last night had shaken him. The two Elves, one seeking only to protect his wards, the second so innocent and so young, had given their lives in a vain attempt to keep a ring of some importance from the hands of evil.

The memory of the images chilled him to the core. Such cruelty and evil. Would it never end?

Goldir sighed softly. After noting with relief that the rain had ceased, and after he leapt back to the tree he had originally taken cover, he pulled up the bag he had tied to the branch the previous night. On the rope also hung his quiver and bow. Both were wet, but the contents of the bag were dry, thanks to the weathered leather sack. He reflected the vision as he ate a light breakfast.

'Certainly the ring is what the Orcs sought. This means they were sent by someone who knew this ring was located there,' he mused.

The sun's rays were glancing over the sleeping land and through the trees. This brought him to his next thought.

'They seemed to be heading east, and why not? Mordor is to the east,' he thought, 'But who is commanding them? Other Orcs? Has another power like Sauron risen in his stead? Or has Sauron...'

He ended the line of thought. No sense worrying about the unknown. His current tree was located three days south of Rivendell. He surmised that the Orcs would either take the Redhorn Pass or the Southern Gap (Gap of Rohan). The Southern Gap made the most sense for a trip to Mordor. Redhorn would take them dangerously close to Lothlórien, but proved a quick way to Dol Guldûr, if in fact that was where they were heading. He had little evidence for either destination.

Goldir frowned deeply. If he went for the Southern Gap and they took Redhorn Pass to Dol Guldûr, the ring would be lost. The opposite was true as well. He had a sudden idea.

Thinking hard, he pictured the mountain profile from his vision. Then he looked to the mountains due east.

They looked nothing alike. Not one peak was familiar. Frowning again, Goldir tried to envision a map of the Misty Mountains. The chain was long, many days riding long, and many more on foot. He had to choose carefully.

'I shall start with a southern heading,' he thought as he secured the sack, quiver, and bow on his back.

Goldir kept a good pace through the day, allowing the breeze and sun to dry his water-logged clothing. The lands west of the Misty Mountains were relatively safe even one thousand years after Sauron's defeat. It was common to see at least one party of travelers, or even lone travelers, on the road between Rivendell and Caradhras. He hoped for such a party; perhaps they had seen a sign of the Orc raiders.

Or better yet, they had captured or killed the group and recovered the ring.

"Not likely," he muttered.

The sun began to set and Goldir considered running through the night but decided against it. The woods offered protection and cover while the land he was about to enter extended little shelter, save the patch of woods in Eregion. Most of east Eriador was rather desolate; those who lived there were tough and hardy.

He would have to travel four days through the rocky grassland. Four weary days, and then Goldir must decide: east, over Redhorn, or south, to the Southern Gap.

It was going to be a rough couple of months.

(OoO)

Búbhosh was a distinguished Orc captain. It was why he had been selected, many years ago, to lead this expedition to Eriador and recover a magic ring. He knew little about it, only that it was made by the accursed Elves and that it was an item of great value.

He wondered though, if it had any power at all.

Looking around the camp, he checked if any of his eleven soldiers were awake and watching. He found none were and carefully pulled out the soft leather pouch. Búbhosh's powerful nose could smell the woody scent of the fabric, and a faint tinge of blood. He loosed the ties and dropped the small silver ring into his dark palm.

It was a thing of beauty, though not of the kind that an Orc would appreciate. Búbhosh frowned, which deepened the creases in his face and made him look even more ugly. He had always thought a ring of power would feel more... powerful.

Dropping the pouch, he rubbed the thin bands that were braided into a circle. They were smooth and unmarred, much the opposite of his own fingers and hands. Still, however, he felt no pull or strange emanation from the ring. Perhaps it really wasn't a magic ring.

He growled softly, "If Boss Burzum is angry, it is not my fault. I did the job. He will take the blame."

Satisfied that the blame had been properly passed, Búbhosh dropped the ring back into the pouch and replaced it in his bag. Attaining rank among Orcs wasn't done by battle alone, it was also made by successfully pushing the blame onto others.

(OoO)

Goldir knelt unobtrusively on a prominent rock that jutted out from a small knoll. He was surrounded on all sides by similar hills, with the rising sun revealing more detail by the minute. The wind blew softly, occasionally catching his dark cloak in a quiet flap. Peering into the distance, he could discern the mountain Caradhras and the western side of the Pass.

The time had come to decide the path to take. East or south.

There had been no travelers along the worn path that was between the Pass and Rivendell. It was still mid-spring, however, and it wouldn't be long till the path would be populated with adventurers and migrants.

Over the course of his four-day run, Goldir had pondered some of the possibilities. One being that he would likely see the Orc band if they were heading to Redhorn from the north or south. Once again, however, if he happened to beat them there then he would need to wait for their arrival. He didn't have the time to follow that theory, since they very well could be heading further south to the Southern Gap.

A scowl creased his fair face. The vision hadn't been very direct at all, and he had had no additional visions during the one night of rest he had allowed himself. He was beginning to wonder if he was even at the right mountain chain.

Tossing that line of thought aside with a snort, Goldir pulled a piece of jerky from his pack and chewed on it thoughtfully. He had had a nagging feeling that he should continue south.

The sun crested the mountain tips and spilled blinding light into the western half of Middle-earth. Shielding his eyes, Goldir leapt from the rock and sat on the ground in the shade of the outcropping.

He had also been looking for the mountain profile that he had seen in his vision. So far, none of the peaks were familiar, but the image he had seen was growing blurry. Which one exactly was the tallest? Perhaps when he saw them he would know for sure.

One thing Goldir could be certain of was that the mountains in his vision were further south. Perhaps if he headed south as well, he would eventually see some sign of the band going north, if that was their direction. If not, then he would have a greater chance of seeing them in the Southern Gap and in Calenardhon.

Resigned to his task to continue south, Goldir rose again and finished the dried meat. After he took a drink from a small water bladder, he began a steady jog, eyes searching the hilly terrain for any sign of movement. A group the size of the Orc band would raise a dust cloud that even a man could see for leagues.

Goldir's frown turned into a devilish grin. The hunt was on.