Disclaimer: Tolkien owns it. I'm just borrowing.
Timeline: S.A. 3433
Rating (this chapter): G

Shadow Child
Chapter I: Ring of Adamant

The palace was in ruins. Though once it had gleamed so brightly upon the great hill, it was now little more than a shell, crumbled and disfigured by the attack. The walls were marred with scorch marks, the interior plundered. Trampled grass and bloodstains marked the ground around it, testimonies to those who had fallen there, wounded or dead.

Celeborn turned away from the sight, only to be faced with more of the same. The lofty mellyrn were broken and mutilated, golden leaves shaken prematurely to the ground. Some were charred, the white flets in them destroyed. Here too the blood of the fallen could be seen, dark stains upon the white paths and open fields, a stark contrast to the golden elanor and pale niphredil.

It was quiet, despite the agitated voices rising from the medics' pavilion and the muted conversation of the border guards, discussing a patrol scheme to ensure that the remainder of the Orc party did not return. For it had not been a full-fledged attack, but rather a raiding incursion, fought with fire as much as swords. Of course, the brutes made sure to cause as much damage as possible while they were at it. Such attacks were frequent, especially during the winter season when supplies were scarce, but none had been so violent as this.

He sighed and turned to walk away when a sharp pain reminded him why he was not conferring with the patrol right now. The wound across his left shoulder was not deep, but it still required tending. It would not do to be incapacitated by such a minor injury when King Amdír was grievously wounded. While Amroth, the king's son, was both brave and trustworthy, Celeborn did not wish to place such responsibility on his shoulders at such short notice.

When he arrived at the pavilion for the wounded, he found that it was becoming less crowded. There had been only a few deaths—regrettable, but not nearly as disastrous as what might have been. For though there were many wounded, of these only a few needed to be under constant care. Most, like Celeborn, had escaped with a surface wound. The Orcs would ruin and pillage where they could, but they dared not kill too many elves, thereby solidifying their animosity. In this season, they could not afford a counterstrike.

So it had been a primarily supply-oriented raid—or so it seemed. Yet what could explain...

Not now.

"Randuil," he called, seeing that the medic was unoccupied.

Randuil nodded in his direction, motioning for him to rest upon an unoccupied couch.

"Remove your tunic, please," the healer said, frowning at the blood that had soaked through the garment. As Celeborn tried to one-handedly wrestle it off, Randuil prepared bandages.

"How is the king?" Celeborn asked as Randuil washed the wound.

Randuil glanced at the bower where Amdír now rested. "He will recover, though I am not certain he will be able to make much use of his right arm in the future. It was sorely wounded."

"Amdír is strong. He will find a way to counter any lingering effects."

"That he will," said the elf. "I cannot think of another whom I would more willingly follow, in battle or otherwise. He has done much for this land and its people, even when—" but he broke off, suddenly becoming very involved in wrapping the white cloth bandage around Celeborn's shoulder.

"If you resent the troubles that have accompanied the Noldor to Middle-earth, I do not think less of you," said Celeborn gently.

Randuil look at him, astonished. "I mean no disrespect," he said. "They are a great people. But the fact remains that so many of the sorrows that have befallen our land can be traced back to the Noldor and their precious jewels."

And rings? Celeborn thought, but said nothing. It did not do to speak so openly of the Rings of Power, and anyway, he could not bear to dwell on a topic that would inevitably remind him of her.

Randuil's thoughts seemed to be running much the same way, for he asked softly, "Has there been any word?"

"No," replied Celeborn with a sigh. "I know not what to think. I do not think my wife is dead—and yet, if that is not so, then what? Wounded in some isolated region of the woods that the scouts have not yet searched?"

Randiul did not answer.

"I am finished," he announced finally. "The wound should heal swiftly. It was slight."

"Thank you," Celeborn said, standing and putting on his tunic. He was about to leave, but there was a thoughtfulness to Randuil's silence that stayed his departure. "What is it?" he asked.

"My lord—" He hesitated. "I do not mean to be a harbinger of ill portents—but what if she has been captured?"

"It has occurred to me," said Celeborn. "But to what end? The Last Alliance prepares for battle. The siege will begin soon. The Dark Lord must know at least some of this. Unless he is fey, or has some assurance of his success of which we cannot begin to dream, he is preparing for battle, not carrying out old vengeances."

And yet: he could not forget Eregion, when the Lord of Gifts had bought the hearts of all save Galadriel's alone. He had never suspected that Annatar was anything but a kind stranger, but she had distrusted him from the beginning. When Sauron had driven the people to revolt against their rule, it was Galadriel whom they were truly rejecting. Yes, Sauron hated Galadriel. Was this hatred strong enough to provoke such an untimely reaction?

"I pray Elbereth it is not so," he murmured, his heart heavy with fear.


That night, the scouts returned. Galadriel had not been found. The news weighed heavily on Celeborn, and at supper he ate little, instead reviewing the possibilities in his mind. She had perished in the Silverlode. The scouts had missed some small parcel of land that she lay, dying or dead. She had fled past the boundaries of Lórinand itself. (1) But all of these seemed unlikely to the point of impossibility. That left but one possibility that he could see—that she had been taken by the Orcs.

After the meal, he went to speak with Amdír. He found the king alert, speaking in hushed tones with his son, who sat beside his couch.

"Celeborn, my friend, sit down!" said Amdír upon seeing him. His voice was soft and hoarse.

Celeborn nodded, taking a seat beside him. "How are you, my lord?" he asked, taking in the thick bandages swaddling the king's arm and side and the pallor of his face.

Amdír smiled slightly. "Ah, well, I have certainly been better, but with my son's company and the fine doctoring of Master Randuil, I have no doubt that I will weather this present storm. But you, Celeborn: my son has told me that you suffer from a grief far more devastating than a mere physical wound."

"Yes," said Celeborn. "I fear—"

But at that moment, an elf burst into the tent. A scout, if he recognized the face correctly. He was breathing heavily, and seemed to be grasping something in his hand.

"What is it, Orophin?" asked Amdír, straightening up.

Orophin approached the bower, bowing slightly to Amdír. "My lord, I have found something, stumbled upon it really. I cannot explain it..."

"Pray, what is this mysterious item?" asked Celeborn, in a tone perhaps too harsh.

The young elf lifted his hand and slowly, almost hesitantly, began to open it.

At first Celeborn thought that he was gazing upon a star, glittering white so that it illuminated Orophin's hand. But gradually the light diminished, until he could see it for what it was—a ring of bright mithril, set with a shimmering white stone.

"Is this a Ring of Power?" exclaimed Amdír. "I have often wondered at the effect your presences have on Lórinand. There is never bad weather when you are here. Am I right in thinking that Lady Galadriel keeps this?"

"Yes," Celeborn affirmed. "Of course, she cannot wear it, but she keeps it on her person on all times. She would not lose it or cast it aside needlessly. It is a powerful thing even when it is not worn. Be forewarned, you three are not to share this with anyone. It is not permitted to speak of the Rings or their bearers." He turned to Orophin. "Where did you find this?"

"On the path that leads out of the gardens, my lord," Orophin replied rather breathlessly. "I was surveying the grounds, searching for any trace of a struggle. It shone like a Silmaril, even brighter than just now. There were many tracks on the path, Orcish by look."

"Then she may be alive!" Amroth exclaimed.

Celeborn nodded, his face stoic. He could not decide if he was relieved or terrified by the finding. "So it seems. It may be that she left it there in order to prevent it from falling into unclean hands."

"Well," said Amdír. "I shall organize a rescue party comprised of my best trackers. The weather is foul outside of the bounds of this land. If she has indeed been captured by the Orcs, perhaps their journey has been slowed." He looked at Orophin. "Go, tell the leaders of the southern patrol to come here immediately. The party must leave as soon as possible. You will want to be part of it, I suppose, Celeborn?"

"You are injured; perhaps it would be better—"

"It would not be better!" Amroth interrupted. Celeborn looked to him with raised eyebrows. "Forgive me for interrupting," the prince continued, "but I am certain that I will be able to assist my father in his duties. You should go if you want to, as I am sure you do."

Celeborn nodded in thanks, allowing himself to feel grateful for Amroth's boldness.

"If that is settled, go now, Orophin," said the king.

"Of course. But first." Orophin handed the ring to Celeborn. "I would not carry it myself for a moment longer. Take it, please."

Celeborn accepted the ring, but with heavy heart. He stared at the ring lying in his palm, glittering white. It was too fair, too fair for any hand but hers. He tucked it away in his pocket—out of sight, but hardly out of mind.


1. Lórinand - an older name of Lórien