Gandalf's Interlude

There was no welcome waiting for him among the roots of the great Mallorn-trees as Gandalf walked the familiar path up the hill of Caras Galadhon. Though, perhaps every step that he took, unhindered and unengaged, could be viewed as a warm greeting, for his presence had certainly been noted, and yet, he'd been given a free roam.

He rather suspected he knew where to find the Lady, and as he was not instructed otherwise, she most likely suspected he would, too. He let out a soft sigh into his beard and headed for the well-trodden flight of steps, down to the hollow of the Mirror.

He wished he could cite the weariness of this old body and first take a rest after his long journey, but such an excuse would hardly fool his host. Still, he was weary, of mind if not of the body; the burden of constant worries and recent failures weighing heavy on his shoulders.

Galadriel was indeed by her Mirror, bowed over the calm surface of the basin, and Gandalf was only glad to leave her to her concentration. He sat down on the stone bench behind her back and lit his pipe.

She left the visions of the Mirror sometime later, returning into the moment with a sharp intake of breath that sounded close to the frustration Gandalf himself was experiencing.

"He cloaks himself well," she said. "As thoroughly as none I had ever met before."

"You cannot see him still," Gandalf surmised.

"Once I cast my sight wide enough, and once luck allows, I come across footprints that belong to seemingly no one. As such, I can follow the trail he leaves, though hardly in its entirety. But no, I cannot see him. He was long gone from Dunland when you arrived."

It was not posed as a question, but Gandalf still nodded, leaving his chin drooped low in his disappointment. "He had left two whole seasons before I found the farmstead." And what an arduous search that had been, through the fair but far from civilised land, made even less friendly by the Dunlending hillmen who inhabited it.

"And what have you learnt of his time there?"

"He appeared on the road one day, asking for work. Stayed with the family throughout the summer, and left once the harvest was done. He hadn't spoken much, and not at all about himself, but he had worked hard and asked for nothing else except for food and a roof over his head—and curiously enough, also riding lessons. Spent his free time roaming through the woods at the nape of the Mountains, instead of in the inns with his peers."

Galadriel inclined her head at his report. "Riding lessons? Is he truly that young?"

"Sixteen summers at least, by the reckoning of Dale-men. No then, not young enough to explain his inexperience. Especially given that we cannot be certain he had been kept and preserved at such an appearance for many more years. However, there are tribes in the East that live their entire lives on the Sea of Rhûn. Maybe he is one of those who teach their youth to sail atop a boat instead of riding on the back of a steed?"

"Elrond confirms the Enemy has turned his sight onto the East," Galadriel said to that. "He is combing through his allies, searching."

Gandalf puffed on his pipe before grunting, "Well, at least he's failing at tracking the lad even more spectacularly than we are."

In response, Galadriel at last turned away from the pearly surface of her Mirror, and came to join Gandalf on the bench.

Gandalf shuffled closer to the other edge, hastily folding his travel-stained robes away from the Lady and her immaculate gown.

"I will admit that up until recently, I had held some doubts; guided by hope above all else, perhaps," she said to Gandalf, her head inclined as if in apology. "Your observations could mislead us—as they have before, my friend, we mustn't forget—and there could be a different explanation as to why a Mortal, a stranger to us, could wield such power to our aid and yet be untarnished by the reek of sorcery. A bloodline long thought extinct, preserved unbeknownst to us in the far East, safeguarding the spellcasters' lore of old?

"But now I see that the Enemy has been stirred greatly, even so soon after his defeat in Mirkwood, and he searches for the Easterling with such fervour that it could only mean he discovered something of his that he had long taken for lost. I am nearly certain that you are correct, and a ring indeed augments the Easterling talents, though I no longer fear it to be only one of the unaccounted Seven, or Nine, as Saruman concluded. I no longer fear only the danger of another powerful sorcerer rising corrupted against us, but the chance of a much more condemning event."

They sat in silence for a time, filled only with the endless rustle of leaves and the soft puffs of Gandalf drawing on his pipe. He had let out three smoke-rings, all of them a bit skewed on their right side, like a waning moon, Gandalf noticed with slight irritation, before Galadriel spoke again. "You have suspected the same for a while now."

Gandalf grunted around the stem of his pipe. "I have feared the possibility, yes. The power employed in the Battle seemed unquestionable, unwavering; beating the Fell will commanding the Orc armies without true contest, as if its might was equal or even superior in that challenge. Would that be possible with only a lesser of the Great Rings on the lad's finger? Saruman appears to think so, claiming the distance would have weakened the Enemy's hold on his armies. He is the most knowledgeable of us on the matter of ring-lore, and yet, I found my worries not completely appeased. Though, I do wonder what reasons led you to acknowledge such a risk exists, apart from the Enemy's fervent search."

Galadriel cast her eyes back towards the basin of the Mirror.

"It is not that I cannot see the ring-bearer that troubles me so," she whispered in explanation, and the faint quiver in her voice caused Gandalf's pipe to momentarily slip from his lips. "Others hold the ability to cloak from my sight, and I have long practised glimpsing the changes they impose on the fates of those they touch, or might touch, and that is oftentimes enough. This boy, however- I can see only the past and the present he is affecting, never the future, not even the possibilities of it. And yet, I do not feel as if some force was blinding the Mirror. It is almost as if the world itself was blind to the Easterling's potential and thus the Mirror cannot foretell any of his paths either. Such power, my dear friend, troubles me greatly, as I have not come across its like ever before."

"The Ring has never truly been used by anyone but the Enemy himself," Gandalf reminded both of them. "If our worst fears are indeed correct, we can only wait to see what other powers the Ring will bestow on a gifted Bearer who has chosen to tap into its potential."

"What we have seen so far was already great," Galadriel said. "When the ring—be it the Ruling Ring or only a Great Ring—corrupts the Bearer, I dread what terrible feats we will witness then. Should he ever stand beside the Enemy-"

"We will find the lad before that happens," Gandalf said. "Unlike the retelling of the Dwarves, the accounts and minds of Dale-men offer a more favourable view of the boy. They suggest that he had been aiding them for many months, mostly in small matters, but without seeking any acknowledgement, nor reward. That leads me to believe his heart is a good one, and I shall hope it is also strong for it. It might afford us a long time before a ring possesses it."

Despite his own claims, Gandalf let out a shuddering sigh as he felt his weariness subsiding, chased away by Galadriel's urgent words. He spared her a perturbed glare as he now understood that had been her aim all along, yet he readily asked what needed to be done, "What have you seen? I shall leave right away."

The corner of her lips twitched in response to his vexed eyes. "I have heard that Turgon's Keeper of the Keys took an odd stranger for a friend. He indulges the friend and his intense fascination for the scrolls of old, often feeling guilt at opening the archives without the Steward's knowledge or permission. I wonder whether our Easterling thief had found his way South."


* Turgon was the Steward of Gondor between T.A. 2914 - 2953 (the Battle of Five Armies took place in T.A. 2941), a father to Ecthelion II, grandfather to Denethor II and finally, a great-grandfather to Boromir and Faramir.


A/N:

I know this was awfully short. However, I'd like to think that every one of the very few sentences of this tiny post is all the more important for it. Finally, we've dipped our toes into the LotR waters proper. And—we've concluded the first arc!

If you're binging this story, this is a good spot to take a break and make a cup of tea or a snack.

No recs at the end of this chapter, as I wanted to mark reaching this milestone. Also, I hoped I could stay on your mind a bit longer instead of rushing you to the next fic as usual, and perhaps ask you to leave some of your thoughts on the finished arc with me.

The first part was above meant to sweep you with quick action, as Harry struggles to regain the sure footing she's used to. In contrast, the following chapters will be a grounding experience, answering many questions as Harry and you both get a better idea of what's going on. I'm already looking forward to it!