The mirror clouded over again, obscuring the image of the lovers' embrace. Galadriel simply looked at the wizard, tilting her head and giving him an unreadable stare before letting go of his hand, her fingers trailing down his as she did.

They walked back through the glade in silence, Gandalf sneaking glances at the beautiful elf as they made their way through the grass. He felt like he should remember more of what the mirror had shown, but truthfully the only image he recalled in its entirety was the last one.

She had said that the mirror showed what might come, if he continued on his current path. Her face was impassive, and they had not said a word since she had broken their connection by dropping his hand.

Upon reaching the edge of the city, Galadriel turned to face the wizard. "Mithrandir," she began. Then, stopping as if to reconsider what she was going to say, she bowed her head towards the ground. A moment of silence preceded her next words. "I would call on you tonight, if you will have me."

Gandalf had difficulty believing what he was hearing. He had prepared himself for the lady to send him away, after seeing what they had seen in the mirror. He stood in front of her, slack-jawed, before pulling himself together and realizing she was waiting on an answer.

"Of-of course, my lady," he stammered.

Her face broke into her half-smile, and she inclined her head slightly before turning away from the wizard.

Gandalf was jumpy for the rest of the afternoon. As night fell and the elven guards lit their torches, the wooded city taking on its eerie glow, he sat in his sitting-room nervously going over the letters he had been writing before Haldir interrupted him. It felt like a lifetime ago, but had only been that morning.

He mused on what the lady might want from him. He had felt this way, experienced this same stomach-dropping attraction, for plenty of beings before, elves and humans both. That certainly did not mean that his feelings were reciprocated; chances were, the lady just had something else to discuss with him. He felt foolish for even thinking that she might think of him as more than a useful tool in her arsenal of advisors.

And yet, the mirror showed what might come, if he continued on his current path. Which mean that in some future, he and Galadriel—

A knock on the door broke into his thoughts, and he shuffled the parchment before stacking it on the table. He knew who it was at the door, and his heart was racing already in anticipation.

Lit from behind, her hair appeared even more luminous; the golden shine of the diadem on her forehead paled in comparison to that brightness. She had let out the braids from earlier in the day, and her hair again cascaded down her back.

"Gandalf," she said as greeting.

He rushed awkwardly to the door before bowing. "My lady Galadriel. I am glad you found my rooms—I cannot imagine you spending much time in Lothlorien's guest quarters."

She smiled slowly, moving carefully into the room. Looking around, she took in the carved wood furniture and filigreed bookcases, the wrought-silver candleholders, and the wizard's incongruous woolen cloak flung haphazardly over the settee. She reached out to move it, but he quickly pulled it from her grasp.

"You mustn't—that thing is very, very dirty," he said with embarrassment. He folded it and tucked it away in his bag, very conscious of the elf's presence.

She was still smiling when he turned back to look at her. Sitting again next to her on the settee, he asked, "What is it you need from me, my lady?"

"Well, my dear Mithrandir, that remains to be seen." She turned to look at him out of the corner of his eye, judging, understanding, revealing him. He had never felt so naked than under the gaze of the Lady of Lothlorien.

"I asked you here because I felt it important to meet the newest member of the Istari. New, being the wrong term… you are not new to Middle Earth, are you, Gandalf?"

He paused at the question, seeing that she clearly knew the answer. "No, my lady. I have been here for many years so far."

"And yet, you have not come to Lorien."

The statement hung like an indictment between them, and he did not know what to say. Until now, it had not seemed at all unordinary that he had not visited the seat of the wood-elves. His time in Middle-Earth had been taken up by life in Rivendell, along with many years traversing the land.

"I have been…otherwise occupied," he faltered.

"We have heard much of you, Gandalf. Stormcrow. Greyhame. Mithrandir. Olorin." She smiled, and he again squirmed at her expression.

She put her hand on his knee. "I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, wizard. Tell me…what have you heard of me?"

Gandalf swallowed uncomfortably. "I have heard much about you, my lady. Your name is one that carries great weight in Middle Earth. I have heard that your hair…shines like the light of the Two Trees. That your elven power allows you visions of the future, and the past." He faltered, unsure if he should continue.

She closed her eyes at his words. "May I share something, wizard?"

He nodded slowly.

"I am weary," she whispered. "I am weary of the weight I carry with me, the weight of things seen and unseen… I wish to forget it, if just for a moment, an hour." Her head tilted back against the velvet cushions, and his heart began to beat quickly again at the sight of her. She was, for the first time, vulnerable.