Author's note: My friends, it has been a long time and I am sincerely sorry. Life has been a bit of a wild ride these past few years but I'm hoping to have this story complete before the year is out. Maybe. I'm going to try to update at least once a month, with chapters as long as a can get them. It'll be slow, but "slow and steady wins the race", or so they say.

A huge thank you to everyone who has followed, favorited, and reviewed this story and not given up on me. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, Middle Earth, or any of these wonderful characters nor do I profit from them.

Bilbo didn't know why he did it. After all, he always kept the ring in his pocket. Why had he put it in his pack? The insidious whisper in the back of his mind had nothing to do with it, he told himself, nor would he admit to being disturbed by the way the ring always seemed to end up in his hand.

But that was what he did. Slipped the ring into a secret pocket on the inside of the pack and then, distracted by some nonsense from Bifur, had walked away and left it.

All the dwarves were so preoccupied with unsaddling their mounts and allocating the supplies that they did not notice the ever darkening sky, nor the unfriendly breeze that began to blow steadily, picking up strength. It was not until the first clap of thunder boomed overhead, shaking the earth and scattering the frightened ponies that Bilbo finally looked up and noticed how the sky had become unnaturally dark. All thoughts of magic rings fled his mind as a gust of foul wind came from Mirkwood, bringing a strange black fog with it.

With shouts of surprise, the dwarves began forming a defensive line, weapons in hand. The fog swept around their feet, matching the blackness of the angry, swirling clouds above. There was a sound like glass shattering, and a roll of thunder that drummed in Bilbo's ears and chest and rattled his teeth.

Across the ground, tongues of vivid blue lightning slithered like serpents, causing the dwarves and their burglar to scramble away in alarm. The threads of energy were too quick, however, and they found themselves immobilized by its touch. Completely frozen, they were unable to speak, unable even to draw breath.

As he watched, the enchanted lightning twisted and snaked around Bilbo's companions, covering them in cobwebs of light. It covered their faces, even going into their eyes and mouths, adorned their hair like glowing crowns and wrapped around their bodies, turning them into fiery statues.

Lungs aching and begging for breath, the hobbit panicked as he realized that he too was consumed by the light. Where it touched his skin it burned, but he was unable to cry out. When at last he could no longer take the pain, everything became a haze of vivid white, twisting and curling with black clouds that seemed to devour the light itself. Time was slowing, stretching; there was no sound, only the echoes. With a final snap, the lightning vanished and all was plunged into darkness.

/

Time was a strange thing. Steady and relentless, its unstoppable flow withered all things. Mountains, trees, and animals ground into dust under its oppressive hand. For a mortal, the years slipped by like grains of sand in an hourglass till there were none left. Years and days were fleeting things, harder to grasp than the wind, dancing just out of reach.

To possess an everlasting life in a world that was ever dying and being reborn-was no longer a novelty to Galadriel. Twelve thousand years of watching everything eventually perish took the novelty out of most things.

Time itself, though, was something she was coming to understand better. She had learned how to count the days as Men would, knew that it was possible for there to be too few of them, that death could snatch the things you love and time would set a gulf between you that could not be crossed.

The past was unchangeable, the present fleeting, the future unknown. Always unknown. There were whispers of what could be, all that was possible. The paths that the future might take were many, and Galadriel was often granted a glimpse down each winding way.

Under the mallorn trees, while the stars shone in deep blue sky and the elves sang among the trees, Galadriel looked into her mirror and saw what was impossible come to pass.

Darkness shook the foundations of the world, great cracks splitting reality in pieces and letting the shadows seep in. Galadriel felt it, saw it. Watched as Middle Earth was taken in storm, and all that was meant to be simply never was. The whispers of the future were drowned, the paths obliterated. The past was changed, and replaced with something false, something that shouldn't be. A flash, and it was over. The foundations were solid again, healed, leaving only scars where they had broken. The violence was over, but the damage was done.

Only glimpses of that other life remained, flickers of light in murky darkness. What should have been was still there, still a reality somewhere, but lost from the memory of Middle Earth.

There was peril now that threatened to undo the world. Events that should have occurred never had, and the earth was trying to compensate. How much had changed? That was unknowable. Time was trying to heal its wounds, fighting against this new reality like a fearful animal.

When Gandalf came, fresh sorrow in his kind eyes, and told her of the storm, she understood. There was evil at work, reshaping the world to fit its needs. Most would live their lives unaware that anything had changed, but Galadriel had lived long, and knew the land better.

Now she would wait. Wait until the answer revealed itself, until she was granted clarity. Strange whispers of what was coming were in her ear, and the road ahead had never been so uncertain.