A Thief in the Night

Doriath: 17th Chapter

"She had put despair and fear aside,

as if they were garments she did not choose to wear."

– George R.R. Martin

Author's Note: I hope that everyone had a wonderful Christmas! Now that the holidays are over I am looking forward to having more time to write. Thank you to everyone who is reading, especially the new followers, and to everyone who reviewed. I really appreciate your feedback! I know that some of you (particularly Oleanne) have been eagerly anticipating this chapter and so, without further ado...

"Artanis…" Finrod felt his breath catch in his throat.

He had thought only to bring her the letter he had just received from Angrod so that she might be able to read it too, for it contained glad tidings of their nephew Orodreth's impending marriage to, what the letter assured him and what all of the fine folk seemed to agree was a very lovely and clever handmaiden in Turgon's court. But the smile evaporated from Felgund's face like dew in the summer heat upon his abrupt entrance into his sister's chambers for what he had found upon opening the door startled him in the utmost. And she had turned towards him upon his intrustion, the shock of one who had hoped to sneak away in secrecy but been found out written plainly across her face.

"F…Finrod," she stammered, freezing as she had been when he opened the door, stuffing bundles of clothing and food into a rucksack. She was dressed in deerskin breeches and riding boots, spurs fastened to her ankles, wearing a thick wool tunic and a thicker cape, lined with fur, for it was winter. Her strung bow was across her back as was a quiver full of arrows and her golden spear. A knife belt was buckled about her waist.

"What…what are you doing?" He asked her, though the answer was evident.

"Running away," she confessed the obvious. There was no use lying about it now that he had found her out, but his reaction was not the anger that she had expected, but a strange sort of sorrow.

"Oh." He said, as if all of the energy had been suddenly sapped from. "Where to?"

"Menegroth."

He nodded, still in a daze of surprise, and silence stretched between them during which Artanis's heart recovered from its momentary shock to begin beating again and Finrod hung his head.

"Finrod," his sister crossed the room to take his face in her hands, looking at him imploringly, "it is not because I do not love you! It is only because, well, if you had a chance, even the slightest chance, the most farfetched chance in the world to see Amarie again, even if it were only for a moment, or more, even the most threadbare opportunity to repair what rift lay between you, would you take it?"

Felagund said nothing, merely drawing his sister tightly into his embrace, his golden head pressed tightly against her own, and the dry sob that escaped his throat was answer enough. They drew apart at long last and Finrod looked at his sister with red-rimmed eyes.

"I feel…" Finrod confessed, his throat dry with worry, "that I am losing you. We used to be so close as children but now…I do not know." The words had lain stagnant within him for many long years now and something about divulging them at last seemed to lift some weight from him, though he waited now in the terrible silence to hear her answer.

"I…I'm losing everyone," he began again, stammering, "first father turned back, our cousins bear me no love any longer, and though I still have their love, Angrod, Aegnor, Orodreth, Fingon, Turgon…the are so very far away. I had thought, at least, that I could keep you, and having you at my side would have made all the other losses seem inconsequential, but without you I worry that I may not have the strength to bear this…alone."

"Oh Finrod," Artanis cried, tears welling in her eyes as she took her brother's hands. "Even if I cannot be by your side you may rest assured that you certainly have my love! And Menegroth is not so very far, only a three or four days leisurely journey, two is you press hard! I shall visit you, and often, I promise! And, what is more, I do not go for myself alone, but for you as well, and for our brothers. I am determined that I shall reestablish myself in Menegroth! I will make things well again and Thingol will allow you to travel to Menegroth once more and the Sindarin military support, all of the money, the favor, I will win it back for you! This is my duty, for you cannot leave Nargothrond unattended. Only trust in me, and I shall make things as they were again."

"What do I want with money and weapons and armies when I have not you!" Finrod cried, he was weeping uncontrollably now and he felt very ashamed indeed, as though he were little more than a child. "What good are these halls, what good is this entire palace if I have no family and loved ones to fill it? And if something were to happen to you, if some injustice were perpetrated upon you how could I ever live with myself, knowing that I had failed to protect you and that you had suffered?"

"Finrod," Artanis enveloped her weeping brother in a tight embrace. "Gone are the days when we were children and you would carefully mind my every step. I am grown now and this is my choice, my own choice which I have made, and I must be free to make it."

But Finrod sank down heavily onto a stool, as though his entire body were suddenly made of lead, and with bleary eyes he clasped her hands, looking up at her. "Is this my doing?" He asked. "And be truthful as I will be now. My treatment of you these last few years has not been how it ought and I will only say that it was fear that drove me. Otherwise, I will make no excuses for myself, for the things I have done…they are inexcusable. Are you running from me?"

"No, Finrod, I am not." She told him. "I am finished with those thoughts and no longer will I run from what I once feared. From this day forward I will run only to it, and I shall confront it, and thereby overcome it, though it may require much strength and hardship." Celeborn had urged her to do so many years ago; only now had she understood his words.

"Ai!" Finrod cried, as a man in mortal pain. "You have ten thousand times my strength and a peerless heart." Then he buried his face in her hands and, still weeping, begged her, saying; "Can you ever forgive me for the things I have done, and the things I have said, and, what is more, that which I left undone? Can you ever forgive me my cruelty and foolishness?"

But Artanis drew him up and into an embrace and said. "You are my brother. Ere ever my anger with you cooled, already had I forgiven you."

And then Finrod said, "how gracious is Illuvatar, that he has graced one so undeserving as myself, with such a sister as you." After a while his tears cooled and they stepped apart, still clasping hands, and Finrod said; "An oath I shall swear, and not an oath to fear, but an oath to hope, to goodness. From this day forth, I will no longer let the fear, and doubt, and paranoia that Morgoth awoke in my mind cloud my judgment or rule my actions. Nor shall I allow the jealousy and madness of the other Noldoring princes to govern me. Henceforth, it is from loyalty, and courage, and friendship that I will speak, and act, and govern. And though the walking of this path may be the more difficult, I swear that I shall not be swayed from it, even unto my own demise." Then they embraced once more and, at last, Finrod smile and Artanis thought, or perhaps she was merely imagining it, that he almost looked as though he were proud of her. He gripped her shoulders, squeezing and then releasing them.

"Celeborn may still love you," he said, "but I am not so sure that he is able to forgive you. I could not well read him when last he was here. I beg you take caution with your heart, sister, for it is one of unparalleled benevolence."

"I know," she replied. "But it is not only for him that I go, but for myself as well. I will not be haunted all of my interminably long life by the possibility that there were choices I could have taken but did not. I would know for certain: yes or no. Only then can my heart be at rest."

"There are some questions for which there is no answer," Finrod said.

"Yes," she said, "but does that mean that we should not search for one?" Finrod took her hand and squeezed it.

"Have you seen it?" He asked her. "Have you perceived that the way may be open to you?"

"It is a possibility, but by no means a certainty," she nodded, worried that his rebuke would follow, his warning not to trust her visions, but it never came.

"That is good. I only hope that you do not think that it is the Elessar that will fix those problems for you," he confessed.

"No," Artanis shook her head, taking a deep breath. "What I have broken I will fix myself, if I can. The Elessar I mean to surrender to Thingol, payment for my passage into Menegroth so to speak."

"You think it will be enough to quiet his heart? Do you think he will accept it?" He asked her.

"Have we not heard that he grows fearful of the destruction of his kingdom?" She said. "In this he may see it renewed; it may bring him hope, perhaps by it he can bring some sort of renewal to Doriath. I would see that done, if it is possible. But…if he will not accept it then I will find another way in. I am determined to renew the bonds of friendship between our peoples."

"Surely you will have to pay a heavier price than merely surrendering your jewel, no matter how magnificent it is," Finrod said.

"Yes," she said, "and I do not know what that shall be, but I am willing to pay it, or work for it, or fight for it if I must." Celeborn's words echoed in her mind.

"And what if you are unhappy?" He asked her, concerned.

"You know," she said, tucking his hair behind his ear, "strangely enough it was the Elessar that made me begin to think that that is a matter that is up to me rather than a stone or geography."

And Finrod embraced her again. "Be well Artanis," he whispered and they broke apart again, Artanis bending to pick up her rucksack and shouldering it.

"Galadriel," she said with a smile. "My name is Galadriel, or so it is if what you have said yourself holds true: that a true gift is without conditions."

Finrod grinned and saluted her as if she were a great general. "Then do not sneak out like a thief, Galadriel," he said. "Come, let us go to the stables. You must take my horse, for he is faster and stronger than yours. There are orcs and wargs and worse things out there."

The stables were nearly pitch black when they arrived, for even the grooms had gone to sleep by now, and Finrod was forced to light one of the extinguished torches with the solitary candle they had found burning in the lantern at the entrance.

After that it was a quick matter of getting his magnificent bay charger saddled and bridled. The horse stamped his feet in anticipation, eager to know that he would soon be allowed to run, and Finrod patted his neck.

"Are you sure you will not wait until morning?" He asked her. "I do not like this business of you going at night, for that is when orcs travel. You have not much experience with combat in this land. And besides, I would rather send you off with the fanfare that you deserve." Galadriel clasped his hand, smiling.

"I cannot wait a moment longer, for my own heart cannot abide it. And you know as well as I that Celebrimbor would seek to prevent my departure by any means necessary," She told him.

"Do not concern yourself with Celebrimbor or the Feanorians," Finrod said. "I will deal with them." His eyes were resolute, though she knew it had taken him great courage to say that.

"Only do not be overly harsh with Celebrimbor," she begged him. "For you were right to say that he has a kind heart. He does not mean ill."

Finrod nodded his assent and then said, "you risk your life sister."

"There are worst things to lose," she said. "Our cousins are living proof of that. I think, for once I should like to no longer be content to live in the shadow of others. I would like to live on my own terms now, though the circumstances may be less than desirable. We need not forswear ourselves to any oaths Finrod. For they exist only so long as there are those willing to follow them."

"Very well," he said, though the look in his eyes betrayed that his fears had not been assuaged, "and do not stop until you have crossed within the fence of Doriath. Send me a letter as soon as you are able."

"I promise," she said. And Finrod would have used many more words to implore her take care of her safety but Galadriel was, as ever, impatient, and she swung up in the saddle but Finrod reached out once more to grasp her hand and looked her straight in the eye so that she would know he meant it.

"Galadriel," he said firmly, "you have my love, always."

"I know," she smiled, "and you have mine."

She squeezed his hand once more, briefly. "May Illuvatar protect you," he whispered, and then she was gone: a clatter of hooves upon cobblestones, a flash of gold in the moonlight, an echo in the deepening silence.

Her words still reverberated in Finrod's mind, like the tolling of a bell. We need not forswear ourselves to any oaths. He knew that she had been referring to his dark prophecy, telling him in her own way that he need not bind himself to what the foresight had shown him, that it was his own choice whether he would or no, but for some reason, despite his concern for his safety, despite the dark visions that clouded his mind, it seemed that the clouds of worry had parted for a moment to allow the sunshine to slip through briefly.

Galadriel. He laughed to himself. Perhaps Celeborn had named her even more aptly than he himself realized. I wonder, Finrod thought with a grin, if Doriath is prepared for a second unlooked for rising of the sun. It seemed then that his sister had inspired a new sort of courage in his heart and that courage began to burn like embers in his chest and it grew until it was fanned to full flame. Perhaps, he thought, it was time for more than one return; Celebrimbor had quite worn out his welcome.

Galadriel bent down over the neck of the horse as she turned to the northeast, heading towards Doriath at a full gallop. It was something that she did partly for speed, for she knew that Finrod was right, that it was dangerous to travel across these plains on her own. The Fens of Sirion were the closest place at which she might enter within the girdle but it would still be a good two days ride until she reached that point, even if her horse did not tire. Yet she also bent low over the horse's neck because the winter winds that came whipping across these plains were bitterly cold, chilling her to the bone despite her elven constitution and her woolen garments. The heat of the horse provided some measure of warmth.

But Finrod's charger did not tire, leaping forward eagerly, and she found herself all the more grateful for her brother's gift of such a sound horse. The path was straight between here and the Fens of Sirion and populated not by thick forest, but merely the tall grasses of the plains, frosted in a thin blanket of snow that crunched beneath the horse's hooves. In the dark she could see the dark, tall shapes of the Andram far off to her right and to her left merely the grasses of the plains swaying in the nighttime breeze.

She felt compelled to stop then for a brief moment, reigning in the charger, who pranced and snorted, his breath a thin mist that glimmered in the light of the harvest moon, so big and round and golden, like an orange or a lantern hung in the sky. There was a profound silence that filled the air, great and encompassing, over the vast and empty plains. The horizon seemed to stretch on forever into infinity and, in the darkness, Galadriel could not tell where the earth ended and the sky began. Rather, they seemed to bleed into one another and she felt as though she sat in the midst of a sphere of pure starlight. It was a world vast and remote, magnificent and wild. She became aware, suddenly, that she could no longer hear herself breathing in that silence, for the majesty of that place seemed to have stolen her breath away.

Was this what it had been like? She wondered. Was this how it had been before the coming of the sun? And in that moment she could not help but think that the presence of Morgoth, of evil here in this land did nothing to diminish its beauty. Arda marred the elves of Aman had called it. And Celegorm had called Celeborn impure, and her by association, and yet at this moment she found, almost, that it was that impurity, if one could call it that, that made it all the more beautiful. For in Aman she might have looked upon such a harvest moon and been entirely sure that she would live to see another, indeed, the question would never have broached the boundaries of her thoughts. Yet here she did not have that certainty, and, somehow, the knowledge that these grasses would die, that these river might run dry to never be renewed, that the very hills at her back might collapse into the earth, that she who lay under the curse of Mandos might spend her life utterly ere ever she experienced another such night made this moment all the more beautiful, all the more precious.

The beauty of it was that it would not endure, and just as it could not wait, neither could she. Giving the horse a swift kick, she set off at a gallop for Doriath once more and worry did not cloud her heart, but rather, it was filled with awe at the majesty of this earth and that only served to drive her forward, for this was her home and she was determined to establish herself in it.

At long last the rising sun began to burn the edges of the horizon in shades of pink and crimson and, in that dim light of the promise of day, she could see the world as if painted all in ghostly colors of gray and the hues of the dawn seeped slowly into the grasses and the earth and the mountains like wine staining a cloth or paint a canvas. It brought her some modicum of relief, for she knew that orcs would not likely travel during the light of the day. Yet she did not decrease her pace, but continued with speed for her heart was eager to be home again.

Even at noon, when the sun had climbed high into the sky, the winds were bitterly cold and Galadriel flexed her hands, stiff with chill inside her gloves, gripping the reins more tightly. The sparse shrubs and trees were gilded in hoarfrost so that even in the light of day they glinted like silver. She had made good time and covered much ground by the time that evening drew nigh and so she began to wonder if it might be possible for her to reach the girdle by the next morning.

This night was not as spectacular as the last for the harvest moon had already waned, a mere shadow of its former glory, yet she hardly gave even a passing thought to the scenery now for she recognized this land and knew that she was drawing near to the borders of Doriath and now that only a few more hours remained until she was in Doriath itself she was suddenly plagued by worries. For, supposing that she could no longer pass within the girdle…but no, Thingol had said himself that he would not fence them out. And yet, suppose that he did not find the Elessar an adequate enough payment for her passage. Supposing they shut the gates against her and nothing she could do would work? Perhaps, she feared, she might even find that Thingol had changed his mind and that he would send her back to Nargothrond forever, having decided to permanently close Doriath to them.

But, despite her concerns it seemed that for the first time in a long time she felt as though she were going home and, her heart gladdened by this knowledge, she rejoiced upon the rising of the sun to see that in the distance the marshes of the Sirion lay before her and, to the north of these, the finger of the forest of Region that was on this side of the river. Turning towards the forest she galloped on and soon enough she could see the clouds of mist billowing out of the forest like a great wall reaching high up into the sky: Melian's girdle. Illuvatar, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks and her heart seemed to take flight, bursting the bonds of her chest, soaring above as wild and free as this land. She laughed, joyously, madly; she was almost there.

The horizon began to burn to light like a parchment lit aflame and yet the great insurmountable wall of mist billowed from the forest like waves breaking upon the shore. Yet in the midst of her elation, she had only the faintest warning, the shrill whistling noise of a projectile speeding through the air before she felt a sharp pain in her leg and looked down, shocked, to see a crudely hewn black arrow protruding from her thigh, blood bubbling slowly around the puncture.

In her shock she had reined her horse to a stop and this had been a mistake, for she had to raise her arm to protect her head as several more arrows flew her way. They missed, but she felt the horse shudder in fear, for he had sensed her confusion and panic, and another arrow glanced off of her bracer. Turning, she saw that a small band of orcs had emerged from the marches, rushing forward towards her and, in a bit of a panic from the unexpectedness of it all, she struggled to draw her bow and string an arrow. But it was too late, for the arrows were flying about wildly now and her horse, sensing her panic still, panicked himself, rearing high into the air and dumping her unceremoniously on the ground. Before she could stand or draw her knife the orcs were upon her and it did not take her very long to discern why they had not killed her outright.

"A she elf!" They cackled and she felt some of them grab at her arms and legs even as she struggled to fight them off. A large, yellow-eyed orc with pupils like a cat's climbed atop her, laughing. His hair was black and greasy, his skin smelt of oil, of shit, or putrid meat, and his teeth were pointed and rotten, brown with tar. She nearly retched at the stink of him.

"She's a pretty one!" He crowed and, to her horror, she felt his knees forcing her legs apart. She tried with all her might to throw them off but she had not the strength. Illuvatar help me! She cried in her mind, her heart racing. She struggled as he reached for her tunic, tearing away the clasps as she felt his teeth bury themselves in her neck. One of the orcs holding her legs pushed the arrow in deeper into her leg and she screamed in pain while the orc atop her tore at her undershirt and she heard him give a cry of delight as the fabric gave way. He had discovered the Elessar. His claws scrabbled at the jewel and she felt the chain snap as he tore it from her neck, stuffing it with delight into the pouch at his belt. She struggled to reach her knife, taking advantage of the orcs' momentary distraction and delight at having discovered such a thing, but her fingers had only just reached the hilt before they realized what she was doing and they pinned down her offending arm. Her elbow was trapped beneath her at a painful angle and one of them hit her solidly across the face.

"That'll learn her to try that again!" He shrieked but another one of them swiped at him, growling.

"Don't ugly her up fore I had a turn!"

Galadriel could feel her heart pounding and struggled to maintain a clear head, pushing back the panic and terror that threatened to overwhelm her. Her muscles ached from the stress she was exerting on them in an attempt to break their hold, to reach her knife, yet it was to no avail.

"Stupid girl. Coming out here alone," the orc laughed as he unbuckled his belt. "You Doriathrim don't know any better. Think you're all high and mighty, Thingol's people do. We'll see how high and mighty you are after a taste of what we're going to give you. Shoulda known better than to anger the king under the mountain!"

Galadriel struggled violently in one last attempt to throw him off yet, even as her strength began to fail her, the orc atop her was suddenly sent flying while the others released her, for Finrod's charger had returned, snorting loudly, his eyes fierce and he launched yet another powerful kick at one of the orcs, sending him flying.

Galadriel sprang to her feet, having little care for her open tunic and shirt, and grabbed up her bow from the ground, slinging it over her back once more as she drew her spear. She charged after the horse, who was pursuing the fleeing orcs, stumbling a bit from her injured leg, trying to ignore the searing pain there, for her intent now was singular: to slay these orcs down to the very last one.

She passed by the one who had been atop her and it looked as thought the blow from the horse had killed him so she need do no further work there, only she snatched up the belt he had unbuckled that contained the Elessar within its pouch. She caught the orcs soon, and it appeared as though the horse had killed yet another of them, his teeth clenched tightly around the orc's throat, shaking his limp body like a ragdoll. Galadriel drove her spear cleanly through the heart of another of them and pulled it out, turning about to parry the blow of one of the other orcs. It was a quick battle that ended with him upon the end of her blade. She kicked his body loose and turned towards the final surviving orc, who was running about aimlessly, squealing like a pig. She beheaded him with a single stroke of her spear and his decapitated body fell to the ground, twitching before going still as stone.

She stood, breathing hard before bending to wipe the blade of her spear on the grass and the bay charger returned to her side, stamping his feet on the frozen ground. "Oh," she breathed, trembling as she wrapped her arms about his warm neck, "I have never been so frightened." Then, still shaking, she pulled herself up into the saddle with some difficulty and, tapping her spurs against the horse's side, they made the short trek to the wall of mist, the world obscured as they passed through the fog and then, at last, Galadriel was within Doriath once more, yet her joy of a few minutes earlier had completely evaporated.

She rode until she reached the Sirion with little care for her state of undress or the wound in her leg but, by the time that she reached the banks, the fire that had been pumping through her veins had cooled and the pain from her wound was beginning to lance through her. She had been cut before, but never shot, and it hurt a good deal more than she would have anticipated.

Sensing her discomfort, the horse came to a halt at the banks and she slipped gingerly from the saddle. And, even though she tried to dismount as gently as possible, just the slightest touch of her right foot to the ground sent shockwaves of pain coursing up her leg. Slowly, awkwardly, she limped forward to the edge of the water and sank down to the cold sand there to examine her wound more closely. And, perhaps because the fire that had been coursing through her veins had cooled, the chill winds against her bare chest reminded her that her shirt was open.

Looking down she saw that her cotton shirt had been torn completely in half down the center. Her wool tunic still had a few remaining clasps that had not been torn off and these she refastened, though it did not do enough to cover her. Taking the edge of her cloak, she tore off a long strip of fabric and wrapped it over her shoulder and between her breasts around her torso before tying it beneath her arm, binding her tunic closed somewhat.

The blood that had bubbled from her leg wound was dry now and it seemed that outwardly at least, it no longer bled, but the pain was incredible. Fearful of the worst, she reached out to touch the roughly hewn black shaft for it looked as though it were slick with some liquid that did not appear to be blood. The very touch of her fingertips to it caused a fierce burning and itching sensation to sear across her skin. Trembling, she held her fingers to her nose and sniffed them, inhaling a heady chemical stench. She coughed violently; her worst fears had been confirmed: poison.

Her thoughts ran hither and thither; perhaps she would lose the leg and be as Maedhros or perhaps this would even kill her if she could not reach Menegroth in time. She was not a healer herself and had paid little heed to those in Aman who had tried to teach her, a fact that she now rued with all her heart, but she had seen many a poisoned wound in Menegroth and she had met those who had lost limbs to orcish poison as well, even seen those who had perished. Poisoning was not an easy death and now here it was, her own traitorous veins channeling it throughout her entire body.

I must reach Menegroth ere I it addles my mind, she thought, forcing herself to remain calm. She struggled with the clasp of the pouch on the orc's belt that she had buckled about her waist but it would not budge and, at last, she tore the belt from her waist in frustration, breaking open the clasp of the pouch with her dagger and dumping the contents out upon the ground. The Elessar spilled forth in gleaming green and silver magnificence and she caught it up, breathing in relief, pressing it to her wound.

It had not been made for this purpose, she knew, but perhaps it could provide some relief, or slow the poison a bit. Her hands were shaking and she struggled to recall the words of healing that Melian had taught her. She could hardly remember them, for she had not been paying close attention, her mind on fighting, and dancing, and keeping secrets, focused instead on the way that Celeborn's hair shone in the moonlight and other such silly notions. The pain did diminish, if only the slightest bit, but though the black and green about the wound ceased to spread, it did not decrease. It was not good enough. She must get to Menegroth or else she would die alone in the woods here and who knows if they would ever find her bones, or anything else that might be remitted to her brothers. But the Sirion was wide and fast here. She could not ford it, nor swim it, for the swift currents would surely sweep her away. Yet she knew that there were Sindarin settlements along this river, elves who made their living ferrying others across the water and piloting the barges that brought grain and other goods to Menegroth.

She turned, taking up the orc's satchel once more and returning the Elessar on its broken chain to the pouch but what she saw upon the ground there, what she had dumped out of the pouch without noticing when she had retrieved the Elessar, cause her to start and, for a moment, to forget her own troubles. There on the ground were spilled golden coins, and not just any golden coins. With a trembling hand she reached out, holding one up to the noon light. There, engraved upon it was the seal and likeness of Naugladur, King of the dwarves of Nogrod: dwarven money. And she would have thought, perhaps, that these orcs had slain dwarves and plundered their corpses had she not, at the moment she touched the coins, recalled the words that the orcs had spoken to her. Ought not to have angered the King under the mountain! At the time she had not thought much of it, though the words had been strange, for her only thought had been to slay the orcs. But now, seeing the coins upon the ground, recalling everything that Celeborn had told her, the possible significance of such a thing troubled her. Were they in league with Morgoth?

And, just as the thought crossed her mind, a strange and foreboding vision came upon her. There in the darkness was a light, as luminescent and bright as one of the Silmarils and Menegroth was dark, so very dark, as if all of the lamps had been snuffed out. She stumbled through the corridors, tripping over something and looked down to see, as if dimly through a tarnished mirror of brass, a face swimming in and out of view, a familiar face, though she could not perceive it clearly, but what she could see was his hair, silver as moonlight upon the Sirion, stained with blood, and she stumbled back. Celeborn! It was as though her heart had been rent in two, as though her fea was being slowly siphoned out through her pores, and she clutched at the wall for support, but it was slick and, as she took her hands away, she saw that they were covered in blood, dripping with it. The sound of the dwarven tongue rang softly in her ears.

Concentrating, she lifted herself away from the vision, controlling her breathing, her hands trembling, for she wanted to do nothing more than cry aloud with the fear, the impossible fear that she had foreseen the death of her beloved. She stuffed the coins back into the pouch and buckled it about her waist once more. She must get to Thingol as quickly as possible, not only to prevent her own death, but to prevent that of Celeborn as well. "Belegroch," she called to the horse, rising to her feet slowly, her throat dry, and he lifted his magnificent head from the water where he had been drinking, looking at her with bright and inquisitive eyes. She grabbed hold of his mane and, with a great deal of trouble and even more pain, swung herself up into the saddle. She clutched her cape tight around her, shivering in the cold winter sun, and began the trek upriver.

The reeds swayed in the breeze, clattering like bones, and now and then she saw the rafts and boats of the Sindar heading downriver, but though she called out to them, they could not hear her and mistook her cries of help for greetings, merely raising their hands in return. By that evening she had almost gone so far as to reach that place where the Esgalduin flowed into the Sirion and it was there that she saw fires burning in the beginning of the twilight: a village.

Her heart leapt in relief and yet she wondered if the elves there would recognize her, if they would refuse her help and passage, yet she had no choice but to seek aid, even if it was refused.

"Mae g'ovannen!" She cried as she approached the town, raising her hand in greeting. It was a moderately sized settlement and, from what she could see, a more prosperous one, for some of the Sindar who lived in the outskirts of Doriath lived in huts of sticks and skins, yet these lived in elegantly crafted thatched huts, of which there were many.

"Mae g'ovannen!" Several voices called, a group of young male elves by the bank of the river. They stood with their barge poles in hand, dressed simply, and though they wore broad brimmed hats over their long dark hair, their faces were still quite tan, the effect of working in the sun on the Sirion all day. They grinned at her approach, elbowing one another and saying something in quiet voices that she could not hear, but their rambunctious grins turned to concern as she drew closer, for they could see quite well now her state, both the arrow protruding from her leg and her torn tunic.

"Lady!" They called, dropping their barge poles and rushing forward to assist her. One of them took the reins to her horse, leading her into the village, where people turned out of their houses to stare. Another of the young lads ran at her side.

"Tell me," he said, "who are you, and what business brings you here, and how came it that you have been wounded in such a fashion? For I can see that you are not a Sinda, nor one of Denethor's people, nor one of the Avari, and your horse is very fine and your weapons finer still, so I must surmise that you are of noble birth.

"My name is Nerwen she said," looking down exhaustedly into the kind dark eyes of the youth, "and I am a warden in the court of Finrod Felagund, the vassal of King Thingol. I bring urgent news for your king and, in my haste to deliver it, I paid not as close attention as I should have. I was ambushed at the fens of Sirion by a small band of orcs who gave me this wound and…and attempted to violate me."

"Ai!" The lad cried, "such ill tidings we receive of late! Since the attack on Hithlum our borders have been thick with such bands of orcs. You ought not have travelled alone lady! Does not your King in Nargothrond not know how besieged we have been of late?"

"Communication between Menegroth and Nargothrond has been sparse these days, ever since King Thingol learned of the kinslaying from the children of Finarfin." She said. "Yet the message I bear is of the utmost importance and my Lord bade me make all hast, thus I traveled alone."

"Yes," he said. "Our High Prince Celeborn visited some years ago bearing the message of those unfortunate events. It does not mean much to us younger folk, but you may find that the older elves here still harbor a grudge against the Noldor. But it is not so bad as in our capital, or so I have heard. I would not expect a warm welcome in Menegroth if I were you Lady."

"No," she said, "I do not expect one."

"They did not harm you did they lady?" He asked her. "Other than your leg of course I mean? Very strange to see a Noldorin warden in these parts, especially a lady. I had heard it is uncommon among your folk."

"You are right," she said. "Female wardens are far rarer among my people, though not unheard of. And no, other than my leg I am unhurt," she told him. "But I fear that if this wound goes untreated it may be the death of me. I am no healer."

"Fear not," he assured her. "For we are taking you to the healers now. And I should expect that our village chief should like to speak with you as well."

"My thanks," she told him. And, even as she said it, they had arrived a large cabin with a broad porch and a generously thatched roof upon which the snow lay like a heavy blanket. It was a finely made house and, in the winterscape, quite picturesque. The two young elves that had led her there helped her down from her horse while another elf led him off to feed and water him. She began to limp towards the cabin but the two young males lifted her and, carrying her between them, brought her up the steps to the porch, where a great number of elves had gathered now, speaking in hushed tones behind their hands. They kicked off their boots at the entrance, carrying her over the threshold of the cabin and there a portly, dark-haired elf woman greeted them, ushering them into a room where she directed them to lay Artanis upon the woven reed floor. The rooms appeared to be separated by a network of sliding doors made of wood and paper and they slid open now, admitting several younger female elves.

"Go now," the dark haired elf woman instructed the young men, "tend to her horse and one of you run to fetch the chief."

"There now dearie," the woman said, "you're safe now. Tell me, what is your name."

"I am Nerwen," Galadriel replied, "a warden of the Lord of Nargothrond, Finrod Felagund, King Thingol's vassal."

"Cruel of him to send you on your own," the woman said as the young elf maids bustled about, bringing bandages and healing herbs, clean knives and boiling water. "There's a fair number of orcs about these days, more than in the past. It's very dangerous outside of the fence." She examined the wound with a keen eye and, momentarily, a tall, thin elf with a pointed face and dark hair entered, accompanied by two others.

"Chieftain," the healer acknowledged his presence. "This is Nerwen, a warden of Felagund. The boys say she is carrying a message for our King."

The elf with the pointed face stepped forward. "I am Doronron," he said, "the chieftain of this town and I would speak with you, for you must understand," he said, looking into Galadriel's eyes, "that we have many misgivings regarding your people, for it was not so many years ago that the Prince of Doriath visited our village, giving us warning from Thingol himself of what your people had done and kept secret. How am I to know that you are not one of the children of Finarfin yourself or worse, one of Feanor's ilk? If I cannot have proof of that then you must understand that I cannot allow you to pass."

Galadriel shrieked in pain at that moment, rather than replying to Doronron, for the healers had broken off the shaft of the arrow and pulled it from her leg before quickly pressing gauzy bandages and healing herbs over the wound, whispering words of healing over it.

"I…I…" she stammered from the pain, doing her best not to cry, "I can offer you no proof my identity Sir," she said. "Save to say that I assure you I am no Feanorian, else I would not have been able to pass through the girdle and to offer you my assurances that we of Nargothrond share in your dislike and distrust of Feanor's people, though they be kin to my Lord. As for whether I be a princess of the Noldor, I can do nothing other to assure you that I am but a simple warden than beg you consider the circumstances of my travel. I know not how it is with your people, but my lords do not allow noble born women to travel on their own for fear of danger. However, we female wardens, though we be few, often travel on our own."

Doronron was silent for a few moments before he spoke again, looking only partially satisfied by her answer. "If that is all the proof that you can offer, your word, then I would require that you show me the message you bear," he said, "for we have learned well not to trust the words of a Noldo."

"My apologies Sir," she replied. "I would show it to you if I could, but I am sworn to confidentiality for the message I bear is of a very sensitive nature. It is to be delivered into King Thingol's hands and his hands only, by the direct order of my Lord Felagund. And I must further submit that you would thank me for withholding this message if you knew the contents of it, for it would drive your people into a panic. No Sir, I am very sorry, but I am sure that you must understand my loyalty to my Lord's orders, just as you are bound by the orders of your own King." The chief nodded, as though considering her points, but the healer spoke up.

"Chief Doronron Sir," she said. "I must also tell you that she must be sent to Menegroth if you wish her life to be spared. For we have removed the arrow and closed the wound well enough, but this poison is beyond my power to heal. Only the healers of the capital can stop its spread." Galadriel felt her heart quiver in her chest and looked to the chieftain, who nodded again at the healer's words.

"I will take council," he said simply and stepped out into the hallway, his two counselors sliding the screen shut behind him. Yet it was a formality only, for Galadriel could hear their muffled voices through the thin paper screens. The healers gave her furtive glances as they cleaned their tools and bandaged her wound.

"A warden? Her clothes may be those of a warden and her steed may be a warrior's horse indeed, but her face is too fair! How could she be anything but a noble lady? It may well be that she is even the Artanis that we heard of, who lied to our King, for did he not say that she was gold of hair?" She heard one of the counselors say.

"That seems poorly reasoned." The other counselor said. "Beauty does not preclude whether one is qualified to be a warden or not. Some of our own wardens are very fair and besides, she bears weapons fit for battle. Certainly, a noble lady would not possess such weapons meant for war and killing. And, how are we to know what Noldorin women look like? Perhaps they all look much as she does. After all, I have never seen a Noldo before, nor have any of you." She heard the murmurs of assent from the other two.

"As she has said, she certainly cannot be a Feanorian, else Melian would not have permitted her to cross over the girdle. And even if she is, as she denies, a princess of the Finarfinians, what possible harm could she do if we allow her to proceed? She is a woman traveling alone, and wounded at that. She will almost certainly be apprehended ere she reaches the capital and, even if she does reach the gates of Menegroth unhindered she will certainly not be able to enter without the permission of the King." She heard Doronron himself say.

"That is true," she heard the one who had earlier voiced his objections say. "Despite my misgivings, It would be cruel and unusual indeed to allow her to perish, for it is true what the healers say, that we cannot cure her here. Even if she is the daughter of Finarfin, rather than a mere warden as she claims, we could not allow such a thing, for it would bring the wrath of the Noldor down upon Doriath. But neither should we be too helpful, for none of Finarfin's people are welcome in Menegroth, not even his wardens and messengers, and allowing her to pass might bring the wrath of Thingol down upon our own heads. Therefore, if we are to let her pass then let us ferry her across the river and no more. Let us send with her none of our own people to assist her, or any other sign that we have lent her aid. She should be able to make it to Menegroth on her own, even as injured as she is. Besides, what harm could a single she elf do?"

"She might lose the leg without our aid. For she would have to ride fast and that would doubtlessly agitate the poison." There was silence for the span of a few moments, and then whispering that she could not make out before the door slid open once more to admit the three elves.

"Take the bandage off," Doronron said.

"But –" the healer began to protest but the chief interrupted her.

"Take it off. Thingol would know by its weft that we wove it." Dutifully she began to unwrap the bandage.

"Nerwen," the chieftain said. "We will allow you to pass and we will ferry you across the Sirion for perhaps it is true that you bear a message of great importance that our King need hear. However, as your identity cannot be confirmed, we can offer you no further assistance than that and we must beg you swear to us that you will say nothing to our King regarding our having aided you, for his wrath would be great indeed if you prove to be one who was exiled from Doriath."

"I swear it," she said, "on the life of my Lord. And I offer my thanks for the service of your healers and the kindness of your people. I will be off as soon as I am able, for I fear that I will succumb to the poison if I cannot reach Menegroth by tomorrow. Besides, it would be best that Thingol hear my message immediately."

"Very well then," the chief said and the healers helped her to stand. The pain in her leg had decreased somewhat now that the arrow was no longer there agitating the muscle, however she felt lightheaded and slightly sick to her stomach, an effect of the poison no doubt. It would spread, and soon. "Come with me," Doronron said, "I will show you to the ferry landing." He said something then to the healers in their own dialect and one of them pressed a small packet into his hands. "This," he told her, "contains herbs that will slow the progress of the poison. If you are a warden, as you claim, then you will doubtlessly know how to apply them. But if any in the capital ask, you are to tell them that you removed the arrow yourself and closed the wound with herbs you found in the wild."

"I understand," she said, following him out of the cabin. Her leg was still painful and she had to walk with a limp, but it was not as bad as before. The dark haired lad from earlier stood outside holding the reins of her horse.

"He's been fed and watered Lady." The boy told her and she thanked him.

"Take care to agitate the poison as little as possible," Doronron told her as she took the reins.

"I will," she said, looking into his grey eyes. They were hard, but not without kindness.

"I wish you health," he said, "and a swift journey. May Illuvatar's grace go with you." Having bowed to him, Galadriel turned and followed the boy to the ferry, leading Belegroch by her side. The horse was obedient and did not shy at the water, stepping onto the raft calmly. The moon was high in the sky by now, casting its silver light upon the waters of the Sirion, and Galadriel could feel herself growing drowsy, not just from lack of sleep, but because of the poison as well. Yet to fall asleep would be certain death. They were across quickly, the young elf having skillfully navigated the waters, and he raised his hand in farewell to her as she mounted and made her way along the bank of the Esgalduin. It would lead her to the doorstep of the hidden kingdom.

And indeed, by the next evening, she could view from a distance the gates of Menegroth, yet she had taken no delight in the forest that she had been longing to see, for the pain of her wound had gradually returned and, though she had delayed the spread of the poison with the medicinal herbs, it had continued its course, spreading slowly throughout her body. Her heart had taken on a strange faltering rhythm and a feeling of drowsiness pervaded her body. Her hands shook near uncontrollably and, worst of all, she now had to stop every few miles to vomit up black bile that burned her throat like flame.

She had encountered no one on her road, but she suspected that she had been spotted, for every now and again she heard hushed whispers or saw the flash of a cloak ever so briefly. And indeed, the Sindar had perceived her approach several hours after she had disembarked from the ferry and the wardens had returned to Menegroth with all speed to relay the message.

As it so happened, it was morning when they arrived and Thingol was asleep, as was the greater part of the populace, and so they had passed the message to his herald, the Prince Galathil, who, though he dreaded that he should be the one who must deliver such news as would doubtlessly inflame Thingol's anger, perceived the importance of it and made with all haste to the King's chambers. Knocking upon the door, he was greeted by a flurry of commotion and, at last, by his uncle, who turned questioning eyes upon himThe younger elf felt his throat grow dry in dread of the words he must now speak.

"My King," Galathil began, "I bear urgent news from our wardens but perhaps it would be better heard in private." Though he had spoken somewhat quietly, the silence of the chambers seemed to magnify his voice.

"You heard him," Thingol said, turning to his servants who hung about in the background, "so why are all of you still here?" At the King's words, those gathered there scurried away.

"Galathil," Thingol said, "tell me, what is it? For I can see that you are deeply troubled."

"It is news that will bring you no joy Uncle," Galathil said, and he found himself suddenly glad that the message had not come during the night, when he would doubtlessly have had to deliver it to both Thingol and his brother, for he and Celeborn has spoken of Galadriel once since she had left, though Celeborn had been reluctant to do so, and Galathil had not well been able to discern the thoughts regarding her that his brother kept hidden. For though his older brother was well known for voicing his opinions even when they were not desired, his feelings were something that he guarded the way dwarves hoarded gems. Galathil therefore had his suspicions that Celeborn still bore some love for the Noldorin lady, just as certainly as he must bear anger at her as well, but of his true feelings Celeborn had spoken to no one and, Galathil thought, it might very well be that his brother did not himself understand them.

"But it needs saying does it not?" Thingol asked. "Speak nephew, and quickly, for I have not your patience."

"The Lady Artanis approaches the gates of Menegroth," Galathil said, the words spilling forth quickly, as though he wished nothing more than to have them out and done with. "She appears to be mortally wounded. The wardens report that she is stumbling about as though in a daze, stopping every now and again to vomit black bile. Poisoning, or so they suspect."

"On what business has she come?" Thingol asked and, though there was a tinge of anger to his words, the greater part of his tone betrayed a sense of urgency.

"I do not know Uncle." Galathil told him. "The wardens did not approach her but allowed her to continue."

"Send them to intercept her," Thingol ordered, "if she has not already arrived. Though I have not forgotten her betrayal, I would not remedy the death of kin with more of the same. After all, she is still the daughter of Earwen, my brother's daughter, and by her father she is kin of my departed and dearest friend. Finwe's line shall not diminish this day, if my will has its way. Have her brought inside and see if there is anything that can be done for her. I will join you shortly and see on what business she has come, if she is able to speak. After that, you must go and awaken the members of my council." At his words Galathil sprang away, making with all haste for the gates.

Thingol stood for a moment, considering the possibilities and, most of all, he wondered, as he so often did, whether or not he had done the right thing, the just thing. Yes, he had exiled her and yes, she had deserved it. A century was not long enough for him to forget or forgive the deaths of those he had known of old, his friends, his family, nor was it long enough for his people to feel anything towards Artanis but the bitterest hatred, and yet, despite her extraordinarily poor choice to keep the secret of the kinslaying from him, it seemed that she had chosen the lesser of evils in defending the Teleri, even though in doing so she had slain her father's kin.

What, he wondered, had made her so very desperate as to risk her life to return to Menegroth? He had little doubt that the answer to that question, in part, was related to his nephew and yet, Thingol sensed that other motives were at work here, ones he had not yet discerned. For the Artanis he had known of old would likely not have done something so daring, so desperate, so dangerous. The King drew in a deep breath and released it, striding forward at last, passing over the flowing brooks and through the great stone trees, their silver lamps flickering in the abandoned halls.

It was strange to see Artanis in such a state, delusional, near unconscious. Galathil had done well, for the healers were there already and the wardens were helping them lift her onto a stretcher. She was moving, Thingol could see, but only just so, her golden hair, matted and dirty, hanging to the floor as the wardens lifted the stretcher, accompanying the healers to their quarters. The King approached, looking down at her as he walked, surprised to see that her tunic and undershirt had been torn open, tied loosely shut with a strip of cloth. The right leg of her breeches had been torn open as well, by her no doubt in an attempt to heal herself, and he could see the wound there, the flesh around it black, it oozed putrid green pus. The veins of the leg were dark purple and he could see tinges of the same color in her hands. The poison had spread nearly throughout her entire body. There were deep teeth marks on her neck and, though it looked as though they had been cleaned, there was still blood seeping and bubbling from them ever so slowly. Her clothes bore the marks of a tussle and her face as well, for a deep yellow and purple bruise had bloomed on the side of her face and her eye was blackened.

"Can she speak?" He whispered to Camaeneth, the chief healer, and she shook her head.

"No, your highness. Only the bile comes out." She replied and Thingol could see that it was true for her entire front was covered in black vomit. "The poison is eating at her insides. We may very well lose her. But it was at that moment that Artanis seemed to come to and her eyes blinked slowly open. Thingol could see that they were yellowed and coated with a thick mucous. Her body trembled and she grasped futilely at a leather pouch buckled to her belt, her broken fingernails scrabbling uselessly at its clasps.

"Artanis, what is it?" He asked her with concern but she only struggled harder with the satchel at her waist.

"Take it," she managed to choke out, her voice a guttural whisper, and then the black bile came. Choking and coughing she vomited and the nurses rushed to turn her on her side so that she would not suffocate. Meanwhile, Thingol quickly freed the pouch from her belt. "The dwarves," she gasped, "betrayed you."

"How? How so?" He asked her frantically. "What do you mean?"

But she said nothing more on the matter and merely choked out the words "Celeborn," and "protect," with tears streaming down her bloodied face. And with one final retch and expulsion of black bile, her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed upon the stretcher, her muscles spasming violently.

"Her mind is no longer with us your highness," Camaeneth whispered as they pushed quickly through the doors of the houses of healing and laid her out on a bed. The curtains were drawn about her as the healers and nurses rushed to do what they could and Thingol waited outside with baited breath, pacing as was his wont until he heard the door click shut and felt the gentle presence of Melian in his mind.

Was I so unjust to her? He asked her. The queen seated herself on one of the benches by the door yet even her usually placid face bore signs of concern.

Who can say what is just or unjust, or who is deserving of either? Melian replied. You did your duty and what duty is may at times bear no relation to justice or to right and wrong. Though she left by coercion at your order, it was by her own choice that she returned, or so I have seen, just as it was her decision to keep silent regarding the kinslaying. Only this time, I believe, she was fully aware of the consequences of her actions and, whatever it was that drove her she deemed worth the risk.

And you do not know what that could have been? His wife shook her head in response.

"The answer lies with her," Melian said aloud, "if she lives to tell the tale."

Thingol seated himself beside his wife and emptied the contents of the pouch into his lap. "It was this, perhaps," he said. "This was what she risked her life for." But he could make neither odds nor ends of the contents of the satchel: a magnificent green gem surpassing the likes of any he had heretofore seen and a handful of ordinary coins, dwarven currency. "You can see nothing?" He asked Melian and the queen concentrated for a moment but then shook her dark head.

"The way is shut," she said, "obscured by darkness. It is the poison that clouds her mind and does not allow me to penetrate it."

"Come with me then," he said. "I have summoned my council," Melian nodded in reply and Thingol passed her the pouch. "Examine this if you will, and see if there is aught you can make of it."

"Any word regarding her condition comes straight to me!" He cried to the healers as he and Melian made to quit the room. "She is to be considered a ward of the state now! Anyone who harms her will answer to me as will anyone who does not do their utmost to save her life!"