Marta's Mathoms - BMEM 2011 by Marta

Things as May Yet Be - Part 1 (Arwen, Galadriel, Celeborn, Aragorn) (Teen)

She knelt on the floor, carefully picking up the shards of glass. Why did it have to be this one that had broken? A sliver of glass cut into her forefinger, drawing blood, and she winced at the pain.

"Milady." The servingmaid's firm hands held Galadriel's steady. "I shall see to it," the maid said, smiling kindly at her. "Sit you quiet, if you please."

Galadriel nodded mutely and took her seat again at the table, pressing a linen cloth against her finger to stop the bleeding. She thought it odd that she had thought to clean up the broken remains of her wine-glass, or that she had worried over a loss of one goblet over another. True, this set had been gifted to them by Elrond on their five-thousandth anniversary, and so the few remaining pieces held a sort of sentimental meaning for her and Celeborn.

But that did not explain it. Whatever others might say, Galadriel was not overly tied to things. She rather guessed that her mind was still reeling from Arwen's words, so much so that she'd been grubbing around on the floor like a servant.

Celeborn looked over at her worriedly before asking the thought they both were thinking. "You dreamt, Arwen?" he said tentatively. "Do you remember anything of it, save the crebain?"

Arwen nodded. "I do," she said, "though, honestly, I don't see why my dream has you so worried." Wrinkling her brow pensively, she continued, "I was riding home from here. Haldir was riding beside me, and all about there was a mighty guard of Lothlórien elves. We had ridden south through Rohan and Isengard and were coming up through Eriador. We were just passing the west-gates of Khazad-dûm – I know because of the holly-trees – when I saw a long line of crebain flying overhead." She frowned. "No, not flying; they had no destination that I could see. They were wheeling all about like a vanguard and looking down on us, waiting to see which way we would go."

Celeborn closed his eyes for a moment as if mustering his strength. "It is an ill omen," he said. "The worst." Then, opening his eyes, he looked sympathetically at his wife before turning to Arwen. "It is a portent, Arwen. Thingol told us how the Valar often sent dreams to warn us of dangers to come, dreams that would take a form that spoke most easily to the dreamer. In Doriath, the crebain were a sign of death. My folk were not that given to superstition, but even Thingol ordered more than one journey delayed because he had dreamt of them."

"I didn't know," Arwen said, frowning. "But I don't see what that has to do with me, really. Crebain hold no such connection in my mind, and I never knew the meaning your folk put on them until just now. Surely it is a coincidence?"

But Galadriel shook her head at that suggestion. "If I dreamed of crebain, well, I might attribute that to too much rich food late at night. But not so with you. Celeborn's people are your people as well, and their omens are as imprinted on your soul as they are on his." She looked at Celeborn, unsure of whether she should say aught else, but then decided that she must. Steeling herself, Galadriel said, "Your mother had just a dream before... before that last ride across the Misty Mountains. Before she sailed West. Her dream included Haldir and a route much like yours. And crebain."

Celeborn reached out and grasped Arwen's hand in his. "We had thought to send Celebrían home by the southern road. Saruman still seemed a friend in those days, and you could never tell what foul folk might lurk along the mountain passes. We changed our plans because of her dream."

"I won't go home," Arwen insisted steadfastly. "Father can send for me all he likes, but I would not risk that fate for all the jewels in Formenos."

"It is hardly that simple," Galadriel said. "We tried to turn aside five hundred years ago, and that was your mother's undoing. For all I know, it will be our keeping you here that will drive you to ruin."

Celeborn looked across the table, his face suddenly the very picture of severity. "You must show her," he said, and Galadriel understood. They had tools in their keeping that might offer counsel – Noldorin tools that Celeborn was often reluctant to use, but useful aids nonetheless.

She nodded to her husband. Then, turning to Arwen: "Meet me in the gardens south of Caras Galadhon, three hours hence." With that, Galadriel set down her fork and left the table without another word. She found she had quite lost her appetite.