As Through a Lit Window by Elleth

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Chapter 1

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By Lake Nenuial, the year 572 of the Second Age

The paper scroll in Galadriel’s hand weighed heavier than it had any right to. Cream-coloured and covered with tightly-spaced tengwar, it seemed innocuous enough, a collection of stories about fantastical realms and far-off conquests. She wished, indeed, that that were all. She let go and watched it drop to the surface of her desk with barely a rustle.

Celebrían had bought the scroll off one of the travelling Nandor merchants who roamed Eriador and passed Nenuial on occasion, and surrendered her latest piece of reading material only under protest. The merchant, it seemed, had left weeks ago already and taken with her the specific origin of the parchment, other than the nebulous hints in the stories themselves that pointed to danger gathering east of the Hithaeglîr.

“And what will you do now that you have read it, Mother?” Celebrían asked, perched on the back of her chair with her bare feet on its seat. “You look like a storm over the lake.”

Despite herself and the troubled tidings that came out of the stories, Galadriel laughed softly. Young though her daughter was, still in the first spring of her life and barely past her hundredth year, she already saw keenly into hearts and was not afraid to voice her thoughts. So far Galadriel had kept her only on the margins of her counsels, but it seemed the choice to be more open at her own pace had been taken from them both.

“The storm is not over the lake yet, but I fear the clouds are gathering over Rhûn. Indeed it seems they have been for far longer than the Wise took notice.”

She sighed and cast a glance at the parchment whose edges were curling inward on her desk.

“We have not been blind. We knew that there was a will, perhaps several, urging the peoples of the east to unite and give them what advantages they could grasp - knowledge, strength of arms, well-being beyond the poverty they knew as life. We have seen that lure before, and if the Enemy were not cast beyond returning into the Void, I would think it him. A servant that fled the fall of Thangorodrim, then, or more than one. The paper is new, the writing was only recently copied, but these stories are old as mortals reckon time - and they describe far earlier what we first discovered only a half-yén ago, out of reluctance and concealment. The storm may come sooner than we knew.”

“I thought they were old, yes - not long after the great quakes out of the west sounds like they might describe the War of Wrath, and if these stories do herald a storm from Rhûn - storms often break on the mountains,” Celebrían countered. “Perhaps we are not in danger.”

Galadriel huffed, momentarily directing her gaze out of the window at the dark, clear water of Nenuial under a summer sky that stretched wide and boundlessly blue. A swallow darted over the water, picked off an insect, and vanished.

“What does anyone seek, coming to conquer? What did the Noldor seek in Middle-earth?” Galadriel sank down, suddenly weary, into her own chair. That the Long Defeat should come upon her home as well… she did not wish to give harbour to the thought. It had happened too often.

“If their eastward victories are fruitful, it will only stir a lust for more, and all that oppose them will become their enemies. Already the stories you brought speak with longing of the fat lands by the Western Sea. And in the end not even that shall prove wide enough, if we do not oppose them while we yet may. It seems I must travel to Lindon to take counsel with our kin and with the other Wise.”

“And what of the people of the mountains, and east of the mountains?” Celebrían asked when realization struck her. “The Sindar of Greenwood, the Nandor in Lindórinand… we have kin among them, also, and they have not the means to defend themselves that we do.”

“The wisdom of the young,” Galadriel murmured to herself. “Do not fret, they shall not be alone in this.”

 

The First Hall of Khazad-dûm, the year 750 of the Second Age

“Sefa,” Galadriel called softly to her dwarf guide who had gone on ahead, and knelt in the light-shaft bursting through the eastward windows. Brightly lit as Khazad-dûm was, her eyes would need adjusting to the arch of daylight brightness through the open gate of the First Hall, and she was glad to stall for time. And she had a gift to give to her guide.

“To reward your service and friendship,” she said, and un-shouldering her travel pack withdrew a silver flask inlaid with the holly emblem of the new city, three berries in ruby and a wreath of leaves in emerald, and folded the dwarf’s strong fingers over the gems. Sefa grumbled something that seemed like gratitude rather than objection, accepted the gift and opened the lid, sniffing deeply and sipping of the contents for a taste.

“It is miruvor,” Galadriel explained. “The mead of the Elves, a boon for weary travellers. Now that your father has permitted us to settle in Eregion and the building has begun, I hope that you and your kin will visit us often, and this I hope will serve to ease your road to the Mírdain.”

It was hard to see underneath the lush beard, but Galadriel was almost certain that Sefa was smiling, and then bowed low at the waist after the fashion of the Dwarves.

“Especially you, Sefa, Durin’s daughter. You will be most welcome in Ost-in-Edhil.”

She was well aware of the dwarf’s surprise at being called by the title she had so far concealed, halting in her motions and raising her brows at Galadriel before coming to kneel beside her with a mild look that nonetheless demanded an explanation. She was aptly named, Galadriel mused, wondering briefly if Dwarf-women saw into the minds and futures of their children as Elves did, or if her guide had always been as calm and agreeable as her name suggested.

“I knew for some time that Durin had no son, and I am not as easily deceived as most, but trust me that no word shall pass my lips to those who cannot tell your women and your men apart. And none shall hear of you from me as anyone but the King of Khazad-dûm when that time comes. Come, to atone for it you may name a gift of all else that I have brought.” Galadriel opened her pack wider, and Sefa, nodding her head, reached for a small casket of clear crystal that lay atop Galadriel’s folded clothes among other small bundles.

“What are these?” Sefa asked and held it up to the light. Inside, small nuts with a skin of powdery silver-grey rattled.

“A gift from the Island of Númenor, from the Mariner Prince they name Aldarion. Nuts of the malinórni, the golden trees of the Blessed Realm. It is too cool for them to grow in Lindon, but I have hope that they will take root in Lindórinand. I will spare one of the seeds for you, for now, if you would have it. The rest shall go to the people of Lindórinand. Their friendship is the reason I took this journey; I have yet to endeavour to win it.”

“Then far be it from me to take your gifts away. Being seen for who I am is a great thing and good enough for me, but take care that your sight does not reach too far,” Sefa said. “Some won’t take as kindly to it as I do.”

 

The Northern Borders of Lindórinand, the year 750 of the Second Age

The forest was more than she had hoped it would be, and all that she had thought. Following the fall of Beleriand, Galadriel had travelled in Lindon, north and south, and something had drawn her irrevocably toward that part of the land that revealed itself as the ruin of Tol Galen - Beren and Lúthien had dwelled there, it was said by the few who lived there still, when they had returned to life after their great quest, and there Lúthien had worn the Silmaril, filling the forest with light.

There was no Silmaril there and there had never been, but the very air she breathed was light. The trees of Lindórinand stood in the same soft grey mist lit by the morning sun upon the gently-sloping valley, the birches no less beautiful than the spring green of the silver beeches and the yet-bare branches of the oaks. Almost it reminded Galadriel of her life in Doriath, but there was a wildness still to the forest that guarded Neldoreth under Melian’s sheltering hand lacked.

And there was singing. Not only the splashing of a downhill stream that joined the multitude of birds trilling their spring courtship into the air, but, as though rising from the very land and trees itself, the songs of the Nandor who inhabited the valley - songs and laughter, swiftly approaching and then receding as quickly.

Galadriel had given in to temptation to enjoy the spring sun in a glade of beeches and was breaking a wafer of waybread to eat when a company of Nandor dressed in soft silvery grey and green soundlessly emerged out of the mist between the trees, stopping one by one as they caught sight of Galadriel.

Then they approached. The leader of the six was a young woman, perhaps of an age with Celebrían. She moved with the grace and caution of a deer and her bare feet barely seemed to touch the grass she walked upon. A white crystal, un-cut but clear, was set in the center of her forehead, held by a leather band that kept back the fall of her golden hair.

“Nimrodel,” cried the foremost of her companions, a young woman of dark hair and eyes, and reached out to touch her shoulder. “Careful.” She was speaking the Silvan tongue, Galadriel noted with surprise, even after the Sindar out of Doriath had made their way among them. By then, Nimrodel stood expectantly before Galadriel, her hand outstretched to the satchel that held her waybread.

“Mithrellas,” Nimrodel replied curtly, and the young woman’s hand fell away, although she lingered close with a protectiveness that Galadriel understood well.

“Please,” Galadriel said with a gesture that invited them to sit. If her pronunciation was a little halting, none of them took visible offense. “Be my guests.”

“I rather think that you are ours, goldael,” Nimrodel responded, and, folding her legs beneath her to sit on the grass, motioned to her companions to join her and eat, although she herself took nothing.

“You bear a great burden with you into our land, lady. Have a care not to outstay your welcome lest you darken Lindórinand.”

“You are very perceptive,” Galadriel said. “But my burden is not to darken your land. Indeed, it is to keep the darkness at bay. I am on my way to the Cerin.”

Nimrodel took no further notice of that, although the quick dart of her eyes over her shoulder down the slope showed that she had heard and understood. “And what darkness is that but the one that the West-Elves have brought with them?” she asked. Her voice was calm, but there was a firmness underneath it that belied her words, a current rushing beneath the smooth surface of a river.

“Your land is very beautiful,” Galadriel said instead. “Would you not keep it as it is? It reminds me of my youth in the Uttermost West, when there was no danger to wandering freely in the woods and fields before the Darkness came. You are truly blessed to live in such beauty.”

“And you are truly arrogant to believe that we could not keep it as we have ever done.” Nimrodel tossed her hair back, so it hung like a cloak over her shoulders. “We knew you were walking here by the time you passed by Nen Cenedril; the earth and trees and river all told us of you. Had we wished, we could have shot you before you set foot into the forest itself, and you would be none the wiser.”

One of the young women indeed held a bow over her knees, but she seemed, for the moment, more interested in enjoying the creamy waybread than any aggression, and Galadriel became unpleasantly aware of Nimrodel’s chuckle.

“We are not slayers of kin as you are, and Naithel is our hunter, not a guard. None here would do you harm, and if you knew our land, you would know that, too.”

Galadriel swallowed the insult and the grief that came with it. It was good that Nimrodel and her companions were mistrustful, she reminded herself. “Then let me know your land.”

“Why?”

“Because I would learn to know your land, its trees, its rivers. I am not expected at the Cerin for some days, and it is, perhaps, not the hearts of its rulers that need the most swaying. Nor indeed,” she added after a moment’s thought, “should they be the only ones to know what wills shall beset their realms ere long. It will come as temptation, at first, perhaps, bearing gifts and goodwill out of the east that will seem kind until you depend on them, but before long it will darken the land, estrange you from one another, and at last extinguish the light and life of your trees - and yours. I have seen it before, in a realm more blessed than this.”

A murmur arose among Nimrodel’s companions. Again it was Mithrellas who spoke up. “And she… hasn’t given us her name, or a reason to believe her. She comes out of the Mines of the Dwarves, and if she were bearing gifts to lend her words weight I would not take the least of them! Does she not see that she is the very thing she professes to warn us about, and only the direction of her coming is another?”

Her words were heated and and eager with anger, almost slurred into something harsher and less melodious than the Silvan tongue, and she seized Galadriel’s pack, upending and shaking it until her belongings were piled on the grass.

Galadriel said nothing. Her gifts had been sparse for that very reason. Opposite her, Nimrodel had grown still and thoughtful, watching as Mithrellas rooted through her things and at last withdrew the casket that held the seeds of the mallorn-trees.

“You may come,” Nimrodel said. “If all your other words were lies, then this at least is true - the Enemy and his creatures do not love trees.”

“It may be part of her ruse to lull us to safety.”

Guilt rose in Galadriel at the young woman’s words. None of her words had been lies, but there had been little substance to them - enough to rouse curiosity, enough to inspire resistance, but she realized then that mistrust against all outsiders was as much a boon as a danger. What does anyone seek, coming to conquer? she had asked Celebrían once, before they had left Nenuial for Eregion and the building that had begun on the other side of the mountains at snowmelt. That she must tarnish this land with her purpose as she had so often seen peace and carefree joy tarnished - her daughter’s not least, the day she had revealed to her the dark forces moving in the world… it stung like a glowing ember pressed into her heart, and she hoped dearly that none of her griefs showed on her face.

She lowered her head. “My name is Galadriel, and of old I was one of the Lindi, also, of the House of Olwë who travelled beyond the Sea. I would abide with you. This forest stands as a lit window in a world that grows dark, and as through a lit window all that transpires within will over soon or long become obvious to those without that wish you ill.”

“A stranger coming with portents of doom to a name - although a great name that even we, rustic as you think us, have heard.” Nimrodel crossed her arms and rose. “If you find welcome here, then not from me and my maidens, unless you can convince us of your errand until we have reached the Cerin. We shall go slow. You will need your time, if you convince us at all.”

 

Ost-in-Edhil, the year 751 of the Second Age

… although I could ill-afford it with the building of my city progressing apace, I was given leave to abide in Lindórinand by virtue of the kinship Amdír and I share, distant thought it is. It is heartening to know that this old kinship is recognized and welcomed at least by him, despite our separation at the Fall of Doriath, for they are not all as welcoming. Oropher and Thranduil announced plans to remove north with all that would follow them; they prefer to continue their isolationism rather than see reason and intend to weather the storm on their own rather than to rely on the west. They purpose to remove beyond the Anduin and settle at Amon Lanc outside what they now believe the sphere of my influence.

Would that it were so, Ereinion! The Nandor of Lindórinand mistrust me still. I have planted saplings that sprouted from the seeds you gave me with the people, and that seems to have softened the ice upon some hearts, but it has not thawed it yet. The leader of that rebellion, if such is the word I ought to use, is a woman of the name of Nimrodel, and she, I think, perceives that there are more interests to my visit than I revealed to her and her followers. I could convince her that I bear care rather than ill will to her land and her people, but she believes that love to be self-serving and arrogant rather than innocent, and in that she perceives all too truly, and all too truly is the Enemy already revealed. To divide us before the strike comes was ever his way. Whichever servant it is has learned well from the path of his Master we must prepare for his threat to become revealed soon now...

 

The Cerin of Lindórinand, the year 1001 of the Second Age

The grass lay dim in the dusk, but out of it small golden blooms of elanor emerged like stars, the winter flowers of Lindórinand. Beven they paled under the fall of golden leaves that carpeted the floor of the mound in a wide margin. Winter had been harsh west of the mountains, with treacherous snows coming until late in the season, but Lindórinand seemed near-untouched by frost, and the golden clusters of the mallorn blossoms rained golden dust like a fine mist from above.

Had she not had an errand that demanded all her attention, Galadriel might have wandered in the forest at ease and to her heart’s content, but the shadow had revealed itself at last, and taken shape again to the south-east, a dark tower growing skyward as sure as the mallorn trees did in Lórinand, as some tongues had come to call it for love of the trees. Already the land was changing, subtly but surely.

It was a bitter victory.

The day-songs of the valley had grown quiet under nightfall when she descended the ladder from the talan that Amroth had had built in the crown of the tallest mallorn. The windows were still lit golden from above and cast dancing shadows to the ground. She had not expected Nimrodel to stand waiting for her. They had met briefly by the northern borders on the banks of the river that had come to bear Nimrodel’s name, and she had acknowledged Galadriel’s presence with a solemn gesture granting her passage over the new-built bridge.

“I knew that you would come,” Nimrodel said to her, gravely and quietly, her tongue slipping over the syllables of Silvan. “The river told me before we met, and if what you say is true then I must soon show you her power. She shows many things, in her music.”

“There is an echo of the Great Music in all waters, and perhaps in your river more than in others,” she added. “But I had not expected you to relent,” Galadriel said, bowing with a hand upon her heart. “Not after our first meeting, not after you and your maidens remained so… obstinate.”

Nimrodel laughed softly. The sound of it was not glad, but grim and determined.

“Your tongue has lost some of its gold, lady,” she responded. “But I see that you spoke the truth at our first meeting and are now weary of it, and in turn I will forgive you that insult. I do not relent, although I may repent, a little.”

Nimrodel moved to sit in one of the specks of light that fell from above, and caressed the grass beside her, catching an elanor bloom between her fingers and letting it bob softly in wake of her touch.

“My people - whom you met at your first coming - remained at the borders to the south and east, far from their homes, guarding the land from their new telain set into the trees you brought. Mithrellas and some others would not part with me, but she is the only one I permitted to stay. They have taken arms to safeguard Lindórinand, should it be needed, as you thought and as you warned, should anything come over the rivers.”

“I am grateful,” Galadriel said, moving to sit beside Nimrodel.

“I am not. I still hold true what I thought before - the West-Elves bring unrest, they bring war and disrupt our lives and peace of old, but some may be the harbingers of doom rather than the makers of it. The world outside our lit window does indeed grow dark, but it makes the light in the window all the dearer to those that dwell within.” She gestured about her. The edge of the light from above stood out sharply in the dusk, and outside it seemed nearly have darkened into night, although no stars had yet come out in the pale evening sky above the trees, and the songs at the rising of Gil-Estel had not yet been sung.

“Indeed,” Galadriel said softly. “My people call this the Long Defeat of Arda Marred, but with it at least… comes a love that I would have found scarcely possible when I was young. If I were given the means to stem that tide… ”

Nimrodel shook her head. “The temptation is plain, if your love is born out of grief… although I will not pretend to understand what I have not experienced and pray I never will. But I will oppose evil after my own way and measure, and you should let the Lindi or Lórinand do the same. Have that trust in us if you truly would make the forest a bulwark of unity as you professed - or those that departed north have understood you and your doing more clearly than I have, that there is no holding on to our life as it was unless we were to give up the land of our birth and depart.”

“You have strong allies. I spoke to Amdír and his wife before you came, and I bore messages from Lindon, the land of your people by the sea, and from Khazad-dûm where the King stands as a staunch ally to the forest. Should you have need, call upon them. Sefa and Gil-galad will send their aid.”

She smiled sadly to see Nimrodel shake her head and push her hair back in a long-familiar gesture. “You ask much.”

“No - trust must be given both ways. There may come a time when it is needed with little question. We must be strong in our arms and strong in ourselves to withstand the Dark Tower. It is worth the fight if it allows some few to yet find joy.”

Nimrodel rose, and extending a hand to Galadriel waited for her to follow. The light from above caught in an angle in the crystal still bound on her brows, and for a moment she stood as a young tree with a star caught in its golden boughs, rather than the careworn mirror of herself Galadriel had thought Nimrodel might become.

“Perhaps if Lindórinand is secure now, the Enemy will turn his eyes to where he hopes to gain more than from us - to your city of jewels, perhaps. But should you have need of us, then you are welcome within this refuge you helped make the land, while you understand that it is not yours to own, perhaps merely to keep and guide for a little while.”

Galadriel smiled, and rose. “I shall remember that, if such a time comes.”

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Chapter End Notes

I tried to work with the Nandorin names and terms that the people of Lórien would have used, but as the corpus is fairly small, I decided to stick with the terms that were used in the books.

The Cerin was the only alteration I consciously made. It obviously references Cerin Amroth, but the Unfinished Tales hint strongly that it was named that way out of his love to Nimrodel, and since that romance has not yet begun in this story, I went for a more neutral term.

Nen Cenedril: The Sindarin word for the Mirrormere.

Goldael: Noldo-woman. Lindi:

The Singers, the name the Nandor took for themselves.

Finally but definitely not least, many thanks to Elvie for jumping in with the beta!