Wildest Storms | Love of Royals: Book III

XIII: Mirror

You fear yourself.

Galadriel's words render me unable to sleep—not that many others around here are sleeping, either. The Lothlórien night watch is immense, the Fellowship seem too stung by grief, and I slip away before I can see whether my own companions are lulled into slumber by the Lothlórien choirs singing what I think, from my little knowledge of their dialect, is a lament for Mithrandir.

I wander up and down so many moonlit staircases that I lose almost all sense of my whereabouts, the haunting song seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. 

You fear yourself.

I shielded myself from a storm created by a White Wizard. A Maia. If anyone should be afraid, it certainly isn't me.

You fear yourself.

I stop in my tracks. The words replaying in my head haven't been thoughts. Galadriel is still trying to get to me, letting her words echo around my skull. I blink furiously, working up a wall of magic to force the words out. I realise I have stumbled across a clearing on one of the lower levels, deserted save for a solitary stone plinth with a silver basin sunk into the top, and I have absolutely no idea how I got here.

'Erainiel Thranduiliel.' 

I blink again. Galadriel has appeared at the edge of the clearing.

'Lady Galadriel,' I say, with little grip on my surprise.

'Why do you wander about my realm during these hours?'

Because I've had your voice in my head all day.

'And you have listened to it?'

My stomach flips. 'You heard that?'

Galadriel gives a knowing smile. 'Your magic is letting me in.'

'I assure you, I am not making it do that.' My gaze slides to the basin, hoping to fixate on anything but Galadriel's piercing stare. 'I'm out here because I had a few things to... contemplate.  But I thank you for your hospitality.'

Indeed, this place is the welcoming, flawless equivalent of the Woodland Realm.  Its atmosphere surpasses even that of Imladris, as I have continually felt as though my breaths are enrobed in moonlight and elanor blooms in my steps.  And all of this seems to emanate from the Lady stood before me, her magic continually examining mine.  After a moment, she glides closer to me, halting so that only the basin stands between us.

'You have your father's eyes,' she says, 'and his spirit... and you have the light and passion of your mother.  But I see in your heart, you are neither of them.' She notices me looking at the basin, where a little starlit water gleams. 'Will you look into the Mirror?'

'What will I see?'

She takes up an elegant silver jug, crosses over to the nearby stream, and gradually uses its clear water to fill the silver basin. 'Things that were... things that are... and some things... that have not yet come to pass. Are you ready to see that?'

'Yes.'

I lean forward, my head facing directly down over the water as the midnight breeze ruffles its calm surface into the first image it intends to show me.

Two guards I do not recognise are leaving the throne room of the Woodland Realm.  This was long before I was born, long before my mother Fell—as there is only one throne, the antler throne, sat forlornly in the centre of the cavernous chamber.  And only one ruler slumped back in it.  My father, seemingly younger than I've ever known him, yet looking pale and haggard, his cheeks hollow and his icy eyes wide and sunken.