202Chapter One: Unwelcome Tidings
Spring, 3015 (Third Age)
Soft rain pattered through the canopy, dripping from the boughs of the mellyrn and the carved arches that formed the chamber's walls. The early-spring air was damp and fresh, and Cadhríen breathed it in slowly, trying to quash her unease.
To an observer, the scene in the chamber would no doubt seem peaceful – four Elf-maids arranged on cushioned benches: two sewing, one singing in a low murmur, one gazing out at the trunks of the mellyrn, grey like ghosts in the night. But Cadhríen could feel the tension in the room; could see her Lady's fingertips, white as her white gown, pressed against her knuckles as she clasped her hands in her lap and stared into the lamp-lit wood. Across the chamber, Mîreth's voice grew quieter, then petered out before the song's last note. It did not look like Galadriel, Lady of the Golden Wood, had been listening, anyway; her eyes were distant, her mind elsewhere.
Chestnut-haired Gilrendel sighed and lowered her sewing, catching Cadhríen's eye as Mîreth's lower lip trembled. The youngest of Galadriel's ladies-in-waiting, Mîreth had taken the news of the latest sighting near the northern borders the hardest. Two dozen Orcs, the marchwardens had said, heading south from Dimrill Dale to who-knew-where. Haldir and Maeron had left to pursue them, but that had been several days ago, and they had heard nothing since.
"My lady?" Gilrendel ventured, soft and low. Galadriel did not reply.
Then Cadhríen heard a familiar voice inside her head, deep and melodic: Go to the house-guards. Perhaps they have news.
She doubted it – Celeborn was in the throneroom and would have come straight here had he received a report – but she put down her sewing and rose immediately, striding out of the chamber with the other maids' eyes on her back. It was her turn to play errand-runner today, it seemed. Nimwen, Galadriel's favourite and longest-serving companion, was nowhere to be seen, off somewhere on household business.
It was late; the stairways and cloistered halls of the house stood silent and empty. Halfway to the throneroom, where a ladder led down to the lawn on which guards were stationed day and night, she almost ran straight into Nimwen, who appeared suddenly from around a corner, breathless and bright-eyed.
"Haldir has returned," the older maiden said, grabbing Cadhríen's elbow to steady herself. "You go down – I will fetch the Lady. They are in the throneroom."
And she was off, quick feet hurrying down the hall, golden hair disappearing into darkness.
Cadhríen stood for a moment, trying to detect her Lady's questioning mind. If Galadriel reached out to her now, she would know immediately what had happened. But the link had been closed, and Cadhríen couldn't bridge it herself. No matter. She started towards the throneroom, passing a few Elves not yet abed, ignoring their enquiring glances. Relief bloomed in her chest. She knew Haldir could take care of himself, but that didn't stop her trepidation every time her closest friend ventured beyond the safety of their borders. These were dark times, growing darker by the day, and it was only a year since they had lost Amarthain.
The throneroom was lit with yellow lamps, the shadows of the pillars and arches criss-crossing the wooden floor. Celeborn sat in his chair beneath the bole of the great mallorn, clad in a silver nightgown, his face grave. Haldir and Maeron stood before him, but they turned at the sound of Cadhríen's footsteps and pressed their palms to their chests in greeting. She hurried over to them, taking Haldir's lowered hand in hers. "You return. What news? Did the creatures enter the wood?"
"No," Haldir replied, squeezing her hand gently before turning his grey eyes on Celeborn. "None have trespassed beneath our boughs – yet. But it is only a matter of time. They grow bolder, and more numerous."
"They are breeding in the Mines," came a voice from the doorway. Galadriel entered and strode over to her husband, placing a pale hand on his arm. "I have seen it." Behind her, Gilrendel, Mîreth and Nimwen sidled in and stood silent.
"But where are they bound?" Celeborn replied. "Not Dol Guldur, if they were heading south."
Haldir and Maeron exchanged glances, their expressions strained. "We tracked them for many leagues," said Maeron, his copper hair glinting in the golden lamplight. "They crossed the Nimrodel and hugged the mountains, then entered Fangorn."
Cadhríen's eyes widened, as did her fellow maids'. "Defilers," she muttered before she could stop herself, but by the look on Celeborn's face, he agreed. Galadriel remained impassive.
"We think they knew we were tracking them, as they split up under the trees, and we knew not who to follow. But their trajectory was south-west. They were heading for the Gap of Rohan."
The word hung unspoken between them, heavy and foreboding in the shadowed chamber: Isengard. They still had no proof that the bands of Orcs spotted with increasing frequency in recent years had anything to do with the White Wizard. But from what Cadhríen had gleaned from whispered rumours and clipped comments, it seemed Saruman had withdrawn and grown secretive, and it had become difficult to pass through the Gap of Rohan without being watched.
"They could have been making for the Fords," Haldir said. "Perhaps they would have turned west, had we tracked them further." But he looked unconvinced, and Galadriel's expression grew faintly troubled.
The Lady's blue eyes darted among them all. "I would speak with you, husband, and with Haldir… and Cadhríen, if you would stay a moment."
The other maidens glanced at each other and headed for the door, throwing questioning looks over their shoulders at Cadhríen. She lifted her own shoulders lightly in return, saying with her eyes: I don't know what this is about, either. Maeron touched his hand to his heart, tipped his head and followed the maidens out, catching up to Nimwen as they disappeared into the shadowy hallway, muttering something in her ear.
When it was just the four of them left, Galadriel stepped over to her chair and sat down.
"Orcs breeding in the Mines," she said slowly. "Bands of them travelling south, north, east… Wolves howling on our borders. Rumours of dark things under Mirkwood's eaves. And something darker still in Mordor… a growing shadow."
Cadhríen frowned uneasily, catching Haldir's eye.
"I feel surrounded on all sides," Galadriel continued, her expression weary now. She fingered the ring on her left hand, turning it over and over. "I must speak with Mithrandir, but I cannot leave the wood. Lothlórien needs my protection."
Haldir shifted slightly. "My scouts have seen the Grey Pilgrim," he said. "He was far north of here, accompanied by the Ranger Aragorn. They would not stop. They were travelling east on business unknown."
Galadriel was silent a moment, her gaze distant. "In times past, I would have convened with the White Council. But I fear that to contact Saruman now would be… unwise." A small frown creased her ivory brow.
"Have you seen him?" Celeborn asked, and Cadhríen knew immediately what he meant; knew he was referring to the Mirror.
"No." Galadriel turned her head and stared out at the silent mellyrn, their branches dripping in the rain. "I think he has closed himself off from me. I do not know how." She drew in a breath and let it out in a long, soft sigh. "But I have seen clearly the evil that is growing in Dol Guldur. I have seen the threat it poses to us – greater, for now, than all the rest – and to Thranduil and his people." She looked back at her husband. "I have considered long and hard, Celeborn, and I think we need to contact them. The Wood-elves. Not to warn them – I am certain they are aware of what festers there – but to offer aid, and request it in return. We cannot face this growing shadow alone. Only together would we have the numbers to withstand multiple assaults. To throw down the tower."
Cadhríen could not help but interject. "The Wood-elves of Mirkwood? But we have had no dealings with their kind for thousands of years." Since well before most of us were born, she wanted to add.
"Yes, they are sundered from us," Galadriel replied, turning her fathomless gaze on Cadhríen, "and they have grown insular and suspicious. But they still trade with the Men of the Long Lake, and they are numerous. To have them fight by our side in the event of attack would be… advantageous."
Celeborn was nodding, but Haldir looked dubious. "My lady, forgive me, but the Galadhrim are formidable warriors. What force could threaten us here? What aid could the northern Elves give us – we who know our woods so well, who have routed band after band of Orcs with practised ease?"
"Your confidence in our defences is admirable," said Galadriel, her voice serene, "but have you forgotten Amarthain?"
The chamber grew silent. Cadhríen remembered Maeron's auburn-haired brother – his easy smile – with a painful twist of her insides. Haldir lowered his chin and dropped his gaze to the floor in deference.
"I will go to Thranduil," Celeborn said, breaking the solemn stillness. "I will persuade him." He glanced at his wife, at the ring gleaming on her hand. "You must stay here, for the protection of the city, but I will take a small company with me."
"A company that must include Haldir – and Cadhríen," Galadriel replied.
Cadhríen's stomach lurched. "Me?" No. No. She had not left the wood in centuries; not since the end of the Watchful Peace, when the Necromancer had returned to Dol Guldur. She was needed here.
"Yes, for Haldir has taught you Westron and Dwarvish, and the northern dialects, and he is the only marchwarden I am willing to spare for this journey, in these dark times."
"How did you –" Cadhríen started, then bit her tongue. The Lady of the Wood knew many things, and it was no one's place to question how she knew them. Cadhríen's cheeks grew hot as she realised how close she had come to such rudeness.
If Galadriel minded, she did not show it. In fact, she looked a little amused. "I urge you to seek out Mithrandir on your journey," she said, with a long look at both of them. "Tell him of our troubles, and ask him to visit me here. I wish to hear his news."
"Of course," Haldir said, shooting Cadhríen an inscrutable glance. Cadhríen chewed her lip in frustration.
"I will leave you to choose the rest of the company," Galadriel said to Celeborn, then she rose from her chair. "Now I must retire. I wish you all a peaceful night's rest."
"Good night, my lady," Haldir murmured in farewell, and Cadhríen echoed him, her voice strained. She could hardly believe what she had heard. Her? Go to Mirkwood? It was madness. Her place was here, at her Lady's side. She was a lady-in-waiting, not some glorified messenger to be sent out into the wilds. She clenched her fists and tried to calm her churning insides. Galadriel had seemed so unconcerned, so ready to give her up for who-knew-how-long. She knew deep down why that hurt, but she pushed the knowledge away.
She would have to leave behind the comforts of the Lady's house for lembas and lumpy bedrolls, and that was just the journey! She had heard tales of the northern Elves' uncivilised ways. Rúmil had told her they lived underground, but that could hardly be possible…
"Go, rest now," came Celeborn's voice, filtering through the rushing in her ears. "We will convene on the morrow. I will send a rider to the Elvenking's Halls, to warn Thranduil of our coming."
Cadhríen felt Haldir take her elbow, and she let him steer her from the room. Once they were in a distant stairwell, out of earshot of the Lord of the Wood, she pulled her arm from his grip and rounded on him. "Can you believe this?"
The marchwarden grimaced. "I am not too pleased about it, either."
"Why did you have to teach me Westron?"
His brow quirked. "You insisted. You said you had read everything in Elvish in Celeborn's library and wanted to be able to read the rest."
"Can't you unteach me?" she said, wringing her hands.
That drew a smile from him – a rare occurrence these days. "It won't be that bad, I promise. And you shall have me for company." He tipped his head, looking into her eyes.
Cadhríen sighed and leaned back against the cool, carved wall of the stairwell. "How long do you think we have?"
"Until we leave?" he said. There was a pause. "I imagine we will depart within the week."
Her resulting groan had probably been heard three hallways away.
"Come," Haldir said, and he took her arm again. "Let us tell the others."
Note: I hope you enjoy this little side project I'm working on around my original fiction! Will be very much slow burn. Please be aware that I may up the rating later.
