Tolkien Fan Fiction
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| Saving Galadriel |
Result of a scene in the 3rd Hobbit movie, in which the Wise confront the Nazgul and Sauron makes his presence known in Dol Guldur, with an alarming effect on the Lady of the Golden Wood. Can be read as a sequel to "Needles, Yarn & Thread" or as a stand-alone. |
| Elrond sighed. He had brought Galadriel, his mother-in-love, colleague, and friend, back to her husband and folk in Lothlórien from Dol Guldur three weeks before, as bidden by Saruman the White, and now she sat listlessly wherever she was placed. Her colour was good, but her eyes were…empty. Celeborn, husband, father-in-law, consort of the Lady of the Golden Wood, sighed as well. “There is no improvement.” “It is still possible,” he said desperately. “I thank you, husband of my daughter,” Celeborn touched his shoulder. “At least you brought her back to us. But this…merely existing…caring not whether she eats or goes hungry, sits or stands or walks under starlight or sun…is a living death. Mayhap we should send her on the Straight Path; mayhap there could be healing for her in Tol Eressëa.” “Not yet!” The Master of Imladris protested. “My lord, there are reasons not to do so!” “And what are they?” “I would not have you yearn for her as I have for my Celebrian for almost three thousand years!” he burst out. “The effect upon you—you have no idea!” “I would hope to bear up as well as you have done,” he said with dignity. “Your pardon, Elrond; I am going to walk under the stars and think.” As the silver-haired Telarian-Sindar headed to the stairway leading to the ground below his flet. “My heart tells me that we will need her before the Enemy can be felled!” Elrond blurted. Celeborn barely paused, did not look back. Elrond whirled as a soft, familiar voice said behind him, “As does mine, Father.” “Arwen? I thought you were in Imladris!” His daughter, sable-haired as he, came from the inner doorway leading to the chamber where Galadriel’s maidens attended her. “Elladan and Elrohir escorted me. I sensed that Grandmother would need me.” “She needs us all, but none of us can reach her. She will not know you.” Elrond accepted Arwen’s embrace, clasping her slender shoulders gently. “I know. I already tried. Is it an illness?” “I’m accounted the greatest Healer in Middle-Earth,” he said sadly, “but this is no fever, she had no physical blow to the head, and I can discern no magical curse to combat. She is…simply…not within her hrȍa. But I know with certainty that if her fëa is not firmly rooted within her, she will wither and die. Not even Saruman, Gandalf, and Radagast together could help. Celeborn, whom she has loved the longest, cannot reach her. Could your brothers?” He felt the movement of her head against his shoulder in negation. “No. Not separately, nor together.” “Then it is a matter of time only.” “I cannot believe that! I will not believe it!” He put a hand against her cheek so that she had to look at him. “You are young, my daughter, but old enough to know that some things cannot be prevented. I fear this is one.” Her eyes welled with tears, but then she shook her head. “Father, I just thought of something. Lady Gilwen gave me a gift for her, ere I left. You know that her mother Iorwen is accounted one of the Seers of the Dúnedain. Gilwen told me that she herself is not, but at times she has flashes of Foresight. That is why she sought me out before we departed. ‘Give the Lady this small gift, I pray you. What words you must say will come to you.,’ she said. I promised her I would, with your permission.” Elrond’s slanted brows rose in surprise. “That is most unlike her! She’s never even met your grandmother!” “But she has! When Grandmother was last at Imladris, meeting with you, Saruman, and Mithrandir, afterwards she went into the small garden, just as Estel finished a task and was free to go play. The two spent more than an hour together, and she gave Grandmother some instruction and a gift ere Grandmother departed.” “What sort of gift?” “Similar to this.” From her belt-pouch, Arwen took six items. Her father said incredulously, “A skein of yarn and six sticks? What in Middle-earth is she thinking?” “She spun and plied this yarn in the colors of Rivendell’s streams and meadows. Sometimes homely objects can bring a wanderer home, so she said,” Arwen told him. “Please, Father! What harm can it do? Besides, I promised.” “Only more disappointment. Lady Gilwen asks little of us. It is kindly meant, if of no use. Very well.” “Thank you, Father. I know this is right.” Arwen whirled, hurrying towards the inner door. Alone, Elrond sat slowly. There had been a note in her voice that made him wonder. Would she have defied him, had he said no? Inside, Arwen asked the four ladies-in-waiting to depart for a little, suggesting that they seek some refreshment. “I shall call if I need you. She will not be alone.” Bending their heads in respect, they withdrew, passing Elrond with that same grave inclination to sit apart from him. Arwen sat beside her grandmother, who was seated on a low cushioned bench, hands upturned and empty in her lap. “Grandmother, ‘tis I, Arwen. I’ve brought you a gift from Lady Gilwen of the Dúnedain, mother of the little boy you saw at our home, my foster-brother Estel. Lady Gilwen begs you will remember the time you spent with her in the small garden last spring. She taught you to do a Mannish craft called knitting, and sends you the wool that she spun and dyed especially for you, and a new set of needles, that you can make something. Will you not try?” There was no response, no indication that Galadriel had even heard. “Let me help you begin.” Arwen, hands over her grandmother’s, caused the slender fingers to make a loop in one end of the blue strand of yarn, then put one of the double-ended wooden needles in Galadriel’s hand, slipping the loop over one end of the needle. “Now you need to put the other needle in it, this way, and loop the yarn over, sliding the second needle out, to make a stitch. Now you’ve cast on one. You need to repeat, and again, and again. Now we take up the third needle, and you cast four stitches onto it, and so with the fourth and fifth needle, and around and around. Will you not make the first of a pair of stockings, hose for a baby, for the babe I may one day have?” Elrond had heard every word. Shaking his head, loath to see her disappointment, still he found himself moving to the door. To his astonishment, he saw that as they began the next round, Arwen was taking her hands away, and Galdariel was knitting on her own! By the time she had made a tube a couple of inches long, something stirred in her eyes. Arwen had been murmuring encouragement. “Now you need to cast off—aye, you remember, just this way. See the tail of the loop you began with? If we gently pull on it, and make one more stitch, this way, it comes together in a toe. You’ve made a stocking, Grandmother!” Galadriel frowned, her hands refusing to give up the last needle. “Give her the yarn and needles,” Elrond said softly. As they watched, she slowly but unerringly cast on the stitches and began to knit. Elrond strode to the door of the outer chamber, where the ellith sat quietly eating and drinking. “Which of you is the fleetest of foot?” he asked. “She is,” three voices indicated the fourth, who rose. “You wish an errand performed, my lord?” “Niphredil, hasten as fast as you can to Lord Celeborn. Tell him that we know how to help the Lady, thanks to a gift brought by my daughter. Say that even as I speak, she improves!” “At once!” she cried, and swiftly descended. It was no miracle, but all agreed that that was the beginning of her road back from whatever terrible place to which her fëa had driven from her body by Sauron. If she had nightmares of it in succeeding years, she never spoke of it to any of the House of Elrond. Elrond mused upon the power that such a simple task had. Mayhap it was the repetitive motion augmenting memories of love and kinship…and hope. Mayhap it was the good wishes of a good woman who had made enormous sacrifices for the world. Mayhap it was a combination of those or something other that he would never know. But the result was the determined finding of one of the Wise, and a defeat for the Evil hiding in the East. Many years later, on a Midsummer’s Day shortly before Arwen would descend to the Court of the White Tree in Minas Tirith to wed her beloved Aragorn, her grandmother came to her. “I have something for you, dear one,” Galadriel said, handing her a small bundle. Carefully, Arwen unfolded a soft, fleecy yellow cloth made of impossibly small stitches. Within was a shimmering white garment threaded and embroidered at sleeve, neck and hem with blue-green and silver, and two tiny stockings in blue-green. Startled, she looked up at Galadriel. The Lady of the Wood was smiling. “I did not forget, and kept them. Whenever I despaired, I worked upon the yarn, the design, and this robe for your and Estel’s son to wear on his naming-day. Someday, tell him the tale, and that they are a gift from both his grandmothers. And when you are lonely, or sad, Arwen, take up the needles and yarn. These were made with prayers to Eru and the Valar, and our good wishes. You will be a good wife and mother, and queen. Gilwen was such, although she never sat a throne. In the Halls of Nando, surely she rejoices this day for you both, as I do.” In a warm embrace, Arwen felt the lightness of her grandmother’s bones beneath her silken gown, and blessed the kindness that had begun a task finally ended—and beginning. |
hrȍa -- the body fëa -- the spirit ellith -- elf maidens. Singular is elleth. This story is dedicated to my needlewomen forbears, especially my grandmother, who began teaching me embroidery stitches when I was 4 years old, despite Granny's blindness, and later my mother. |