A Night at the Forsaken Inn - 6

“Come with me, my Lady.”

Elrond might have dismissed Mithrandir’s words as the product of a moment of weakness, the result of being tormented by the Eye and caged by Orcs. But, Galadriel had known from the long look Elrond had given her that there was no dismissing the turmoil in her own face as she tore her hand out of the injured Wizard’s grasp and signaled for Radagast to take him away on his rabbit sled from Dol Guldur.

But, there had been no time for anything but the Nine, and then the Eye Itself.  When Galadriel had finally collapsed victorious but near death, the Ring Nenya all but spent in power, Elrond had scooped her up and spirited her away to Lothlorien – to Celeborn, who took her in his waiting arms. Galadriel could barely keep her eyes open, but she saw and heard enough – the curt summary of the battle Elrond gave to her husband, and the quick taking of leave. Elrond knew. He knew that the Lady of Lothlorien, the mother of his beloved Celebrian, the only being in Middle Earth to have dueled the Eye and won, had a dirty secret.

As Galadriel was taken on a stretcher to her bower, she heard the faintest edge in Celeborn’s voice as he inquired of Elrond about Mithrandir’s condition, and wondered just how much of a secret it was. Suddenly, Celeborn’s word for his refusal of a seat on the White Council – “I am no Wizard” – carried a double edge.

Still, he remained in the months that followed the perfect caretaker, always at her side. The relief on his face as Galadriel regained her strength was genuine, and the hand that held hers was filled with love. But, when she spoke nothing of the battle, no question came forth.

Then, almost five years to the day that Galadriel had returned to Lothlorien, a summons came from Rivendell. The White Council was to convene at the next full moon. Galadriel glanced the briefest of glances toward Celeborn as the messenger read the scroll, but he sat like a rock on his throne, his gray eyes fixed on – nothing.

When Galadriel entered the moonlit Council chamber, Elrond and Radagast sat alone at the table. The Master of Rivendell rose to greet her, and his smile was as warm as summer. Relieved, Galadriel smiled in return, but as he took her hand and led her in, her white features darkened at the twisted oak staff lying unattended on the table in front of Radagast. The brown robed Wizard brushed his stringy gray hair out of his face and nodded at her unspoken question.

“He appeared at my door at Rhosgobel two winters ago. Said he was going East, to seek word of the two Blues. He said they would be needed.” Radagast scratched under his brown hat and casually wiped the bird filth from his fingers on his robe. His huge eyebrows furrowed. “Didn’t say what for.”

“He left his staff in Radagast’s keeping,” Elrond said, pulling out a chair for Galadriel before returning to his own seat.

“Why has no one spoken of this?” Galadriel asked. She looked at Radagast, not Elrond, and prayed he would not hear the quaver in her voice.

Elrond untied a scroll and rolled the brown parchment across the white marble tabletop. A map of Eriador unfurled before Galadriel. Elrond’s long finger stabbed at a spot along the East-West Road, beyond the Trollshaws.

“Strange lights have been seen in the towers of the old Dunedain city of Minas Eriol. The Lone Lands are becoming unpassable as Goblins breed unchecked in the Midgwater.”

“Strange lights?” Galadriel tried to focus on Elrond’s words, but her mind’s eye was roving East, into the lands beyond the Sea of Rhun. Nothing.

Where are you? she thought.

“We think that Mithrandir left his staff for a reason.” Elrond looked to Radagast, who nodded.

“Gandalf knew,” the Brown Wizard agreed.

“Knew what?” Galadriel cursed herself inwardly. She was sounding like a dunce.

“He said they’d be back, and sooner than we wished,” Radagast went on.

“Minas Eriol has been garrisoned by Goblins from the Midgewater,” Elrond said. “The Rangers are not what they were since Arathorn was slain, and Estel is still too young to take his place. One of us, one of the Council, must deal with this threat.”

Radagast picked up Gandalf’s staff and stood up. He shuffled over to Galadriel and dropped to one knee, holding up the staff to her. “He left it for you, Lady.”

The jagged quartz crystal at the top of Gandalf’s staff glimmered as Galadriel took the twisted oak in her trembling hands. “For me?” She looked sidelong at Elrond. “What of Curunir?”

“He hunts the Gladden Fields for news of the One,” Elrond said. Galadriel nodded at the disapproving edge in Elrond’s voice. “He says he cannot be spared.” Elrond’s eyes hardened. “It must be you.”

Galadriel turned the staff over in her hands. She thought of Celeborn brooding on his throne under atop the Mallorn tree, and suddenly she felt dirty holding onto it. She set it on the table and wiped her hands on her gown. “I’m not a warrior.”

Elrond and Radagast traded glances, then Radagast pushed the staff back toward Galadriel. She raised a thin golden eyebrow at him, but the wizened brown eyes peered back steadily through their haze of bird droppings.

“Minas Eriol cannot be made into another Minas Morgul.”

Galadriel looked over to Elrond. He stood up and walked over to the archway that looked out onto Rivendell Valley. The Council Chamber was silent for a moment, save for the sound of water rushing over the parapets below. Then, Elrond turned around.

“Lady, Minas Eriol has a new Captain. One of the Nine.”