Fic: Tolkien - A Dangerous Guide - General

[tanaquific]

Title: A Dangerous Guide
Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Words: 1295
Prompt: Written for femgenficathon #67 Those who are unhappy have no need for anything in this world but people capable of giving them their attention.—Simone Weil (1909-1943), French philosopher, mystic and social activist.
Summary: In returning to Middle-earth, Galadriel sought a realm to rule at her own will. In a land at war, she finds lords are measured by their skill with weapons. Yet there are more paths to power than simply the sword.
Author's Note: Thanks to elena_tiriel and scribblesinink for the beta.

oOo
Galadriel paced the grove, where the late afternoon sunlight flickered through the new-sprouted green that clothed the trees, trying to contain her annoyance. It seemed she should give thanks she was even allowed to attend the councils of her kinfolk, so that she might hear what was being said. But to speak? To voice aught beyond agreement with her cousins or brothers? She angrily pressed her lips together. That, apparently, presumed too far upon their patience.

One untested in battle, dear sister, could not understand how.... If you had only visited the march-lands awhile, my lady, it would be clear.... Until you speak to him as we do, who know him well, cousin, you cannot comprehend....

And never could she overcome such objections. For they would keep her always safely tucked away in the heart of one elven-realm or another. Even her proposal that they send her to the Hidden Kingdom—and where could be safer than inside the girdle of Melian?—as an ambassador for their kin had been dismissed with an amused shaking of heads. By all means, if she wished to visit Thingol's court and ply her needle alongside Melian and her ladies, they would give her an escort through the wild lands. Never let it be said that they did not appreciate the craft of their wives and daughters in providing comfort and beauty for returning warriors.

Craft! She halted in her pacing as another thought struck her. Aye, she could broider and weave and spin with skill. But was she not of the Noldor? Had she not studied also the shaping of the harvests of the deep places in the world, as well as the handling of the fruits of field and flock? Even under Mahtan himself, from time to time. She would surely gain the ears of her brothers or cousins if she could forge a mighty weapon or...?

She sank upon a mossy stone, pondering other paths to power. A memory came to her of a time before the forging of the jewels, when Fëanor had been more generous-handed, and shared lesser trinkets with his kin: amongst them, seeing stones that let them speak mind to mind, even from the northernmost tip to the southernmost cape of Aman. And even if no other was near a kindred stone, still the stones would show what passed in distant lands, or yield visions of what they had seen in times past, as the slow-running seasons waxed and waned in the Blessed Land.

What could her kin not do with such knowledge of distant places? To see the enemy's movements from afar, beyond where even the hardiest scouts might venture, would give advantage more than a company of skilled swordsmen. And could such a device be beyond the measure of her wit to devise?

Leaping from her seat, Galadriel hurried back towards her chambers, her quicksilver mind already conceiving how such a thing might be made, and what materials would best achieve her goals. Not crystal: that had been Fëanor's domain. But she had learned how water—as steam or ice or liquor—might, with no less power than any earth-mined jewel or elven-crafted gem, steal images from the light of the stars and from the Trees. Might she not have equal success with the radiance of the Trees' last fruits, given in their failing: the Moon and the Sun?

Long she laboured in the forging of vessels, in the working of words; discarding false attempts and learning from error, until it was simply a matter of strengthening, perfecting: the silver bowl, the silent incantation of command, the strength of spirit in the breath that must disturb the smooth surface.

At last there came a day when the trees in the grove were clad in gold and red, and had begun to shed their merry garments with each puff of wind. Galadriel settled herself before the basin, readying herself to take her search further than her careful earlier essays, which had reached no further than the limits of her brother's kingdom in the land between the rivers.

As the water stilled from her breath, she focused on her kin in the North.

In small, quick images, she saw first her uncle and cousin speaking in a mist-filled green hollow; next, one brother pacing the battlements of his fortress in the narrows of the pass; and, last, the two youngest in earnest debate, clad in mail, swords at their sides. Then came a jumble of visions: foul monsters pouring down scree-strewn slopes, all scuttling legs supporting monstrous bodies set with pale eyes lit with evil; her kin battling them, falling to claw and sting: Aegnor, writhing upon a fern-laid bed, as the creeping poison tried to claim him.

With a cry, she leapt to her feet, not caring that she overturned the bowl, and hurried to the healers' chambers.

oOo
She was giving final instructions to the messengers to ride hard when she heard Finrod call her name.

"Where send you riders at speed, sister?" Reaching her, he looked after the departing horsemen.

"North to our brothers." She clasped her hands together. "The foul creatures that mesh their webs in the vales between their land and Thingol's borders have come over the mountains and would despoil their homes. I sent counterpoison from our healers for the beasts' stings, though I fear...." She shuddered and lowered her voice. "I fear 'twill come too late for Aegnor."

"You have news of this?" Finrod stared at her amazed. "Why did the errand-riders not speak first of it to me?"

"There were no riders." Galadriel still gazed after the horsemen, now no more than distant specks. Her moment of triumph was robbed by the torment in her heart that they would come too late to be of use. "I have fashioned a device that sees what passes in distant parts. I thought it might be of service in your wars. But, alas! That I cannot also travel or send help with the speed of sight and thought...."

Finrod touched her arm gently. "Yet without such news, your aid would certain be too late. Come! Show me your device." He smiled at her. "So many talents you have, not least the sharing of my burdens of care, that I had forgot you are great in craft as well as love."

oOo
Aegnor looked a little pale but otherwise well when he greeted his brother and sister in the Great Hall of Nargothrond. Over a cup of wine, he spoke of battle amongst the pines and in the green valleys as their foes swept down upon them, and of deeds of valour and daring.

Turning to Galadriel, he dipped his head in salute. "Your gifts were most timely, sister. Many more of our people would have been lost, myself amongst them," he fingered his upper arm, which he still held a little stiffly, "without the cures you sent. Though how you had the foresight, I do not know. Your riders reached us scarce two days after the monsters' first assault."

"Nay." Galadriel frowned. "The fight was already fierce when I learned of it, and 'tis five days or more ride to your lands. Unless...."

Finrod leaned forward, his face ablaze with excitement. "Unless, sister, your craft is greater than you know? This Mirror of yours surely sees not only what is, but what will be. To know what the enemy will do before 'tis done...? Why, 'tis a mightier weapon than any sword or bow!"

Observing the look her brothers exchanged, Galadriel thought she needed no Mirror to see the future: her own place assured in council, standing tall amongst her kin, her words an oracle that would bring them victory....