By the morning, Orophin has gone—to warn the other Lothlórien elves of the wandering orcs, Haldir tells us as we prepare to leave. He also speaks of a strange, gangly creature that was skulking around beneath the Hobbits' talan during the night. A wave of guilt washes through me at this, as that description can only belong to the creature Gollum, who would not be here if it weren't for me.

We set out through the forest under a pale winter sun, guided by Haldir and Rúmil—not that Glorfindel seems to need guidance, as he walks confidently along the path while paying the both of them little attention. Most of us are quiet, save for a few groggy grumbles from the dwarf and a couple of the Hobbits. The dark-haired one by the name of Frodo doesn't complain; he merely gazes out through the trees as though utterly enraptured by them, and watches the babbling torrents of the Celebrant flow along beside us. The path we follow is pockmarked by the wide footprints of orcs, but no one comments on it, not even Merry or Pippin.

I begin to wonder if we will ever cross the Celebrant or if we will follow it for hours, but soon enough Haldir halts by the bank and gives a low whistle. On cue, another blond ellon appears from between the trees on the opposite bank. Haldir tosses a coil of grey rope across the river, and the other ellon catches it effortlessly and ties it to a tree.

'Celebrant is already a strong stream here, as you see,' Haldir says. 'It runs both swift and deep, and is very cold. We do not set foot in it so far north unless we must.'

The Limlight had been excruciatingly cold to cross, so I can only imagine how bad this one is.

'But in these days of watchfulness, we do not make bridges.  This is how we cross—follow me.' Haldir fastens his end of the rope to a tree beside him, then effortlessly demonstrates how one should walk across it to the opposite bank, and back again.  I can feel the hobbits and dwarf looking at him in bemused fear.

'I can walk this path,' Legolas says, before glancing sidelong at the shorter members of the Fellowship. 'But the others have not this skill. Must they swim?'

I fail to stifle my snort, earning myself glares from Legolas, Haldir, and Glorfindel. Haldir is still glaring as he explains how two more ropes will be fastened above the foot-rope for us to hold onto, tossing them to the ellon on the opposite bank without even needing to look. 

Once the bridge is secured, I slip to the front of the company with Telamír in tow, and cross swiftly without holding onto the two extra ropes. Tel does exactly the same—plus a wink at Haldir's friend, which he ignores. Alëaren is next, nudged on only by Legolas, and she politely holds the middle rope just to show Haldir that his efforts were not entirely wasted. Glorfindel waits at the back with Legolas and Aragorn. Any orcs who dare attack the company from the rear will be in for a nasty surprise. 

Gimli crosses with some degree of difficulty, his wide feet wobbling on the slender ropes. Merry and Frodo are both a little faster, though nothing impressive. Pippin crosses almost as fast as Alëaren, holding on with only one hand, which only makes the final hobbit look infinitely worse. Sam inches along the ropes with a movement I can describe only as a shuffle, excruciating to watch, his stubby fingers clutching until his knuckles turn white. Tel and I stifle laughter, and if looks could kill, Legolas would have sent both of us to our graves. The last to cross are the remaining ellons and Aragorn, the latter's fairly competent rope crossing put to shame by the assured grace of Glorfindel, Legolas, Haldir and Rúmil. 

The entertainment is not nearly over for us, apparently. As we pass deeper into the forest and over the hill of Cerin Amroth, we are among the select few who are not blindfolded. Haldir insists Gimli wears a blindfold; Aragorn tries to suggest all the Fellowship join the dwarf in his punishment, but Legolas is having none of it. Aragorn wins, and my brother begrudgingly dons a blindfold, but not before Glorfindel, Telamír and I have made it very clear how amusing this is to us. Only Alëaren seems to feel at all sorry for Legolas.

The blindfolds are removed once we reach what Haldir calls the 'heart of Elvendom on earth', in a rather unsubtle attempt to lord it over the Mirkwood elves around him. I would have likely formulated some kind of comeback, were it not for the evidence that he is, in fact, right.

Caras Galadhon is the name of the city we are faced with. In the dying daylight, the hill of emerald green peppered with elegant white towers and arches is nothing short of the crown jewel of the forest. The great river Anduin shines in a strip of silver below it, meandering southward through the trees like a jungle snake. Even with all its beauty, that is not what earns the city its title; no, Caras Galadhon is the heart of Elvendom because it is untouched by darkness, even more so than Imladris. My home kingdom can try all it likes to imitate this realm's ancient purity, but it will never succeed. 

Darkness has fallen by the time we reach the centre of Caras Galadhon, a towering network of staircases and platforms spiralling high into the trees, at the top of which sits an open palace of arches. Haldir lets the Fellowship climb all the way to the top, but halts the rest of us on the final staircase.

'Wait here,' he says firmly. 'Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel will see you separately to the Fellowship.' 

'Why?' I ask, 'our kinsman is in there.' 

'You have different quests. You will wait here,' he repeats.

I scowl at the back of Haldir's head as he stalks away down the path to his post. Rúmil remains closer to us, yet does not dare meet my eye again, or even glance in my direction.  Whether that is out of respect for Legolas or intimidation from Glorfindel, I do not know.

We linger awkwardly on the staircase for some time. For Alëaren, Telamír and I, the view does not bore us. The forest from higher up feels like the inside of a painting, too detailed and too perfect to be reality, a delicate white glow seeping from every crevice.  If I was told the elves of Lothlórien had learned to bottle moonlight, I would believe it.

This is not Glorfindel's first time here. If I had not known that, I would have been able to tell simply from the ease of his manner, the way he looks over the forest's heart as though he has somehow grown used to its beauty.  There is none of the wonder my friends and I possess, only that same smooth nonchalance the ellon has mastered over his strange life.  He leans against one of the poles supporting the row of arches, tipping his head back as though soaking up the glow, his skin and hair silvery in the cold starlight.  The sight of his elegant profile silhouetted against the glittering forest, the curve of his lips so sharply defined, is enough to cause me to scowl at Haldir again when he finally fetches us to ascend to the highest level.

The second we rise over the final step, I am struck with the closest thing to my mother's aura I have ever seen.  On a dais up ahead stands Galadriel, Lady of Light, whose staggering beauty and the power radiating from her put utterly to shame her husband Celeborn who stands beside her.  Her power is wide open to me now, calling out to my own like an ocean.  I feel, with just a glimpse into the well of her magic, that it is even more potent than my mother's and the rest of my companions.  This is undoubtedly the most powerful being with pure Elven blood I have ever met—even more than Glorfindel.  Not even a hint of Star or Maia magic in there.  Just a vast infinity of life and experience that manifest inside her as one of the strongest forces I have ever felt.

The only power that could surpass it might be my own.  If only I could know for certain.

Yet I knew long before we arrived that Galadriel possesses power that most elves could only dream of, and that most other people in Middle Earth find unsettling enough to weave into their nightmares. She has been called the Elf-witch, the tales of her magical abilities carved into legend—and yet she remains utterly silent and still while her husband addresses us.

'Welcome, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower. Welcome Telamír Fírion, Alëaren Legolasiel, and Erainiel Thranduiliel.' Celeborn takes a moment to survey us all, his gaze calculating. 'Four there are here, yet seven there were set out from Rivendell. Tell me, where are your companions, for I much desire to speak with Fírion Fínegelion.' 

Of course Celeborn knows Fírion. Everyone knows Fírion, somehow. Glorfindel looks almost offended that his old friend would choose to speak to Fírion over him.

'We were separated on the road,' says Glorfindel. 'A terrible storm.' 

'It was the White Wizard,' Galadriel says gravely. Hers is indeed the voice from yesterday—smooth and deep and rolling with wisdom, the sound of it sending chills skittering across my skin. 'You know of whom I speak, Glorfindel.'

The golden-haired ellon gives a solemn nod.

'You are most welcome to stay for a while in our realm,' Galadriel continues. 'I encourage you to rest, for all of you have much more to give before this is over.'

'We cannot stay, my Lady,' Alëaren says, 'we promised King Thranduil and Queen Elena we would return home as soon as possible, but... we have already become disastrously late.' 

'Your haste is commendable, Alëaren Legolasiel. But there is more to be done before you reach your home. Much more to be done before your journey's end. And, my friend, it is your journey, too.'

Glorfindel stiffens. Galadriel seems to notice, for she says to him softly, 'Do not shy away from what you are following. You have seen many wars... as have I. Do you not wish to be whole again?'

Glorfindel says nothing, bowing his head to the floor as though trying to avoid my eye contact—or Galadriel's, for her crushing gaze lingers on him long after she finishes addressing him directly.  A moment passes where she says nothing aloud, but I am certain Glorfindel's mind is filled with her words, words too dark or too precious for the rest of us to hear.

'Go now, and rest,' Galadriel finally says aloud. 'Rest with the knowledge that your quests are just as key to the fate of the world as that of the Fellowship. It is your fight as much as theirs. It is a fight in which we are all bound.'

We are just turning to walk away when Galadriel's voice sounds again—but this time, I hear it how I did while we were walking through the forest: inside my head.

The world needs you, Erainiel Thranduiliel.  The world needs what you will become.

I will my mind to transfer a thought back to her, down this invisible chain of magic she has forged between us.

Why are you telling me this?  What must I do?

You fear yourself. If you do not conquer this fear, our fight will be lost.

I give no response save for a hard, silent wall of magic.  I'm not afraid of my unexplained powers, merely stuck in the dark.  Though with the way things are going, that darkness may not last.

***