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Dreamflower's Mathoms I  by Dreamflower

(Written for LJ hobbit_ficathon's Lothlorien challenge)


Galadriel took the small box from her chest. It had been very nearly an age since a small brooch, a gift of her daughter, had resided in that box.

She carried it from her chamber, and went from the high flet, down, down, to the glade where the fountain played, where her Mirror was. The Sun had barely made her way over the horizon, and the morning was fair, as were all the mornings in the Golden Wood.

Last night, she had filled a crystal with the water of her fountain and the Light of Eärendil. This morning, in the glow of Anor’s dawn, she bent, and heedless of her white hands, she swept up the rich and fragrant loam, filling the small box. She stood, and brushed her hands off, and then held out her hand. Speaking softly in Quenyan, she placed her other hand on the trunk of the stately mallorn.

Her hand stung, as the small nut fell the great distance from branch to the palm of her hand. Smiling, she placed it in the box with the soil, and closed the lid. On silent feet she walked toward the glade where the members of the Fellowship were making ready to leave Lothlórien. She stopped where she would not be seen, and watched, and listened.

Frodo and Sam stood a little apart. Sam’s head was bent, his face sad. Frodo had laid a comforting arm on his friend’s shoulder. “I know that I’m meant to go on with you, Mr. Frodo, and I’d not do aught else, now I’m thinking clear in the light of day. But if the Lady’s Mirror *did* tell true, we’ll not know the Shire when we get home…”

“Oh, Sam,” said Frodo sorrowfully. “I don’t know what to tell you. She said that some things we saw might never come to pass; we will just have to trust that this was one of those things.”

Sam nodded sturdily. “You’re right Mr. Frodo. And it‘s not like we won‘t be doing more good for the Shire by going on…”

Galadriel smiled, though there were tears standing in her eyes. She ran her hand over the box, and traced the letter graven on its lid. “G,” she murmured, “for Galadriel, for Gamgee, for gardener, for gift, for grace, for good, for green, and for growing…”

This little box had a long journey to make.

And though the Three might fail, and Lothlórien fade, yet still all would not be gone nor the Golden Wood forgotten, when a lone mallorn made its home in the blessed Shire.

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