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Two more drabbles for Scarlet and Silver
19. door - 245
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.
Gaze no more in the bitter glass
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‘Must you?’ he asks as she fills the basin.
‘I need to see things that only the mirror can show.’
‘Then let me come with you.’
‘You?’ It comes out as a gasp.
He tilts his head a little, smiling at her archly. ‘I.’
‘It may show you untruths, things long past, things that have yet to pass and may never happen…’
‘Then it will be no different to what I have seen before in my life.’ His eyes are bright with daring. ‘Come, now. At the worst I will see no more than the reflected moon.’
Oh, that is not the worst he might see – and yet, she is curious. ‘Very well. Do not touch the water.’
‘Aye, lady,’ he says softly, and they bend to look into the mirror.
Some time later, when she has seen all there is to see, she looks up to find him watching her silently. He is like the moon in her mirror, with not a breath of colour in his face.
‘What did you see?’
‘Doors. A thousand doors, and more, each opening into darkness. I saw you walk through one and come out another, again and again, but I would not pass through.’
‘Would you not?’
‘No.’
‘For fear of the monsters inside?’ she says playfully.
‘For fear of never returning,’ he replies, his face grave, and strides quickly away before she can say that this time, at least, she saw nothing but the moon’s reflection.
20. cup - 414
‘Sí man i yulma nin equantuva?’*
‘Since I have had that honour at least three times this evening, I may as well do it again.’ Celeborn grasped the bottle and leaned towards her, pouring a thin stream of golden liquid into the cup.
‘Have a care, you’re spilling it!’
‘An inevitable consequence when the hand that holds the cup shakes so.’
‘Nonsense. My hand is as steady as the ground beneath our feet–’
‘That’s rather a moot point, dear. We’re sitting in a tree.’
‘–I think it rather the fault of the hand that pours the wine, which now trembles like leaves in a spring wind.’
‘In any case, the bottle is now empty.’ Celeborn tucked it between two branches for safekeeping. Galadriel sipped slowly, cautious now that her supply was limited.
‘Ah, most potent. And the taste! Like apple-blossom and honey, with oak and water from a mountain stream for good measure.’ She smiled at Elrond. ‘If you always keep such ambrosia in your house, then we must visit more often.’
‘Alas, I cannot claim this as my own invention.’ Her son-in-law performed a mock bow. ‘The keeper and custodian of so fine a brew is rather your northern neighbour.’
‘Then we must come to stand on better terms with him, mustn’t we, dear?’
‘Although it pains me to say it, dearest, I am not confident that Thranduil will heal the rift between Lothlórien and Eryn Galen purely for the sake of wine appreciation.’
‘On the contrary, that would be perhaps the only thing to convince him of the wisdom of such an act!’
'Mother!' Celebrían held her cup a safe distance away from her dress lest her giggling caused it to overflow. 'Really, Mother, you are quite gregarious when drunk!'
‘I am always gregarious, dear, and I am not drunk. I feel perfectly fine, and I rather think that now would be an excellent time to begin writing that letter to Thranduil…’
‘But there’s no paper in the tree, Mother.’
‘Then I shall rely on you to recite this for me when I do acquire some. Let us begin: Dear Thrandruil, I have discovered that you are in possession of the finest wine beneath the sun, and feel it terribly important that we heal our differences and have a wonderful feast to celebrate the happy occasion–’
‘Galadriel!’ three voices chorused.
‘No? Well, I shall certainly extend my hospitality to his folk when next they come to Lothlórien…’
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*Quenya: 'Who now shall refill the cup for me?'