(Where Love Defies Fate, and Fate Begins to Watch)
The dream did not release them.
It settled.
Not as mist alone, but as a pressure—subtle, patient, aware. It pressed against thought, against memory, against the fragile illusion that waking and dreaming were separate domains.
This place was no longer merely a crossing.
It was a chamber.
A waiting place.
They stood together again, though no one could say how much time had passed since the last descent.
Gandalf stood with his staff grounded, not for balance, but as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the idea that he still belonged to a single world.
Galadriel's light no longer radiated freely. It had folded inward, restrained, like a star wrapped in mourning cloth.
Elrond's composure remained—because it always did—but his breathing betrayed him, shallow and measured, as though he were already bracing for a blow he could not yet see.
Saruman stood slightly apart, white robes unblemished, gaze keen and unblinking. He watched not with sorrow, but with calculation, as though the dream itself were a text waiting to be deciphered.
Bilbo lingered near Gandalf, small, fragile, profoundly out of place. His hand rested unconsciously over his chest, where the Ring lay hidden. It was quiet.
Too quiet.
The silence here did not feel empty.
It felt attentive.
Then—
A presence unfolded.
Not arriving.Not emerging.
Revealing itself.
Galadriel's breath broke.
Before her stood a woman she had not touched in centuries.
"Celebrían…"
The name left her lips as breath leaves a dying flame—thin, trembling, scarcely believed.
Celebrían stood whole.
Not as memory.Not as echo.Not as a vision softened by longing.
She stood present.
Her eyes were clear. Her face bore no mark of torment, no shadow of the suffering that had torn her from Middle-earth. Her hair fell like moonlit water over her shoulders. Her hands trembled—not from fear, but from the unbearable uncertainty of reunion.
Galadriel reached for her.
For a heartbeat, her fingers hovered—hesitant, as though afraid the act of touch itself might unravel the dream.
Then they embraced.
The sound Galadriel made was not a cry.
It was older than that.
It was the sound of a soul finally allowed to collapse.
She pressed her face into her daughter's hair, fingers digging in as if anchoring herself against loss made flesh. Celebrían clung back with equal desperation, her body shaking with silent sobs that carried centuries of absence.
No one spoke.
The dream allowed this.
As if even it understood that interruption would be sacrilege.
Elrond watched.
At first, he could not move.
The world narrowed until there was nothing but the sight of Galadriel holding the daughter he had lost—nothing but the unbearable truth that she stood there alive, and that he had learned to live without her.
Then his knees failed him.
He crossed the space between them not as lord, not as herald of ancient lines, but as a husband undone by hope.
When Celebrían turned and saw him, the restraint in her shattered.
"Elrond…"
He gathered her into his arms, trembling.
"I thought I had lost you forever."
"So did I," she whispered.
Their foreheads touched. Their breaths mingled. And for a fleeting moment, the dream felt merciful.
Even Saruman looked away.
Then—
The air deepened.
Not colder.Not darker.
More absolute.
Two figures revealed themselves within the chamber of mist—not stepping forward, not descending, but simply acknowledging that concealment was no longer required.
Varda stood first.
Starlight woven into form. Terrible and gentle in equal measure. Her presence bent the silence, sanctified it, made it heavy with judgment and memory.
Beside her stood Yavanna, crowned in living green, her sorrow blooming like winter flowers in her gaze.
The dream reacted.
Not with reverence.
With tension.
Gandalf bowed at once, staff lowered, head inclined.
"My Ladies."
Elrond followed. Galadriel did not bow—she could not, not while her arms still held her daughter—but the Valar did not rebuke her.
Even Saruman inclined his head, though his submission was measured, restrained.
Celebrían looked between them, awe and confusion mingling.
"The Valar…" Elrond breathed.
Varda's gaze lingered upon Celebrían last.
"You have been summoned into a place not shaped by Arda," she said."Nor governed by its Music."
Yavanna spoke softly, but her words carried the weight of roots breaking stone.
"A wound has opened between worlds. And through it… a life cries out."
Galadriel felt the Golden Seed pulse within her—though it was not with her body, but with her being.
"Her," Galadriel whispered.
Varda inclined her head.
"Yes. Tiriana."
The name struck the chamber like a bell rung too close to the ear.
Bilbo swallowed hard.
Gandalf's grip tightened on his staff.
Elrond felt Celebrían stiffen in his arms, though she did not yet understand why.
Varda lifted her hand.
"Show us what you have seen."
The dream did not resist.
It opened.
Sellia — Before the Fall
They stood above the city.
Not as intruders.
As witnesses.
Sellia shone.
Crystal towers caught violet light. Streets pulsed with quiet magic, not as spectacle, but as labor. Children ran between courtyards. Sorcerers moved with measured calm. Soldiers bore their arms without fear.
Life persisted.
At the city's heart walked Tiriana.
She moved not as tyrant, not as goddess, but as guardian.
Soldiers bowed—not in terror, but trust. Mages straightened at her passing, steadied by her presence. She listened. She remembered names. She paused beside the wounded, murmuring words that closed flesh and calmed pain.
Galadriel felt it then.
The weight.
"She carries them all," Galadriel whispered. "Every soul."
Yavanna's gaze softened with grief.
"And war has already begun to answer her kindness."
Beyond the walls, the land trembled.
Scarlet banners unfurled upon the horizon—like open wounds against the sky.
Armies gathered.
Some were twisted by rot. Others bore sigils of loyalty warped into obligation. Many wore Radahn's crest beside Tiriana's own—alliances forged in shared blood and shared victories.
Tiriana stood before them.
She did not shout.
She did not threaten.
"We hold," she said."We protect what breathes.""No glory. No pursuit. No mercy wasted on pride."
Her gaze swept across familiar faces.
"Return alive."
Hope moved through the ranks.
Thin. Defiant. Real.
The first clash echoed.
Steel met spell.
Blood touched earth.
Tiriana fought at the city's edge—holding lines together with will alone, dragging the wounded back from collapse, standing where the breach threatened to form.
Each death struck her.
Not as number.
As name.
As memory.
Galadriel pressed a hand to her chest.
"She feels them," she said.
A presence stirred beside them.
Fire bloomed.
Not destructive flame—but restrained, ancient being.
A pillar of living fire stood among them.
Galadriel recoiled.
"Mairon…"
The fire answered, voice controlled.
"I did not summon myself here."
Saruman's eyes gleamed.
"Sauron."
Varda raised her hand.
"Why do you persist in this place?"
The fire wavered—not in fear, but acknowledgment.
"This dream binds us equally," he said."No dominion. No power. Only witness."
Below them, Tiriana staggered—not from wound, but weight.
She reached for Radahn across the field.
And for the first time—
She hesitated.
Not because she lacked strength.
Because she loved him.
And the dream held them there, suspended in that hesitation.
Not yet the fall.
But the first failure of resolve.
The moment protection begins to erode.
And fate—silent, patient, inexorable—leaned closer.