“Narmeleth! Well indeed do I remember her,” Seregrían says. “I knew her during the time I dwelt in Eregion before its fall. She was the Forge-maid, one of the Mirdain, but she fell into shadow herself and became Amarthiel!”
“Indeed so,” Galadriel says gravely. “But tidings have reached us here of great deeds in the North. Think you, Seregrían, that you were the only one that Elrond dispatched to fight the Shadow? Others took up labors against the Enemy, not just with wisdoms and powers of mind and hand, but with strong arm and bright steel, and by these was Angmar overthrown once more. The two lords of Angmar, Mordirith the False King, and Amarthiel his champion, have both been brought to ruin – but their fall sheds light upon our counsels.
“Mordirith, who was in life Earnur the last King of Gondor, was taken and corrupted by the Witch-King and made into a lesser wraith under his will. When he was thrown down, Mordirith’s spirit passed into the Void, and is no more; death released him at last.
“But Amarthiel! She and Mordirith betrayed and fought each other for control of Angmar, and especially a lesser Ring that Narmeleth herself crafted. In the course of that betrayal, Amarthiel was purged, and Narmeleth restored – though at a grave cost. For she recalled all the deeds of Amarthiel done by her hand, and the weight of remorse was almost too great for her to endure. But her knowledge helped bring Mordirith to ruin, though it cost her all she had left to give. Now, scholar, how would that news give light to your wisdom?”
“Narmeleth was corrupted and became Amarthiel,” Seregrían says slowly, deep in thought. “She was expunged and Narmeleth restored, and she retained all those memories. But how, by what means was Amarthiel purged and Narmeleth redeemed? And what else did she retain beside her thought?”
“Narmeleth returned by way of deep, traumatic agony, piled one after the other,” Galadriel replies. “Defeated by the power she sought to possess; the sight of her father slain at the hand of Mordirith; her hand that bore the Ring severed. All these wounds, of the body and the spirit, shook her to her core and brought about the redemption of Narmeleth from the Shadow.”
“Pain unto death created her, and pain unto death brought her back,” Seregrían says lowly. “You mean that the same must befall my mother? That she may only be redeemed in death?”
“Do not leap ahead of yourself, young one,” Galadriel say gently, “for we have only answered one question: that it is possible to return from beneath the Shadow’s wing. Now we must consider the crucial question: is this creature of the Dark in truth Thandwen, alive but turned? Have you not considered this is naught but a deception, a device of the Enemy to cause you doubt and send you on a chase for a phantom hope, away from the real danger?”
“I begin to concede that Thandwen the Elf was taken and spawned into the creature Gwathwethil,” Seregrían says flatly. “The proofs are there, the evidence plain. But the words of Bogrian bear you out. The Shadow fears what I have become and seeks to distract me from fighting it head on –“
“- and you are being distracted in fact and deed, for have you not wished to forsake the greater conflict and rescue your mother from the Dark?”
“But why must I forego one for the other? Why can I not achieve both? Would not the downfall of the Shadow release my mother from its clutch? Would not taking the battle to the enemy result in finding more means to redeem her? Surely the Dark itself might reveal –“
“Do you even hear your own words? Would the Enemy, the fountain of lies, reveal its secrets to such as you? Your anger at the world, and desperate hunger could be turned against you, brought to bear and corrupt you, and you would become even as they – a new Amarthiel, or something darker with all the hate you bear!”
“My hate is reserved for the Shadow, and all who would stand in my way! My power grows with each passage of arms, and I shall be the torch that both cleanses the lands and lights the way for my mother’s return!”
Galadriel glowers, her eyes darkening and her voice lowering, deep and threatening. “You who were once Nauthira presume too much. The idea that you possess power to combat the Enemy by yourself both offends and amuses me. I have watched the wisest and mightiest of our people fall before the Shadow, and your simple skills are laughable when set beside the hands and minds of the House of Finwë!”
Seregrían realizes she has stepped too far, and quickly sinks to her knees. “Lady Galadriel, I crave your pardon, and beg your forgiveness. Indeed, I forgot to whom I speak just now. Can you not now see the depth of my dilemma, how the thought of my mother consumes me? I come to you not just for your memory and lore, but for your counsel and your wisdom, for mine falters.”
Galadriel smiles softly, her ire passing like rain down the wind. She takes Seregrían’s hands and raises her to her feet. “You have my pardon, young one, as you always will. I know full well what desire is truly highest in your heart: to be relied upon and trusted by others. Be it Elrond’s counsels, the Dwarves’ friendship, your mother’s hope – it is all the same, your wish to be relied upon. And in the coming struggle, I shall rely upon you. I, and all the Free Peoples as well.
“Now, let us take thought as to what must come to pass…”
(And now, the conclusion…)
