They walked through the night, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the mountains. The moon rode high overhead, casting pale silver light across the meadows and woodlands that sloped away from the feet of the Misty Mountains. None of them spoke. The loss of Gandalf lay heavy on their hearts, a weight that made words seem trivial and inadequate.
Holman's feet moved of their own accord, placing one step after another, though his mind was far away. He kept seeing it—Gandalf standing on the bridge, facing the demon of fire and shadow. Gandalf falling into the abyss, his voice crying out one last warning. The light of his staff dwindling to nothing in the endless dark.
"He can't be gone," Folco whispered beside him, as if reading his thoughts. "Wizards don't just... die. Do they?"
No one answered. The question hung in the cold night air, unanswered and perhaps unanswerable.
By dawn, they had reached the edge of a great forest. The trees here were unlike any Holman had ever seen—tall and straight, with silver bark and golden leaves that seemed to glow even in the grey light of early morning. A sense of peace radiated from them, ancient and deep, like the feeling he had experienced in Tom Bombadil's country but stronger, more focused.
"Lothlórien," Aragorn said softly. "The Golden Wood. Few strangers are permitted to enter here. We must hope that the Lady Galadriel will look kindly upon us."
As if in response to his words, a figure stepped from between the trees. It was an Elf, tall and fair, with hair of spun gold and eyes that held the wisdom of countless years. He was armed with a bow and a long knife, but he did not raise them in threat. Instead, he looked at the companions with an expression of deep sadness.
"I am Haldir of the Galadhrim," he said. "We have watched you since you left the mountains. We saw what passed at the bridge. The fall of Gandalf is a loss to all the free peoples of Middle-earth. You are welcome here, though few of our kind have entered these woods since the world grew dark."
He led them into the forest, and Holman felt the change immediately. The air was warm and soft, carrying the scent of flowers and honey. The trees seemed to sing, their leaves rustling in harmonies that were just beyond the edge of hearing. Light filtered through the golden canopy, turning everything to green and gold.
They came to a city in the trees—flets, they were called, platforms built high in the branches, connected by graceful bridges and spiraling stairs. Elves moved among them, their voices raised in song, their movements as fluid as water. Holman stared in wonder. He had seen Elves before, of course—the company in Rivendell, the sons of Elrond who walked with them—but this was different. This was Elves in their own land, living as they had lived since before the first sunrise.
Haldir led them up, up into the canopy, until they reached the highest flet of all. There, on a platform open to the sky, stood two figures.
The first was a Lord, tall and silver-haired, with eyes that were grey and deep as mountain lakes. He wore a crown of golden leaves, and his face was both stern and kind, marked by sorrows long past and hopes long deferred. This was Celeborn, Lord of the Galadhrim.
But it was the second figure that drew Holman's gaze. She was tall beyond measure, it seemed to his hobbit eyes, and beautiful beyond the beauty of Elves, beyond the beauty of anything he had ever seen or imagined. Her hair was dark as the night sky, and in it were caught the light of stars. Her eyes were deep and knowing, and when she looked at him, Holman felt as though she saw everything—his fear, his hope, his weariness, the weight of the Ring, the loss of Gandalf, the long road ahead. She saw it all, and she did not flinch.
"Welcome, Holman Greenholm," she said, and her voice was like the sound of a distant waterfall, like the whisper of wind through leaves, like the memory of a song heard in childhood and never forgotten. "I have seen you in my mirror, many times. I have watched your journey from the Shire, through darkness and peril. And I have wept for the loss you have suffered, and will suffer still."
Holman could not speak. He could only stand, trembling, beneath that gaze.
The Lady Galadriel smiled, and the smile was like sunlight breaking through clouds. "You are afraid, little one. That is wise. But do not let fear rule you. You carry a great burden, but you also carry a great heart. I have looked into that heart, and I have seen that it is true."
She turned to the others, greeting each in turn—Aragorn with special warmth, for she had known his kindred long ago; Boromir with a look that held something like pity; Legolas with the greeting of one Elf-lord to another; Elladan and Elrohir as children of her daughter's husband; Glóin with respect for his people's ancient alliance with the Elves; and Folco with a gentleness that made the talkative hobbit fall silent and still.
"Rest now," she said. "You are safe here, for a time. The Shadow cannot enter Lothlórien while its power endures. Eat, sleep, heal. We will speak again when you are ready."
The days that followed were the strangest of Holman's life. He slept in a flet high among the golden leaves, wrapped in soft blankets, lulled by the singing of the Elves. He ate food that seemed to be made of light and air, yet satisfied his hunger more deeply than any Shire meal. He walked among the trees, feeling their ancient wisdom seep into his bones, and for the first time since leaving the Shire, he felt something like peace.
But he could not forget the Ring. It was always there, a cold weight in his pocket, a whisper at the edge of his thoughts. In Lothlórien, the whispering was fainter, as if the power of the Golden Wood pushed back against it. But it never stopped entirely. It was waiting, always waiting.
On the third day, Folco came to him with excitement shining in his eyes. "The Lady wants to see us! Both of us! She's going to show us her mirror!"
"Her mirror?" Holman asked.
"It's magic, they say. It shows things—things that were, things that are, things that might be. I've heard stories about it my whole life. Can you imagine? Actually seeing the future?"
Holman was not sure he wanted to see the future. The present was frightening enough, and the past held memories he would rather forget. But he could not refuse the summons of the Lady of the Galadhrim.
That evening, as the sun set in a blaze of gold and crimson, they climbed to a secret glade deep in the heart of the forest. Here there was no flet, no platform, no sign of Elf-work at all. Only a pool of water, still and dark as glass, surrounded by flowering shrubs. Galadriel stood beside it, her star-crowned hair gleaming in the fading light.
"This is my mirror," she said. "It shows what it will. You may look, if you wish. But be warned: what you see may not be what you expect, and it may not be what you wish to see. The mirror does not lie, but it does not always show the truth you seek."
Folco stepped forward eagerly. He peered into the water, and his face went pale. "I see... I see the Shire. But it's wrong. The trees are cut down, the houses are burned. There are Men in black, with whips, and hobbits... hobbits in chains. Oh, no. Oh, please no."
He stumbled back, tears streaming down his face. Galadriel laid a hand on his shoulder, and he calmed, though his eyes remained haunted.
"What you saw may come to pass," she said gently. "Or it may not. The future is never certain. What matters is what you do now, today, in this moment. Your love for your home, your willingness to leave it to save it—that is what will shape what is to come."
Folco nodded, still trembling, and stepped back.
Now it was Holman's turn. He approached the pool with dread in his heart, afraid of what he might see. He looked down into the dark water.
At first, he saw nothing but his own reflection—a small, frightened hobbit with tired eyes and a worried face. Then the image shifted.
He saw Gandalf. The Wizard stood before him, whole and hale, dressed in white instead of grey. He smiled, and his eyes held a light that Holman had never seen before. "Do not despair," he seemed to say, though his lips did not move. "I am not gone. Not forever. I will return, when you least expect it."
Then the image shifted again. He saw a mountain, fire erupting from its peak, and against the fire, a tiny figure—himself, he realized, holding the Ring above a crack in the rock. But before he could see more, the image dissolved into darkness.
He saw Folco, lying still, his eyes closed, his face peaceful. He saw Aragorn, crowned and robed, standing before a great city. He saw Boromir, fallen among a heap of orc-slain, a smile on his face. He saw the Shire, green and peaceful, and in its green fields, children playing—hobbit children with curly hair and bright eyes, who looked up and waved as if they could see him.
Then the mirror went dark, and he was looking at his own reflection again.
He stepped back, his heart pounding. Galadriel watched him with those deep, knowing eyes.
"What did you see?" she asked.
Holman told her. When he finished, she was silent for a long moment.
"Much of what you saw is uncertain," she said at last. "The paths of the future are many, and the mirror shows only possibilities. But one thing I can tell you: Gandalf is not lost. Not as the world counts loss. He was sent back, I think, by powers greater than any in Middle-earth. You will see him again, before the end."
Hope, bright and painful, flared in Holman's heart. "When? Where?"
"That I cannot say. Only that it will be when you need him most."
She turned to leave, then paused. "One more thing, Holman Greenholm. The Ring... I have not asked to see it, though I could. I have not offered to take it, though I might. You should know why."
She faced him, and for a moment, he saw something in her eyes that terrified him—a hunger, a desire, a longing so deep and so ancient that it shook him to his core. Then it was gone, and she was calm again.
"I have desired the Ring," she said quietly. "Not to use it for evil—I believe I could resist that. But to use it for good. To make this land a garden, to banish all shadow, to create a perfect world where nothing could ever hurt or fade. And that is why I cannot take it. Because if I did, I would become a queen, beautiful and terrible as the dawn. And in the end, I would become like the Dark Lord himself, only more fair, more subtle, more deceiving. The Ring would corrupt me, as it corrupts all who seek to wield it. So I will remain what I am: Galadriel of the Galadhrim, Lady of Light, fading with the passing of the Elves from Middle-earth."
She smiled, and this time the smile was sad. "You are stronger than you know, little one. You carry the Ring not because you desire it, but because you must. That is your strength, and your shield. Hold onto it."
Then she was gone, fading into the shadows like a dream upon waking.
They stayed in Lothlórien for many days, healing in body and spirit. The Elves gave them gifts for the journey ahead—warm cloaks that blended with the forest, lembas bread that sustained a traveller for a full day on a single bite, ropes of incredible strength and lightness. To Aragorn they gave a new sword, forged from the shards of the blade that had been broken. To Legolas they gave a bow of the Galadhrim, stronger and more accurate than any he had carried before. To Boromir they gave a golden belt, and to the sons of Elrond they gave silver sheaths for their knives. To Glóin they gave a map of Moria, drawn from memory by those who had dwelt there in ages past.
And to the hobbits, they gave something special.
Galadriel herself came to them on their last night in the Golden Wood. She carried two small boxes, carved from wood so pale it seemed to glow.
"In these boxes is soil from my orchard," she said. "It cannot heal the wounds of the world, but it can heal the wounds of a garden. When you return to the Shire—and I believe you will—scatter this earth upon the land. It will help your flowers grow, and remind you that beauty can endure even in the darkest times."
Folco took his box with trembling hands, his eyes shining. Holman took his, and for a moment, he was back in his garden in Fen Heath, with the sun on his face and the smell of growing things in the air. It seemed like a dream, impossibly distant, impossibly precious.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For everything."
Galadriel bent and kissed his forehead. "Go with our blessing, little one. May the stars light your path, and may you find the strength you seek."
The next morning, they departed. The Elves lined the path as they left, singing in their beautiful tongue, and the sound followed them long after the Golden Wood had vanished from sight. They floated down the Great River in Elven boats, swift and silent, bearing them ever eastward towards the growing shadow.
The days that followed were peaceful, almost restful. The river carried them along at a steady pace, and they took turns at watch while the others slept. Holman found himself watching the shores with new eyes, seeing the beauty of the world even as the shadow in his pocket whispered of its destruction.
Folco sat beside him, his earlier terror faded but not forgotten. "Do you think we'll make it?" he asked quietly. "To Mordor, I mean. Do you think we can actually destroy the Ring?"
Holman thought of the mirror, of the images he had seen—Gandalf in white, the mountain of fire, the fallen Boromir, the green Shire. He thought of Galadriel's words, of the strength she had seen in him that he did not feel.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "But I know we have to try. For the Shire. For everyone who can't fight for themselves."
Folco nodded slowly. "I'm glad I came," he said. "Even though I'm terrified. Even though I miss my smial and my garden and my second breakfasts. I'm glad I'm here with you."
Holman smiled and put his arm around his friend. "I'm glad too."
The river carried on, and the mountains drew nearer, and in the east, the shadow waited.