Only the lonesome owl witnessed him crossing the bridge over the rushing dark river. Rivendell valley was sleeping, windows shuttered against the slight foredawn breeze. When Gwathrandir had been young he had wandered the streets of Barad Sirion before the breaking of dawn like this. In those days Barad Sirion had not seemed like a fortress or a city to him – Barad Sirion had felt more like a day that was about to begin. He walked towards Cugusaelon’s house on the other side of the river, not far from the stables. In the dim light of half night and half day Gwathrandir saw the main door of Cugusaelon’s house open.
Gwathrandir froze. He knew that Cugusaelon could not see him in his dark hooded cloak, standing perfectly still like a foredawn shadow blending into other shadows. He had been Gwathrandir – Shadow-wandered – for so long that nobody could see him unless he wanted to be seen.
He watched Cugusaelon sneaking into the stables and a moment later riding out on his beautiful white mare. Gwathrandir slipped there himself to fetch his own black steed, Laimë. Where could Cugusaelon be riding to in this hour of the night?
Silently like a ghost rider Gwathrandir followed Cugusaelon into the secluded grove in the south-west part of Imladris, across the bridge that had been planed of a tree fallen over the river Bruinen, past the Guest Rooms and up the winding mountain path leading out of Imladris into the High Moor.
After a long ride through the barren rough highland dotted with rocks, shrubs and trees Cugusaelon stopped on top of a steep descent down to the bank of the Bruinen to let his horse rest a while. The hillside was sparsely covered with coniferous trees, tufts of grass, moss and heather. Lower at the riverside grew a few leafy rowan trees, their foul-smelling flowers blossoming in late spring. Cugusaelon dismounted and seemed to be waiting for something. Gwathrandir hid behind some shrubs and waited as the sky grew paler in the eastern horizon.
After a few moments a small old woman appeared from a thicket and walked to Cugusaelon. She was a Firieth, not an elf, an old and feeble and wrinkly white-haired woman who walked slowly like a sleepwalker. Gwathrandir had keen ears like all elves do, but he was too far to be able to hear the exchange of words between Cugusaelon and the old woman.
Could she be the mysterious ’source’ Cugusaelon had mentioned to him yesterday – the ’woman of many secrets’? Who else could she be?
After a short conversation Cugusaelon mounted his horse again and rode up the hillside and past Gwathrandir, heading back to Imladris. But the old woman just stood there, staring straight at Gwathrandir’s direction as if she could see him, though Gwathrandir knew it was impossible.
When the sound of Cugusaelon’s horse’s hooves had subsided, the woman turned and started to walk down the hillside towards the Bruinen. Gwathrandir dismounted and followed her, determined to find out who the woman was. Following her was not difficult. She walked very slowly and seemed not to be aware of her surroundings.
At the riverside the woman suddenly turned and stared at the shrub Gwathrandir was hiding behind.
”Come on out, friend”, she said in a feeble, high-pitched voice. ”Why are you hiding from me? Are you afraid of an old woman?”
Gwathrandir stepped out in the open. He could not understand how the woman could have sensed his presence there, but there was no point in hiding anymore.
”I am named Gwathrandir, and I come from Imladris. May I ask what you are doing here? It’s not usual to see mortals this side of the Bruinen these days. The Trollshaws are not safe for old women.”
”And what are you doing here, friend?”
”What business is that of yours?”
”There is no need to be rude, friend.”
”I apologize.”
The old woman kept staring at Gwathrandir, her face imperturbable. Her nose was big and hooked, her eyes behind sagging lids colorless and watery.
”How do you know Cugusaelon?” Gwathrandir asked. ”The elf you spoke to earlier?”
”Let’s go down to the river”, the woman said. ”All your questions will be answered there.”
The woman turned and led Gwathrandir to the Ford of Bruinen. Rocks clattered as the river foamed through the ford. The riverbank was steep and slippery. It was ominously quiet. Gwathrandir could not hear a single bird singing. Only the wind rustled quietly in the leaves.
”Where are you taking me?”
The old woman stopped at the edge of the water. The black river surged over ancient rocks.
”I asked you a question”, Gwathrandir said, beginning to lose his patience.
The old woman turned slowly and looked up at him. Suddenly there was a malicious smile on her cracked, wrinkly lips.
”What are you doing?” Gwathrandir asked.
The old woman rippled like a mirage in front of him and changed. Suddenly Gwathrandir was looking at a much taller woman, for it was a woman, though there was not much of her exposed beyond a ghastly iron mask, armor and blood red robes. Only her hands were bare. One of them held a sword.
He felt no pain as the blade of the sword impaled his chest, only a certain sense of dread as he fell across the rocks in the ford. I love you, Laureanis, was the final thought in his mind before everything stopped. The river water turned red as his blood seeped into it. Something fell out of his pocket on the riverbank.
The woman bent down and picked it up. It was a pendant with three finely crafted jewels attached to it. The jewels were white, beautiful and quite large. The woman hung the pendant up in the air, the jewels gently swinging on level with the eyeslits of her iron mask. She stared at the jewels for a few moments, then she pocketed the pendant inside her red robes.
The woman grabbed Gwathrandir – Maglor, for it had been his name once – by the leg and dragged him downstream until the Bruinen was deep enough and the current strong enough to carry his lifeless remains away. In a few moments they had disappeared around the bend. There was a short moment of silence before it was broken by birds greeting the first light of the new morning.
