A message for Galadriel

[curandir]

Light snow fell and settled on the ground round about him. The wind was cold; winters bite nibbled his ears and nose. He was glad of his overcoat, long and lined with softest felt. Curandir removed the hood from his head; his long black hair quickly became flecked with white flakes.

Tracks in the drift trailed away behind him: They were not his own; but those of Rochal, the stallion; sleek and tall. Curandir always rode this horse when abroad: Bareback, in the manner of his folk; who had no need for saddle or harness.
He had left Mirkwood for the first time in over a year; he felt exposed with no canopy above him. His people had cherished the forest’s protection since the age of starlight: Before the first dawning of the sun.

He loved the great forest, sheltered and familiar; but it had grown dark. To be under the sky away from the tainted regions of Eryn Galen, was akin to a waking dream. He remembered far back to his careless youth, before the evil appeared in the southern forest highlands. Fell and cruel: The Necromancer; who hated all that was green. The ranger yearned in his heart to see the sanctity of the woodland realm restored.

Rochal must be tired he thought. They had travelled long that day, over many miles; to reach the ford of Anduin. Curandir stroked him across dappled shoulders; he spoke to him in Sindarin.

“Rochal; soga ae iest lîn” (‘tall horse’; drink if you wish to.)

With that the elf dismounted, without breaking the surface of the snow. He stretched his legs and gazed at the road ahead. Rochal did not want to drink from the River; the Anduin was too cold.

“Nollen mellon: cennin i ‘irad lîn” (I know Friend: I saw you shuddering)

Curandir had known the animal for many years. He rubbed Rochal’s long nose and around the jowl, trying to comfort him: They were truly friends; they had seen dark days together and trusted each other completely.

The rider sprang back onto the horse. There was no time to lose, they had lingered long enough; the elf carried a message of the utmost importance. He hastened it to Lothlorien, to the Lord and Lady; direct from the hand of Thranduil himself.

“noro anim” ( ride for me)

Crossing the ford they headed south at great speed. Matters of grave importance were afoot.

[galadriel]

Galadriel had never been the all-powerful elleth that legend claimed her to be. She was the most powerful among all living elves in Middle-earth, true, but the power of Galadriel could barely rival that of a Maia. It is said --among even those who should know better--that the Lady Galadriel is aware of all that occurs within her borders. With the aid of mirrors, and a sight that few know without the aid of a seeing stone, it is true that there is little she is unaware of in her own realm, but the knowledge obtained from those instruments of learning are vague and not the most reliable; it is from others that she learns the specifics. It is from the Lord Celeborn and from his seneschal and the generals, and leutienents, and wardens and officers who serve under her Lord that she is aware of the majority of the less significant comings and goings at the borders of the world she has isolated herself into.

She learned of the arrival of the Nandorin Elf, however, from a very uppity little squirrel who apparently had thought the Elf's horse snorted offensively in his direction and still harbored quite a bit of contempt over the alledged allocation. Whether or not the ellon and his horse actually were unfriendly has remained to be determined, but after learning of the surly robin who sung unfavorable songs about the squirrel, the carniverous fawn who wanted nothing more than to chew on the bushy tails of squirrels, and the very stubborn, spiteful little acorn that refused to be cracked open, Galadriel yet held hope that perhaps her small woodland friend was perhaps being overly dramatic.

For, according to her beloved, she would not have to wait long to meet this unlooked for guest.

[curandir]

Curandir travelled as the crow flies, direct to the heart of Elvendom on Middle Earth. Their trajectory meant they would sidetrack the boggy ground of The Gladden Fields ( Loeg Ningloren); where tragedy befell Isildur son of Elendil.
They still had need to contend Sîr Ninglor, as it crossed their path; hastening eastward from the mountains to Loeg Ningloren. In the Golden marshes the tributary met with the great river Anduin, both currents there entwined surging ever southward for hundreds of miles; to Gondor and the bay of belfalas.

Rochal moved with great haste; heading south with the river, the wind behind him: Maybe fate gave speed to them on their journey to the enchanted land. They had passed the southerly ford of Anduin; Curandir would be there soon, leaving the woodland realm behind him.
Once they had forded the Ninglor; only another hundred miles lay ahead of them to Dimrill Dale, and score more to reach Lothlorien.

The majesty of the occasion suddenly hit home. The Wandering Bow had never walked under the Golden Wood upon the Silverlode. The mission entrusted to him was truly a generous gift from king Thranduil: An opportunity to meet Galadriel ‘Lady of Light’, Princes of the Golodhrim (Noldorin), Queen of the Galadhrim; said to be both beautiful as the dawn and wise as the ages of the world.
Curandir felt nervous.

“Ai; na vedui Rochal: Sîr Ninglor!” (Ah; at last Rochal: The Gladden River)

As Rochal approached the bank his pace eased, he needed a rest.

“daro hi vellon a sogo” (stop now friend and drink)

Rochal drank deeply; he had galloped for miles and the waters of the Ninglor were not so cold.
Curandir surveyed the route ahead: Even at this dark hour the approach to Lorien was clear; its golden haze could be seen at the limit of sight, wonderous and free from shadow.

Rochal needed no ford to cross the Sîr.
Taking a run up he reached top speed and in one bound cleared Ninglor, though barely: Rochal's hooves beat the ground of the south bank. The last stretch was begun.

[galadriel]

Preperations had begun for the arrival of the elf from Mirkwood though nothing particularly grand was warranted, much to the dismay of the younger ellyth who wanted nothing less than a festival, but--alas--now was not the time for celebration. Still, this particular ellon would been given no cause to report unfavorably to his King about his reception at Lorien.

As the day waned and the elves had to light up their artifical suns, the elves of the upper tier did not rest as the other elves did. The Lord and his warriors strayed only a little to see to their duties, knowing Galadriel's tendency to demand any messanger take rest before delievering his message.

((Sorry that it's so short, so late, and so crappy, but I just wanted to kind of rush to the interesting bits.))

[curandir]

((It does get a little more exciting))

Curandir was hungry and Rochal too: They had travelled already nearly three hundred miles that day and grew weary of it. The plain was at least easy going. The land sloped steadily down to the basin of Anduin, gently undulated by the Misty Mountains looming to their right. The east bank inclined for miles up to the western edge of southern Mirkwood, dark and foreboding as it was at that time.

The fortress’ towers of Dol Guldur sat on the highest peak of the southwest highlands of Mirkwood. They stood wreathed in shadow, a bastion of evil in the north. Across the river opposite, Lothlorien lay on the western bank. Barely a hundred miles separated the two. He could just make out through the cloud that embraced them, the peaks of Moria: Caradhras, Celebdil and Fanuidhol. Khazad-dum lay in darkness along with Orthanc and Dol Guldur cast leaguer upon the fair land of dreams. The hour was late and Lothlorien in those dark days was also vigilant. Elf eyes scanned the land from Cerin Amroth, high in the boughs of the Mellyrn.

The snow fall had melted to fine rain and Curandir could no longer see his own breath hang in the air. He had never seen Mallorn trees before; he was used to the pines and furs of Mirkwood. Their Golden leaves were visible shimmering in the sunlight across the dale, an island of light in a sea of shadows; its beauty was hypnotic and made him careless.

There were indeed many eyes watching for the messenger that day. As Nanduhirion and the Dimrill stair came into view a great clamour ensued from its mouth; the howling of wolves on the scent of their quarry echoed through the valley. Curandir startled from his dream, looked westward and gasped with fright.

“Alae! ngaurhoth e duath hain." ( !?! Wolves of the shadow they are.)

"a thaur noro lim!" (To the woods fast!)

The chase had begun.
Rochal showed his true speed. The enemy were close behind them, and flanked them; their ambush swift. Fear gripped them tightly; maybe the dark powers knew of their mission, of the message they carried.
Curandir’s hand found his bow. Out in the open they could have been surrounded; he didn’t want to die here, not like this. The eledh could shoot from horse back; having hunted since his youth, his bow was bent and his aim true, but there were many of them and he suspected they were no ordinary wolves.
Perhaps the mission was in vain, his warning too late?

“Noro lim Rochal!”

An eighteen mile sprint lay ahead of them, the hounds of Dol Guldur were fast and fresh on the trail; they had been set in wait for them. Two score of them dark and terrible.
Curandir only carried half as many arrows.

((cue haldir to the rescue. Otherwise i'll have to out run them!.. Their so tired already))

[galadriel]

((We have a Haldir, I believe, but I haven't seen him around for a bit, but I'll do what I can.))

The constant song and hum of work stilled as the majority of Caras Galadhon's population slept. Now only a soft melody could be heard from a few of the higher talons in the eastern border of the city where the ellyth kept vigil for the ellyn that were sent to increase the numbers of the eastern patrol now that Celeborn had received word of wolves.

Upon hearing of the new threat, Galadriel was shamed to admit that her initial concern was for her young bushy-tailed friend and not the Thranduil's messanger as it should have been. To appease her guilt, many from the city's gaurd were sent to help the already large number waiting for the Mirkwood elf.

Yes, she decided, as she watched a few glassy vertical rivers of rain run down the trunk of her mallyrn, the messanger will be quite safe with his escort into the city. No reason to fret at all.

((Do you think that will suffice or should the Lord and Lady themselves come to save you from the Big Bad Wolves? ))

[curandir]

((If it could grant him glimpse of her beauty before his death I say aye))

Rochal naturally veered somewhat away from the mountains and evil creatures hungry for the attack; he ran toward the meeting of Silverlode into Anduin.

“i ngaurhoth anglennathar” (the wolves approach)

After some ten miles the horse’s speed flagged; only fear gave energy to the animal, he needed rest.

Curandir did his best to protect him. The woodland bow sang more frequently; he had picked his earlier shots carefully and still carried thirteen arrows. Not every dart slew its target however; the desperate wolves had great endurance, many merely slowed the hunters down.
Their growls and skittish ravings were too close for comfort.

“Noro lim hi anim!” (run fast now for me!)

Rochal was spurred again on by his words; he could sense the fear that lay on them: They had passed the first and most northerly tree; no mallorn, as they grew deep in the Golden wood. He had not quite reached the borders of Lorien yet but the tree line was at least in sight. Its proximity gave stay to despair.
The Mirkwood elf turned in order to shoot backward over his shoulder; but the dark hound fell before his arrow’s release, and then another. He was not too late, the Galadhrim were alive and well and just in the nick of time.
The trees were getting thicker and the elves of Lorien well hidden; the beasts of the enemy were confused and too late, against the hail of arrows they were scattered. Rochal still didn’t stop running until the undergrowth grew too thick for the sprint; Curandir brought his exhausted friend to a halt near a thicket of trees, before the boots of Mirkwood touched the ground an Elf in long robes and cloak appeared out of nowhere. On their approach even the keen eyes of Curandir had seen but two of their number.

“oneg estel enni; man dengin huin” (you gave hope to me; are they slain?)

The relief was such that it was the first thing that passed his lips: Only one arrow remained in the quiver across his back.

[Galadriel]

(I am very new to Sindarin, and sentence structure still completely bewilders me. So please excuse the grievous grammatical errors XD)

The thickening of the forest, roots intertwining and vast canopies overlapping one another signified the Mirkwood elf’s proximity to Lorien. A few more steps, and he no longer would be lingering on the fringes - he would be welcomed into the warm embrace of the mallorn trees. Despite the winter, Galadriel found that there was nothing quite so comforting as that golden glow. It seemed to chase the most somber effects of the season away. Though perhaps in circumstances such as these, a bow was just as comforting.

As night had fallen, stretching its tangible blackness over the woods, shadows spilled from branches, broken by slender, sporadic beams of starlight winking from gaps in the forest. The silvery glow smiled down on ground and travelers alike, though it was not the only defender of the light. For more than simple shadow encroached upon her land, and from what the forest sang to her, these wolves were not quite right. Lady Galadriel suspected, perhaps, servants of Dol Guldur, these black hounds? Regardless, such destructive creatures were not welcome.

True to form, the Galadhrim stationed themselves around the threatening wolves, with the inaudible grace of the Quendi. The long, stout bows of Lorien sang with silent triumph, releasing arrows thick into the forest, like lashes of wind from which there was no escape. Each struck its target, impaling the monsters and driving them to the ground. Extinguishing the foul, darkened gaze poisoned by Sauron’s intent.

Spurred on by fear, the stallion charged until the underbrush grew too thick an impediment to cross. Only then did the one of the Galadhrim reveal himself, stepping out from the trees to greet the Mirkwood elf. His robes nearly brushed the ground, miraculously unscathed by the forest branches. He peered at Thranduil’s messenger with reserved consideration until the elf spoke.

“oneg estel enni; man dengin huin.”

"Gelir na thaed," he said simply. (Happy to help). As to the question, however, the Galadhrim said nothing. His gaze shifted from the newcomer out beyond him, as if by staring long enough he could decipher what else lingered in the woods. After a pause,

"Mae," (Yes) he assented, not - as it were - a being of many words. The wolves were dead. Upon closer consideration of the other elf, his tone became more cordial,

"Avo ’osto, ion o Mirkwood. Pennin na I Hiril o Lórien. He der vi Caras Galadhon a he aníra tírad le." (Fear not, son of Mirkwood. I spoke to The Lady of Lorien. She waits in Caras Galadhon and desires to see you.)

He paused again, as if considering something, and tilted his head, stepping back to gesture with one hand towards Lórien, as if to suggest, if you will, an invitation.

"Aphado nin a togithon le." (Follow me and I will bring you [to her].) His duties thus performed, the guard of Lórien awaited the guest's decision.

And some distance away, Lady Galadriel gave a small smile. Both her bushy tailed friend and the messenger would be fine.

[curandir]

As the Elf of Lórien spoke to him, Cúrandir, was intrigued by the differences in speach and beauty of their words. The Galadhrim, he knew were akin to his own people, sundered by distance for two millenia; yet even after such a time he could still understand what was spoken, though stylistically it was of their own. The southener's manner of dress was different too, long flowing robes of silver-grey. The elves of Mirkwood wore garments more robust for the Northern climate and rugged terrain. He looked upon his 'cousine' with warm heart and was happy to finally see the Tree-folk of the oldest Northern songs.

"Len aphadathon i 'wanur charn..." (I will follow you, southern kinsman...)

Rochal, was still uneasy: The wear-wolves had been close on his heals; and he had felt the greatest fear of all his days. The teath of dark things would trouble his dreams for some time to come, until his safe return to the north. Cúrandir, patted the steed's domed shoulder, wispering words of comfort; and words of thanks, for if it was not for Rochal, the 'Pilgrim Bow' would have walked no more in mortal lands...

"Boe hi bedin i vrennil hilivren: Brannon-nín, palan-lasta beth ion dîn; ar annad hiniath feredrin..." (I must speak to the white lady: My Lord, listens far and wide for word of his son, and to give tidings from the north...)

Little did Cúrandir know; Legolas son of Thranduil and the fellowship of the ring, had recently passed between the Argonath on their approach to the shore at Parth Galen. The mid day sun was failing and the rains felt by the fellowship that morning now fell into the canopy of Lorien and pitter pattered through its leaves.



Joining their paths, together the Glinnil (elves of the third kindred), walked, with Rochal close behind them. The forest grew ever the more beautiful as they moved deeper into the forest and made towards the angle of Silverlode and Anduin.
It was not long before the Elf of Mirkwood saw his firts Mallorn... he stopped and looked high into the silver branches...

"Alai! Na vedui mellon-nín, hennen dîr vallorn aglareb..." (Behold! At last my friend, I see the glorious Mallorn with my own eyes...)

Cúrandir, looked to his guide with wonderment in his eyes. The tallest of all the trees in Middle Earth; with such a magnificent canopy of autumnal gold and a single trunk of silver. This glorious sight had allowed the messenger escape from his thoughts; and now relaxed he had wont to talk of other things: The Dream-flower of Lothlorien, had at last found his heart.

"Man eneth estar lin?" (By what name do they call thee?)

[Galadriel]

“Híril-nín e hartha tegithar 'elu i siniath hin". (My lady hopes these tidings bring blessings [good news]. Le hannon, Thranduil!) He ignored the former words, for a time. Legolas Thranduilíon had passed through these woods; he and his brothers, marchwardens, had accompanied the Fellowship into Lórien - though he himself spoke little Westron to communicate with the outsiders. And since the Fellowship's departure, Lady Galadriel had seemed more distant, distracted - the air itself carried the weight of her unspoken concerns, and all of the Galadhrim could sense it - as if something very evil had tainted Lórien, and despite the fact that it was fading, like the last vestiges of autumn orange into winter...in its wake rippled a bitter aftertaste.

The grey cloaked elf had held his tongue regardless; it was not his place to divulge such information. The White Lady might have had a desire to convey the news to Thranduil herself - or not at all - so wisely - and delicately, he replied after a pause, "Nae, gerich naergon mín a estel an aderthad-celeg." He glanced at the Mirkwood elf, expression softening, "Hebo bronwe, gwanor. I Hiril ista o hae. Thîr-min na hin-lya a heniatha.” (Alas, you have our sympathy [grief] and hope for swift reunion. Have faith, kinsman. The Lady has knowledge from afar. One look at your eyes and she will understand.)

Such was the reputation of the Queen of the Galadhrim. The escort fell silent as the easy rhythm of the forest beckoned them forth. He sifted through the woods like sand between fingers, the trees swayed and breathed in time with the pace. It was a companionable quiet, made more so by the thickening woods - the gleam of silver and gold winked, mingling with winter trees at first, then overtaking them altogether. Plunging the trio into the mallorns...its warmth wrapped around him, nearly tangible, and the guide felt what tension had sung through his body ease...

The Mirkwood elf stopped. At first, a twinge of impatience, but when he turned around, the marchwarden realized what had caused the delay - his companion, head tilted back...ah, of course. The mallorn never ceased to inspire, especially one's first sight. It was a scene forever engraved in the memory, these woods. He gave a small, tightlipped smile and added,

“Io ann galant i eredh vinui mallornion... a tiro hi...” (She planted [grew] the first seed of the mallorn long ago and now...look…)

The marchwarden trailed off; even after these years, a glimpse of the majestic gold smothered canopy could still evoke such a reaction. Perhaps, because, no matter how many hours, days, seasons slipped away, the Golden Wood remained. Lothlorien remained, as ever, the same. Time itself, devourer that it was, could not touch these trees. It was a dream. A dream that could be touched, inhaled, explored. Lothlorien alone clung to the ancient days of the Elves, and it was a comfort, when the world outside these woods changed so rapidly...and not for the better.

Drenched in these thoughts, he gestured, albeit politely, for his woodland kin to walk beside him - they were nearing the Egladil between the Celebrant and Anduin. The White Lady would be anticipating their arrival soon.

"Orophin eneth nîn," the marchwarden introduced himself after a pause, "Berion i edrain-forodren ah gwedeir-nîn. Man eneth lín?” He looked to his companion expectantly. (My name is Orophin. I guard the northern border with my brothers. What is thy name?)


((Ack. Afterthought. I hope it's not necessary to make an NPC profile for Orophin? For me, I doubt he will be much of a recurring character.))

[curandir]

"Cúrandir, berior e-daur galen, a sadron Aran Thranduil..." (Curandir, protector of green-wood, and loyal servant to King Thranduil...)

The pair walked side by side and talked a while of trees, flowers and beasts; for there were a great many that the northern Elf had never seen. Curandir wondered at elanor and niphredil; though they grew seldomly as the trees became dense. Perhaps the most wonderous of them all would be the 'flower' called Caras Galadhon, home to Celeborn and Galadriel: The envoy had heard it said, the city was high amongst the tallest trees of the forest, at the very naith of Lorien. The songs of Lorien were few in the north; but they sang of beauty and light... and also some of sorrow; for the song of Nimrodel was remembered there still...

"Sí nef Anduin i loth ar i ngelaidh main!" (This side of the Anduin, the flowers and trees are beautiful!)

It was in that moment they reached the clearing and Curandir spied the mound of Cerin Amroth; though he knew not its name. The mound was glittering gold and white with winter flowers in full bloom and circled by tall trees. An outer ring of leafless white, boughs; then an inner crown of Mallorn and amidst them both, the tallest tree so far, a flet built high amongst its broad silver branches...
Curandir at first thought the place Caras Galadhon itself; but quickly noticed that there was no soul to be seen there. Turning to Orophin, the Mirkwood elf smiled...

"Man estach i amon niphren a vallen?" (what call you the white and yellow hill?)

In him burned brightly the desire to climb the flet and see for miles around and glimpse the northern forest of his home. Every step taken further into the Dream-Flower seemed to have shed weight from his mind and the feeling of sanctuary had ever increased.
Maybe it is best not to look upon the world right now, for I have not the power to change its course: Alas for these times...

[Galadriel]

Cerin Amroth, the heart of Elvendom on earth. The mallorns thinned, gleaming trunks spreading apart until leaves brushed one another, the canopy giving glimpses of the sky - where before, there had been only winks. Spilling from thick forest, momentarily, to the clearing. Smothered in shimmering golden elanor and misty niphredil, its crown formed of two rings of trees - and above the tall reaching branches, a single white flet. Once the tallest of the flets in Lorien - though now shadowed by that of the Lord and Lady in the citadel.

The periain had climbed the flet with Haldir, and seen for themselves as far as the horizon spread, o'er Mirkwood, Dol Guldur, or towards Caras Galadhon. The City of the Trees was near, not a stone's throw away, and Orophin smiled, to himself, as a brisk gust of wind rustled the flowers, bending stalks and blossoms, summoning a whispered chorus, the unspoken language of the Golden Wood.

"Man estach i amon niphred vallen?"

Orophin arched a brow to the northern elf; did he truly not know? It was not altogether surprising, but sometimes one forgot how few outsiders delved this far into Lothlorien, even other quendi. He nodded towards the hill, explaining,

"Sai i thelaid o Cerin Amroth, estant an aran Amroth." He paused, looking to his companion. "Ae aníral, tiro ed o i thalan an Taur e-Ndaedelos. Umin hae o Lothlorien." (They are the slopes of Cerin Amroth, named for King Amroth. If you wish, you [can] look out from the flet towards Mirkwood. We are not far from Lothlorien.)

Under such circumstances, it would not waste much time should Curandir seek to stop. The Lady of Light herself would not demand such abrupt disregard, particularly for those who had not the pleasure of residence in the Dream-Flower. Orophin gestured, just past the slopes,

"Athan ta Caras Galadhon."

[curandir]

Curandir, would certainly have liked nothing better than to climb the highest platforms, and view the world as would the great Eagles of Hithaeglir; but this was not a fitting time for such things: And yet, even so, the Silvan had come to an abrupt halt, only then to find his gaze high amongst the tallest boughs above:

Was this the home of Amroth? I hope to be granted rest here a while on my return journey.

The name, Amroth, was not unknown to those of the northern woods; and he was remembered there still in the oldest of songs. Alas, it was true that none there now recalled the ancient king of the Dream Flower, as he was under the light of Mortal lands. The King of Lórinand had long been gone: His star now shone in distant lands, far across the greatest sea, under a light of which the Silvan elves had never seen.
The Pilgrim-Bow would return, if fate allowed, and steal a glance from Amroth's keep
It was for love of, Thranduil, that he would not linger; and for the want of news concerning, Legolas; of whom none had been heard since mid October. It had brought a distant look to his grey eyes to know he must pass this opportunity by; but it would not have seemed right to tarry here, while the fate of The Woodland King's son was still in doubt...

“ Nae, dan ir iest guren si ava-dharin. ” (Alas, against the wish of my heart, I will not now delay)

Curandir's gaze fell from dizzy heights, down the colossal living tower and back into the depths of the forest; to find the waiting grace of, Orophin. His curious eyes lingered briefly there upon, before returning eagerly to the path ahead; and his mind to that of, Caras Galadhon, which lay beyond sight.
The northern elf had many questions, which given the opportunity, he would have asked his guide. The, Galadhron, seemed to him a great scout and ranger, fr he lead the way well; and his people, had skill with their bow-strings and also perfected the arts of ambush and disguise: They were just what would be needed to do battle under Oak and Beech, and for the end of, Dol Guldur; though they would hold the, Mallorn; and dearly, before that time should come.
A question was asked; and perhaps not the most pressing of queries, was certainly the quickest answered:

" Lostach am 'elaidh. "

[Galadriel]

"Lostach am 'elaidh."

"Mae." To think on the history of such dwellings, it was reminiscent of a dark time in Lorien, when the need for watchfulness and the fear of insidious, wicked enemies drove the Galadhrim into the trees. This evil seemed intent on returning; the Lady could feel it, as could they all in some respect. Orophin sensed the urgency of the Woodland King in his messenger's dulcet tones - slight though it was. This was no time for leisurely walks or empty conversation. There was danger, still, and there was the apprehension of battle - not yet, but soon. It was with this thought in mind that Orophin decided it would be best to move on, and the guide silently bid farewell to Cerin Amroth, with slight indications that Curandir should follow him. He explained, though a bitterness touched his tone - regret, perhaps, for present times, "Aran Amroth heniant achas vîn o Dol Guldur a Moria. Annan io, gwaith vîn echant i telain an beri." (King Amroth understood our fear of Dol Guldur and Moria. Long ago, our people fashioned the flets for protection.)

As he spoke, the Galadhron led Curandir further into the heart of Lorien. He moved with a musical – but hastened – swiftness, and the Wood with him, ever gracious, giving, to each step, to each shimmering shadow of his twilight cloak. Such a pace would have been met with ease by the Woodland Kin, but would have been difficult for the Fellowship to follow (for hobbits and dwarves were not quite so nimble of foot). Nonetheless, night began to settle over them, faded hints of starlight lost beyond the tree canopy – but not for long. The pathway curved in slopes and falls, winding through the golden forest. It was a sudden step, a thinning of the Wood, and Orophin brought Curandir out into the open.

Before them spread a wide plain, devoid of trees, and beyond it a fosse was carved into the landscape - a deep moat rung with the fading effervescence of richly nourished grass. That same green was cast upon a great wall surrounding the hill. It was the most beautiful sight – excluding the Lady herself, of course – as mallorn trees of impossible heights swathed the hill in gold. The branches gleamed, glistened, reached for twilight as if to grasp at stars, and the entire mound seemed to breathe with each whisper of wind, each subtly moving leaf, which gave way to the winking of lights – few, at present, a flash of silver, or green, but once the sun had set completely, the entirety of the hill would glow with the ethereal shades of Galadhrim lamps.

The messenger looked to Curandir, reluctant to turn his face from the sight before him – it did not cease to inspire, even those who resided in Lorien. “Alae Caras Galadhon,” he said softly, casting his gaze back over the city before them. He pointed towards the fosse, and towards the white stone road that was not so easily seen at this distance. “Pedithanc nan annon charadren, a min ennas trevaded ir iant 'ni minnad i garas. Hiril-nin gen cenatha ennas.” (Behold Caras Galadhon. We will walk to the Southern gate, across the bridge to enter the city. My lady will see you there.)

[curandir]

Cúrandir, followed closely his southern guide. Despite the heavy watchfulness in the air about him as if the very wood itself were counting his steps, the deeper the Galadhron took him the more he felt he could belong; or in the least steel a glimpse of its secret freely and without confrontation. How similar and yet different we are, both of us, Pendi, under the sun and moon of middle earth; though they here build in trees, we now in the north stay underground...

Caras Galadhon, rose before them, rising from the earth as living spires reaching to the sky above. The Silvan elves liked to live in beech trees, for no Mallorn had they in Mirkwood. Even for an Elf of Thranduil's halls, this place seemed blessed and struck the northerner speechless and almost dumbfounded for a moment. Following now, Orophin's gesture, Cúrandir, found the white road to the southern gate and with it his wits returned to him. He spied the moat and from the northern side he could see no gate. The great place seemed impenetrable: as safe as any cave in these times.

" Mae dungen, Orophin, a na van i garas vín " (Well led, Orophin, and beautiful is your city.)

Unlike the north, here in the hidden angle of Lorien, the world seemed distant and a sense of safety and protection was in the air. Perhaps enough so even to forget the toil of the darkening world outside, at least for a time.



If only Cúrandir had climbed the Cerin Amroth, he would have had a glimpse of Caras Galadhon from afar: now on the white road they circled the moated fence and round to the southern ways of the city, for there were no gates upon its north, nor indeed its western sides; at least none that were not kept secret. The Silvan elf was glad, for he had reached his journeys end and done his lords will. He knew not the answer to his questions; but they would soon be answered and a great deal of what would befall the world of Elvendom may be foreseen...