Linglorel

Steadily they rode, stopping but a few minutes every hour to stretch their legs and give the horses a breather or some grain, and to take care of other needs, the golden-haired elf maiden in oak-leaf green and a tall man, travel-stained cloak of heavy dark-green cloth was drawn close about him. Grey-eyed, dark-haired, like lords in whom the race of Númenor ran true he was.

It was the long, silent hour just before dawn. In a forest grove of Chetwood, where she came to welcome the new day and golden Anor, the Sun, with music of her song and with dance, golden-haired elven maiden noted the silence with puzzlement. How different these forests were from her green homeland... Over the centuries, she had seen many oaks grow from acorn to ruinous age, but this place seemed less wild, more tame, and she could not feel that aura of mystery in it that filled Mirkwood.

The elf maiden and her parents walked on the banks of a crystal rill dancing through a bright green glade, while high above in the branches of the ancient oaks of Mirkwood, larks sang their songs of joy. The trees were timeless as they disappeared into the sky, rough with age, yet their roughness had been worn down by the soft greenness of moss that had slowly made them home.