Cuil

"Mother! Mother!" the child called, in the tongue of the Sindar. "Come quick! I have found something!" it continued. Slowly, yet with purpose, a woman emerged from a room, across this one, and strode over to the child. A small boy, he was. Fit, firm and proud. Fire blazed in his eyes, and a will to live and grow in his heart. "My child" said the mother, cradling her child's face. "What have you discovered, today?" she continued, humorously. The boy held aloft his hands, within lay a small insect, with wings as bright as blood, and a body as black as Obsidian. "What is it?" asked the eager child, and slowly the mother took the curiosity in her palm. "It is the will of the earth, my child. One of nature's plentiful wonders. It is a butterfly." With that, the child stood up, repeated the name “butterfly”; excitedly, and brought the insect to the window. High above the ground, it soared; away from Caras Galadhon, and into the leaves of the Mallorn.

Suddenly, a tall Elf-sire entered, smiling as broad as the blade he carried. "Andarne. Always the lover of nature" he said, as the child ran towards him, crying "Father!" Quickly, he lifted Andarne into his arms, and hugged his progeny. "Well met, my son! How was your day?" he asked, to which the child replied "I found the butterfly that you saw. And--". He paused. Ornalaurëon now looked puzzled at his son's sudden turn of merriment. "Speak your mind, Son. Lest it haunt you" he demanded. Slowly, Andarne looked into his fathers eyes, then to his mother, Andunenis, and then back. "Master Losdirith is--he's teaching me the sword again, father!” With this, Ornalaurëon placed Andarne back on the floor. "Why is it you deter the blade so? What is it that you fear?" Andarne looked up, and slightly shocked. "I fear nothing, father! I do not favour it, as you do. I desire the art of the bow!" Ornalaurëon placed his hand on his child's head, and ruffled his hair playfully. "Then simply ask!"

((Now our tale ends the Second Age; for twenty years and nine after this; began the Third Age. Andarne remained in Lothlórien, training after his parents passed. Our story progresses three hundred and four years, plus the twenty-nine, since Andarne was but twelve. He is two hundred and two to eighty years of age.))

Slowly, it moved. Making little noise, if not any at all. Eyes, crystal clear. Fur, smooth as silk. The stag wandered its haven, looking for food. Once, twice its ears would prick with a sound of a bird, or mayhaps a rodent. Yet for all its caution, the one thing that it did not hear, was the bolt speeding through the air (the same bolt that killed its mate), the same bolt that pieced its flesh, cutting through fur, sinew and into heart. Like a rock, it fell; dead, on the ground. Rustling came from the bushes, nearby, as two Orcs stepped into the clearing. “Looks like Minalsklak was right! This forest is ripe for the taking!” one said, in the foul tongue that is the Black Speech. The other was not so easily appeased. “Quiet down maggot! These are Elvish lands. Don' want to be bringing any of them down on us, eh?” it snapped, quick and sharply. “Then lets jus' get this thing back to camp! The boys will be eatin' each other if we don’t!” said the first. A laugh crept from the second, “Yeah. They probably would! More for us then! Ha-ha!” it yelled, as the arrow pierced its chest armor, digging right into its muscle. The scream that followed cannot be described by words; for it would chill you to the bone. But the duo knew what once held the arrow. An Elven quiver. “Find the thing!” yelled the second Orc, pulling the arrow out and licking the blood from its shaft. However, it was short lived. As the first Orc stood in front of the other, looking into its eyes, they both felt a sudden force push them forward (or backwards, in the case of the first Orc) and a hot feeling in their gut. Looking down, all they could see was the spear, run right through them; and behind the Second Orc, who was now screaming in pain, much like the first, the owner of their doom.

"You have failed your purpose in whatever foul life you had!" barked Andarne, as he dug the spear deeper into the two Orcs. The first had since passed, and its head fell limp on its shoulders. The lieutenant was not so easily defeated, and defied Andarne. "Foul beast! I'll make maggot food o' you! Wait and see! Gurum (Death, in the language of Mordor) will find you!" However, Death found the lieutenant first; and Andarne was tasked not only with the removal and burning of the bodies, but the cleansing of his spear. Luckily, he was not alone. "Well met, my son" said Losdirith, stepping, like he oft did, from the shadows (where they were any). "My thanks, father!" Said Andarne, bowing low before his tutor. "Father is a name I do not justly deserve. Only Ornalaurëon should be called that, by you" replied Losdirith, sternly. "Ah, but you treat me as a son! And for that, I am grateful" replied the young Elf.

Losdirith sighed, sarcastically, as he walked off. Andarne followed suit, leaving the bodies to whatever fate awaited them. Most likely, a patrol would take care of it. "You are improving every day" said Losdirith, now jogging through the bushes. "Just keep in mind, there may be more than you can see. Yrch have a habit of appearing from nowhere". Andarne sighed, knowing this speech too well. “You fear so much, old one” chuckled Andarne, obviously havering. Losdirith chuckled also, and walked off. Andarne followed. The woods were not safe much in these days. Two night and three days they spent on the journey. In this time, Lothlórien’s borders expanded many miles, up until Fanuidhol and the Doors of Khazad-dum – East. On the third day’s sunrise, they arrived at the wall of Caras Galadhon. News came almost at once to their ears, of the Birth of Celebrían’s daughter, Arwen. Many were rejoicing that one of their own was the daughter of a Lord of one of the Havens of Elves in Middle-earth.

“Well, it would seem our fortunes are improving. Let the babe, Arwen, grow swift and strong! This is my blessing to her!” shouted Losdirith to the skies; and the flets were filled with similar outbursts. Andarne remained quiet. He knew it was reason to celebrate; for Arwen was the daughter of Lady Galadriel’s daughter. They were blood-kin. And she was Galadhrim, in blood and of the West, in heart. Undómiel she was called. The Evenstar. Through the night, the Galadhrim celebrated. Andarne, as well; but he still held his mind to the hunt. Dwarves, also, came from their home of Khazad-Dum, and spoke to the wardens, wishing their blessings upon (they thought her the future queen of Lórien) Arwen. The days were bright, and many tidings came from Rivendell.

Several weeks came to pass. The tidings ceased; for Goblins were once again present in the Redhorn Pass. Dwarves had sent their people to deal with the scourge, but Andarne was at unrest. He began pacing his home, thinking and pouring over old scrolls and texts. Losdirith oft visited him, and tried to calm him. “Andarne, this bodes ill for you. What is on your mind?” he often asked. “I know naught of it, my friend.” Andarne stopped his pacing “I feel I need to leave, for a while. I do not know why. To travel, yes…but…where?” he asked his Mentor. Losdirith raised an eyebrow, and said “Your father was the same. Many times I saw him leave the gates of Caras Galadhon, to merely wander the woods; or go abroad. Mayhaps it would be best for you, to enjoy your first hunt. You can see the mountains, up close.” He grinned. Andarne was intrigued. “A hunt?” he sat down. “What would you have me hunt, when my heart tells me to wander?” Losdirith knelt and looked Andarne in the eye. “A reason to come home.”

((Twenty six years after the birth of Galadriel’s granddaughter, our tale resumes))

Andarne sat alone in his home. He was stringing his bow tight, preparing to depart Lothlórien; for a time unknown to him or any other. As always, Losdirith came to check on him. He was indeed like a father to Andarne; and they both knew it. “Take the southern road, my friend. Fangorn Forest is peaceful to our kind. And the herders will not hinder your passage.” Andarne looked up from his work. “Theherders? You mean Ents? I had heard tales…are you sure they will not hinder me?” Losdirith nodded, approvingly. He had the utmost respect and confidence in his pupil. “Let it not rest ill on your mind, go forth free and proud. You will reach the Western lands soon enough; and I am sure Lord Elrond will wish you well company.” Andarne grinned. Elrond was known amongst the Galadhrim. ‘Half-elven’, he was called. ‘Forebear’, by others; for his ability to see events that would come to pass. Andarne looked forward to meeting him.

On the third day of the week, Andarne stood at the gates. Many of his friends came to wish him well; and bless his journey. Many goodbyes were given, some shed a tear; mainly those that had cared for him when his mother was abroad, or those that thought he would not return. “Be safe, pupil. Go where your feet take you, and let the Light of Lórien guide you homeward whence your journey ends” said one Elf-maiden, hooded and cloaked. From the shadows, she stepped and cast aside her veil. Galadriel, it was! All present bowed. Up to Andarne, she walked. “Arise, subject. Friend. Your father I knew and your mother. The journey you take will have the hopes of us all, on your shoulders. For ease of heart, it must be done. Take what time you need, and return only when ready or in the direst of need! Farad vaer! My friend!” spoke the Lady of Caras Galadhon. Andarne bowed his head, and turned on his heels. The bridge was ahead, and beyond that the many-miles path (which the Elves called it). "Andarne", came Galadriel's voice from behind him. "Hither shalt thou come, and in haste; for within thy heart, great pride thou shalt bear. Let that time come, not in haste like thou shalt. But in my Garden, you will findeth peace." Nodding, he took his first step; into the unknown.

((Here, the tale progresses a further twenty years. Andarne has all but forgotten his home, and his people; and lives as a traveller of lands))

The road was rough and long. There were many holes in it. Stone slabs littered the landscape of Rohan, the Riddermark. Andarne wondered how they could survive this intense land. It was barren. It reminded him, somewhat, of the tales of Angband, of Morgoth. But he put these to the back of his mind. Many miles had passed. He had walked so many. It was....an interesting venture. But he enjoyed the landscape. It was beautiful, to a degree.

Leaping forth, bow in hand, Andarne ran towards the source of the trouble. Atop a hill, he glanced a crowd of Orcs, beating an Elderly human, to the brink. “Not fit for sport, this one is, I thinks!” shouted one. “Yes! Lets make us a stew with his eyes!” said another. They were too busy squabbling, and pulling the Man to his feet when he tried to escape, that the arrows rushing towards them were just background noise. Swift, they flew. Swift, fell their targets. The Orcs, were no more. And the Human, he fell to his feet and wept.

Andarne jogged towards the Human. He was in a fit of tears. So glad to be alive, but wishing to die all the same. Andarne could sense, that he was not so near the end, as he thought. “Be so not foolish, in your wishes, friend. Of do I name you Gun Ain? The one with No-name? Tell me! And arise, so that I might tend your injuries” spoke Andarne, his tone clearly saying he knew the Human was not dying. “I—I am Leofwine. In our tongue, it means ‘Dear friend’. I owe you that much, my savior!” he said, to Andarne. At this, he fell once again to his knees, weeping. Andarne knelt, and pulled from his satchel, a small vial of Miruvor, the beveridge of the Elves.

At once, Leofwine drank it; for he was thirsty. “My—my thanks, friend. But you have me at a disadvantage. For I know naught of your name” he said, in the common tongue. Andarne replied, in his own; “Im Andarne o Lórien.” Clearly, Leofwine was confused. He obviously spoke little Sindarin, for the people of Rohan were simple; and not oft educated in foreign languages. “I—your name, it is Andarne, yes?” he asked. Andarne nodded, slightly. Leofwine pondered. From what he did know, he conjured “Long beside water…” Andarne grinned, his name-meaning was guessed correctly.