Me and my friends are resting deep in the valley of Anduin, near the borders of the Mirkwood and my thoughts wander back to another wood, to Lothlorien. Thoughts going through the event that transpired and separated me from my friends for a brief time, while we stayed there. As I close my eyes, light at heart, the memories come flowing like a blue clear stream.
It’s late, but the light and nature's color tells me the night is drawing towards dawn. As I enjoy the dwindling stars slowly march high above me, enlightened by the fresh spring air, I sense the guardians before I see them. The firstborn have finally arrived.
I look around at my friends who rest peacefully near the fire, still undisturbed by the presence of my tutors. But why should they stir in their sleep? There is nothing out there that would wish them harm. Or at least nothing as long as the elves are watching and guarding us.
I slowly rise, being careful not to make any noise that can wake up my traveling companions, and stroll silently towards our watchers. My feets create no sounds, even if I step on old leaves and brittled branches laying on the forest floor. As I get near, one of them reveals himself in the darkness, dressed in beautiful garbs matching the land around us and with an elegant sword pointed towards me. “Daro” he says in a stern, but low commanding voice.
As I respond to his command and halt my advance, he lowers the sword somewhat, before he speaks again, but this time in westron. “Why are we called here by music and a song in a language that is hard and stern as the mountains, but still rich and rolling, reminding us of the sadness of mortal men?”* he pauses, before he continues with a soft whispering voice.“Why have the rohirrim come to the golden forest?”
“It's the lesser of many dangerous paths to Erebor and not one taken lightly.” I reply in a low hushed voice.
The elf in front of me sheaths his sword in one smooth elegant movement, before he steps closer, his eyes measuring me. “So you consider Lothlorien a dangerous path for your people, horse rider?” Why is that?” “Do you fear the witch of the golden forest, as many of your kin do?” he asks sternly.
I stand my ground as the elven warrior is challenging me with his duality of strength and wisdom. “No. I fear the enlightenment and the tranquility the golden leaves bestow its guests.” I replied.
The elf suddenly looked baffled by my response and tense up, so I quickly continued. “Im Duncadda and once I was allowed to stay in Lothlorien for a time, with your peoples blessing. For me this was a long time ago, but the memory of those times still feels like yesterday and with them, the sorrows of longing to return are kept fresh.”
“I fear that this endless sorrow of longing to dwell under the golden leaves, will not even be erased by death.” “In that regard, Lothlorien is indeed a dangerous path to walk.”
The elf stays silent for a long time, scrutinizing me and my words, before he finally replies. “I know of you, Duncadda.I see our gifts in you, that you are attuned with nature, good perceptions and even wise for your kin. My heart sings to see that lesser men can achieve such, even in these times.”
He pauses, before continuing with a more grave voice. “Sadly I also see darkness within you, where you could fill it with light instead.” I bow my head, surrendering to the judgment. “Your name is still fated to you Duncadda, but not to the external struggles with the dark ones minions, as you might think.”
He reaches out with his hand and places it under my chin, to tilt my head up so I can stare into his eyes filled with stars and the dark reflection of me. “Your battles are within and with yourself. Heavily scarred you are in such regard, scarred by the experience of family and friends butchered by the Yrch’s in your youth.” He suddenly radiated a smile. “Let's see if we can remedy that and fill you with light.”
He seems to straighten up somewhat and I notice he is using hand signals unknown to me, to somebody. “You and your friends are granted passage and while you all are travelers through our lands, let the elves and Lindòriand lift your spirits.”
He beckoned me to follow him, but as I turned my head towards my sleeping friends, he said: “Let them rest. We will watch over them and when the time is right, you will be reunited under the golden leaves.”
The elf departs into the forest shadows, but turns around addressing me, since I linger at the same spot. “Come, come child of darkness, when you meet your friends again, you will all be lighter at heart.” As I start to follow him, I see more of his kindred watching us silently in the deep shadows. Shadows with promises of light.
* I have borrowed some of the words from this reference and rearranged them somewhat in the story.
In LotR2/III ch. 6, when Aragorn and Legolas were approaching the Golden Hall of Rohan, Aragorn recited a poem in an alien tongue. "That, I guess, is the language of the Rohirrim," the Elf commented, "for it is like to this land itself; rich and rolling in part, and else hard and stern as the mountains. But I cannot guess what it means, save that it is laden with the sadness of Mortal Men."
