Feveren lay naked upon the grassy bank of the River Lhûn, basking in the warm rays of spring sunshine that glimmered through the young leaves and fell gleaming onto his wet skin and dripping hair. Nearby a brook babbled merrily along its stony bed before splashing into the river shallows; long he lay and hearkened to its song, while in the boughs above Glavror joined his cheerful voice with the music of the streaming water. From further along the riverbank came the contented grunts and squeals of Gwedal as he rolled in a favourite mud wallow, and the elf-lad smiled at the memory of their meeting in this very place little more than a fortnight before. The promise of warmer climes had given wings to the great boar's feet, and he had surely earned his name "Wind Foot"!

   They had ridden forth from Thorin's Gate at first light, and now at last the cold snow-covered slopes of the Vale of Thráin lay far behind. Indeed, beneath Gwedal's sturdy hooves the fifteen leagues downhill from the Dwarven-city had passed swiftly by, for they did not tarry at Noglond or Gondamon, and thus Feveren and his companions came to the outskirts of Duillond ere the sun passed noon. First and foremost the elf-lad had washed off the stains of travel in the welcoming waters of the wide river, and now he and his clothes lay drying in the warm sunlight. His mind turned to his road ahead.
   The young Green-elf was glad to have now seen the mighty mansions of Durin's Folk, despite the distress he had endured in those deep-dolven halls (and the endless cold of the Northern Ered Luin, so unlike the friendly green mountains of the southern range!) Yet he had almost forgone the journey north, and thus he wondered if rejecting the road to Lake Evendim would be likewise a mistake. But doubt lay heavy on his heart, for no tidings of that realm of Men had come to the elf-havens since the fall of Angmar a thousand years before. Or not to the elves and dwarven folk with whom he had spoken, at least, and he wondered if perhaps the great and the wise knew better?

*      *      *

    Once Feveren was dried and dressed the sun was westering. The leafy boughs above rustled in the warm wind that had risen in the south, and it ruffled his hair as it carried aloft the words of the song he softly sang. The sounds of the great boar rooting hungrily between the trees made the elf-lad's belly growl, and he thus gave thought to foraging himself. And so his footsteps brought him to the great open kitchen of Duillond, where he charmed an elven-cook with a merry smile and was blessed with a platter of sweet fruit-rolls and a flagon of rich red wine.
    And, after breaking his fast, it was Feveren's thought to revisit the Scholar's Enclave nearby, which had been before a welcome refuge within the elf-city, and a seemingly endless hoard of wisdom and local lore. But as he swung open the familiar doors it did not enter his mind that the elven library might be already occupied.
    
   In the same chair which Feveren had for days ensconced himself, an unknown High-elf sat bent over a pile of papers on the tabletop before him, running his fingers through his long unkempt hair. He was richly robed in cobalt blue trimmed with azure, but upon his brow he wore an anxious frown.
   He looked up sharply as the doors clicked closed behind Feveren. His eyes were bright and his swift glance pierced the young Green-elf,¹ who felt suddenly abashed: for in his haste, he had forgotten to clad himself in the robe of Thavroniel and thus conceal his ragged woodland garb. But the strange elf paid no heed, nor did he rise in greeting.
   'You have heard of my puzzle?' he asked suddenly. His voice had the vain drawl of the self-important.
   'Alas, I have not!' answered Feveren in surprise.
   'I do not know why I cannot discover the solution,' the elf cried, ignoring him. 'I, who have studied the arts of flame and ash, and the mysteries of cinders and coal!'
   'Perhaps you should instead bend your mind to the living arts of earth and water and air?' Feveren remarked, and the High Elf ceased his ranting. With arched brow and a keen eye he studied the elf-lad standing in the doorway. A smile slowly crossed his face.
   'Forgive me, kinsman from the southern forest, I thought you were someone else!' he said at last. 'I am Isferon, a most learned lore-master, and to my mind your rustic woodland arts are much too dull. But on the movements of fire, perhaps, I could teach you something, for with the dancing flames I am unmatched!' His frown returned. 'Yet this puzzle evades my understanding! I await true masters of lore to heed my summons hither.'
   Feveren laughed gaily, and wandered down to the table. It stood in the middle of the round room, where the soft light shone brightest in the gloom. 'I am Feveren, and plainly I am no lore-master! ,' he said, pointing out his ragged gear. 'But now my curiosity is kindled, and although I am not one of the lofty minds for whom you await, will you not share your tale with me in the meantime?'
   Isferon leant back in his chair with a resigned sigh. 'My friend Berenin despaired of Middle-earth and sailed West some time ago,' he said. 'He left me three small boxes, and said that when I was able to solve the riddles he left in my possession, I would be able to open them. I grieve that Berenin has gone and would learn what secrets he has left to me, but I am unable to determine the solution of the riddles!'
   'A merry jest! What are the riddles three?' asked Feveren, and Isferon with a sneer slid a scrap of parchment across the tabletop. Written in elven-letters with a fair hand, the elf-lad read:

"She runs through the blue, the shadow of passage falls over her. On one hand, a silent guardian."

"Fierce goblins are remembered, but better still: a mighty swing! No Man, he."

"The man left his horse so he could walk half a day towards the sun and half a day away from the sun. When he arrived, they couldn't close the window."²

   Bewildered, Feveren shrugged and shook his head. 'Nay, I have not the skill to understand these,' he looked at Isferon with a wry smile. 'Indeed only one with a noble mind, and eyes that look both deep and far, could ever hope to unravel them!' He laughed merrily. 'Alas that I am not such a one, for I have but lately begun my travels and have seen little of the wide world. Verily, it is my purpose here to learn of lands unknown to me.' His smile faded. 'But you spoke of your friend who sailed into the West. The pain of parting I well understand!'
   'Yea, this is the burden we Firstborn all must bear, even ones of slender years it seems.'
   'But Fethurin, my friend, was loath to cross the Sea, yet Berenin chose his course willingly. Wherefore did he despair of fair Middle-earth ere he departed?'
   'The doom of Elvenkind, what else?' Isferon replied tersely, and he looked hard at Feveren's face in disbelief. 'Surely even your people know of the grievous fading of our kindred?'
   'Indeed we speak of the Fading Years, and the waning of the Elves in the world,' Feveren replied. 'It grieves my heart that I needs must one day forsake the wonder and beauty of Middle-earth, but ever has it been been the desire of my people to one day complete the Great Journey.'
   'Ah,' said Isferon, 'you misunderstand me, young one. That our kindred should be supplanted by the Aftercomers is indeed a cause for grief,³ but I speak not of the Dominion of Men in the afterdays.'
   'What then is this new riddle?'
   'It is wisdom that the Light-elves learnt in the Blessed Realm, and brought with them into exile ere the rising of the Moon and Sun.' He studied Feveren anew, with his bright eyes narrowed. 'In this meeting there may be more than chance; but the purpose is not clear to me, and I fear to say too much.’⁴
   'Say not chance,' laughed the young elf. 'Fate has drawn my footsteps to this place, and that is purpose enough for me!'
   'Very well,' Isferon agreed after a moment of thought. 'In the Elven-tongue of old we speak of fëa and hröa; know you of these?'
   'Aye,' Feveren nodded, 'spirit and body.'
   'Or more precisely, the indwelling spirit and the bodily form of an incarnate being... a deep notion better suited to the high tongue,' the lore-master chided. 'What more?'
   'I know that each, er... fëa is imperishable within the life of Arda, and thus its doom is to inhabit the world to its end,' Feveren replied. 'Likewise our bodies, er ... hröar, once full-grown, endure ever on and on.'
   'And that would indeed be true, save for the ancient taint of Morgoth and its stain upon the earth that sustains us. Arda Hastaina we named it of old: Arda Marred. Now only in the Blessed Realm do elven fëar and hröar grow apace, undimmed.'⁵
   'Speak plainly, if you can!' said Feveren.
   'Well, to put it plainly,'replied the High-elf haughtily, 'our elven bodies indeed grow older but very slowly, even in blessed Valinor. But here in the Hither Lands our lives are quickened and our bodies age more swiftly.'⁶
   'And so?' asked the young elf, with a shrug of his shoulders. 'Our lives are yet long beyond imagining, and it seems to most eyes that I do not age swiftly enough!'.'
   Isferon gave a petulant sigh. 'Slowly the rule of our spirits over our bodies is diminished,' he explained, 'but the power of our fëar ever grows, until in the tides of Time our bodies are utterly consumed by the fire of our spirit! The body fades away to naught and the incarnate spirit is set forever free, but it is also forever exiled from the Blessed Realm. This is the doom from which we fly! We must depart into the West, or dwindle to a rustic folk of dell and cave, slowly to forget and to be forgotten.' ⁷
   Feveren scratched his chin thoughtfully. 'Living as a free fae that haunts the trees and flowers unseen seems to me a merry end!'
   'You are not of the Avari, are you?' Isferon asked in alarm, and Feveren laughed and shook his head. 'But still a Telar,⁸ no doubt, so perhaps a fitting end,' the High-elf muttered, examining his fingernails. For a moment he sat silent, then continued his speech.
   'You speak of an end, but it is not an end. It is neverending! And you would live ever on in the long ages of Men that are yet to come.' He heaved a bitter sigh. 'Men! who have thus far proven to have less and less love for Arda, and are in the main destroying the world in their vain attempt to dominate it.'³ The High-elf's face grew grim. 'I forebode that even your trees and the flowers will one day face grave peril!' he said.

   Following these words the young Green-elf sat in silent thought. He knew in his heart that one day he and his kin would complete the Great March and forever leave Middle-earth; besides, in Tol Eressëa awaited Fethurin. But to his thought that day lay far away: he was young and his heart was keen, his spirit unburdened by long memory and sorrow, unlike these gloomy High-elves keening for the glory-days of old.
   'Know you of Elrond, Lord of Rivendell?' Isferon asked suddenly, breaking his thought.
   'Aye,' Feveren answered with a start. 'His name is in many songs, for he abode in Lindon with Gil-galad ere the sack of Eregion. He is renowned among us as a great healer and lore-master.'
   'I have but lately returned myself from the house of Elrond in Rivendell -- O! if only I had known of the puzzle of Berenin before! -- but by mischance my journey brought me nigh Fornost Erain, that men once grandly named Norbury of the Kings. Now for long years they have called it "Deadmen's Dike", for that mighty city of Men is but a ruin, and upon the North Downs the mounds raised for the dead are overrun with wights and orcs and wargs. Angmar stirs again, I deem, and I did not go near!
   'On the southern shores of Lake Nenuial, I was told, Annúminas, Tower of the West, lies also in ruin. The Dúnedain of the North are grim and hardy and they yet endure, but they live secretly and their kindred dwindles. So much for the Dominion of good Men!'
   'O!' Feveren exclaimed, 'Fate it was that led my footsteps hither, I said, and so has fate brought to me the very tidings that I sought! I do not fear the shades of Men, but I have no wish to meet them!'
   
   Isferon nodded wisely with his long fingers steepled before his lips. 'Whither do you go, young wood-elf?' he asked. 'What indeed is your purpose?'
   Feveren sighed inwardly. So he was to be but another riddle to amuse the great mind of this "most learned lore-master"? 'Let us play a different game,' he thought.
   'I know not,' he said obtusely.
   'In your mind you have neither aim nor end?' smirked the lore-master.
   'Well, I aimed to break my fast, and in the end I broke it.' He gave a small burp, and grinned. 'Very well, indeed!'
   'I mean, you but wander heedlessly hither and thither in the world?'
   'I but follow my feet.'
   Isferon glanced down at the elf-lad's bare feet, and he wiggled his toes merrily at the lore-master.
   'And my feet follow their fate.' He did a little dance on the carpet.
   Startled, the High-elf looked up at Feveren's face and the elf-lad winked a bright eye. Isferon's brow creased again in a frown, and he opened his mouth to speak stern words. But speech did not come; instead he chuckled, then barked a laugh.
   'Well played!' he exclaimed. 'A deft jab at my pride and haughtiness, was it? Indeed I take myself seriously, but such is the path of the earnest lore-master.'
   'Do you mean to say that if you do not, then nobody will?' laughed Feveren.
   Isferon looked shrewdly at the young elf. 'Now that I learn your mind, I shall pardon your boldness,' he said with false grace. 'Your wit is keener than your looks!'
   'I shall take the compliment,' said Feveren with a bow, 'but also I must take my leave. Fare you well, Isferon, Master of Lore!'

   As the elf-lad left the Enclave, another tall elf hurriedly brushed passed him with a disdainful glance, and strode importantly through the open doorway.
   'You have heard of my puzzle?' he heard Isferon ask, and their voices began to caw like a pair of proud old crows in a treetop, fading as he walked away.

*      *      *

1. "In general the Sindar appear to have very closely resembled the Exiles, being dark-haired, strong and tall, but lithe. Indeed they could hardly be told apart except by their eyes; for the eyes of all the Elves that had dwelt in Aman impressed those of Middle-earth by their piercing brightness. For which reason the Sindar often called them Lachend, pl. Lechind 'flame-eyed'."
-  The War of the Jewels, "Quendi and Eldar: The Clan-names..."

2. Quest: A Lore-master's Will

3. "The Elves find their supersession by Men a mystery, and a cause of grief; for they say that Men, at least so largely governed as they are by the evil of Melkor, have less and less love for Arda in itself, and are largely busy in destroying it in the attempt to dominate it."
   - Morgoth's Ring, Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth, Note 7

4. Gildor Inglorion in The Fellowship of the Ring, "Three is Company"

5. "But in Aman, since its blessing descended upon the hröar of the Eldar, as upon all other bodies, the hröar aged only apace with the fëar, and the Eldar that remained in the Blessed Realm endured in full maturity and in undimmed power of body and spirit conjoined for ages beyond our mortal comprehension."
   - Morgoth's Ring, "Myths Transformed: Aman"

6. "The Quendian rate originally corresponded to the Valian and it so remained in Aman. But by each act or choice which as it were allied the Quendi, or any group of them, more closely with “Arda Marred”, the rate of “growth” became quicker (for the tendency towards physical decay was increased)."
   - The Nature of Middle-earth, "Time-scales and Rates of Growth"

7. Galadriel in The Fellowship of the Ring, "The Mirror of Galadriel"

8. "The Ñoldor indeed asserted that most of the 'Teleri' were at heart Avari, and that only the Eglain [Falathrim] really regretted being left in Beleriand."
   - The War of the Jewels, "Quendi and Eldar: The Clan-names..."

* Some of the NPC dialogue is taken verbatim from the game, with slight embellishment. *

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