Aurandel

Lothlorien had been beautiful. The golden Mallorns were a balm to Envandiel’s soul as she sat under their ancient beauty. Galadriel was a gracious host, and the journey with the Eledhrim of Aurandel and Airingil had been healing. 

“Have you any duties in the valley, my lady?” 

Envandiel stepped from the Hall of Fire and let the door slam shut, her cheeks hot with Noldorin fury. The cold air outside the last Homely House hit her face and she drew her cloak tighter as she walked towards home. 

The westward path before them was strewn with leaves, the white trunks and trembling branches above them dropping their burdens all around. The sky was a dark, stormy grey, and Airingil watched it with the same joy that she watched all around her. The wind stirred the painted leaves around them, and lifted her husband's heavy cloak sending it flapping against her skirts. She looked up again, expectantly.