The War of the Ring was won.
A bittersweet victory, it was. But Middle-Earth was finally cleansed of the dark taint of the Dark Lord and his minions.
The Fourth Age had begun.
The Third Age was fast becoming history.
And along it, the race of elves.
With their dwindling numbers and diminishing power, their influence in Middle-Earth was lessening.
And so was their hold on the world.
Of all the fair elven realms in Middle-Earth, Lothlorien was the first to fall to decay. For the power wielded by the Lady was great, and the loss of it was a devastating blow. Never again shall the golden leaves of mallorn trees fall at spring, carpeting the forest ground with gold while new green buds unfurl into tender leaves. The silvery barks of the trees were slowly dulling into a lifeless gray.
The former inhabitants of the woods had moved on, to the West or to the northern elven realms. All that was left was desolation.
Rivendell was the second to loss its beauty and charm. The power (of Vilya) that once hid the valley and made it a safe haven for the lost and the weary was no more. Its Lord had sailed for the West, most of his people with him. With none left to care for the place, the gardens, once famous for their vivid lively designs, had become overgrown with weeds. Vines covered the walls and the lovely stone sculptures. But traces of the elves still remained in the elegant structure of the buildings, the finely carved walkways, and the very air one breathed. The elves might be gone, but the land still remembered.
Eryn Lasgalen, formerly Mirkwood, formerly Eryn Galen, was the least affected by the turn of Age. With the shadow of Dol Guldur lifted from its south, the forest was green again. Life slowly but steadily returned to the southern woodlands. Birds now chirped at tree tops. Animals, small and large alike, moved freely through the forest. Still, the benevolent presence of elves had been greatly reduced. The elves who remained in the forest had become secretive. Most had gradually faded from human eyes.
Perhaps one day, a brave, adventurous young man will explore these lands.
In a moonless night, he might camp under the stars in Lothlorien, the soft breeze of spring bringing hazy dreams of a time long past, of graceful ethereal creatures dancing beneath trees. During summer, he might dine in the house of Elrond, where echoes of peace and healing still remained to sooth his weary soul. He might even venture to Eryn Lasgalen, to seek the hidden elves. And deep in the forest, he might glimpse a shadow where none should be, or catch a faint sound of elven horns in the wind…
He might be a Gondorian. He might be a Rohanian. Or he might be one of the Ranger descendants from the north. And with every footprint, every mark he left on his travels, he represented only one thing - the age of Men had come, and the stewardship of Middle-Earth was in the hands of men.