The crimson cloak streamed off to the side, swaying in unison with the boughs overhead as a gentle breeze swept through the forest. A clear, azure sky was seen through scattered openings in the canopies, and the sun slowly reached its zenith. Everything looked familiar, yet, it all felt different, as if a stirring had formed in the Great Sea and caused a rippling affect that spread over the land.
There was something familiar about the disturbance that settled over the world. The Marchwarden had felt it before, when he threat from the South had been great and troublesome. That had been a past age, when all had almost fallen under the dominion of the Dark Lord. Such time was dark, indeed, but the Marchwarden accepted such times as a part of his life, and that he was to never forget about it.
The Lady of the Golden Wood had brought troubling news to her people, and all were dismayed. Even the Marchwarden had felt his hope diminish like his kin to the West; did they have strength enough to challenge the Dark Lord again? Although he hated to admit it, the Dark Lord was a cunning being whose thirst for violence and suffering had led to his downfall. Could it happen again?
Although peace had not fully settled over the land, it had been an improvement from such dark times. It seemed the world was beginning to heal from the destruction caused by the Dark Lord's minions, and now the wounds were to be torn asunder once again. The Marchwarden was confident in the resilience of his kinsmen, of his Lord and Lady and of his cousins in other realms, but his heart doubted Man. The greed of Isildur foretold the doom of Men.
Do not allow your heart to give in to doubt, a soft but powerful essence swept into his mind. Hope always fades before it grows, again. Always is the last hour of the night the darkest.
The Marchwarden bowed his head; the words of the Lady were comforting. His Lord and Lady were wise beings, and were the greatest contributors to the Galadhrim's prosperity. Never had the stirring of war been heard amongst his people since the march for the Dagorlad, under the rule of Amdír and later his son Amroth. The Marchwarden recalled the Lords, strong-willed and good rulers, yet impatient and hot-tempered. Thus was the doomed fate of Amdír.
Such brashness made the Marchwarden think that all was lost, that the Dark Lord could master the minds of the peoples and completely dominate them. He remembered the fear when such notion first entered his head, and as he stood amongst his fellow Galadhrim on that fateful day, he looked upon Barad-dûr with dread and wondered what evil would emit from there.
"You are troubled, brother," the voice from behind brought the Marchwarden from his bleak thoughts. Turning, he found a familiar face looking at him with an expression of concern. Orophin was said to be a spitting image of the Marchwarden, and clearly the latter took pride in that. It made the Marchwarden think; Elrond and his twin Elros were similar in features, but their bond was doomed when the Lord of Imladris remained an Elf and his brother took the title 'Tar-Minyatur' of Númenor. There were also Elrond's sons, the twins Elladan and Elrohir, who were considered close to the Marchwarden. Were they destined for doom as their father?
"All is well, muindor," said the Marchwarden, placing his hand on Orophin's shoulder. "Brooding on old memories can make one grim."
"Especially when such memories were filled with pain and suffering," said Orophin.
The Marchwarden nodded, he nearly lost his life on the Battle Plains after a stray arrow had struck his arm and the Orc-poison had swept over his body like a great tide. The fever state he had fallen into had kept him from celebrating the downfall of the Dark Lord with the survivors.
"Remember the past, but do not brood upon it," continued Orophin. He had said this countless times to his brother, yet there were times when the Marchwarden failed to heed his advice. "Come, Haldir, the camp is nearly complete and many of the wardens are preparing their meals."
Haldir nodded and let his hand fall from his brother's shoulders. It was their last day on the marches, and he looked forward to the splendor of his home.
Laurelindórenan, Land of the Valley of Singing Gold, truly sang to him.
*********
Great Sea- the Sundering Sea, west of Middle-Earth
Tar-Minyatur- 'High first-ruler' title of Elros, first King of Númenor
Laurelindórenan- Quenya name for Lothlorien
