The Marchwarden
He sits high in the silver tree listening to the cacophony of the forest. Leaves rustling, the scurrying of the mice and squirrels underfoot, the gentle sway of the branches as the wind passes through them. The crickets, raising their harmony in a timeless song – a memorial to the never-ending spring of the woodland. The happy gurgle of a meandering brook, tirelessly moving over the smooth stones, on a journey that will never end. Ever aware, he surveys his forest for any and all intruders of his Lady's realm.
His duty.
His brothers sit beside him, engaging him with the comfortable banter that only siblings of a millennia can do. He smiles tolerantly at their antics, knowing that they, and they only, would dare to engage him in such a manner. Their spirit is the spirit of the eldar, the spirit of Arda itself.
His devotion.
The stillness of the night, disturbed by the raucus laughter and stench of Morgoth's spawn. Stamping through the underbrush, grunting obscene language, bragging of the elves they took that night. Slowly they are approaching, mocking all that he holds precious. Soon they will face…
His fury.
Her hair, as fine as the silken strands of a spiders web and as soft as the finest silk. The colors are a combination of golden honey and sunlight. Her skin, smoother than the finest porcelain that the artisans could produce. He loves her smell, the fresh scent of lilacs and lilies in the early morning dew. She is life itself, the best half of him, openly sharing her joy and love with him. Ever present in body and mind, his Laurelith.
His passion.
Proud and noble, he sits high in the silver tree listening to the cacophony of the forest. Ever mindful of his life, he knows that he is a part of Arda, knows that life is precious and fleeting if not appreciated and protected. Always vigilant, he surveys his forest for any and all intruders of his Lady's realm. It is who and why he is…
The Marchwarden.