Moonlit Reflection
There it is.
There is the cursed white city that stole my son from me—him and his graying Man! I tell him to go to Rivendell and win the heart of the Evenstar, and what does he do? Runs of with a herd of Men and half-pints—a dwarf, even!—and loses his immortality to the shaggiest of them all.
Not that he would have had much of a chance with Undomiel. If I'm to believe what they've been saying, she's as cross-eyed as my son—taking up residence with that Lady of Rohan everyone keeps talking about. See how long the family line lasts, then, I tell you!
But that's not my concern. No—whether or not Elrond is writing in his bower in the Blessed Realm, I neither know nor care. But my son—my mortal son—he is my problem. My one, my only son, and look what he's done! Did he ask my consent? Did he even tell me? No, of course not, because he knew what I would say. Foolery to throw away immortal life for the love of a ragamuffin of a Man! Nonsense! A waste of fine elf!
Wait until the moon is down. Then we'll see who pulls the skin over whose eyes in this family. The Prince of Mirkwood, forsaking life and title for this! "The time of the elves is drawing to a close"…you think folk like my son are helping the situation? No, he may be mortal, but I intend to set him to rights. Men are weak; weak and trusting enough to miss a flash in the dark, a shadow behind the curtain. And if my son catches it, so much the better. I should hope that he has that much elf left in him, and I will use that to my advantage. Consorting with the likes of…king or no, it's an outrage. Just wait till the moon is down.
Look at this land! Sparse plains and mountains with a token scattering of trees—not a great elm or oak in sight! Nothing within fifty miles of here can compare to the glory of the Mirkwood, with its secret trails and hidden glens belonging to the ancients of the forest. The palace hewn of rock, the river coursing silently through the trees, has he forgotten them? What of the whisper of beech leaves in midsummer, the garland of stars hanging from maples on a winter's eve? What has happened to my son that he forgets the very land the birthed him?
I'll tell you what happened to him. It's that city, so white under the moon—that city and the cursed king who rules it. Oh but wait, not even that! I am told that the sniveling wretch doesn't even rule his own kingdom, that he lets the reins of power fall into the hands of a woman! Two women, no less: Undomiel and her wench. Meanwhile the supposed "king" is out cavorting around with my son, my son…
Patience, patience. If there is one thing we elves have learned from our dealings with men is that patience with them always pays off. They spend their lives flitting from one frantic occupation from another, desperate to make a lasting image on a world they barely get a chance to know, while we persist for time eternal, waiting.
I can wait. Wait till the moon is down.