Imlad Drifts Chapter 1 - The Long Day
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Clouds from the mountains drifted high in the blue sky. Gold leaves on linden, beech and aspen, swayed and fluttered in a cool breeze.
A farewell lament was continuing into the fair morning. For tears fell a'plenty. The last of a long company had just crossed the bridge following the leaders slowly up the secret meandering trail out of Imladris. It was a procession which had already been leaving for more than two hours.
The last of the soft blues, greys, browns and woodland greens would soon disappear before descending to the Fords of Bruinen. There was perhaps only another half hour before all were gone. Most of the horses had long gone. Galadriel and Glorfindel, Gildor and others of the House of Finarfin had already passed beyond sight, though their minds still brushed those remaining, offering love, courage and more than a little regret. Now, it was mainly a last blended range of Sindar and Silvan folk on foot: fletchers, chandlers, minstrels, weavers, smiths, ropers, tanners, flintknappers and carvers, carrying packs for the next part of their long journey. For many, leaving the Greenwood or Lothlorien a few weeks before had been both their first and their last sojourns in the wider lands. The sea longing may now be upon them, driving their leaving, but the sense of bewilderment was still there. They now looked forward to an island and maybe a continent with which they were utterly unfamiliar.
It was Elrond, the founder of this place, who stayed to the end. On foot, leading his great dark grey unsaddled charger, he took last place. On the Bridge, he turned, and cast his gaze upon those assembled in front of the house he had built, so long ago. Then, kneeling deeply upon the bridge, he kissed the stones, looked up and flashed a bright smile, as always kind as summer. But there was more than one sad tear in his eye. Then, leaping full upon his horse, he trotted after the last, making sure all who were taking on the burden of leaving did not stray.
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For the days of small companies, secretly seeking the havens, were over. The greatest mass exodus of elves from middle-earth since the beginning of the Third Age was in full swing.
For the last fortnight, the valley of Imladris had been crowded with more than half the population of Lothlorien, many from the Greenwood and even a few from outlying villages, hidden vales and secret coves across Eriador. But the tents and small fires and the sounds of nearly a thousand whinnying horses were gone.
Celeborn stood at the front of those remaining, flanked by his grandsons, joining in the farewell. Along with the varied voices, his lifted up, to do final honour to the people who had worked to sustain viable communities in the gathering dark of the last several thousand years.
Eventually as the sun passed to noon, they saw Elrond in his blue mantle ascend the last climb and then, as he sat upon his horse on the far ridge, he held his arm aloft. Even in the full autumn sunlight, the blue flash that came was startling. Then, he turned and disappeared from view. The founder of this precious valley of healing and learning was gone. And those remaining few knew that the last of Vilya's remaining power had now been expended. They could feel it settling across the valley and soaking into the ground and the trees... momentarily their own hearts felt lighter, if that were possible in the midst of such grief.
But Celeborn knew that whilst it would be a long wind down and that the residual effect would linger over the coming winter months, the full intensity of Vilya's last outpouring could not last. The power of the Rings was over. Time was about to sweep them all away.
The last blended folk of Lorien and Imladris and a bare handful from Lindon and the Greenwood, there assembled, stirred and looked at each other. Less than a hundred. All had elected to remain for the time being. All with different purposes, but one thing in common. They were now the wardens of the Last Homely House and the deep valley which surrounded it.
And there they stood silently, long into the day, until the sun had sunk, and the stars winked, each in their own deep wells of memory. But all still in the present, bright eyes reflecting the moving dome of stars, drifting as fast as time itself.
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