All right...I have been absent from this tale for almost a year. Do forgive me. So, onward...

Gandalf had, at first, refused in horror when Círdan had led forth the little white mare from the stables at Imladris. But Círdan had only laughed and placed the reins into Gandalf's unwilling hands. Faelwen had been Círdan's steed for a good ten years before he had presented her to Gandalf, and the wizard had openly marveled at the horse's agility time and again. Gandalf had often thought (with no small amount of regret) that he ought to have tempered his astonished wonder at the sight of one of the Mearas stabled amongst the common stallions and ponies of Rivendell. Círdan was not one who held anything too dear to be given to those he loved; if anything, the dearer the treasure, the more joy Círdan found in giving it away.

It might have something to do with the beard, Gandalf mused. Durin was fairly flabbergasted when he set eyes on Círdan and found that elves may grow beards if they so choose.

But at that moment, Gandalf was decidedly glad that Círdan had given Faelwen to him, and that he had accepted her as his companion. She had proved a more faithful horse than any of her predecessors; the latter being the horses who took great pleasure in tossing the wizard into mud-puddles. These horses (many of which Eorl the Young of Rohan had lent him, constantly amused by his many mishaps with the beasts) had been returned to their owners with little explanation as to why Gandalf had found them unsuitable. Círdan, of course, had noticed this, and had made endless jokes at the hapless Istar's expense.

"It is not my fault," Gandalf had grumbled, although his voice had hardly hidden a smile. "I do not see why they toss me into the nearest ditch, but carry you as lightly as if you weighed less than nothing. Perhaps even your Faelwen would decide to hurl me into a pool at the first turning."

"Why do you not try and see?" asked Círdan readily. "If you can ride her well, I shall give her to you."

Furthermore, the wizard was glad to have the little mare as a reminder of his friend. She was, as Círdan had said time and again, a Hasharin-bred horse, born of a Haradaic dam and a Mearas for a sire. This alone had made her near-enough priceless in the old elf's eyes, even before she had become a friend rather than a steed.

Now, as they rode, Faelwen seemed to feel her master's urgency, and the two were making good headway toward Lothlorien. A few leagues away from the borders, Gandalf found that Narya began to grow hot on his palm. Thinking it merely due to the warmth of the day and the warm dampness on his left hand, he pulled it off and slid it deftly onto the third finger of his right hand instead. If anything, it glowed even brighter. Gandalf cast a wary look about the glade. It was true that he was near enough for help to come if there was any trouble, but he could not rest until he was within the border of those great, glimmering trees, and had sought counsel with Galadriel and Celeborn. His brow creased as he remembered the words that Círdan had said many times before his departure to the Havens.

"Olorin, I would not trust Saruman the White with the abandon that you do. Not on my life."

Saruman was hasty; not even Radagast the Brown, immersed as he was in the care of the birds and beasts that livened the woods about Rhosgobel, could deny that. He had all of Radagast's impulsiveness, but none of the tender concern that fueled Radagast's actions; Gandalf had once seen the man rushing about from garret to cellar looking for herbs while telling a baby badger a bedtime tale at the same time. Radagast did not end up finding the required meadowsweet and lemon-balm that day, and he wore a hole in one of the stairs as he dashed hither and yon, but the infant badger had probably had the time of its life.

Yes, Saruman's heart had never rung anything but true to Gandalf, but perhaps Círdan was right; Saruman was not yet ready to know that Narya had passed to Gandalf. He would be sure to think of it as a sort of betrayal, that Cirdan had given the ring to a member of the Order rather than its Head.

"Mithrandir! Mai l'ovannen; gi nathlam hi." Gandalf squinted and saw a young golden-haired elf come springing up the path, his bow on his back. His company seemed to have been reluctant to leave the shade of the trees, and Gandalf smiled widely as he recognized him.

"Haldir Suiadanion! Well met, mellon nin. And are those your two fine brothers, Rumil and Orophin, that I see lingering in the boughs ahead?"

"Pretend you don't notice them, Mithrandir," said the elf, lowering his voice. Gandalf smiled at the sight of him. Haldir had been promoted to the ranking of marchwarden of Lorien a few weeks past, and his voice was still full of the importance of his new task.

"And why is that?" Gandalf handed Faelwen's reins to an elder elleth, who led the mare away to be stabled. It was a quarter-mile walk back to Caras Galadhon, the capital of the city, but Faelwen did not know this; she gazed reproachfully at her master, as if she believed that he had given her away.

"They have not yet mastered Westron, Mithrandir," said Haldir in regret. "Believe me when I say that the tutors labor with them day and night, but neither of them have been able to say so much as, 'The cat chased the mouse and had it for supper.'"

"Ah, but I could converse in Sindarin well enough, could I not?"

"Of course," said Haldir, incling his head. "But Mother wishes them to practice, and I do not wish to cross her and talk to them in Quenya or in the Grey-tongue."

"Has she forbidden the Common Speech to fall upon her younger sons' ears?" Gandalf's eyes snapped in mild amusement, and Haldir broke into a bright, merry laugh.

"Aye, that she has, and it has been nothing but Westron in our company for some days past. The two ellyn have been at their wits' end as to what to do, but our mother simply says that they are past a millennia in years and should be wise enough to bear it and learn honorably."

"An honorable speech," said Gandalf, inclining his head. He had known the trio's mother since she was a young lute-player in the royal house of the Lady of Light, and had known Nithroniel Vaessen well enough to realize that one did not simply refuse her anything she desired. Seemingly, this encompassed far more than the toys and sweets that had taken her fancy in her childhood; this now extended to the upbringing and education of her three errant sons as well. Haldir, the first of the lot, had given his mother little trouble, but Rumil had proved a handful; when Orophin had arrived ninety years later, he had driven poor Nithroniel nearly to her wits' end and forced her to rein in the lot of them, even the gentle Haldir. But the years had granted that elfling joy again when he had been taken as an apprentice to a healer in Lorien's border guard, and Haldir had left home. Now he was the marchwarden, and officially held the highest combat position in the realm.

"Why are you here, Gandalf?" Rumil asked slowly in Sindarin, his dark hair and eyes appearing suddenly a little way beyong Haldir's golden head. "For what have you come? Do you wish to consult the Lady?"

"Indeed I do; she is here, is she not?"

"Three days ago, she set off on a journey to confront the lord Saruman at Isengard and tell him exactly what she has been seeing of late in her dreams. She will be back within a week, as she must, for a whole host of guards rode with her."

"Ah," said Gandalf. "Orophin, would you-"

"It would be a pleasure both to me and to my lord to see you as a guest in our humble house," said Orophin proudly, standing on one leg; it must not be forgotten, after all, that he was quite a young elf.

"Thank you, dear lad."

The company proceeded into Caras Galadhon in silence, and Gandalf was struck nearly dumb by the brillance of the shading lights, which threw dappled shadows wherever they fell. Orophin set up a flet for Gandalf right beside the one he shared with his brother and Father, and the two sat in peaceful quiet until a messengar mounted up to the flet, breathing heavily.

"My lords," he said, snorting in and out through his nose. "Lord Celeborn refuses to speak to anyone but to the Grey Wizard; there is something he wishes to convey to you now, perhaps to save both you and he from losing much."

Gandalf needed no more persuasion; after all, he had journeyed there to speak to Celeborn and the White Lady.

"If you will, Orophin," he said, "inform Lord Celeborn that I have arrived and that I will seek counsel within the next few days.

"And you will go, of course?"

"Talk such as ours is not fit enough for young ears," said Gandalf with a sigh. "Inform Celeborn that I am coming."