A huge thank you goes out to all who have been reading this story so far. Your continued interest has been so heartening and motivating. As always, a special shout-out goes to my reviewers: WickedGreene13, Blue1258, Cricklewood16, Gandalf007, leward1992, Doria Nell, durinsdaughter2469btw, leelee202, SmallLittleCagedBird, Raider-K, fantasticferret, LadyConfidential, AshleyLeigh, mycarnation, Lee-All-The-Way, and twibe.

This one's for you.


CHAPTER XXXV

A LONG AWAITED STROLL

Her clothing had been washed and mended, and the garments looked cleaner than they had in a very long time. In the privacy of her pavilion, Annalyn examined her previously torn sleeve. Whoever had repaired the garment was quite skilled, for the stitching was flawless, and left nearly no trace of the gash she had sustained in battle. Going to a nearby chair, Annalyn donned her boots, and noted that they, too, had been polished to an uncommon shine.

It wasn't that she disliked the sleeping gowns, but after so many days, it felt nice to wear functional garments again. Breeches. Her green vest and her woolen tunic. Her clothes.

Dressed and ready to face the day, she stood again, but instead of heading out into the sunlit morning, Annalyn lingered in the pavilion. Drawn to her pack, she walked over, opened the flap, and peered inside. A rueful smile found its way to her mouth.

The wooden pipe felt light in her hand, the unpolished wood retaining the marks and edges of her uncle's carving knife. It seemed like ages since she had looked upon the memento, and even longer since the night she had lost her kin. Are you at peace? she wondered, not for the first time.

For truth of the matter was, she asked herself this question every single day. Sometimes even in sleep, like last night, when she had dreamt of them. The same dream as before—or very near to it—with the mist and the guttering camp fire, and her loved ones standing in the distance. And just as before, they had vanished, leaving her all alone, until she wasn't anymore.

The Orcs and Wargs always found her in the end. As the creatures prowled in the mist, wreathing her in, the Orcs' vicious laughter would echo in the air. The same for the Wargs' rumbling growls. As if that wasn't terrifying enough, last night's dream had unfurled a bit more, and one of the creatures had pounced. The Warg's open maw had been inches from her face when she had awoken—again with the whispered call of her name.

It was rather baffling, if truth be told, but it was also a dream. "Just a dream," she reminded herself, then tucked the wooden pipe back into her pack.

Annalyn had fastened the flap and was about to leave when her gaze fell on her sword-belt, which someone had thought to hang on the back of a chair.

While there was nothing to fear in this place, she found herself reaching for the belt nonetheless, and debated whether to wear it. In the end, it proved an easy decision. Not only was she in need of training—for the world beyond was perilous and her journey was far from over—but she genuinely missed carrying her sword.

The quiet broken only by the soft clinks of the metal buckle, Annalyn donned her sword-belt, adjusting the prong until the weapon hung comfortably at her hip. It was strange, but just the weight of it made her feel like her old self again. With a lopsided smile, she placed a hand on the protruding hilt, out of habit mostly, and nodded in approval before heading outside. The pose reminded her of Haldir in a way; for he, too, tended to do that when he walked.

A smile ghosting on her lips, Annalyn thought of their plans for today, and how they were going to tour the city together. Since Haldir had business in the armoury, and wouldn't arrive for another little while, she thought she might pass the time in her own way, on her own terms. On a grassy patch, just out of view of the pavilion, Annalyn drew her sword, holding it in front of her before slicing the air in smooth, winding arcs.

It was hard to explain, but the balance combined with the blade's familiar weight was oddly comforting to her; her sword that had saved her hide more than once; a gift from her father; a reminder of where she came from and all she had been through. Inanimate, yes. But something of a friend nonetheless.

As she trained, taking care with her initial movements, Annalyn felt a growing sense of exhilaration. Granted, her joints were stiff. Nevertheless, it felt good to move around like this, to enjoy her newly returned strength. For indeed, she was feeling much better—not quite at full strength, but close enough.

It was high time, too. Ever since she had awoken in that pavilion, nigh on six days ago, Annalyn had done very little except to rest and heal. And while Ithriel seemed more than happy to keep her company, idleness was idleness. It had never been her strong suit. Sensing this, the healer had taken it upon herself to continue with Annalyn's lessons, instructing her not only in Sindarin, but in herbal lore as well.

Of those two things, the latter proved easiest, for Annalyn had always been fascinated with plants. Learning the elven tongue, however…

A most beautiful language, Sindarin was by no means easy to learn. But Annalyn didn't mind. The challenge was the best part, if she was honest. For instead of pondering her woes, her thoughts were often occupied with the strange, velvety words she was trying to memorise.

"There you are. I was wondering where you were hiding."

Annalyn had just pivoted on a lateral stroke when the healer's voice pierced through her concentration. Though a small part of her lamented the timing, Annalyn was not annoyed per say. She liked Ithriel. Like most healers, the Elf was nurturing, if not altruistic at times. But beyond that, she was inquisitive and welcoming, showing a genuine interest in others, including those who were not of her kind. To be sure, Annalyn's days could have been dreadfully dull had it not been for her.

Annalyn sheathed her sword, breathing hard. "I was not hiding, merely stretching. My limbs have grown stiff, I cannot sit all day."

Ithriel, who now stood on the edge of the clearing, pursed her lips in a failed attempt at concealing a smile. "Nay, but what you might do is overexert yourself. You are going for a stroll today, are you not?"

"I am." With Haldir. And she was looking forward to it, too. "But I am well enough to manage both."

Ithriel crossed her slender arms, the flowing sleeves of her dress nearly translucent in the morning sun. "If you say so."

"I know so," Annalyn boasted good-naturedly, and made her way over.

As the two fell into step, heading toward the pavilion, Ithriel glanced sidelong at her. "Your health has improved, it is true." A light shrug followed by a conciliatory smile. "Perhaps you are well enough to do as you like, without a healer hovering about."

As the pavilion came into view, so did the nearby fountain, its gurgling waters just audible over the sound of fluttering leaves.

"Your sword," Ithriel continued at length. "You seem to wield it well."

"I am no soldier of great deeds, but I can fend for myself." As most women of the Mark could. "Do you fight?"

Ithriel lifted a hand. "Nay." Her mirth receded, but her demeanour remained soft. "I preserve life. I do not take it."

"What of fell creatures? Surely, you would not spare an Orc if your own life depended on it."

To her surprise, Ithriel actually gave it some thought. "Stated thusly, perhaps not."

Perhaps?

"But I would not pick up a blade unless I was forced to." As she walked, Ithriel explained that there were two schools of thought among the Elves. Some were both warriors and healers—and highly skilled healers at that. But others, like Ithriel, believed that the act killing diminished one's healing power.

"I understand," Annalyn said, then countered, "Though, I for one would not hesitate. To save myself or those I love." It was not even a question. "The world has fallen into a dark place. We might not wish it, but there are times when one has no other choice. To slay or be slain."

"Haldir said that you were brave."

Her cheeks coloured at the praise.

"He is vigilant by nature, you know. As such, he can be a harsh judge of character. It is no easy feat to befriend him."

Annalyn was uncertain how to respond to that.

"That he sees goodness in you says much about who you are."

"Thus," Annalyn replied, drawing out the word. "If I am to understand, you see goodness in me for the reason that he does?" Her confusion remained, but amusement pulled at her mouth anyway.

"At first," Ithriel answered candidly. "But now I see it clearly for myself. You may call me friend if you wish, for that is how I see you now."

Friends. To tell the truth, Annalyn did not have very many of those. It had a nice ring to it, though. She returned the healer's smile. "I would like that very much."

Delight shone in Ithriel's eyes, until she looked ahead and spotted something in the distance. Not something, Annalyn amended, but someone. Warmth suddenly blossomed in her being.

"Here so soon?" Ithriel shared a conspiratorial look with Annalyn before calling out to Haldir. "I thought you were needed at the armoury this morning."

"I did go to the armoury, but I was able to get away sooner than I thought." Dappled light danced upon his hair and shoulders. As he approached, Haldir acknowledged them both but addressed Annalyn. "I trust you are well enough for our stroll?"

Excitement grew within her, but Annalyn schooled her features and assured him that she was well before turning to Ithriel. "I shall see you this evening?"

Ithriel nodded, but opened the small pouch that hung on her hip. Producing a glass phial, she placed it in Annalyn's hand. "There are many paths and stairs in Caras Galadhon. Should you grow weary, drink this. It will give you strength." With that, she waved a hand. Her features warmed when she said, "Now go. Enjoy yourselves." To Haldir, she warned, "As for you, make certain she takes some rest along the way."

When Haldir nodded in agreement, Ithriel made a quiet but triumphant retreat, her long gown whispering against the turf as she walked.

"Are you in readiness to leave?" he asked once Ithriel had gone.

Annalyn swept her arm to the side. In Elvish, she said, "Lead the way."

A gleam flashed in his deep blue eyes. When he replied, he did so in the elven tongue. "I see you have been practicing."

"Ithriel has been teaching me." Annalyn spoke haltingly, then reverted to Westron. "She is most patient."

"She is that."

Thus they went, their pace unhurried as he led her down a stone path. Her boots falling in tandem with his, Annalyn realised she was staring at him. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but something was different.

"Your braids," she said and saw his puzzled expression. When her meaning dawned on him, amusement seeped into his features.

"They are not the same as before." Though his style of hair was relatively unchanged, the tightly braided sections over his ears were interlaced in a slightly different manner. Whether he tied it back out of practicality, or it was simply his preference, Haldir's fair hair was smooth and perfectly groomed—much like all the Elves she had seen thus far. Such a fair people, she thought, then wondered if Haldir had any idea how beautiful he was.

Presently, his fingers were hooked behind his back, his features revealing little as he surveyed the passing scenery. Content to walk in companionable silence, Annalyn did the same, until he spoke without looking at her.

"It is good to see you wearing your sword again."

"It feels good to wear it, and better still to wield it. Though I grant you, I am somewhat out of practice." Annalyn flexed her hand. "Doubtless, my arm will feel it in the morning."

"You have skill, and no small amount of fortitude," Haldir stated matter-of-factly. "Your strength shall return ere long. I do not doubt it."

Straight was their path, but the ground sloped gently downward. A few paces ahead, stairs had been carved into the ground, four of them, with two solemn-faced statues on either side. Their eyes were fair in shape, but as she descended the steps, passing them by, Annalyn noted the sorrow in them, wondered who they were fashioned after.

"Amroth and Nimrodel," Haldir murmured as Annalyn stopped and beheld the statues.

The name Amroth was vaguely familiar to her. Haldir might have mentioned him before.

Sensing her confusion, Haldir came to stand beside her, and quietly relayed the story.

Amroth, she learned, had been the last King of Lórien. "Nimrodel was his beloved," Haldir told her. "Grieved by the darkening of Middle-earth, she expressed her desire to flee Lórien and live in a land of peace. But as they journeyed south, toward Edhellond, a haven from which the Elves would sail to the West in those days, the two became separated."

Haldir was silent for a moment, a definite air of sorrow about him.

"Upon reaching the Havens, Amroth boarded the last remaining ship, but refused to set sail without Nimrodel. Days turned into weeks. Summer yielded to autumn. Then, late one night, as Amroth awaited his beloved, a great storm rolled in. The next morning, when he realised the ship had broken from its moors and drifted away, he leapt into the sea in hopes of reaching the shore. But the waves proved too strong, and he drowned."

Though his gaze remained on the statues, Haldir said no more.

"What of Nimrodel?" Annalyn's fingertips grazed the polished stone, following the cascading locks that fell over the maiden's shoulder. "What became of her?"

"She was lost."

In the ensuing quiet, the two resumed their stroll. After a time, Annalyn broached another subject. "This place is clearly very old. How long have your people dwelt here?"

"Wood-elves have abided here since the First Age. Laurelindórenan it was called by the Nandor. After the War of Wrath, many of the Sindar chose to settle in the region, and live alongside the Nandor. It was then that Amdír, a Sinda, took over as King. But Lothlórien, as you see it now, only came into being after the Lord and the Lady journeyed hither, during the Second Age."

The Nandor, the Sindar. Such a long and complicated history. Hoping to get a better grasp on things, Annalyn voiced a question. "You mean there are different peoples amongst the Elves?"

His mouth quirked. "You seem surprised."

She stammered. "I suppose I just never gave it any thought."

Before aught else could be said, a delicate sound reached their ears, the flapping of tiny wings as a bird alighted nearby. Its feathers were lovely, Annalyn noted, a pale yellow like newly-churned butter. Returning to the topic at hand, she looked to Haldir, asked, "Which one are you?"

"I am of Nandorin descent," he stated simply. "A Silvan elf."

"Silvan elf," she echoed and liked the name. "And you mentioned the Sindar. Are there others?"

"In Lothlórien there is one who is counted among the Noldor. The Lady Galadriel. As for other elven peoples, there are the Vanyar of Valinor, the Teleri of Alqualondë. But to name and elaborate on the various kindreds might prove too lengthy for our stroll. For the Elves have a long and complicated history, with many sunderings along the way."

Day was growing warmer. Having reached a wide fork in the road, the two turned aside, onto a rising path flanked by giant tree roots. In the distance ahead, just visible between the nearest trees, Annalyn spied a hill of green upon which grew several mallyrn, including the mightiest one of all. Raising her gaze, she saw a large dwelling, and several smaller ones, high up in the treetops. "I will say one thing—elven homes are a fair sight to look upon."

The word harmonious came to mind. Indeed, the Elves had built them in a style that complimented the surrounding growth—balanced and organic forms that blended seamlessly with the trees.

"There sits the home of the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim." As Haldir continued ahead, Annalyn slowed for a moment, her gaze riveted on the large dwelling in the boughs. But when Haldir glanced back, saying, "This way," she blinked and followed after him, and soon found herself on the western flank of the hill.

As they skirted along, heading further north, Annalyn heard clear elven voices in the air. A song, soft and melodious, that seemed to come from the heavens.

What happened next was hard to describe. As they were walking forth, something seemed to draw Haldir's attention. Aware of something she could neither hear nor see, he slowed to a halt, and appeared to listen for a moment. When he turned to her, delight seemed to flash on his otherwise guarded features. "It would seem someone wishes to meet you." With that, he indicated another path, one that went up the hill instead of around it.

Seized with a sudden and inexplicable apprehension, Annalyn found that her feet would not move. Someone wished to meet her? Whom could it be? Though a part of her already knew.

"Come," Haldir called over his shoulder, and his eyes willed her to trust him. Then another voice joined in. But this time, Annalyn heard it not with her ears, but in her mind.

"Do not be troubled. There is nothing to fear." A woman. Lady Galadriel, no doubt.

To hear a voice like that, from within, was unsettling. Nevertheless, Annalyn trusted Haldir. Seeing the relaxed set of his shoulders, she felt some of her fears melt away. Her gaze trailing after him, she breathed in deep, and finally moved her feet.