Recommended listening: Debussy, Trois Nocturnes

CHAPTER XII: DWIMORDENE

Once past the Argonath, Truva and her companions continued to press against the strong Eámicel currents, camping that night just before the tumultuous rapids of Sarn Gebir. Unlike the stair which at one time had traversed the cliffs of Hweodriás but did no longer, the portage-way bypassing that unnavigable stretch of river was easily located the following morning, and the way grew less arduous as the river widened and slowed.

Looking eastward, the rocky scarps of Emyn Muil transitioned into the Brown Lands' bleak, arid slopes. Only in Mordor and its grim plateaus had Truva seen such desolation as that of the Noman-lands. In her distress, she turned her vision to the west, where stretched the grassy plains of the Wold – the northernmost reaches of her homeland realm.

The little craft pressed northward. The days grew long and repetitive, the scenery increasingly desolate and barren. As they came upon the Wold's northernmost reaches, the Eámicel first cut sharply towards the Brown Lands, then just as quickly back. There it converged with the Limlight out of Entwood, marking the border between the Riddermark and the Field of Celebrant. To listen closely, one could almost hear the echo of horses' hooves as they galloped into battle; to look closely, almost witness the ghosts of warriors from bygone eras stalking its open, grassy swaths.

A full fortnight had passed since the company camped at Amon Hen before the first haze of woodland appeared on the horizon, obscured by a light screen of snow. The forest loomed ever more prominent as the travellers drew near, revealing the outermost trees to be little more than scorched boles protruding from the riverbank, black stark against white. There was a mood about the scene that lurked as if something was watching, more ancient and foreboding even than the Entwood.

Though night fell, the trio forged on, rowing until they came upon the Silverlode confluence. It was up this byway they slipped, surrounded on all sides by the towering, charred remains of trees. A profound stillness reigned; there was no call of birds on the air, no flicker of wildlife between the trunks – only the stream lapping at the wooden hull of their craft.

However unsettling the quiet was to Truva, it did not seem to affect Legolas' composure. In the hours long past midnight, when the hush had somehow grown even deeper, he raised his arm and whispered, 'Let us moor here. We will find no hythes in the woods of Lórien – not after the War.'

They guided the craft towards the riverbank and disembarked, yet even as Truva cast about for a secluded space to make camp, Legolas set off through the blackened trees, Gimli close behind.

'Are we not going to stop for the night?' Truva called after them, in as loud a voice as she dared.

'We haven't the time,' said Legolas. Soon, his figure was lost in the forest's gloom.

Setting aside the Elf's cryptic answer, Truva darted after her companions, yet each time she thought she had them in her sights, they were lost again amongst the trees.

The further she delved into the wood, the thicker the foliage grew. Black pillars transitioned to bare-branched and pined foliage, snagging at her clothes and hair, diverting her path from where Gimli could be heard crashing through the underbrush ahead. Even when the cloud cover dissipated and gleaming moonlight trickled down through the canopy to ease her passage, Truva felt turned about and entirely lost.

Then the trees before her opened suddenly onto a tiny glen, where a carpet of golden flowers was strewn amidst tangled roots, peeking from shallow snowdrifts. As Truva slowed to gaze upon these blossoms – which seemed to glow in and of themselves – she heard a gentle whisper in the air; or perhaps it was not speech at all but music, with a melody ever so faint—

Truva gained the vague notion she had come to a standstill. Recalling her purpose as if emerging from a stupor, she leapt forward to chase after the others, but in doing so caught her toe upon a protruding root and was sent sprawling. Snow and soil filled her mouth, and a gash rent the heel of her palm; wiping the grit from her eyes only worsened her clouded vision.

Blinking against this new distraction, Truva looked up to find her path blocked by a high, impenetrable hedge. It was illuminated by a soft fog, and extended as far as the eye could see in either direction. Legolas and Gimli were nowhere to be found.

Before Truva could push herself from up off the forest floor, a hand was extended to her in offering. It was a fair and gentle hand, and when Truva raised her eyes to its origin, she bore witness to the most beautiful creature she knew to walk all the realms of Middle Earth – though in truth she could not perceive it fully, for the figure effused a light as golden as the flowers it tread upon, a light so blinding as to shame both moon and sun.

Truva threw up a hand to shield her eyes, yet when she tried to speak, no sound emerged from her mouth. The figure likewise said nothing, and yet Truva heard it speak:

'Welcome to Egladil, in the land of Lothlórien.' The voice undulated gently in Truva's mind; she did not hear it so much as understand it. Gradually the light about the figure dimmed, and Truva beheld an Elf most ethereal standing in the mist, garbed in robes of purest white, a placid smile upon her lips.

Yet it was the Elf's eyes that wholly consumed Truva's attention. As she tumbled headfirst into those abyssal pools, she felt more than saw visions of those she had lost: Théodred and Bron, Théoden King and Éothafa – in moments of joy as well as their figures dead upon funeral biers. She saw also those who were not yet gone, experienced the emotions she associated with Aragorn, Éomer King, Éowyn, Chaya.

Then before her spread the boundless sea, waves glimmering so far into the distance as to hint at the promise of reunion. Painful longing surged within Truva's breast.

When at last she became cognisant of the forest around her once more, Truva had fallen to one knee. She knelt, gasping for breath, fingers digging into the loamy earth. It took several long moments to compose herself before rising.

Even standing at her full height, the radiant figure looked down upon her. Truva felt as though she were being scrutinised by some sense other than sight.

'You are not quite what I expected,' said the Elf. This time, Truva heard with her ears rather than with her mind.

'What happened to my companions?' she demanded.

'Do not fear,' the Elf reassured her in the lyrical voice she had mistaken for music only moments earlier. 'They are safe. It is not their first venture within the borders of the Golden Wood.' Then, without a backwards glance, the Elf turned and glided towards the hedge.

'Come, you are weary.'

Something in Truva's mind compelled her to follow. She watched in wary bemusement as the Elf drew near the hedge, only to stride through, unimpeded. In attempting to pass herself, the hedge's scraggly branches did not claw or rip at her, and instead dissipated into the darkness as though they, too, were nothing save swirling mist.

Beyond lay even thicker woodland; the canopy came together overhead to obscure the night stars and all sense of time. When Truva looked ahead, she could not make out what path the Elf guided her along, yet when she glanced behind to where they had come from, the forest appeared equally impassable. Somehow, by some trickery, they proceeded through the densest of thickets as though walking along a main thoroughfare of Mundburg, so clear was the way.

Ever upwards did they climb – or so it felt, though perhaps they traversed rolling hills, or were descending; Truva could not be sure, for her feet shifted of their own accord, her mind lost in a daze. The Elf moved so swiftly, so effortlessly, that she frequently had to jog to keep abreast.

On and on they walked, their pace never slackening, the deepest hours of night transitioning imperceptibly into the suspenseful beat before dawn. Then, just when Truva was certain they would continue walking for all of eternity, the woodland opened up before them in the span of a moment. From the treeline where they paused, a fey mist crept down across the expansive clearing towards a second, inner hedge-wall. There, in the centre of the greensward, stood a hill crowned with trees, the uppermost heights of which brushed the very stars themselves.

'Caras Galadhon,' said the Elf, sweeping her arm from earth to inky sky. 'The jewel of Lothlórien – and my home.'

Realisation dawned upon Truva as she recalled the tales Legolas and Gimli had recounted to her of the Fellowship's journey. 'You are the lady Galadriel,' she whispered in wonderment. What could only be interpreted as amusement passed across the Elf's face.

'You would mistake me for another?' she queried, face half turned.

'No, no, milady!' Truva hastened to amend. 'It is true I did not recognise you at once; yet those who have met you speak of nothing save your praise, and it was by their words alone I knew you, having never seen your face.'

A wry smile twisted Galadriel's serene beauty. 'There are those who would be just as like to curse as to praise me.'

'I cannot believe it,' Truva insisted, shaking her head. 'In truth, I do not think even Gandalf inspires such wholehearted awe in me.'

'That is because you have seen but a fraction of his power, hobbled at the whim of those even loftier,' said she, her smile abating somewhat.

But before Truva could contemplate the notion of any figure proving more sublime than the Elf before her, Galadriel struck out across the lush sward, mist swirling about the hem of her white robes. Down across the fosse and through the hedge-wall she led Truva, until they emerged into the City of the Trees. Innumerable silver lanterns fended off the intrusion of darkness, gleaming in the boughs of trees whose boles were silver satin and leaves a muted golden. Pathways and stairs crisscrossed the brae, entwining like delicate lacework amidst roots and greenery. Hidden high, high in the foliage were elegant carven columns and bridges and halls.

It reminded Truva ever so faintly of the Drúedain's hideout in Firien Wood, yet where the Woses had built nests and rudimentary rope connections, the Elves had constructed dwellings seemingly more sculpture than utility: a city which bore the traces of at least an age's worth of careful attention. Truva gazed upon the city in awe, nearly stumbling twice as Galadriel led her along a trickling stream that flowed from the hillcrest.

They came then upon its source: a fountain depicting the beauty of the Elven forest, erected in the midst of a small lawn. The tallest and most magnificent of trees rose up directly before them, but from this Galadriel turned and led Truva instead towards a slighter tree.

'You will find your companions here,' she said, gesturing to a white ladder that disappeared into the dark foliage above, swaying gently. 'Go now to your rest; it is near dawn.'

Before Truva could thank her, the Elf glided off, vanishing as if she became part of the ethereal city itself.

'Thank you,' Truva whispered anyway, stepping onto the ladder's bottom rung.

The sound of Gimli's snores drifted down the higher she ascended. When she gained a wooden platform high above the ground, the Dwarf's stout figure was wrapped tightly in a blanket and tucked as close to the tree trunk as possible. Legolas was there, too, perched upon the very edge of the wide flet, gazing out into the impenetrable night.

'You have met the Lady of Light,' he murmured as Truva scrambled onto the platform, careful not to wake Gimli. Once she had stowed her pack, she took a seat beside Legolas.

'Galadriel is most indescribably compelling,' she replied.

'There are no words in any of the Elvish dialects – let alone Westron, or the many other tongues of Men – to fully encompass the essence of her Ladyship,' said Legolas, passing Truva a corner of lembas, which she gratefully accepted. It was far preferable to the Gondorian waybread the company had subsisted on the past fortnight. 'She wishes to speak with you again in the morn, when you have rested. Then we must begone from these Woods.'

'So swiftly?' asked Truva, startled. 'Whatever for? I greatly desire to stay a spell, and learn what I might from these beings of Lothlórien. Rumours abound that the Lady wishes to soon cross over into the West, and be parted from us forever, taking her wisdom with her.'

'The moons do not wax and wane in Lórien as they do beyond its borders. Time – or, at least, the perception of it – is more languid here, less burdened by the expectation to fill it.'

'And of what consequence is that to us? We have no pressing need to expedite our journey.'

Legolas did not answer at once, and instead trained his eyes upon the stars that glimmered above. 'I fear unseen dangers lurk along Aragorn's path,' he said after a time. 'Weak as the North may be following the War, the Corsairs would not be so bold as to attack openly – not without purpose.'

'You believe Gondor is likely to face a second assault,' Truva concluded.

'Perhaps,' Legolas shrugged. 'Or perhaps I am mistaken, and the Corsairs' sailing upon Pelargir was indeed a mere miscalculation, and they have been well and truly repelled from our lands. But it is far better to worry overly much than worry a fraction too little; I simply wish to make with all haste for my homeland – though I know not whether my appeals for aid and allegiance shall serve any purpose, or ultimately fall on deaf ears.'

Truva looked down upon the lanterns swaying in the gentle breeze below the flet. 'I likewise cannot guess all ends that will come of this venture,' she said. 'But as I have faith in Gandalf, I will do his bidding. And if there is some perturbation that drives you, I will yield to your wisdom – born as it is of a great many years more experience than mine own – and we shall depart Lothlórien at the earliest opportunity.'

'Then rest now, and rise early,' said Legolas, 'though I do not think we shall leave so soon as tomorrow, for there are things yet to be spoken.'

Legolas' supposition was to prove correct. No sooner had Truva propped herself up against the tree trunk and drifted off to sleep than she was awoken by gentle melodies drifting up from below. Neither Gimli nor Legolas lingered on the flet, though upon descending the ladder, she quickly discovered them upon the greensward below, sitting cross-legged before a low table laden with a simple breakfast.

'Never have I known any save Elves so slow to the dining table,' remarked Gimli through a mouthful of grapes as Truva took a seat beside him.

'You slept long before she, my friend,' Legolas retorted. He did not eat, and merely sat plucking languorously at a silver lyre, accompanying the Elf-song that seemed to effuse from the very trees themselves.

Gimli merely grunted in response, passing Truva a basket of bread that was just out of her reach. As they dined, a trio of Elves approached from the direction of the city gates, tall and cloaked in the shadowy-grey of the Galadhrim.

'Do you perhaps recall me, fair travellers?' asked the foremost Elf as they drew near.

'Haldir!' cried Legolas, leaping at once to his feet. 'Well met, brother!' He embraced the marchwarden, and greeted the others in their own tongue.

When Gimli stood, Truva likewise rose out of respect. She could not recall Legolas ever having spoken his own language before her, save in song, and it fascinated her to hear the melodic rise and fall of the Elves' voices.

Haldir turned then to Gimli, and reverted to Westron in saying: 'Where once I would not have permitted your brethren to pass into the lands of Lórien, you have now come amongst us twice in as many years – and as an honoured guest. There are none who need now answer for you, Elf-friend; you answer for yourself.'

'Would that I could have come sooner, to bask in the beauty of both wood and maiden – a beauty unparalleled even by the most magnificent halls of my people, and by the unexplored potential of the Caves I now find under my own governance.'

'Your flattery has become significantly more verbose since last we met, Dwarf,' said Haldir with a smile.

Then Legolas beckoned Truva forward. 'With us comes an emissary from the horselords' realm: Truva, Second Marshal of the Rohirrim.'

Haldir peered down upon Truva in astonishment, and spoke briefly to his companions in an Elven tongue before studying her once more. 'Not since Éothéod rode south to the succour of Cirion – when we sent forth a mist to conceal and rejuvenate the Rohirric troops – have we encountered one of your kind,' said he. 'No Rider of Rohan accompanied the Fellowship, nor have relations between our lands ever been established.'

'May my passing aid in rectifying such an oversight, and narrow the political – if not physical – distance between our peoples in the future,' said Truva, bowing low.

'Alas,' said Haldir, 'that such overtures should come at this time; for I fear the rumours of our soon passing into the West are not unfounded – and those few who elect to stay shall be little more than ghosts.'

'It is not the Mark's custom to fear ghosts, but revere them, rather,' said Truva, though she very much doubted the Elves' conception of ghosts reflected that of the Eorlingas in any way. 'We shall welcome them wholeheartedly into our company.'

Haldir laughed at her peculiar response. The sound was light and airy, though not mocking. 'That may be,' he said, 'and we thank you for your goodwill; but let us speak not of the undetermined future – for we are here now, and not yet gone from this earth.'

'What of Lady Galadriel?' asked Legolas. 'It was my understanding she wishes to converse with us.'

'It is with great regret that Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel find themselves preoccupied at the moment, though they expressed their desire to hold counsel as soon as they might. I imagine you shall see them come evening, all things permitting.'

'More time for breakfast,' said Gimli, rubbing his hands. 'Won't you join us?'

And so Haldir and his two companions (who, by way of very few Westron words, introduced themselves as his brothers Rúmil and Orophin) sat with the travellers at their table. The morning passed in a most earnest manner as the company discussed topics both joyous and the grievous – for not even the beauty of Laurelindórenan was unmarred by the War, having thrice fended off the assault of Sauron's northern forces.

Morning merged into afternoon, and the company's conversation turned to that of language. A great deal of effort was spent on the Elves' part in an attempt to instruct Truva on the more fundamental phrases of Sindarin, though Gimli was content to simply look on in amusement. As Truva struggled to form her mouth around the language's exacting pronunciation, many Elves descended from their trees to take up positions nearby, though they did not approach outright, or look openly upon the visitors. They affected disinterest, continuing to sing or converse in equally melodic voices.

Yet Truva could feel their eyes upon her. How long had it been since last these insular Elves had seen a shieldmaiden not of their own kin? Both Aragorn and Legolas had told tales of incredible feats performed by the Elleth, which far outstripped even Éowyn's slaying of the Witch King; Galadriel's story in particular stood in stark contrast to the ephemeral, retiring figure Truva met the previous evening. But the Fellowship had not boasted a female of any race, and few others had passed through the woods of Lothlórien.

Even so, the Elves' attention was unsettling. As the afternoon waned and Truva grew increasingly frustrated with her linguistic shortcomings, she was grateful for the sounding of three horns, which caused the impromptu lesson to cease at once. Upon hearing them, Haldir stood and immediately resumed his stately demeanour.

'The Lord and Lady of Laurelindórenan will see you now,' he said, beckoning for the travellers to accompany him to the south side of the lawn, where stood the tremendous tree Truva had witnessed the previous evening.

They were bade to climb its broad ladder, and emerged onto a flet far more spacious than that where they had passed the previous night. The wooden platform was worn smooth by the tread of feet across countless years, and delicate lattice – whether the work of Elves or nature Truva could not be sure – arched overhead. Lanterns cast glimmering rays of gold and silver as daylight faded across the forest.

In spite of the summons, none save the three and their guide stood upon the flet. On a table before them was spread the culinary luxuries of a late winter forest: roasted perch, hazelnut bread with hawthorn berry jam, spiced crab apples, wine. The travellers hovered about the table, wondering whether they ought to sit or continue standing until their hosts arrived – though they did not have to ponder long.

'Welcome, friends. Please, be at ease!' said Celeborn, materialising with Lady Galadriel upon the far end of the flet, as if from thin air. He motioned for Truva and the others to take a seat as many other Elven lords and ladies joined them. 'You are honoured guests within our borders; you needn't stand on ceremony. It is an immense pleasure to see familiar faces! Legolas son of Thranduil – not long has it been since last you walked in the shade of our mallorn trees; did you suppose yourself to be back so soon?'

'I cannot say that I am unsurprised,' said Legolas. 'Yet in the meantime, I have walked amongst the renewed woods of Eryn Lasgalen, and passed through the vast expanse of Tauremorna, and still I do not think any place in all of Middle Earth shall surpass Lothlórien in beauty or solace. It brings me tremendous joy to return beneath its golden boughs – bare though they be now.'

'And you, Gimli son of Glóin?' asked the Lady Galadriel. Even so simple a question seemed itself like music to hear her voice it.

'Is it with exalted heart that I return to the Valley of Singing Gold,' replied the Dwarf. 'Yet where my companion finds himself enchanted by the wood itself, I find myself most content to come into the presence of the Lady who abides there – gracious and resplendent as she is. Only the lure of my own Glittering Caves surpasses that of Lothlórien.'

'I delight in hearing you say so,' said Lady Galadriel with a smile of beaming starlight. She then turned to Truva, who shied away and could not meet the Elf's gaze. 'And welcome, Truva of the Riddermark, Marshal and guardian of a proud people. I regret that it is only now I am finally able to greet you with the deference you deserve. Do you find Lothlórien to your liking?'

'I see now that my companions' descriptions pale in comparison to that which I find myself supremely fortunate to witness in my lifetime: namely, both the unparalleled splendour of Lórien's woods, as well as the generosity and benevolence of its inhabitants.'

No aspect of Galadriel's physical appearance changed, and yet it felt as though her smile widened, as though she grew more radiant, and imparted an undercurrent of bliss unto all who looked upon her. 'Please eat, and tell us of your lands – I should greatly like to hear of this Aglarond Gimli speaks of.'

'It is the most spectacular sight I have ever beheld, milady,' the Dwarf began at once, with a glance at Truva. He had begun to develop a keen sense for when she would be loath to speak before an audience.

More dishes appeared, and the company passed these platters and bowls around, serving one another and themselves. As the meal progressed, the Elves nearest Truva (those few with modest proficiency in Westron) bent their heads towards her to ask lighthearted questions. Though she answered quite simply and briefly, they seemed content with this – for indeed, anything she might tell them had already been conveyed to them long ago by Gandalf.

A harp was struck up. Truva knew not whether it was due to the music itself, or the circumstances that had surrounded her visit, but those songs she had heard more than a year ago in Elrond's halls seemed doleful and solemn in comparison to the light airs that graced the talan of Celeborn and Galadriel. And yet the effect was the same: she lost all sense of time, and began to grow drowsy.

When next she managed to rouse herself, evening had firmly descended. Many of the Elves had slipped away; Haldir and his brothers alone conversed with Legolas. Gimli was dozing off with a cup of rosehip tea balanced delicately upon his knee, arms folded squarely across his barrel chest. Lady Galadriel rose with exquisite grace and bent to remove the cup, placing it instead upon the table – and in doing so, turned to fix Truva with a gaze that spoke more fluently than any words ever could.

Truva felt much as she had the previous night: unable to move beneath the weighty splendour of the vision before her, the Elf's request for counsel a mere impression in her mind. When the sensation subsided, Galadriel had already stepped out onto a bridge extending from the opposite side of the flet. In the slow blink of a somnolent eye, she crossed to a nearby tree and began to ascend its ladder.

Truva hastened to follow as best she could in her dazed state, though when the railless bridge swayed in the breeze, she fell to her knees and began to crawl. Glancing down but briefly, the ground was so far below as to be imperceptible, and so Truva quickly looked back up again, stomach roiling.

When she gained the second flet, she climbed up, up after Lady Galadriel, the trail of whose skirts drifted in front of her face and came between her hands and the rungs. At last they emerged onto a third platform, far loftier and more exposed than any other. A chill wind bit at Truva's cheeks and ears as she gazed out across the treetops, illuminated by the moonlight.

'Look – to the east,' said the Lady, her whisper one with the wind.

Though it was deep in the night, the stars flared suddenly, and the scenery became as visible as it was in day – albeit in greys and black. A distortion hung upon the air, yet rather than obscure Truva's vision, it seemed as if to magnify the furthest reaches of the land. The Firienmist's ivory spine pierced the black sky behind her. In the distance, the waste of the Brown Lands was just barely distinguishable through a thick, rolling fog. Truva felt certain that in turning south, she would most certainly be able to discern the stone walls of Mundburg.

'Even those who have not the eyes of Elves may see further than accustomed, here in the heights of Caras Galadhon,' said Galadriel. 'Do you perhaps spy the ruins of Dol Guldur amidst Eryn Lasgalen's southernmost reaches, where my Galadhrim threw down the forces of Sauron and cleansed the surrounding lands of his corrosive influence?'

Truva peered into the darkness and scanned the woolly treetops across the Eámicel. 'There?' she hazarded, pointing to a disruption in the wood.

'Now sweep northward, where lies the Emyn Duir – called so for the darkness of the firs that grow upon their ridges, not for any evil purpose. It is beyond there you are bound, for Legolas tells me you make even now for Calengroth – the Halls of the Elvenking. When you leave these woods, you must follow Anduinë north until you come to the Old Ford, at which point you must turn east upon Men-i-Naugrim. Do you see the path you must take?'

'I do,' said Truva, though in truth she did not. It seemed the Lady of Lórien greatly overestimated her capabilities.

'Or perhaps it is not the path ahead, but that which lies behind that occupies your mind,' murmured the Elf. 'Look harder, and you might be able to glimpse your homeland.'

Truva turned, the increasingly warped air causing her head to spin dizzily. But when she trained her eyes to the southeast, the sight was unmistakable: across the Entwood and its outflowing delta rose the topmost stony spires of Aldburg and the rafters of Meduseld in Edoras.

Her heart swelled to recall those who lingered within the borders of the Riddermark – in body and memory alike. For though Éomer King was abroad, and his mother-brother lay beneath his simbelmynë-covered barrow before the gates, and Théodred guarded the Fords forevermore, an Eorling's connection to the land was eternal. How humble their homes and ways seemed in comparison to these unfading Elves! And yet Truva would have it no other way; it mattered not what she discovered or who she encountered upon her journey – her horselord identity was unshakable.

Galadriel gave a sound of quiet contemplation behind her. 'It is strange to me that you do not look eastward when home is mentioned,' she remarked. 'For I have heard that you come from a land hidden amongst the Hithaeglir – unknown even to the Elves that dwell in that region.'

'There was little for Elves to concern themselves with in the Hidlands,' said Truva, an edge of sardonicism in her voice. 'And though the Valley has been redeemed, and many dear friends now reside there in peace, I do not think I shall ever call it home. The Riddermark is where I belong.' She turned from the scenery spread before her and looked up at Galadriel, who offered a reassuring smile.

'It is a wondrous thing, to find a new home more pleasurable than the last,' said the Elf.

Truva ducked her head and gazed down upon the lanterns of Caras Galadhon swaying far below, in time with the sorrowful melody of a flute. A further moment of silence passed between them before Lady Galadriel prompted, 'I have come to understand you spoke at length with Radagast.'

Truva heaved a sigh. 'I have spoken with him, yes – and at length,' she said. 'Yet I do not know the meaning or purpose of his words, or if he himself knows. Gandalf is forever close in giving counsel, even with those he is most familiar.'

'Not even one such as I can pretend to know the mind of the White Wizard,' mused Galadriel, 'or how long it shall take you to seek the Ithryn Luin, for they passed from our vision long ago.'

'And before then?'

'Even from their earliest days in Middle Earth were their movements veiled from us. At first, we assumed their campaign to stabilise the lands of Rhûn was successful, as for many years no threats emerged from the East; and perhaps we were right – for a time.

'Yet they ultimately failed, at least in some small part; for the alliance of Sauron and the Easterlings proved devastating in the War. And though the Dark Lord is now gone, and Aragorn has made overtures with the peoples of Rhûn, you yourself have borne witness to the short-lived nature of such accords with the Corsairs. It seems Mithrandir fears trouble still brews in the East, threatening to topple the delicate peace we have constructed, and that discovering the whereabouts of the Ithryn Luin – if they indeed still roam this Earth – shall ease the soothing of relations there.'

A thought that had been burgeoning in Truva's mind rose at last to the surface. 'Pardon my impudence, milady,' she began, hesitant, 'but why do you not set out on this endeavour yourself? Gandalf continues to seek Saruman, and Radagast is, as I understand it, rather more concerned with his own business than that of mortal men.

'I myself am no more than a humble, lowly Marshal of the Mark, and you are the Lady of Light, born of eternity and gifted with clairvoyance beyond the comprehension of Men; surely your knowledge and capabilities surpass mine own – with regard to both the Eastern lands, as well as the Wizards themselves.'

The Lady Galadriel did not answer at once. She inhaled deeply, and when she exhaled, it was as though a melody wafted out to join that of the flute far below.

'It is not my task,' she said at great last. 'I am weary; I long to sail to the Undying Lands, and rejoin my people. As for the reasoning behind Gandalf's stubborn insistence that it be you who undertake this quest – for, if I am not mistaken, that is the true source of your curiosity – I have heard no more than the wispy tendrils of uncertainty, speculative and untenable.'

'Will you not tell me?' Truva implored. 'I have no concern for the veracity of such rumours; I simply wish for any semblance of enlightenment.'

'If Mithrandir did not share his thoughts, then I think it unwise of me to speak of what little I know,' said Lady Galadriel, and when she smiled the darkness seemed as if to turn to day. 'But let us not aggrieve ourselves over unsolvable riddles. Rest now, for you must depart early on the morrow.'