FfA. Aug. 2025
Deep in the fourth age, dark lords were long vanished, yet a different Darkness was spreading all over Middle-earth. Men controlled all the territories of Their world, and small communities of dwarves or hobbits lingered in quiet corners after the War of the Ring. Away from everyone and hidden in secret, there were two High Elves who remained true to their kin. Beautiful as one could only dream, long golden hair, pale skin, they wore light green garments adorned with a few pearl and silver jewels as symbols of their lost ancestors. Their origins were now forgotten, yet standing alone in a world governed by men, they kept mending forests, mountains, rivers, plains and most dear, the living creatures. Pure loving companions of one another, they sang each day to heal and restore what men were destroying. Through their notes, they could escape and wander toward their own magical world. They dreamed of meeting their kin once more, raising their voices in ancient tunes beneath the stars of Valinor, climbing Mellyrn trees each golden autumn, and together restore the world’s ancient light. But the truth was cruel, the last ship had sailed centuries ago, and the path to the Bay of Belfalas was now fraught with danger on every road. In this age, Valinor had become no more than a myth.
The High elven deeds did not go unnoticed for long, and soon rumours reached every kingdom. Men began to prepare for yet another destruction, and the desire to murder the last two divine souls summoned broad armies. A new Shadow had gathered throughout the centuries, a shadow that swelled without ceasing. One night, the two elves were high above the ground in the treetops dreaming of the ancient woods of Lothlórien, when the armies of Duras the Gall, King of the Western territories, pressed upon them. Hunted with spears and arrows, they fled east without rest for weeks, following their cries through the pass of Caradhras. They could not halt, not for long, not ever. When at last they reached the Dimrill Stair, their spirits were finally lifted, and soon they would look upon the sacred city of Caras Galadhon. That night, a few boulders near the lake Mirrormere offered shelter from the elements, and there they found rest for the first time in three moons. A soft song spoke of a lost home through the night, healing their souls for yet another stand.
Lórien, ai vanima nóre
Nalyë cemendë ve rámar andanéva.
Lórien, estelya ná arwa,
Nai úvë leryalyë me.
Lórien, oh beautiful land
You call us upon the earth from far away
Lórien, your healing is mighty
May it be that you will not let us go
The next day, the Mellyrn trees were nowhere to be seen, the Celebrant river dried to dust, and the sacred city stood empty. Drawing closer, the two elves realised that the ancient trees lay blackened and burned on the sacred mound, and the spirits of the High Elves were almost lost. At last, the healing powers of these grounds could not be recognized, and an overwhelming sense of misery began to pervade them. The enchanted forest of Lothlorien had vanished.
On the hilltop, the two elves looked down at the advancing army. One fell to their knees in despair as arrows crossed the sky, and cried for the foulness into which this world had fallen. The other placed a hand upon their companion’s shoulder and helped them back to their feet, wiping their tears. Within moments, the shadows closed around them, leaving a whisper passing through the winds of the lost realm. With it the promise that not all light had faded, and that in the darkest hour the two elves last song would yet be heard.