Aug. 2025
Forth Age, 8th Moon, 557
Deep in the Fourth Age, five centuries after the War of the Ring, the dark lords had long vanished, men occupied ever more territories, and only small communities of dwarves or hobbits lingered in the quiet corners of Middle-earth. As elves faded into myth and legend, thousands of insatiable men outnumbered the selfless folk, and a different Darkness was spreading far and wide across the world of men. Hidden in secrecy, away from both young and old, two elves remained, alone, yet true to the values of their kin. Beautiful and fair as one could only dream, with great golden hair and slender physiques, they wore light green garments and dark coats adorned with silver jewels as their lost ancestors who once dwelt in the Mirkwood forest. Their origins were now forgotten, their ancient forest cut down for timber long ago. And yet, standing alone in a world governed by men, they continued to mend forests, mountains, rivers, plains, and, most dear of all, the creatures that populated Middle-earth.
With the passing of time, the two wood-elves began to wander far and wide, moving across Middle-earth in the fashion of their greater ancestors from the Grey Havens, striving to restore what men were destroying in every direction. Companions to one another, each day they sang in agony for their lost families, and through those notes they escaped, drifting closer to the magical, eerie world of the Old Days. They dreamed of reuniting with their kin, raising their voices together in ancient tunes beneath the stars of Valinor, climbing trees each golden autumn, and restoring the world’s primordial light.
But the truth was cruel, the last ship to the Undying Lands had sailed centuries ago, the path to the Bay of Belfalas was now fraught with danger on every road, and Valinor had become no more than a myth in a selfish world.
Unknown to the two elves, their deeds did not go unnoticed for long, and soon rumors reached every kingdom. Evil men could not endure the pure folk who mended their mischiefs, and they began to prepare for yet another destruction as the desire to murder the last two divine souls summoned vast armies. A new Shadow gathered throughout Middle-earth, a shadow that swelled without ceasing. One night, the two elves were high above the ground in the treetops of what remained of the Beornings’ land, dreaming of their ancient woods, when the armies of Duraos the Gall, King of the territories west of Anduin, pressed upon them. Hunted with spears and arrows, torches and swords, they fled east without rest for many nights, following their cries across the Great River and then south along the edges of the Misty Mountains. They could not halt, not for long, not ever.
When at last they reached the Dimrill Stair, their spirits were lifted for a moment, for soon they would look upon the magic woods of Lothlórien and the sacred city of Caras Galadhon, one of the last standing forests. That night, a few high 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 was heard all around 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 two elves reached the ancient forest just before the morning dusk. Beneath their feet, the Celebrant River had dried to dust, the tall Mellyrn trees were nowhere to be seen, and the sacred mound where the city of the Lord and the Lady once stood was now deserted. Drawing closer, the two elves realized that the stumps of the ancient trees lay blackened, burned across the land to stop any chance of new growth. At last, the spirits of the High Elves were forever lost, the healing powers of these grounds vanished, and an overwhelming sense of misery began to pervade them. The enchanted forest of Lothlórien was now an empty, blackened land.
On the hilltop, the two elves looked down at the advancing troops. One fell to their knees in despair as arrows crossed the sky, crying for the foulness into which this world had fallen. The other placed a hand upon their companion’s shoulder, wiping their tears with the other. Within moments, the soldiers closed in around them, leaving a whisper passing through the winds of the lost realm. With it came the promise that not all light had faded, and that in the darkest hour, the last song of the two elves would yet be heard.