The unseasonable warmth passed in the night, as the winds carried into the mountains and away, and by the time we rose and broke camp, the seasonal chill had settled in. We crossed the fords and began to climb, leaving all but the faintest traces of a path behind. When I had crossed these lands three years ago, I was navigating solely by direction, heading west, with no need for a marked path, but this time we had a destination in mind, and a hidden one.
Though the trees thinned out, wildlife was still plentiful on the high moors, but nothing threatening. The warmth of the previous day had had little effect here, and the ground was still covered in just enough snow to crunch under Kestrel's hooves. Into the afternoon, the last remnants of the wind carried the clouds away, and the sun emerged as if reluctant to bare itself to the cold of winter.
Though we crossed fewer leagues than the previous days, most of it was climbing, and our way wound back and forth as we went, eating up both the daylight and our strength. As our path started to descend into a narrowing cleft in the hillside, though the sun still hung well above the horizon, I could tell Kestrel was nearly as weary as I was. Miss Adri held up a hand to stop me, then warned me to take the next few steps carefully and watch my footing.
It wasn't because the path was particularly treacherous there, though. It was because this would be the moment when I would first see Imladris, spreading before me in all its majesty. If you have never seen it, perhaps a bard might, through word and song, inspire in you a fraction of what seeing it would stir in your heart; but I am no bard, and I do not dare to attempt it. All I will offer is this, that without Miss Adri's warning, the beauty and wonder of it might well have caused me to guide Kestrel and myself over the cliff before us, while I stared enraptured at the noisome waterfalls, the elegant arcing bridges, the climbing spires and flower-like columns, the gardens as vibrant as in the heart of summer, the vast house putting to shame any Mead Hall or tower made by Men.
As we followed the winding path down, it was hard to focus on the stones that marked the way, to not stop and stare at Rivendell. Miss Adri later told me that watching someone see the valley for the first time was always a treat. She'd been here so many times it was easy to forget the wonder, save when it was reflected in the eyes of another.
At the base of the climb, we took from our mounts those possessions we would need within, so the steeds could be led off to the stables where they would be well cared for, I was assured. Miss Adri told me I could visit the stables myself if I wished to be sure of their care. I didn't doubt it, but I did hope to visit them just to see them, and because I might learn a trick or two of my trade from the wisdom of the Elves.
But not that night; it was already growing dark and the road had left us all weary. And there were many more moments of gape-mouthed wonder before me, as we were led into the Last Homely House, adorned with statues and other adornments in silver and gold beyond description. And the Hall of Fire, lined with ovens from which delicacies poured to make a meal that rivaled anything I've ever eaten -- save only for the wine, which is passable, but no match for mead or even ale.
And the room I was given to sleep in, though small, was appointed with such luxury and finery as to make me wonder if I hadn't been accidentally sent to the wrong chamber. Back in Hookworth I often slept on the floor, leaving a perfectly good bed unused, just because I felt like I shouldn't get used to such indulgence. I wondered here if I shouldn't do the same, but I was so weary from the journey, I decided to allow myself to use the bed. I thought I would spend the night worrying about how the next day would go -- whether I would ask the right questions, whether they would know the answers -- but between the comfort of that bed, and my bone-deep exhaustion, I slipped almost immediately into the deepest and most untroubled slumber of my life.
