The Siege of Mirkwood: Prolog

Within the Golden Woods of Lothlórien, where the leaves fall like snowflakes of sunlight, one cannot help but to stop and simply watch the beauty of the fair Elven Land. Walking across its blessed green paths, the site of rare flowers blooming gracefully in the suns warm embrace sway in the soft, lover like kiss of the wind. The roar of the Anduin River leaping from its banks and down the breath of Rhovanion sparkled and sang as it flowed past Lothlórien. Caras Galadhon, a city of singular wonder to all who set their gaze upon it. The buildings, but even that name does little justice to describe what is build on the Mallon trees, are of wooden works of art. Each on crafted to hold the greatest of Men in just one room, would be considered an honour. But it all pales to the Palace of Galadriel and Celeborn, rising like a pillar of light from the ground and forever reaching to the heavens. But for all its beauty, it is not without defence. Within some of the trees, lay in wait some of the finest archers of this Age. They stand ever watchful on the Flats, wooden landings covered with the leaves on the tree, watchful and vigilant. There was peace in Lothlórien, with such protectors, who could not feel safe? Orcs had indeed raided the Golden Woods, but had resulted in precise arrow fire, killing what ever past their line of site. The Wardens and Lookouts may not rest, but within the safety of the Woods, the Galadhrim may dance, sing and love without a care. The Third Age of Middle Earth may be seen as one of coming war, but not for those who dwell in Lothlórien. It is at the port, near the vineyards that I stand. I am hearing the soft music of harp strings being plucked by hands blessed with such a gift, the voices of singers, the gentle laughs of those to who they perform to. I smile, for I enjoy such moments in life. My eyes fall upon one Elf on the stage. Many will say that all the Galadhrim look the same, our blood eyes, golden hair, white skin, tall and proud chins, but oh how they are wrong. The Elf that I look upon is my wife, my heart flutters in my chest at the very site and rises as she sings in long, high tones. The musicians behind her, and her fellow singers perform once more. It was the middle of the night; the stars were flying in the sky, the wind sweet and soft, warm and calm. I can hear the river flowing past me, politely as if not to disturbed our peace. When I look upon my lands, I try to find the right words of how I would describe Lothlórien. For all my attempts’, I fail. Perhaps the most suiting would be to compare it to the lands of Moria. I have seen their great works, and my eyes widened at the scale and share size of Durin’s Folks work. But where Moria is grand and proud, Lothlórien is beautiful and graceful. I smile again, not because of my current thoughts, but my wife has just winked at me. I am standing with another Elf who goes by the name of Tilandir. He is a Lookout, like myself. We have been friends for a long time, and will always be friends. Ah, I am being rude, forgive me. My name is Halpendor Goldenleaf, and my wife is Igil Goldenleaf. I differ from my Kindred, as my eyes are green, my golden hair bound by a solid golden leaf while my fringe is made into a crown of hair. My wife is wearing her hair long, touching her shoulders like I might place my hands on them. I am wearing a simple tunic of gold and green, Igil wearing a dress of gold and white silk. It will not be long until this tale is in motion, I did not know it now, but the following days will be filled with blood, death and evil far beyond anything I have ever seen. I will see my friends die, Kindred slay in ways that will make me pale, parted from my wife and longing to be at her side. But for now, I am ignorant. My orders will not come for another three weeks, and I may rest my soul and my body. For the coming time will prove itself very different for me and my Kin.