The Dwarves of the Iron Garrison wait anxiously for the return of Seregrían, the Elf-scholar who they now regard as one of their own. Three days have passed since she followed the merrevail in a red rage to the peaks above Khazad-dûm. Bori and Svanr bravely tried to follow but halted at the gate of Zirak-zigil and kept watch, not daring to go further.
But on that third day, Seregrían reappears, and the Dwarves see a terrible change: covered in wounds, the Blood-queen's face is ashen and, incredibly, tear-stained. "Take me to Brogur" are the only words she says. They do so, and her words to the Dwarf-chief are terse and deadpanned.
"I must take my leave and depart without delay. I shall send word back to you and greet you again upon my return." And with bows and parting words, Seregrían leaves Moria by the West-gate, and passes swiftly north through Eregion, bound for the only place she knows where answers to questions might be found: The Last Homely House.
Her passage is swift, driving her lathered mount to the edge of endurance and heedless of dangers from all sides. At last, the lights of Imladris appear in the gloaming, and after a wash and travelers' fare and donning appropriate attire, Seregrían is shown into the library of Master Elrond.
There, the Elf-scholar makes her report to Elrond, and begins to pour out her tale of heartbreak. He questions her about the news of the Iron Garrison and their progress, Seregrían's newly-acquired powers and weapons, every word Bogrian spoke and, finally and in a choked voice, she speaks of Gwathwethil and her claim.
"Master Elrond, my wisdom falters, and I am unsure of my course. For three days I stayed at her side, using my lore to make her strong enough to travel. And in the days and nights we spoke. She told me things only my mother could know! Help me to understand, am I listening to the whispers of lies? Or have I indeed seen my mother restored to me? Even so, how is it possible? I watched her die! And how could she transform into the creature I fought in the Mines?"
Elrond falls silent and turns away, staring into the distance. Seregrían knows he is not ignoring her pleas; he is remembering, walking in his memory. She waits patiently for him to complete his meditation on the news she bore out of Moria. He paces the library, touching a book here, whispering to himself there, walking in his memories and recalling near-forgotten lore. At length, he turns to her and unveils his mind.
“Alas, the hardest question you put last and in chief. Mark this well, Seregrían my pupil: the purveyors of lies and deceit know well that each lie must be salted with a grain of truth, to make the deception believable. I bid you not to dismiss it all, but rather ponder the words of the merrevail, both Bogrian and Gwathwethil, and find that kernel of truth.
“You know full well of the origins of the minions of the Dark. The Dark Powers cannot create new things, they can only twist and corrupt those things which other hands have made. Even the Orcs, as you recall the most ancient of tales still preserved, were once like us, until the Darkness took them and ruined them, and bred that wretched race. And consider the other creatures of the Dark: the Trolls, made in mockery of the Onodrim; the Wargs, terrible forms of the wolves of the wild; and I have little doubt, Seregrían, that the merrevail are even so among that host of corruption.
“But this creature Gwathwethil, who claims to be the Elf-woman Thandwen? Examine her words with care. Consider her claim, that she truly is what she tells you. Your hardest lesson with me was to clear your mind of rage. I now bid you clear your mind of fear – fear of the truth, whatever form it takes.”
Seregrían struggles with Elrond’s words, and fights down her rising fears. “Bogrian said I live in denial of the truth. Gwathwethil tells me, and offers proofs, that she is somehow my mother. She exactly described the last time I saw my mother alive, and there was no one else there! How else might she know?”
Elrond takes her hands in his and presses her with a hard gaze. “Now, Seregrían, tell me this: did you actually see your mother die? Did you see her dead?”
Seregrían can vividly see the hour of death in her mind: Thandwen standing on a precipice over the Sea, in despair so deep she was beyond tears; Seregrían as a child, pleading with her to come back from the cliff; the look on Thandwen’s face of nothingness, no feeling or sorrow or joy; the moment she threw herself into the waters, and Seregrían sinking to her knees, wailing in horror –
– and never seeing her die.
“I never saw her die! I ran from that place, and never looked back. My mother might still live – as a Morroval!!”
