Seregrían departs later in the morning than first planned, due to receiving late word from the Lady of Lorien. As she was readying to ride south, a messenger arrives from Caras Galadhon bearing a parcel, with a message attached:
“As promised, these tokens are for your journey into the lands of the Horse-lords. While these may not speed your passage, they will bring good will from your hosts, and aid you in other ways not so openly. Use them wisely. Farewell!”
As the day grew warmer, Seregrían rides south along a little-used trail that threads its way along the banks of the Anduin, but still beneath the eaves of the forest. The trees begin to thin out and spread apart as she proceeds along the road, lighting the path with a soft, green glow. According to the maps she memorized prior to leaving Lorien, the lands of Thinglad end where the forest abruptly ends and the lands open up into the field of Celebrant, a vast open land between the River and the foothills of the mountains. There, just south of the wood, rises the town of Stangard and the frontier of Rohan; her first waystop.
Just before the trees thin away, Seregrían reins up and listens; a sound meets her ears and causes her to look for its source. A song, a lament in the Elven-tongue, can be heard to the right and off beneath the trees. Dismounting, she leads her horse deeper into the wood and, atop a small hill, sees an Elf-woman seated against a tree, clad in the wood-cloak of the Galadhrim scouts, singing a tune of regret. The Elf-maid stops singing and looks up at Seregrían, her face care-worn and sad.
“Greetings, neighbor,” Seregrían says, “I heard your song in passing, and wished to learn the reason for its sorrow. Who are you, and who is this one of whom you sing?”
The Elf looks up at her. “Well met, traveler. Noriel is my name. You find me in mourning, for the passing of someone whom I should have allowed myself to love.”
Curious, Seregrían approaches and looks on the scene. Noriel sits against the bole of a tall tree, and close by is a plain stone marker amid the grass; it is fresh and recently placed, meaning the loss Noriel speaks of was recent as well.
“I greive with you, for your loss,” Seregrían says. “You say you did not allow yourself to love this one. Why?”
“Because I was selfish,” Noriel says. “In the face of all counsel and sense, I still began to care for him, and he the same, despite all reason. He declared his love, and I scorned it. I deemed the differences between us to be beyond solving. But my heart knew otherwise. All because the one who loved me was a man of Rohan…” and she falls silent, her eyes downcast.
“This one you mourn was a mortal?” Seregrían says in surprise. “What is this tale? Share it if you can.” And Noriel, with a glance at the nearby marker, tells the story of Wynmar, the hunter of Rohan, her cold disregard for his suit, and their bitter parting even as she confessed her feelings to herself, a moment too late. As the tale unfolds, Seregrían sits beside her in rapt attention.
“As much as I will mourn Wynmar’s passing, “Noriel says sadly, “I mourn something even more. For I regret not listening to the voice of my heart while there was still time. His heart was as valiant as it was forward and frank. And even in death, dear Wynmar teaches us something, do you know?”
“What lesson have you learned from this sadness?” Seregrían says.
“I have learned something of the nature of Men,” Noriel says. “Their lives are brief, too brief; and yet they would willingly spend it in exchange for the joy of the hour, or its glory. They must live for the moments, for those moments are all they have, when measured against the lives of the Elves. They will not hide their hearts behind cold and cool words and eyes. I shall take his lesson to heart. I shall not hide my heart should something like this happen again, for missed joy is even more grievious.”
Seregrían thinks for a minute, then, “You are not the first, nor the only Elf whose heart was won by Men. All know the tale of Tinuviel, of course; but there have been others of the two kindreds whose hearts cleaved to one another. One of them close at hand, for the lady Lonannuniel now dwells here in Lothlorien, and her husband is the Ranger Halrohir.”
“Halrohir! Well do I know the name,” Noriel says, “for he is known in Lothlorien as an Elf-friend. We parted company close to this spot, some days ago. He was riding north out of Rohan, and I saw his face aglow and his eyes dancing; for he was to reunite with his beloved. That is all the more painful to me, for I shall never see that light in Wynmar’s eyes again…,” her voice droppping to a whisper.
Seregrían considers softly, “He too, lives for the day. And Lonannuniel cannot bear to be parted from him, for she too would spend the days in bliss. I see that now, as well. Your Wynmar has a lesson for us all. I myself am bound for Rohan, and I shall see with my own eyes if the men of that land are as frank-hearted and fair-spoken as he.” And she stands, and calls to her mount. “I must take my leave, Noriel of the Wood, and leave you to your vigil. I can offer no comfort, save the hope that your memory of this Wynmar stays long with you. Farewell!”
“Farewell to you, traveler,” Noriel says, “and thank you for your kind words. I shall remain here, but I bid you look on the men of Rohan with my new eyes. Their hearts are not concealed, so look not for hidden meanings. Their honesty may do them ill, but it’s a chance they willingly take. May Elbereth watch you on your way!”
Seregrían mounts and rides south, leaving Noriel to her mournful watch. After a swift ride, she passes from beneath the eaves of Thinglad, and the rolling lands of Rohan open before her. At the edge of sight can be spied the curling smoke of the hearth-fires of Stangard. She thinks on Noriel’s plight, and considers her words. It is plain, and becoming even plainer, that the scholar has so much more to learn in her dealings with Men.
