when the shadow falls | for laurenande

[shieldofrohan]

They were few enough when they fled, for many remained. Many - not only warriors, but farmers and artisans and fishermen, old men and youths and women - would sooner die on their own ground, standing hopelessly against the oncoming tide, than be cut down as they fled.

Éowyn would sooner have died. It is the final horror, the greatest defeat, that she should leave Edoras in flames and blackened ruin, that she should not stand to the last at the gates, or fall back with Éomer to Helm's Deep, and die at the last still defiant, with sword in hand and courage in her heart, doomed but brave.

She had begged not to be sent. She had fallen to her knees, gripping her brother's hands, and pleaded with him. It had not been graceful, either - not on either of their parts. There had been tears and blows, screaming and recriminations, and she had not been noble in it, she had not been gentle, at the last she had twisted the knife in every way she knew. I am more warrior than you. I am more king than you. Where were you, when the gates fell? Knowing, all the while, that she was being needlessly cruel, that it had not been his fault that he did not reach Edoras until it was too late, that she hurt him only to hurt him. But it had been a desperation beyond naming, beyond any anger or fear she had ever felt, to be sent away now.

And he - her only remaining kinsman, her rightful King, her brother who could face death boldly because he need not face disgrace - had at last wrapped his arms around her, weeping himself, and held her painfully tight, and said only If you are king enough to serve our people, then save our people. And she broke then, and clung to him in turn, and wept until she could weep no more, because he was right.

That was two weeks ago. They have moved more slowly than she would like - more slowly than they can afford. They cannot hope to hide, out on the plains, with handcarts and mules and the remnants of flocks, carrying the sick and the injured and the pregnant and the young. They cannot hope to turn and fight, either; she has armed herself and she knows her worth, but there is less than one full éored spared to ride with the caravan. Less than one hundred fighting men, against all the armies of Isengard.

Not a month ago, she was unblooded, a warrior in her own mind and nowhere else. Now, she has had to prove herself time and again, and there is no joy in knowing that she has done so. There is no glory, she has found at once, in this massacre. She was dragged from the field at Edoras, half-stunned and still trying to stand; she did not call the retreat, but she was pulled into it. And since then, there has been nothing but retreat - retreat from the charnel-house that the city has become, and retreat from Éomer's camp in the Westfold, and retreat and retreat and retreat across the plains and the hills, standing only long enough to win their people time to flee, and then reeling about their horses and turning heel. There is no glory in this fight, and no renown, and every part of her longs to find some solid place to stand, to turn at bay and meet their pursuers, screaming defiance and challenge, standing until the legs are cut out from under her, and fighting until her arms are broken, and holding fast until the last blood leaves her heart.

But she cannot, and it is a worse prison even than the shadowy hall of Meduseld at the end, when she had seen doom coming and could not turn Théoden from it. She could not even die at his side. She is trapped in this endless retreat, watching home disappear into ash behind her, and she cannot disappear with it, because if she fails now, then the last of the Eorlingas will die with the Mark, and it will all be for naught.

They are not only Eorlingas, now. The few hundred who set out sore-footed and weeping from the ruins of Edoras have been winnowed to less than a hundred by the journey, but they have been joined not only by the peasants of the land they pass through, but by those fleeing upriver from Gondor, the few who have evaded the Corsair ships and the Uruk-Hai camps and staggered ashore. From them she has learned, without surprise, of the siege of Minas Tirith, and wonders whether Éomer has seen the beacons, whether the Mark's last stand will be at the Hornburg or at the White City.

It does not matter. She cannot stand with them; and she mourns her brother just the same, whatever field he falls upon. In her mind, she has determined that he is dead already, for if he lives, it will not be for long, and it is better to mourn now than to turn her mind to false and mocking hope. He is dead, as Théodred is dead in the Marshes, as Théoden died at the threshold of the Golden Hall, cut down unceremoniously as he staggered beneath the weight of his sword. As she is dead, for there is no hope of survival. They are all dead; but they are not yet able to rest, and so she drives on this limping, ragged band of those without swords, and wonders when the end will come.

It comes in the night, as she expects. They have reached the river anew, and the rolling plains have given way to unkempt scrubland, then to woods where the horses must slow to a walk. They have made camp in the shelter of an old ruin, some remnant of old Gondor, and she has just laid down her head to rest for the first time in two days when the horns of the rearguard begin to blow.

On, then; the camp must be broken, the remaining carts taken up and the sleepers roused, and she scrambles for her saddle and her spear as she runs for her horse, calling aloud for haste. They must move, and ahead...

Ahead, the scouts have told her, is the Wood. This they have said in hushed tones, and though she pressed them, she did not need to; she can hear well enough the tone of it, which is the tone with which men speak of the Fangorn, and she can feel the weight of it. There is a strangeness to this place, they say, a silence. She has sent them out to find another way, for even in this extremity, there are things worse than Uruk-Hai, and they take root in such forests. The people of this camp are her responsibility. She will not lead them into greater doom.

And yet, she must. They cannot brave the mountains, and they have no ships to take the river. Perhaps if they had a little more time, if the scouts returned, if there is some preparation that could be made to skirt the ensorceled wood...

But the horns are blowing, and through the trees now she can hear the clash of arms, hear men screaming with unalloyed fear as she has not heard them scream before, and a terrible dread comes upon her, that what follows them is more than mere Orcs. She glances back at the slowly breaking camp, and forward to the terrible, silent wood, and she feels herself caught between fears.

If there is a road for them, it passes through the wood. If it does not, then they are already dead, and dead men need not fear.

She whispers reassurance to her horse, as he shies beneath her, and she looks at the half-dozen Riders who remain beside her. "We must," she says simply, and sets her heels to her steed's flanks, and the moonlight dies around them as she passes into the shadow of the trees.

Comments

[shieldofrohan]

Safe. It is a strange thought. How long has it been, since any place offered safety? Long before Rohan fell, long before the armies were at the gates, she ceased to know that safe. Nor is she confident of it now; but all the same, it is a comfort to hear, so sudden and sharp a comfort that her chest tightens at it.

She makes it back to the edges of the caravan, and to the remaining Riders looking expectantly (and, in the main, with concern) to her. Her stomach is roiling, her head throbbing. Her leg twinges, reminding her with every step her mount takes that she will not stand long if she dismounts. She has rarely felt so tired in her life, and that is a wonder in itself, for how long and unrelenting the past days have been.

But she is the King's ward, or she is the King's sister, or she is the Queen; in any case, it is not given to her to relent to pain. She calls out as loudly as she can, in a voice that rings strangely tremulous; and as it is clear that she cannot be heard well, turns to her men to pass the message where they can, that they will rest here, that the immediate danger has passed, that they must stay where they are. She would gladly do more - speak to the Elven-warriors around them, try to gather more of their situation; or else corral those from Gondor in hopes of their better Sindarin; or speak with her men about how soon they might venture back out to retrieve lost weapons and bury the dead. She would, but she cannot; the nausea and the weariness and the blackness batter against her, and at last knock her from her saddle. The last she knows is the bile in her throat, and the hands that hurry to catch her, and then nothing.

It is not sleep, and she does not rest; but she awakens to the grey of dawn. She has been wrapped in a threadbare blanket, made as comfortable as possible among the makeshift camp that has sprung up in the past hours, and her head is swathed in bandages. Two of the Riders sit beside her, their backs to the trunk of a tree, but both have fallen asleep, and she cannot blame them. Éowyn's head hurts, and even lying down she feels vertiginously dizzy, but all the same, she finds there is a curious sense of peace.

Safe, she thinks again, and wonders how true it can be. But safer than they were when night fell, at least.

[laurenande]

With the coming of dawn and the extinguishing of the torches above, the telain among the trees are once again hidden against the canopy. There are no wardens rushing across them, no one shouting orders and attempting to corral the refugees. But for the distant sounds of woods, cracking of branches and the early morning songs of birds, the world would be silent. At first, it may even seem as though the elves have abandoned them, vanished with the night like dreams.

Once Éowyn's word, assurance and instruction alike, spread through the riders in the night the unrest of the caravan was largely quelled. When the wardens departed with the gradual brightening of the sky, heading for the southern border, they passed largely without notice. However, with the rising of the sun and the golden light of dawn, the elves gradually return, picking through the trees with ease and the swiftness of duty.

They travel alone or in pairs each carrying some burden or another, recovered from the fields beyond the border. Many are simple things, packs of food, or belongings, and all are stacked against the trees alongside the makeshift camp. Eventually, though, they are joined by strange companions, by a number of the Rohirrim who were left, by necessity, on the battlefield. It is by no means all of them, for many were well and truly slain, but it is far more than any would have hoped to see again.

The man left dying beneath his fallen horse arrives, eventually, astride it. He carries bundles of weapons bound and hung from his saddle. Both he and his mount are hale and whole as they were the day before. The man who stopped to help him rides at his side, carrying packs of his own. Others trickle in, assisting the elves with equal diligence, but remaining once their burdens are set down.

After a time, the last of them arrives with the twin riders. In the light of day, at a distance, they are so alike as to be impossible to distinguish from one another. One of them walks next to his dark mount and the second, on foot as well, holds the thin grey leads of several horses in his wake. Astride the dark mount, pale and shining as the mallorn, is his grandmother.

Her armor was fashioned long before this forest was planted, and while it remains untouched by time, its age makes it strange to behold. It is all interleaved metal plate, spanning like feathers, gold and white, glimmering in the early light. Her sword is no longer with her, but a grey cloak is now draped over her shoulders. A silver brooch with a bright, shining emerald holds that cloak in place, pinned together at her throat.

All elves are timeless but, even among her kin, there is an ancient quality about her, as though she is a relic that was lost long ages ago. She is beautiful in the distant, grand way that a mountain's peak, or the sea might be. By comparison, her grandsons seem impossibly youthful.

[shieldofrohan]

It is miracle upon miracle, wonder upon wonder, and so it is less surprising than it might be to see the architect of this unbelievable morning. All the same, she is beyond miracle or wonder. There is amazement among all who see her, but those who were present at the battle, who saw what she defeated, are most struck of all. They rise to meet her, from their conversations and their breakfasting and the binding of wounds, standing in salute.

Éowyn rises with them, slowly and painfully but with her pounding head forgotten. Now, in daylight, she cannot imagine how she thought their rescuer was young; oh, there are no lines on her face, and no grey in her silver-gold hair, but there is no youth in her, either. Again, Éowyn thinks of a star, riding upon the earth, too bright and too blinding to look upon. She feels herself small in comparison, a tiny figure beneath the span of an ancient and all-covering sky, a blade of grass at the foot of a mountainside. She is a child, she thinks, and there is despair in the thought, beneath the wonder: she is a child, and how can she hope to offer anything at all, to this Lady or her wood, or to the people who are gathered around her?

Her weapons have found their way back to her, another miracle in a day full of them. She is grateful most of all now for her spear, which has less value in itself than her sword, but which serves well enough as a prop; leaning on it, she is able to step forwards without too much assistance from her companions, her injured leg dragging as she pulls herself forward to meet the three approaching Elves. It is more difficult to lower herself to one knee without falling, but she manages it, and does her best to summon her Sindarin.

"Lady. We are in your debt. It will not be forgotten." As though it could matter; but it must be said, all the same.

[laurenande]

Galadriel looks upon her from on high, mounted atop Elrohir's steed. Her gaze is heavy and piercing as she peers through Éowyn, through the very heart of her as though she were made of clear glass. After a moment's pause, she shifts and dismounts. While it is an elegant movement, she is unsteady and one of her grandsons steps forward to take her elbow. Her exhaustion is well guarded, but she is dimmed for all the efforts of last night and this morning. Still, as Éowyn has done, Galadriel makes the effort to close the short distance between them. To address her with the respect she has so rightly earned.

"It is not my desire to see such a courageous warrior bent and kneeling," she says and, herself, bends nearly to one knee to offer her a hand. It is symbolic as much as a provision of aid, but Galadriel will not begrudge her if she refuses it.

You needn't bow, not to me, nor any others in these lands, Éowyn of Rohan.

Her voice is the same. Whether spoken or whispered on the wind, it would be impossible to mistake it for anyone else. There was little doubt who warned them, who invited them in, and who begged for her aid, but what little may have lingered is banished now. This is the witch of the golden wood and in one night Éowyn has experienced more of her power than most do in a thousand years.

"Please rise. It is I who am in your debt," Galadriel continues in perfect westron, clear and without the hush of privacy. She has no qualms about this admission being known; she is far too old for dissembling about gratitude. Indeed there is a sense that, if they were not surrounded by the caravan, she would have pulled her into a grateful embrace.

[shieldofrohan]

She does not refuse it. It is not in her to refuse it: not an outstretched hand, offered in good faith, offered by someone who - by now - is a clear ally. Any suspicion of ill-intent is gone. The fear remains, but it is the fear of a frightened mortal faced by something vast and beyond understanding; and now, against all possibility, that vastness stretches towards her in friendship.

So she takes the Lady's hand, and is a little surprised to find that it does not burn or freeze or dissipate, that it is only a hand in hers, and that the woman who holds it out is visibly exhausted. In respect of the latter, she does not give in to the urge to place her weight on that grip as she stands; instead, she once again takes a moment to settle her spear-butt against the loam, to lean on it as she stands. She staggers a little - the dizziness has not passed - before finally loosing the Elf's hand.

She almost says that there can be no debt, that if one is repaid then both is repaid - but she is not quite so awed as to forget the value of such gratitude. "Thank you," she says instead, unsure what exactly she is thanking her for: what, out of all the great lists of things to be grateful for. And she is aware, too, of their audience, of the hundreds of eyes boring into her back, watching expectantly. "Can we speak more privately? If not now, then later? There is much that I do not understand."

[laurenande]

There is apology on Galadriel's face as they stand. The weight of her age sits heavily on her this morning; she spent too much of herself to destroy the wraiths, and more still to restore as many of their number as she could. She cannot spare anything else, not for either of them, and maintain the borders of the golden woods.

"We may," she replies as Éowyn regains her balance and releases her hand. "With so many, travel to the city will be slow. We may speak as we journey or once we reach the end of today's travels, when true privacy is within my power to grant."

"I do not know what understandings I can impart, but I shall answer any question you ask, if I am able."

It is a grander promise than any of the men present will recognize, and her grandsons watch her with carefully inscrutible stares as she makes it. Éowyn does not know that Galadriel is counted among the Wise, nor that she holds the power to look far afield, though the former is not difficult to guess. To share such knowledge freely is both a dear and dangerous thing, not something to be offered so freely, but Galadriel does, all the same.

In truth, it is hard to say how many of this morning's gifts are based in gratitude and how many repentance. She does not hold guilt for those who lay slain on the field, but rather for the very real threat she has posed these refugees. They will never know it, but she could have, just as easily, turned them away and left them to endlessly wander the labyrinthine paths between the mallorn.

Had their need or the danger been less, or Celeborn's need greater, she would have callously doomed them to an ignoble fate. For that, given their rush to valor and their self-sacrifice, she is deeply sorry.

"If you wish to speak now, we may walk," she offers last with a gesture of her hand toward the woods, bathed in golden morning light. Scenic as they are, the idea of walking through them for any distance is an unappealing one.

[shieldofrohan]

That, despite it all, makes Éowyn smile - a wry, sardonic smile, tired and pallid. "You may walk, lady. I fear it will be a day or two before I may, at least more I already have." She is still not quite sure what she has done to her leg - though she guesses it is at least not broken, since it can take a little of her weight before crumpling - but a good night's sleep has not healed all ills. There is almost a comfort in that, especially having seen men return to the camp raised nearly from the dead: her injuries, at least, make some degree of ordinary sense.

Nothing else does. Not yet.

But there is a city. There is a destination, one way or the other, and for the first time since fleeing Edoras, they may be headed towards something, not merely away. It is not quite hope, for there can be no hope in days as dark as these - but it is something. Her smile softens a little, and she shifts where she stands, her spear digging into the moss.

"It will wait. I will wait. It is not so hasty a need as that."

[laurenande]

Éowyn's reply is a fair mirror for Galadriel's feelings on the matter. Her own smile is mild, glad for the dismissal of the offer, and she does not need to look back to know her grandsons are sharing a subtly pained look between themselves. They have learned their doting from her, troublesome as it can be.

"Very well."

Galadriel knows little of Rohan save what she can glean from afar and from the hearts of the men within the wood. She has seen into the heart of Éowyn, during the fury of combat, but such glimpses are better suited to character than detail. In their exhaustion and injury, however, she will not risk embarassing her before a crowd. What she has not asked will be stated, just as though she had.

"When the sun is risen, and your people prepared, we may set out for Caras Galadhon. We have gathered what was left afield and survived the night, but determining to whom it all belongs is not our place."

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn nods, grateful for the information - grateful, too, to know that not all their things are lost. It seems churlish to worry about goods when they have been lucky to escape with their lives, but over the course of two weeks' hasty skirmishes and retreats, the chaos of flight and the desperate grief of so many, they have lost too much of their gear already.

And she can, perhaps, find her sword again. Théoden's sword, seized up from his hand as he fell, when she had stood to defend him, and been dragged away. It is not churlish, surely, to want that.

"I will see to it that all that can be, is restored to its rightful owners." Which will not be all of it, of course. Not all of them survived the night, either.

She looks back at the gathered refugees, her free hand gripping the back of her head as if to hold the pain in place. "We can be ready to move in an hour or two. But slowly; the horses will be wearier even than their riders." Although, now she thinks about it, they have seemed less weary than they should, given the ordeal of the night before. Something in the air of this place seems to have restored them.

I can move us after the next tag if that works.

[laurenande]

The strange air of this place is no accident; rejuvenation is woven through everything she touches, it cannot be otherwise. It is her fondest desire, a facet of her stubborness, and her longing to undo the ravages of time. They are made manifest by her power in a way that cannot be prevented. Within the sphere of her influence, beneath the boughs of the mallorn, all things are made evergreen. Her hours spent beyond the borders have seen the effect dwindling, but it will strengthen as she recovers.

It has eased her, to return and find the wardens and their temporary wards less harrowed than when they arrived. It is a gentle sort of aid for people who need much more, but it is a beginning. Many of the warriors and their mounts have recieved the boons of the elessar and they stand restored, but the stone's power is not entirely its own. She has gladly paid the cost of it, as she pays the cost of all her sorcery, but it is not enough.

It is never quite enough.

The apology in her heart must shine through as she regards Éowyn. Galadriel does not even recognize Elladan at her elbow until he gently grasps it and stays her drifting hand. He speaks in hushed Sindarin, softly enough that Éowyn may catch it if she has the mind to, but that will travel to no ears further than hers. He offers gentle warning, spoken with the firmness of family, that it will reflect poorly upon them all if she collapses.

It is a fair warning, he knows her well, and she turns her head just aside to nod to him, hopefully allaying his fears. He hovers, grim and watchful, as an advisor might trail after his father.

"As you need," Galadriel replies, though it is to Éowyn and not her grandson. "The urgency of the night is passed and a slow morning is a kindness for the weary."

That she is counted among them is a private joke, one that her grandson does not appreciate.

"I must gather myself as well, but I shall join you when it comes time to depart."

sounds great! thank you

[shieldofrohan]

It is hard to believe, even in seeing it and hearing it, that such a being could be weary: that anything as mundane as exhaustion could bring down someone who still radiates so much power. Yet believe it she must, for the evidence is before her eyes.

And it makes her feel a little better for her own weariness, bone-deep and futile. She smiles a little, inclining her head. "I will look forward to it, then. To speaking again."

But for now, there is work to be done - starting, as the intrusive rumbling of her stomach makes plain, with breakfast. She is hardy, but she is not a trained Rider, and she is unused to the kind of privation that has come with the past fortnight; her body does not take the kind of abuse that it has been through this night without calling for something to replenish it. A slight hint of colour touches her pale cheeks, and she clears her throat, fighting the urge to apologise. "By your leave, Lady."

All she really wants to do is to eat, and then lie back down, with a blanket over her head, and let the dizziness and aching wash away into a long sleep. The thought of a destination does something to spur her on, but all the same, she could very gladly lie down in the roots of one of the great trees and not rise for a day, a week, a century. Alas! there is no such rest yet, and the only real relief is that her men, seeing her weariness, come to meet her and help her back to a seat, and keep questions at bay.

I hope this will do!

[laurenande]

Éowyn and Galadriel part, the former to her men and a meal, and the latter with her grandsons and two of the wardens that gathered in the night.

Galadriel withdraws only so far as to be out of easy earshot, both for practicality and because she cannot guarantee that her weariness will not show ere they begin their travels. At a distance, even one as short as a stone's throw, the way she leans and holds on to the arm of her granson is well disguised.

The elves speak at length for the better part of an hour before the conversation abruptly ends. The wardens are dismissed and carry their orders to the others as they depart. The other wardens, few as they are, linger a short while yet. They remain nearby, attention turned south, but their true purpose is to pen in any men who may be inclined to wander before they depart.

Galadriel, for her part, spends the remaining time in thought, watching the distant trees with an absent gaze. Her grandsons hover, occasionally speaking to one another in quick, clipped Sindarin, but they do not disturb her uncanny stillness. The time spent in silence is a balm for her, but the hour of their departure approaches quickly.

The caravan collect themselves from their impromptu camp, gathering their belongings for the journey. They are weary, all, and bolstering them all for the journey takes time. When they are nearly readied, the last of the wardens withdraw to their proper posts and, all at once, the caravan is accompanied by only three elves. The twins drop back, assuming the duties of the departed wardens, and Galadriel settles on the remaining mount and waits, just a short walk north. It is not long before the riders join her and the caravan, at their lead, moves out.

The road to Caras Galadhon is, by design and through great effort, extremely well hidden. It is a single path that cuts through the forest, easily missed along the borderlands, but difficult to lose once it has been found. It is not terribly wide, but a few may ride side by side if they are mindful. The ground is not hard packed but merely cleared of underbrush, of root and rock, and open to the sun. It is firmer than moss and loam, but not so much that it will survive these travelers unmarred.

Straight through the trees, the distance from the city to the border would take a horse-bound rider two hours. On an elk, as she had traveled last night, that path is far easier to traverse; with great haste it took her less than a quarter of the time another rider would require. On this route, which does not cut through trees and down steep embankments, it will take far longer. They should reach the city as night falls.

[shieldofrohan]

It is not men - or even women - who are hardest to keep from straying. It is the children who make up a significant proportion of the caravan, and whose curiosity has not yet been tempered by caution; who see wonder as a thing to be chased rather than respected, and who are increasingly awake and alert as the morning wears on. They emerge more and more into visibility, from under their mothers' cloaks and their grandmothers' tents, wide-eyed and wild by turns. By now, the Riders are adept at herding their charges, but it is more difficult than ever now that the mood of the refugees has turned from simple dread into something more complicated and curious. The children, who have been subdued and frightened for the most part, now begin to act more as children should - which is, in this case, not a great benefit.

As such, all the able-bodied travellers are soon dispatched up and down the caravan, to walk as close as they can and keep the children from wandering away - or, it is very quickly apparent, from approaching the Elves, who they seem to view with unalloyed fascination. It does not help, either, that while all the caravan are exhausted, the children seem to have recovered their energy faster than their guardians, as children often do. They outpace the adults, only to be corralled back into the safety of the caravan or collapse, screaming and whining, as their energy ebbs again.

In other words, a slow journey is made slower still, and wonder alone cannot sustain a good mood. There is less of despair, but more of irritation and exhaustion, in the whole gathered crowd by the time the afternoon comes.

Éowyn rides at the head of the group, and tries not to feel that she is shirking her duty by not looking back. She stays in the saddle, and largely alert, and she does not slump under the pain in her head and the weariness on her shoulders. That is, she must admit, as much as she can ask of herself. Her sword rides at her hip again, and she wonders what its old bearer would think, to see her now. Would he be proud? She would like to believe it. She would like to believe that, somewhere in Mandos' halls, the King is himself again, and knows that she has not given in, and understands that she has taken up the burden he let fall. She would like to believe, after the night before, that even he would not doubt her ability as a warrior now.

She still has so many questions, but for the most part, she rides in silence. The questions which seemed so urgent that morning have lost some of their rawness. The important thing is this: that she stays in the saddle, and the Elf-Lady who leads them continues to lead them, and neither of them falter under the weariness they feel. If Galadriel approaches her, she will answer. If not, it is easier by far to just keep her eyes on the ground ahead, watching for any hazards her horse may not have seen, and to move forward.

[laurenande]

Despite how fearsome they appear, the sons of Elrond are by far closer in age to the children that stray toward them than to their grandmother or the woods they all traverse. They are responsible in their duty, they do not encourage the ones who escape their guardians' grasp and stray, but neither are they unkind in urging them back. There is precious little that will harm anyone within these woods, but even the power of the elves cannot spare a child if they tumble into a ditch or trip over a fallen branch.

For all the irritation and exhaustion of the caravan, for how clearly the miles before compound with those they walk now, the hushed chatter of the refugees and the noissome nature of children colors the air. The children, curious and darting, energetic and wailing in turn, bring a vibrance to this land, one that has been absent for many years. Galadriel, despite all the weariness that weighs on her, takes great and unexpected comfort in the disturbance they cause. Though the ride wears on the mortals around her, it kindles her brighter, restoring forgotten corners of her soul.

The afternoon does not see them as far along as she had expected, but it does bring them to a break in the trees. There are many scattered meadows and patches of light along the periphery of the wood, but there are few so close to the heart of it. This one is a remnant of the past, left over from centuries ago when men still traded here, before darkness crept back into the world.

It is broad enough to provide for the entire caravan, but only just. It will serve as a place to rest, if the lady who leads them orders it. At the edge of the clearing, where the road dips down with the slope of the land and vanishes once more into the trees, the view of the distance is extraordinary. The far borders of Lothlórien stretch out like a great patch of golden wildflowers at the foot of the mountain. In the center, not far off, the greatest of the mallorn separate from the canopy. They rise towering and golden and peace settles over Galadriel.

While no banners catch in the afternoon breeze and there are no towers of stone gleaming in the sun, the sight of the city is a comfort. Unmarked though it is, their destination is laid clearly before them.

"There," Galadriel says and slows her mount to pull alongside the ailing Éowyn. It is a quiet interjection, meant for Éowyn alone, as the shape of the city comes into view.

[shieldofrohan]

There is no city. There is woodland, vast and fair; and beyond it there are mountains that Éowyn has only ever seen on maps, and that rarely; and the sky above feels as wide and endless as on any Rohirric plain. There is nothing manmade here, where Men do not dwell.

There is no city, and yet she sees the city at once; and the thought comes to her, strange in its certainty, that this is what the cities of Men have striven towards. That the carved pillars and vaulted eaves of Meduseld were only ever an attempt to recapture the twist of living wood; that the hill upon which Edoras stood was only a mockery of the way the high trees stand above the landscape of the forest; that there is no city, and yet this is the thing that cities dream of, in their being.

(Elven-magics and a concussion combine into strange flights of fancy, as it turns out.)

"It is beautiful," she says, and means it. "This is your city?"