"Hmmmmmm..." Daerundros trailed off in thought as she examined the empty goblet in her hand, creasing her brows, "A good memory, no doubt." She laughed grimly and carelessly tossed the goblet into an overstuffed sack filled with objects collected over the years.
Today was finally the day she was leaving Imladris and moving Westward and closer to the Sea. Her heart fluttered at the thought of seeing the shores of Lindon once more, and she yearned to visit acquaintances. Curugirion, Galvathalion, and Elvea all flashed into her mind as she mused over her destination.
Striding outside, Daerundros took one last look at the building which she had called home for so many years. As she shut the door, she felt an overwhelming sense of certainty and confidence; She could now leave all behind and look forwards to what awaited her in Lindon. She had only taken what she needed for her journey: clothes, food, her beloved weapons, a small framed painting of her parents, herself, and her aunt, and her most precious smithing anvil. She took a moment to look at her raiment, assessing it keenly for any damage and wear.
She was clothed in the grey garb of her adopted kin, the Galadhrim, in Lothlórien. She could remember the last time she wore the cloak. It was evening.
She cast her eyes sadly down at the golden heads of the trees sticking out from long, slender white bark. Far by the edge of the Mirrormere she saw, as her keen eyes perceived through the darkness of the cloudless night, tiny figures pouring out of the great beard and out into the heedless darkness. Many of the small humanoid figures were standing frozen on the spot, and she guessed it were perhaps, Dwarves of Khazad-dûm, their eyes turned upwards, rooted, as if witnessing the the very first rising of the sun, much as her mother used to tell tales of the wonders of seeing the rising sun, far away in Tirion, City of the Noldor, Gem of the Golodhath.
"Daerundros? Are you coming?" A grey-cloaked Elf put a hand on her shoulder and looked at her with creased brows.
"Yes? Ah, yes, yes, I am coming." She broke herself free from the binding shackles of her reminiscing and smiled at her companion, trudging up the snowy path with light feet. She stumbled after the group of Silvan Elves, her eyes focused on the journey ahead of her, but her mind straying back to the Golden Wood.
She adjusted her ears and heard the Elves murmuring of the fell darkness awakened within the mines. After nearly fourteen yén spent under the eaves of Lóriland, the Silvan dialect had begun to grow on Daerundros. She would need some time to adjust back to the Exilic Sindarin dialect she grew up with back in the Holly Land.
"A thousand curses upon the Naugrim for their greed!" Cried one, looking thoroughly angered as her grey cloak swished through the darkness, hard to discern save for perhaps the keenest of eyes, "I will not come back to the Wood so long as that foul evil wreaks havoc within the Halls of Moria."
"I could not agree more," said another, an elf with hair as white as snow, "The Balrog is a fell terror that should never have been awakened!"
The group was mostly comprised of Noldor and Sindar who had fled from the destruction of Eregion. This group, she had noted, particularly resented the disaster within the Mines. She could see why. If Lórien were to fall to the Balrog, it would have been a worst-case scenario of history repeating itself. There was doubt on all sides as to whether the beloved Lady of the Wood could be able to withstand the terror of such a thing.
"Nay, friends." Someone, a brown-haired Elf-lady stated, "Speak not so. We have lived untroubled for many yén beneath this wood. I am sure the Lady will be able to keep the Balrog at bay."
There it was. Angry murmuring. Accusations began to fly throughout the group. Voices rose and fell into silence. At last, Daerundros mustered the courage to speak.
"Then why, hîril, is it you flee also?" She asked politely. Among the throng of bickering, the Elf-lady smiled at her.
"Because it is my choice to pass West. I have naught to do here now."
The hills began to climb sharply up as she ascended up the long winding way towards the gates. Daerundros made sure to take in every detail she was seeing; The leaf-strewn grasses, the shapely boughs and branches, the flying foliage, the red autumn canopies. She reached and touched the fine golden brooch that was clasped at her throat. West she would go, but not yet West it would be. She could almost feel the salty breath of the sea.
"No vaer i dinnu, Imladris."* She said as she cast her head back one last time at the fair golden valley, which was steadily shrinking against a waxing moon, sharply rising out of the mountains. The stars were beginning to glimmer and twinkle, small lights against a purple twilight sky. Her faithful steed, Cuinichereth, now laden with her provisions and belongings and pacing several steps ahead, reared her head up at the sky.
"I beg your pardon?" A voice in front of her asked. She halted abruptly and stared in front of her to find two sentinels smiling at her mildly, "You speak an unfamiliar language, hîril."
"Hmmm?" Daerundros mused calmly, and then she realized she was speaking in the Silvan dialect, "Oh, my apologies. I have thoughts that dwell in my mind."
"It is sad to see you go," said one Sentinel, smiling sadly, "Ú-firo i laiss e-guil gîn."**
But Daerundros, heavy in heart of this statement, simply said, "Harthon an lend an."***
The sentinels nodded and cleared the path. Slowly the crevice which lead into Imladris unfurled and before her lay a vale of murky green and reddish-brown hues, fir trees looming watchfully over the bush and shrub.
"Good fortune on your journey, hîril Daerundros!" Was heard from behind her. At this Daerundros cracked a smile. An old name not meant to be used again. As she mounted and rode Cuinichereth out into the dark night, she turned her head swiftly and stopped:
"Not, Daerundros." She said firmly, "Cúdaerien."
* - "Good Night, Rivendell."
** - "May the leaves of your life never die."
*** - "I hope it will be a long journey."
