Lothlorien, Caras Galadhon, T.A. 3018

The lilt of a gentle voice reciting sweet and chaste poetry filtered through the glade and harmonised with the sigh of wind passing through golden leaves. Istarien delighted to read her own work, even if the confidence to do so often eluded her. Still, Luidhros’ request for a performance was more than enough encouragement for such a kind afternoon.
 

Broad shoulders, a tall and powerful frame, dark hair, Luidhros was Noldo in all but personality. He had his eyes closed to better appreciate her verse, which allowed her to take a little guilty enjoyment in the sight he presented. Unfortunately, it was not to be for long.
 

“Good Eve Luidhros, ah! And Istarien! Well met.” Húrien strode over, all high bearing and knowing smiles, slotting seamlessly between them as Luidhros came out of his reverie.
 

“Well met, Húrien.” He hummed with a rye smile, “I would ask after you, but something tells me you have a tale you are eager to tell.” And by the way the Scholar’s eyes flashed in the starlight, Istarien had to agree. With a sense of finality, she tucked her poetry back into it’s pouch and settled in for what new piece of gossip their old friend had to offer, even though it may have cut her recital short. Húrien could always be relied upon for entertaining topics.
 

“Ah, bless you Luidhros, you know me so well. For, did you hear? Úveluie has returned to the Golden Wood!” Istarien wrinkled her nose at the cruel name but her head still tilted curiously. She had heard the name mentioned before but had never known whom it referred too. A glance to Luidhros told her he was also at a loss.
 

Húrien huffed, perhaps silently berating herself, “Oh, of course, our dear Istarien and well-mannered Luidhros would not know her as such. The ah-.” She pondered a moment, trying to recall the title, tutting at herself as it eluded her. “What a dreadful mark upon my scholarly art, but I have not spoken Quenya for a yeni and more… Mm… Arcaumaro! The Arcaumaro. You must know of her Luidhros?”
 

Her assumption certainly appeared correct, if the shift in the Ellon’s expression was any judge. Istarien could not remember seeing the Noldo appear quite so… taken off guard. Curious, yet cautious. “I do. Though I cannot claim her acquaintance.”
 

“But you know enough, I deem, to understand why she is known as Úveluie best?” Húrien asked with a smirk. Luidhros apparently could not quite stall a small huff of amusement before nodding his head. Istarien was about to ask why, but she found herself interrupted a second time as the powerful voice of Pethbes entered the fray.
 

“Úveluie? Do my ears deceive me? She cannot be back.” The practical and tidy cook said as she approached them.
 

“And yet I swear upon my heart she is, dear Pethbes! I first heard it from Lathron yesterday, but this morning I recognised her myself!”
 

From the tone of her voice one could easily tell that Húrien was deeply enjoying herself. However, she was an excellent storyteller so it was easy to forgive her gossiping habits.
 

Pethbes, as usual, did not see much fun in the telling. Her expression was highly disapproving as she spoke. “Have the Marchwardens been informed? I cannot imagine Lord Celeborn would allow her to set foot upon even one Golden leaf, let alone roam the city unattended.”
 

Luidhros spoke up, “I was not made aware of her, but there have been no warnings of trespassing either. She must have been permitted entrance into Caras Galadhon.” His tone was gentle and deep as ever, but he held a curious expression.
 

“Can we be in such need of martial might?” Húrien asked.
 

“Mirkwood grows darker every day. And Lord Celeborn is by far wise enough to forgive past transgressions for the sake of War.” Luidhros replied.
 

“How much worth can one Soldier have Luidhros? She cannot be that impressive, I did not even know her as a warrior.” Pethbes griped, waving her hand dismissively.
 

Luidhros’ reply was grave, “Then the tale has suffered in the telling. i arben na Aran, as you would call her, did not stand at the High-King’s side for nothing.”
 

Pethbes’ eyes widened a moment, before her scowl deepened once again. “You cannot mean to say Úveluie, with her infamous reputation, was once a member of High King Gil-Galad’s court.”
 

Luidhros could only nod, and this shocking revelation stunned Pethbes into silence. Finally, Istarien felt she had a moment for her question.
 

“What did this Úveluie do to garner such infamy?” The youngest there, Istarien was used to the slightly patronising glances that her question earned. But she knew her companions would answer her eventually and so bore them without comment.
 

“Ah, how rude of us, of course you do not know.” Húrien’s expression was apologetic enough to be sincere but Pethbes immediately took it upon herself to give an answer.
 

“Though there was a time when she was welcome in Lothlorien, Úveluie has never been kind or pleasant. Always loud, rude, never satisfied to let a disagreement rest and ungrateful for the hospitality she was shown here. She is ill made both inside and out! I do not know how the High-King can have stood for her disrespect.”
 

Seeing that Pethbes was about to slip off track, (and very eager to continue the tale herself), Húrien took over quickly. “Her banishment came after a dreadful audience with our Lord and Lady. No one knows for certain what was said, only that the Lady Galadriel suffered such a grievous insult that the Lord drew his sword before recovering his temper and ordering her gone!”
 

Istarien’s eyes were wide as the tale was told. Though she had no true personal experience, all knew the Lord Celeborn to be wise and thoughtful. Calm in the face of every storm. It was difficult to even imagine what mere words could have stirred his ire. “If that is so then how can the March Wardens have allowed her within?”
 

Luidhros, after being quiet for a moment, finally replied. “Now that I have given it more thought, it is possible- even likely- that many of our younger warriors would not know her face to refuse it. Her exile was not recent, after all. Not even by our reckoning.”
 

Húrien gasped in what might have been distress but was far more likely to be thrill. “Could that not mean the Lord and Lady are unaware of her presence here?”
 

With that, Luidhros rose from his seat, reaching his towering height over all of them. “If that is the case, it will not be for long. I fear I must excuse myself and see to this. Thank you again for your indulgence Istarien. I will have to beg you finish it for me another time.” Istarien could only blush and nod before the Noldo was up and gone away, leaving their little gathering quieter in thought.
 

“… If she can have been so cruel to someone as kind and beloved as the Lady Galadriel, I certainly am discomforted to think this Úveluie walks among us…” Istarien eventually murmured quietly. But Húrien was quick to comfort her. “Foul and loathsome she may be. But if you encountered her you would only be in danger of an unpleasant conversation, nothing more. We are as safe as always Istarien.” Her smile was confidence and brightness itself. But Pethbes was not convinced.
 

“To that, dear Húrien, I ask simply this. How could you know? When we do not even recall her true name?”
 

To her credit, Húrien did not pretend to have an answer.
 

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Up upon her toes, fingers straining as high as they could go, the parchment still fluttered just out of Istarien’s reach. A little mischievous breeze plucked at it tauntingly, threatening to pull her poetry from the lamp it had been caught in if she did not act fast. Her brow was furrowed with the deepest concentration and she worried her bottom lip as the very tip of her nail grazed the edge of her quarry.
 

A sudden gust made her gasp and flail, accidentally batting the poem which broke free without warning. She gave a cry of frustration and spun to give desperate chase, but in blindly spinning she ran herself headfirst into a solid, immovable tree.
 

Well, she first assumed it to be a tree, the collision so jarring that it quite took her off her feet. She could have sworn a tree had not been there before. Not the most graceful of the Eldar beneath the eaves of Lothlorien, to be sure.
 

However, after giving a small whine of pain and gingerly searching her head for damage, she opened her eyes to look up at her obstacle.
 

The elf that looked down at her was possibly the tallest she had ever seen, even taller than Luidhros though Istarien had no notion of that being possible. Her nose would barely reach their chest! Their shoulders were so wide, features so sharp and graceless, that it took her a long moment to recognise them as an elleth at all. Indeed, if any elf could be called ill-made or unbeautiful, it would be this one.
 

Still, all of that flew from her mind the moment she noticed the parchment this stranger had caught between their fingers.
 

Istarien flew to her feet with a small noise of delight and relief and her eyes were bright with gratitude as her poetry was handed back to her. “Ah, my sincerest thanks! I had thought to never see it again!” She exclaimed as she ensured none of the ink had run before glancing back to her saviour.
 

This quendi looked stranger and more unusual by the moment. Up on her feet, Istarien had a better view of the dull, rough-spun cloth and leather shirt she wore, the in-elegant pauldrons upon her corded shoulders. A far cry from the soft and colourful linens and robes of Caras Galadhon. Her hair was a dull and uninspiring flaxen colour, braided resolutely away into a long rope behind her. And, oh, Istarien had not noticed the sheer musculature of her until now. The Stranger’s forearms were so thick it seemed she could have uprooted a mallorn with just her bare hands alone. Not an ounce of femininity to her, she looked utterly foreign.
 

The Stranger had a quirk to her lips as she silently dipped her head in acknowledgement of Istarien’s thanks, which was when the strangest and most unsettling part of her appearance was shown.
 

Soft lines spiderwebbed their way about her eyes, creased over her mouth and framed the sharp jut of her nose. Lines of age. And there were scars too, jagged scratches of white peppering her tanned skin. That wasn’t right, that shouldn’t be. If not for her shear size, the touch of elegance to her frame and the long ears that tapered to an unmistakable point, Istarien would have easily mistaken her for one of the second born.
 

And yet, though she unsettled her deeply, there was some… strange pull to her. A heady throb to her presence, just noticeable at the edge of Istarien’s consciousness. It was wholly unlike the Lady Galadriel’s divine and otherworldly aura, this was primal and earthen and quiet. To a poet’s mind, it was like comparing the dreamy and powerful pull of moonlight to the thick yet subtle scent of a thunder storm.
 

She blushed when she realised she was staring.
 

The stranger only seemed to find this passingly amusing and was about to leave when Istarien stammered out, “A-ah, please! Allow me to thank you properly! You are a newcomer to Caras Galadhon yes? Let me…” The disparate deductions of her mind finally spooled all the pieces of this puzzle together in a single moment. Her eyes widened, and she felt a second, more fearful thrill run up her spine.
 

“No need.” Úveluie said, her accent in sindarin so odd it was almost difficult to comprehend. “This is not my first visit to the Golden Wood.”
 

“Úveluie…” Istarien whispered, the ugly nickname leaving her lips before she could reclaim her composure. And yet the slip still confirmed her suspicion. Úveluie’s natural smile turned to a darker pall and her back straightened to her full, intimidating height. A peerless warrior, Luidhros had said. Cruel and ill-made inside and out, Pethbes had said.
 

“Rumor spreads even faster than I remember beneath the mallorn’s leaves.” Her words were bitter, though they held a hint of amusement, and the suddenly harsh edge made Istarien flinch.
 

“The March Wardens will be told!” She blurted out, without truly knowing why. An abrupt sense of vulnerability had stricken her, something about the eerie shift in this elleth’s manner giving Istarien fright.
 

Úveluie seemed unphased, though her head tilted with a predatory-like curiosity. “I should hope they already have been…” Her pause was small, but her eyes were so piercing it gave an unsettling sense of invasion. “Why do you tremble?” She asked finally. “Has my reputation grown so dreadful?”
 

Istarien hadn’t noticed the slight tremor in her fingers until this moment, the parchment in her hands gently fluttering in her grasp. Her grip tightened to still it, her pride demanding that she be brave.
 

“You do not belong here, you break our Lord’s law by crossing the border of Lothlorien.” She was grateful that her voice was stable, some well of strength giving her the courage she needed.
 

“I cannot be blamed if the sentries have short memories.” Úveluie replied dismissively. “And besides, I am only here for the sake of a friend.”
 

“Then they will soon miss you!” Istarien countered, “Captain Luidhros already pursues you, he will surely-“
 

“Who?”
 

Istarien stalled at the query. Her tone was so… bored. So dismissive. Luidhros was a Noldo, a war hero, an honoured Captain among the Galladhrim. The fact that someone who had spent time in Lothlorien did not possess even a passing memory of him, showed him such disrespect, Istarien was utterly thrown. Anger and insult boiled in her eyes but for once she was voiceless to express it.
 

Úveluie seemed to recognise her ire, though she did not appear regretful. “No matter. I am thoroughly discovered it seems. Thank you for the warning.”
 

She had the nerve to dip at the waist before she turned to leave, an insulting play at gratitude and farewell. Istarien found she could not restrain herself any longer. An ugly part of her rose to meet this challenge and she nearly spat her next words.
 

“I hope you rot in exile!”
 

There was a pregnant pause. Úveluie ground to a full stop, holding herself eerily still for a moment before slowly turning back. The look in her eyes was truly, deeply discomforting. As was the bitter and vile tone in her voice as she replied. “Verily! Whilst you seem content to rot here.”
 

“Excuse me?!” Istarien cried, outraged.
 

Suddenly, and in a motion that almost defied sight, yet also seemed no more than a casual reach, Úveluie plucked the page of poetry from Istarien’s hands. “This?” She scoffed as she glanced over her verses, the Poet still looking from her hand to the page in bewilderment. “Another wistful ballad of chaste love beneath yellow trees? How original.”
 

The sarcasm dripped from her tongue and Istarien uttered an indignant, “How dare-!” before she was interrupted.
 

“Here you compare sweat on your brow to the morning dew, that must have pushed your literary talents.”
 

Istarien gritted her teeth and made to snatch the page back but Úveluie, in an act of utter pettiness, simply held it out of her reach. She flushed an angry red at being forced to play into such a childish act. Stars above, she could not remember ever being so furious. Úveluie just smirked.
 

“They were right about you,” Istarien declared, “you are cruel and ill-made, inside and out!”
 

Úveluie seemed to take wicked satisfaction in her fury. “Were they now?”
 

“Yes! Perhaps if you listened, you might learn to be less foul! Though I doubt you capable!”
 

“And perhaps if you set foot outside these borders you could write poetry with even a shred of originality. I know you are capable, but I still doubt you ever will.” And, with that, Úveluie released the page from her grip.
 

By the time Istarien had caught it out of the air her new and detestable acquaintance had left. As mortifying tears pricked at her eyes, she had found she had no wish to follow her.

 

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Translations

i arben na Aran - (Sindarin) Knight of the King
Arcaumaro - (Quenya) Protector of the King
Úveluie - (Sindarin) Not amiable, an unloveable person.