All is now ready for Seregrían to accompany Bosi on their errand to Lothlorien, seeking the aid of the Galadhrim in this desperate hour. But to reach this point took two days’ preparation, and it could not be avoided or sped up.
At the insistence of the Dwarves, Seregrían accompanies Wafi and Rink Stronghammer back to Nar-Khelab, the Heart of Fire. And there, by way of Dwarven craftsmanship and skill, her sword is recast and remade into a thing of wonder. The minute tailings of mithril gleaned from the Silvertine Lodes are blended with the ancient Dwarf-iron blade and forged anew, with the added touch of “Seregrían’s Kiss”, which fans the forge’s heat to an intensity that unshielded eyes are dazzled, and even Rink’s boast of endurance shrinks before the furnace’s fires.
But the labors have ended, and Wafi and Rink have crafted a sparkling new sword, with pristine blade and keen edge, gemstones set in the pommel, and runes of cunning work winding round the hilt guard meant to ward the wielder from harm. The Dwarves make a formal ritual out of presenting the newly forged weapon to Seregrían and inform her it answers to the name of Az-gazukh, ‘Lady-steel’. She says nothing, not daring to let her voice break and betray her…
Before the time-hammers strike the dawn hour, the party mounts their goat-coursers and sets out for the East-gate; Bosi and Seregrían in front, with an escort of four strong Dwarves in tow. Down the corridors and through the dim halls they gallop until the last outpost at the First Hall is behind them. It takes nearly a whole day to arrive at the Gates of Azanulbizar from the Twenty-first Hall, and the Dimrill Dale lies in shadow before them.
“Bosi, how far will we travel tonight?” Seregrían asks.
“There is a camp ahead, Mekhem-bizru, by the shores of Kheled-zaram,” he replies. “We were not idle in your absence, Khazush. A scouting party was sent out and discovered a caravan of Elves of the Wood, beset by goblins; we routed them, and the wagoneers set up camp at that spot. We have exchanged pleasantries, and goods, with them, but the threat from the Orcs has not lessened. Perhaps, you could set staff and sword to the task?” he said with a sly grin. “When we reach camp, we can gain news of the road ahead. There it is, just there!” The light of a watch fire flickers in the gloaming, guiding the party to its first camp.
News is shared, both from within Moria and from down the valley of the Silverlode into the Golden Wood. For while Seregrían and Bosi were preparing, Brogur dispatched messengers to Mekhem-bizru and from there to Caras Galadhon, with word of the embassy from the Iron Garrison and their purpose in coming. Within an hour of their arrival, messengers returned from Lothlorien bearing news: the party from Khazad-dûm was expected and would be granted passage over Nimrodel and Celebrant for audience with the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim.
Seregrían takes a stroll to the edge of the waters and takes in the wonder of Nanduhirion. She has seen this valley and these waters centuries past, during her last sojourn to Lothlorien, and she notices the change: not in the land or the water or the sky above, but in the feel of the air, the ever-present dread of the East like a thin, sour smoke tasted on the wind. But then she casts her eyes on the surface of the lake and beholds the night sky, a vast rotunda of lights reflected in the still waters. A voice behind her breaks the silence.
“Dark are the waters of Kheled-zaram, and chill are the springs of Kibil-nala,” Bosi says almost chanting. “You are leaving Khazad-dûm, and the Dwarves. Now you approach the woods of Lothlorien, and the Elves. Do you regret your choice, Khazush-men, my sister? Do you rejoice to return to your people?”
“In leaving Khazad-dûm, it means I shall return one day, and that will be time for another celebration,” Seregrían replies. “But this day, the leaving and the arriving are for a mighty purpose, which I only gave you hints and secrets. In Lothlorien, I search for solutions to grave concerns, both for all free peoples, and for my own self.”
“Like, what you found on Zirak-zigil? The thing that left you haunted, and put even you to flight?”
“Yes, and I am still learning what it might be that I found on the heights.”
“The merrevail got inside your head, did they not? Or at least they tried. That is the way of the treacherous: plant the seeds of doubt, and let the hapless victim tend the crop and reap the harvest. You haven’t told us, and that I understand; but it is enough to know that what was said rocked you to your core. And you hope to find answers with the Lord and Lady of the Wood, that is plain.”
“There is wisdom in the Wood that spans the deeps of time, like the bridges that span the deeps in the mansions of your fathers. Just as you delve for riches, brother, so I delve for lore, and in that lore lies the truth. And there is no more ancient lode of knowledge than those who dwell in the Wood.”
“Your words move me, Seregrían of the Elves. Your heart truly does walk in the halls of Khazad-dûm. Bring your wisdom and your words with you when we stand before the Lord and Lady tomorrow. I bid you take your ease, while I take my rest. But know this: I also name you Thief, for you have stolen the hearts of the Iron Garrison – and mine.” And Bosi takes her hand and kisses it. “We stand together, you and I, come what tomorrow brings. Goodnight to you, Khazush.” And he leaves her standing by the edge of the water, the lapping of the lake against the shore louder than the night breeze, as Seregrían turns to once more watch the stars in Mirrormere.
