Seregrían stands alone at the gates of Caras Galadhon for a time, gazing along the trail where Bosi and the Galadhrim company departed for Moria. She remains alone in her thoughts until a sudden breeze moves the boughs of the trees and shines golden upon the forest floor. She stirs, sighs once, and walks back through the gates into the city. The soft light and music of the city of the Elves is a wan comfort to her as she walks beneath the trees, musing on how her path shall unfold in the coming days.
The voices of the Elves lift in song, some sad, some tuneful but sonorous, none are gay or mirthful. Seregrían’s mood deepens further as she walks until, beneath a tall mallorn where minstrels are wont to sit and perform, a different voice rises above all others: deeper than the Elves, not unlovely but still not the same lilting sound, accompanied by a deep-sounding stringed instrument. The song was also different, happier and upbeat, but in a tongue she had never heard before, rich and vibrant. Taken in by curiosity, she approaches the pavillion and sees one singer standing among a small group of Elves who listen politely and in rapt attention. The minstrel is strumming what appears to be a theoboro of large proportions, and he smiles as he sings, his song drawing to a close, the Elves smiling and applauding generously. The minstrel turns to meet her gaze, and Seregrían is shocked to see that the singer is not an Elf, but a Man!
The man bows to his audience and walks out of the circle as another minstrel steps up to share. He walks toward Seregrían with a smile on his face, and she marks his appearance as he approaches. Clad in black from head to foot, his hair is dark with touches of grey, and eyes of grey that reveal him as one of the Dunedain. She is for a moment surprised when he speaks to her in clear, but roughly accented Elvish.
“We meet at last, Seregrían, so far from Imladris,” he says. “I am glad to see you safely here, kinswoman.”
“And just how do you claim to be of my kin,” Seregrían frowns, “especially since you obviously are not of Elvish blood? Surely you are not so presumptuous as to claim descent from the Half-Elven?”
A chuckle, then “Never would I do such, for noble lineage is not within me. But you yourself have claimed kinship with me, or have you forgotten?”
“I know not of which you speak; for you are clearly of the Firimar, the Mortals, and I claim no kinship with such.”
A laugh. “Oh, but you have already, lovely fool! For you have claimed as your sister the Elf Lonannuniel – she of the white skin, and eyes of bottle-green – she who is my bride, which makes us kin, you and I!”
Shocked silence. “You! Halrohir? My foster sister’s husband? The Dunadan Ranger of whom she sings, and pines for in your absence? I know of you, seizing upon her and begetting children, then riding off who knows where for who knows how long –“
“Says the woman who claims kinship, then fades into her libraries, like a spider in a web, waiting for the flies to come unawares. When were you ever going to emerge, Blood-queen, and see what you were missing?”
“I miss nothing, ‘kinsman’ –“
“Oh yes, you do. The twins, for one thing, rather they miss you. The family you adopted has adopted you in turn. Eldariel delights in sharing the crafts she learns with you, offering up her trinkets to you for approval. Farohir speaks of you with longing, wanting to hear your tales of ages gone. These things they confide to us, wishing you would invite them into your world –“
“Oh, the same world they name, ‘The Bitch’s Lair’? They have no idea how fitting that name truly is…”
A small laugh. “You wise fool, do you not see? Were you not family, they would not feel free enough to speak with laughter. They jest with you, because they accept you into their hearts – because they love you! Just as I have, friend and beloved sister – whether I call you sister, mellon – or perhaps, Khazush?”
Dead silence, then a cold reply from gritted teeth. “I earned that name, and the right to utter it. And I’ll thank you not to, for you are not worthy of the meaning behind it, the kindred souls, the shared perils and dreams –“
“And you and my beloved are no longer ‘kindred souls’, as two lonely Elves declared all those years ago? Yes, you too, forlorn scholar who locks herself in prisons of her own making, shutting out all who fail to meet her measure?”
“My scales are fashioned of wisdom gained through the ages, and not from the likes of such as you, as brief as a breeze through my hair, or a Dwarf’s hearty belch…” and she smiles despite her anger at her own jest.
Merry laughter, “So your mask can crack after all!” Halrohir says after his laughter subsides. “Elf that you are, your heart is supposed to be merry and light, and this mask of anger you wear does not serve. Ah, Seregrían,” he says as he reaches and takes one hand in his, “we are kin for good or ill. Shall we not also be friends, you and I?”
Seregrían looks down at their joined hands then meets his expectant smile, her mouth a tight-lipped line. “I can accept your claim to kinship, man of the West. But as to friendship? That remains to be seen. The winds of the world are changing, and you and I are about to be drawn into a growing tempest. But that is for tomorrow. For now, I wonder; since you are here in Lothlorien, of all places, I am told that Lonannuniel journeyed with you. Is that true, is she here?”
Halrohir smiles, “Why don’t we find out, together?” And still holding her hand, he leads Seregrían on paths beneath the trees in search of his beloved bride.
