Seregrían and Lonannuniel talk and counsel through the day, and into the late afternoon, in Egladil by the banks of Anduin. They stand in Imlad Lalaith, the Valley of Laughter, where the feasts and revels of Lothlorien are usually held. As the day draws on and the gloaming settles about them, still the sisters talk on; and as other Elves gather to prepare for the evening’s feast, they are torn as to whether to interrupt the two. A group of Elves argues this very idea. Galhíril speaks to Maliriel, the Mistress of the Feasts, as to how to interrupt.
“At the risk of rudeness, Milady, how shall I approach them?” Galhíril asks. “Those two have talked for hours, not resting, eating or drinking! And see how they talk? The crimson lady speaks the most, telling what must be a horrid tale; for the argent lady reacts with dread at each pause!”
“Know you not whom they are?” says Gelirora, a lore-mistress known for keeping her ears open for rumors of every kind. “The white lady is Lonannuniel, recently returned to our wood from her sad life elsewhere, so they say. But the crimson one? That would be Seregrían, come from Moria and her sojourn across the lands on errantry from the White Council, it is rumored.”
“They are both walking weapons, if the tales are true,” Braiglinn says. “Lonannuniel escaped from the Black Land, where she was made to fight in the arenas for sport; she can still wield blade with deadly skill, for I have seen her spar with others. I met Seregrían when she abided in the Wood, long ago. She had no gift or skill as anything but a lore-mistress, but now she returns to us in possession of might that would stand good stead with the Malledhrim, should she join us.”
“All the same, they are delaying our preparations for the revels,” Galhíril says, “and I can only work around them for so much. Lady Maliriel, how shall I proceed?”
“Fret no more, Galhíril,” Maliriel says, “I shall do what is needful. See to your work for now” And she walks to approach the sisters, who do not notice her as they are still deeply in talk, the white now speaking to the red:
“So many have offered their thoughts to you, sister, and I know your confusion; but if you heed my words, there is only one path, clear as moonlight. Your mother must find redemption at all costs, and that can only come by your hand. The clues to her lie beyond the Ephel Dúath, her whereabouts and her cure. But to get there, you must travel through the lands of Men – do not give me that look! You now have friends among Dwarves and Elves and if you can do that, you can make friends of Men as well.
“You must cast aside your scorn for Men, for her sake and your own. I do not say this simply because of my lord husband; I speak of their own goodness and virtues, which I have learned and if you travel among them you will learn as well. Your lore spans ages in the past – but now it must look forward for answers.”
And the red replies, “You speak plain wisdom, my sister, that the Wise cannot seem to do. I confess that I would be willing to cast aside all other labors for this one thing. But as you said, the great battle of our time is upon us and will or no, we are being drawn in by its tide. I shall aid them as I pass through their lands, but I will not allow myself to be pulled aside by their petty concerns for long.”
“And that is all anyone has a right to ask,” the white says. “But Seregrían, this dreadful power that begins to consume you must be held in check, and that is all I insist you try to do. Have a care to what the Wise tell you; I do not understand all that you have told me, but it is enough to know you bear a weapon that might be beyond your strength to hold. Use it wisely, and only when needed!”
After a breath, the red answers, “For your sake, I shall hearken to your warning. When I return, I shall bring my mother to you and declare our kinship to her. And I just feel that she will take you into her restored heart, the way you have restored mine.” And the two embrace, the white tenderly, the red fiercely. And after staying silent for a short time, Maliriel chooses this moment to discreetly cough and announce her presence.
“My good ladies, you must forgive me my intrusion. You stand here in the place where the evening feast of the Galadhrim shall shortly begin. You of course are both invited to revel with us, should you be so inclined.”
“Our thanks to you, Lady Maliriel,” Lonannuniel says with a polite nod, “so long as Seregrían may accompany us?”
“I too shall come,” Seregrían adds. And the three women move off to join the beginning feasts.
At dawn the next morning, Seregrían stands alone in the gazebo of Imlad Lalaith, where the revels have only just ended. She had taken her leave of Lonannuniel, who had departed to return to her husband’s side – only to see her return with a gift of new clothing, garments more in keeping with the lands she is about to enter, more suited for riding across vast country beneath the skies.
Standing alone clad as a crimson rider, Seregrían brandishes her twin weapons, Az-gazukh gleaming in her left hand; in her right, Dondangol glistens with concealed fire. As she looks southward on the next leg of her journeys, she is aware of a whisper of thought, rising unbidden:
Naur a-galad na-gûd i mellon. Garthoss, Seregrían tolnev.
(Fire and light to foe and friend. Beware, the Blood-queen comes…)
