The place was strange, eerie. The sun was just rising, a hint of light coming from just beyond the horizon. The sky, where it was visible through the branches, was a deep blue. Slowly spring was turning into summer.
The Mirkwood was like a great green labyrinth. There was a profusion of vines, huge trees that blocked the road, and paths so narrow even wild beasts couldn’t traverse them. The underbrush seemed to reach out to catch one by the foot. An elven maiden led a human, a dwarf and an halfling into the Woodland Realm. In a great cave some miles within the edge of forest on its eastern side there lived their greatest king, but his subjects mostly lived and hunted in the open woods, and had houses or huts on the ground and in the branches.
At that moment, the wind gusted. It was a fresh wind, sweet and summery, full of the aromas of leaves and grass. It blew through the trees as if it might go on forever. And where did it come from? The source yawned in the middle of the forest, a great space that stretched from heaven to earth. Was it a village shaped like a forest? Or was it a forest that looked like a village? The canopy stretched to heights unfathomable, the houses made from massive, hollowed-out trees. Pathways woven from vines and leaves stretched among them. And elves, beautiful elves in flawless attire, walked those pathways as if dancing through the air. The patterns that adorned the bark of the trees were many and various, and the sibilance of the leaves filled the air with its music.
“O-oh my…” Passerose blinked, halfling's eyes shining, as the sound of amazement escaped her. She had never seen such a thing in all her life, had never imagined she might experience anything like this as long as she lived.
Linglorel ran to the front of the line with little mincing hops like a bird. When she opened her lips, the words she wove were in the melodic language of the elves. “Good morn and good night, by a Anor and Ithil gentle light, from Tatharion’s daughter to her friends...” She turned back to them and spread her arms wide. Her hair streamed out behind her like a comet.
“Welcome to my home!”
She smiled as wide as a flower in bloom.
*
They went through a corridor woven of branches and found that Linglorel’s house was in the hollow of a great oak tree. A vine curtain hung down over the entrance to the large chamber. A carpet of long mosses was spread over the floor, and there were a desk and chairs that seemed to be extended knots of the tree itself. Almost translucent leaves were clustered in front of the window, admitting the afternoon light with its gentle warmth. The vine drapes here and there must have been the entryways to sleeping quarters. The dwarf Frimsi wondered how elves could live in a tree, like squirrels or birds.
Elven lord was waiting for them. Tatharion face was long and stern and angled more sharply than those of most elves, so that his features reminded them of a thin-bladed spear. He wore a robe of green and gold, the collar of which flared high behind his head, like the neck feathers of an exotic bird. In his left hand, he carried a wand of white wood carved with glyphs from Cirith runes. Mounted upon the end was a lustrous pearl.
Bending at the waist, Tatharion bowed, as did they. The elf maiden and the Ranger approached him, holding hands. The elf lord got a closer look at Ranger, his lips parted in surprise. He recognized him. He had seen this Man in his dreams, a thousand years ago. He stared at Thindaer for a long while.
"Who are you that you come into my home unbidden?"
Linglorel answered before her beloved, saying:
„This, my father, is Thindaer, son of Caleardor, a wanderer from beyond the hills, one of the Dunedain, an Elf-friends, the last remnant in the North of the great people, the Men of the West.”
But the elf lord frowned when he heard whence Man came, and he said: "Put away this light words, my child, and say has this mortal of the shadows sought to do you any harm?" He heard about the People of Westernesse, but now, in this times... now Men are weak. The Blood of Numenor is all but spent, its pride and dignity forgotten.
„Nay, father, and there is not evil in his heart at all, and don't be harsh with him, unless you desirest to see your daughter Linglorel weep.”
With a single finger, Tatharion stroked the wand, eliciting a soft glow from the pearl in response. "O Thindaer son of the Dunedain, what do you desire of the Elves of the wood ere you returnest whence you camest?"
Thindaer looked into the elf's eyes, his face was serious and proud, but his voice gentle. „Lord, long have I loved your daughter, like a flower loves the sun. I ask you for her hand in marriage and your blessing. For she is the fairest and most sweet of all maidens I have seen or dreamed of. I would take her for my wife and love her for all eternity. She is the only reason why I am here in this forest. What say you to this, lord?”
His daughter said softly. „Adar… I love him too. I would gladly go and wed him and be Lady of his home”.
But the lord glancing at the wild and rugged aspect of Thindaer burst into laughter "Why! Wed my Linglorel, fair maiden of the forest, and become a son-in-law of the woodland Elves - 'tis but a little boon for a stranger to ask. Haply I may with right ask somewhat in return. Nothing great shall it be, a token only of thy esteem. Bring me a Aldamir, the Green Jewel of Life from the cavern of the cold-drake Vethúg, and that day Linglorel weds you, an she will."
Linglorel turned pale, shook her head, and looked at her father fearfully.
„Father, no!”
„He is your doom” he replied coldly.
„This may be so, Adar. I know that. Thindaer may be my doom, but he is also my love. What is his crime?”
But the narrow-faced elf did not appear overly disappointed; to the contrary, Ranger thought he saw a flash of satisfaction appear in Tatharion’s fierce eyes. „Have you courage, or love enough, as you claim it to be, to do me this honor, Dunadan?”
Ranger lifted his chin higher.
„So be it, my lord. Treasure for a treasure. This is too small a gift to the father of so sweet a bride.”
Linglorel snuggled into his shoulder „No, Thindaer” she pleaded. „Do not go. I wish to see you again at least alive! Do not go on this quest! My father set a trap for you, and I am the bait. Do not go!”
„Tindomiel, it is all right” Ranger said soothingly. „I shall return not to buy you with any jewel, but to find, my love, in loveliness a flower that grows beneath the sky”.
The elven maiden laid her head on his shoulder and wept.
