Notes: While this fanfic can be marked as both Adventure and Romance, it is meant, first and foremost, to be a love story between a mortal woman and an immortal Elf.

Inspired by both the books and the movies, this story begins in Lothlórien, near the end of the Third Age. And while I endeavour to stay true to the general feel of Middle-earth and the enduring threat of Sauron, I am not Tolkien. Certain details will differ—some by mistake, others purposely—and the timeline doesn't quite line up. Also, this is fanfiction, so I did indulge my creative whims a bit. This story should be considered Alternate Universe.

Warning: Rated M for battles and eventual love scenes.

For those who will read this story, I wish to thank you for taking a chance on it. It means a lot.

Kindest regards,

CygnusRift

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER I

SENTINELS

It was a fair autumn morning in the woods of Lothlórien, the breeze gentle and redolent as it sighed among the trees. The sky was a pale blue, the slanting rays of the sun warm as they pierced the canopy. Though all was peaceful and still, the woods were far from empty. There was a watchful presence here, always, for the world beyond was not as fair as it had once been.

Hidden among silver branches and golden leaves, were the guardians of these woods: the Elves who called themselves Galadhrim. With keen eyes and ears, they patrolled the borders, ever on the lookout for Orcs, Wolves, and other fell creatures. They took their duties seriously, their vow a solemn one: so long as they stood guard, evil would not enter here.

In addition to foes, the Elves of the Golden Wood also watched for outsiders—rare as they were nowadays.

The morning waned, and all remained quiet. But as the sun rose higher in the sky, the patrol's watchfulness turned to concern as Haldir, Marchwarden of Lothlórien, was summoned to a nearby talan with word that Men were in the area.

"Look," his brother Rúmil indicated once they had climbed onto the wooden platform.

Their eyes trained westward, the two were joined by Orophin, their sibling and third member of their patrol. Together, they watched from afar as a group of Men made their way toward Nimrodel, a stream that ran from the foothills of the Misty Mountains down toward the River Celebrant.

With narrowed eyes, the brothers watched the group as they marched forth, seemingly oblivious to their presence. In actuality, there were two men and one maid, each of them walking alongside a horse. Their voices and footsteps carried loudly through the branches. So did the occasional laughter. They are not cautious, Haldir thought. But Men seldom were.

"Let us follow them," Haldir said in his elven-tongue.

Swiftly and soundlessly, the brothers made their way through the trees. Wrapped in grey cloaks, they blended seamlessly with their silvery surroundings. The intruders clearly sensed nothing amiss. Their gait remained unchanged, their gazes still fixed on the ground before them as they walked through the forest.

As the company spoke amongst themselves, Haldir noted that their language was unlike that of the Elves. Rich it was, yet harsh. As he listened over the fluttering leaves, he thought it might be the language of Rohan.

Maintaining her stride, the maid threw a glance at the older man who walked to her right. "I hear water," she said in Rohirric; Haldir was now certain of it.

Indeed, he understood the language, for in addition to guarding these woods, Haldir was sometimes sent abroad to scout the enemy or gather news. Yet out of all the languages he knew, the Rohirric tongue had ever been a challenge to him. It wasn't the words themselves—he remembered them well enough—but the sounds were difficult to master. For some reason, they always formed strangely on his tongue.

Though in all fairness, it was long since he had spoken the language, the last time being centuries ago, during a rare visit to Edoras. Given the brevity of Men's lives, those with whom he had treated were long-dead, but what he had found in those days was that the Lords of Rohan knew the common speech, and used it freely in their dealings with outsiders. But outside of Edoras, from West to East Emnet, such was not typically the case. For the peasants who lived and toiled in the small settlements dotting the Horse Plains were a simple folk, not well-learned. For the most part, those he had come upon spoke no language other than their own. He would not find it surprising if the same held true for these intruders.

"Water you say?" The older man paused to listen, then looked to the maid. "Ah yes, I hear it. It might be a stream. Or the Silverlode."

The Silverlode. Pronounced thusly, the name sounded strange to Haldir, for the Elves knew the river by another name—Celebrant.

The older man motioned to the forest ahead. "It runs north of here, and flows eastward into the Anduin."

Haldir shifted slightly, studying the intruders from afar. Although they appeared to be in relatively good spirits, their clothes were weather-stained, and there was a slight weariness to their footsteps. Haldir estimated that they had been walking for some time.

With slowing steps and a click of her tongue, the maid guided her horse around the base of a beech tree. "It is no easy thing to keep a straight path in here." No sooner had she said this, than her boot wedged itself between some tree roots. Unaware that her company was being watched, the maid quietly voiced her annoyance and wiggled her foot until, after a few tries, it finally slipped free.

She was small in stature, Haldir noted. But then, she was no Elf. And Elves, generally speaking, were taller than mortal folk. He studied her some more.

In addition to leather boots, the maid wore breeches and a green vest which was fastened over a woolen tunic. Her chestnut hair was gathered in a loose braid that fell down her back. Noting the blade that hung at her waist, Haldir narrowed his eyes, then looked at her companions. They, too, carried swords. But theirs were sheathed on their backs.

"How long before we make for the valley again?" the maid asked the older fellow.

"No more than a day, I reckon," was the man's answer, delivered as he smoothed a hand over his greying beard. For a moment, his gaze slid warily to the west. "You remember what they say, that those mountains have eyes, especially near to this river. No, until we have crossed the Silverlode, we shall keep to the forest. It is safest."

"What are they saying?" Rúmil asked from where they were concealed, up in the branches, some distance away. As with most other Elves of Lothlórien, Rúmil did not speak the language of other lands.

Haldir breathed through flaring nostrils. "They mean to pass through." And that was a problem.

Orophin and Rúmil exchanged a concerned glance, but waited to hear what their brother would say. As always, the decision fell to the Marchwarden.

Haldir weighed his choices. They could either bar their way, or else they could watch and wait in order to better gauge the intruders' intentions. Whatever the choice, it would have to be made with careful consideration, for the Elves of the Golden Wood were wary of outsiders, and would only reveal themselves when absolutely necessary.

As he considered his options, Haldir stalked forward, going from tree-limb to tree-limb, with his brothers following closely behind. The intruders were journeying north, but what they failed to realise was that the River Celebrant was deep and nigh on impassable, unless one knew where to cross. And no one, save for the Elves, knew the location of the hidden shoal. A shoal that came and went depending on the current, and the way it shaped and re-shaped the riverbed. A shoal that was well-nigh invisible to all but the keenest eyes.

But what would the company do when they realised they could not cross? Would they abandon their journey and turn around, as Haldir hoped they would? Or would they venture deeper into the forest?

Let us wait and see.

Haldir looked to Rúmil and Orophin. With a motion of his hand, he indicated that they should err on the side of caution and simply follow for now. Nodding, the brothers proceeded with quiet ease, fanning out as they went.

When the outsiders came upon the gurgling flow of Nimrodel, they slowed to a stop and looked around.

With the exception of his beard, or lack thereof, Haldir noted that the young fellow looked like the other one. Kin. Father and son.

The younger man spoke. "The horses could use a rest. We should stop to let them drink."

Haldir frowned. He did not like the idea of the party of three lingering overlong. Crouched on a large branch, he held his bow in his hand, but did not yet draw an arrow from his quiver.

"Are you certain you are not the one who is weary?" the maid asked in jest. Her eyes held a playful glimmer, her mouth curved into a smirk.

"So my feet have grown weary. No shame in that." The young man, whose hair was a shade lighter than the maid's, returned her smile, then sought the pouch on his belt. "Besides, I need to refill my waterskin. Come along, Heremod. Let us drink." He tugged on the horse's lead. The rest of the company followed.

Once the horses had slaked their thirst, the two men made for a cluster of small boulder stones and sat down for a hasty meal. The maid did not join them. Rather, she remained on the forest edge, staring into a patch of mallos, curiosity evident in her features. "I have never seen such flowers before."

Crouching, she ran her fingertips along the stems with a feather-light touch that spoke of a deep appreciation for growing things.

For a reason he could not readily explain, Haldir was struck by the sight. Perhaps it was because of his past dealings with the race of Men, but he had never known them to be this gentle or attuned. Oh, they were nowhere near the same level of destructiveness as Orcs, for instance. But the race of Men did not share the same love of the land as Elves did, and often seemed detached from their surroundings, as though plants and trees were but a mere commodity to be used and burned at need.

His features shaded by fluttering leaves, Haldir watched her for a few moments more. Long enough to see that her eyes were hazel in colour.

"An unusual place."

Haldir's gaze shifted to the younger man who was looking to the east.

"Look at those trees!" He jerked his head toward the great mallorn-trees that grew nowhere else in Middle-earth. "If they grow any taller, I reckon they could graze the clouds."

The maid looked, too. "They are tall, I grant you. Taller than I would care to climb. But grazing the clouds?" She arched a skeptical brow. Even from afar, Haldir heard the amused chuckle that shook her frame.

The older man called her attention to him. "You should eat, Annalyn. We will be off soon."

Annalyn. To elven ears it was a strange name. Strange but not unpleasant.

The observation troubled Haldir. He ceased his assessment of her immediately. His duty as Marchwarden was to safe-guard the realm, not to be distracted by unimportant details.