Chapter 1 - Dreams

Under the grey boughs of great majestic trees, through a glade of golden-green grass dappled with shadows, an Elf was dancing. Her path was lighter than the wind which barely stirred the quivering blades, and quieter than its secretive, melodious whispers. A shaft of sunlight briefly caught her radiant face: Arwen was smiling.

Under her breath she hummed an ancient Elven lay. With every delicate step Arwen made she was springing herself further and further away into a beautiful reverie, wandering the haunting places where the Elf-minstrels have the coveted gift to send their eager listeners. While Arwen knew her imagination was intense, she was content to live in tangible dreams this way, and merely smiled knowingly to herself when she heard the rumours on the gentle breeze blowing through the trees of Lothlórien towards her.

Now she was singing an early part of the song of Nimrodel, when the fair maiden met the Elven-prince Amroth. In her eyes, she was Nimrodel skipping along the river bank, and Amroth, although being an Elf, came towards her wearing the face of Aragorn, the secret flame of her heart, the longed-for star in her dark night, the mortal man with whom she had fallen deeply in love. Arwen could almost feel his hot breath on her neck as the Elves embraced, smell his damp hair as they danced together in bubbling waters of the singing Nimrodel, see the dazzling brightness of his keen, loving eyes. Such a moment of perfect happiness there in the beautiful Elven land, together, at rest at last –

Arwen was jolted out of her dream, and her eyes which had been lulled closed now abruptly open in a flash of blue. Finding herself, she feebly stopped singing and paused in the eddying water. She turned round and looked downstream, hearing many talking voices heading her way.

As yet still out of sight, Arwen's Elf ears could hear multiple footsteps falling upon the grassy earth and brushing through the undergrowth. She wondered who it could be and scrolled through pictures of Elves in her mind… Orophin, with a group of friends, or Rimbë coming to tend some of the waning trees, or perhaps some folk approaching the river to hallow it to Ulmo, as was a custom there.

Arwen shivered and looked down. Now that she was still and shaken, the waters around her legs felt ice-cold and her skin was whitening rapidly. Resigned to the loss of her dream, a rare escape from the pains of missing her love, she slowly climbed out and made her way through the long rushes, leaving behind a narrow valley between the golden stems. Taking on the new situation with apprehension she decided to leap up a nearby mallorn tree and hide herself high above the woodland floor… maybe she could resume her dream if removed from the oncoming invasion. Yet no sooner had she settled down on a smooth elegant branch, enveloped in a lace of rich sunny-yellow leaves, than the leaders of the interrupting host began to appear out of the distant trees and Arwen was distracted.

She blinked with surprise and squinted as hard as she could through the narrow vista. The reason for her hesitancy was that these people were for sure not Elves, not in the way they looked, nor the way they walked did they resemble Elf-kind. The sound of their voices alone informed her that there were definitely no women with them. Curious, Arwen leant forward further.

How strange… they were Men. Men never came through Lórien during these dangerous times. They had not passed through there for many long years. In fact, Arwen contemplated, resting back against the rising branch, she wondered if Men had ever been granted the word of the Lady to let them pass. She frowned. So who were they?

They could not be men of Rohan, cynics of the sorceress, content to live in far off southern lands and not meddle with the Lady of the Wood's magical powers. They were not men of Gondor, who were always engaged in struggle with the Shadow on their borders, too busy to be able to spare any men for travelling. But men from the North…

Arwen sighed. So good-hearted and full of valour, and for sure blessed by the Lady Galadriel… but so few, so few were left, and where to be found?…

Arwen's head rolled dejectedly across the tree trunk and her gaze dropped down to the party, now easily in sight. She gave a start and eagerly straightened up, rigid. They were the Dunedain! With excitement jittering around in her chest she watched the tall, strong figures, clothed in dark greens and greys, with short knives in their belts, swords swinging rhythmically at their hips, and tall sycamore bows clasped in their skilled hands. Arwen had an unusual history of fondness for these Rangers, and with many she was well acquainted, having befriended them in her father's realm.

Now they were passing into the very glade where she had not long ago been dancing, talking freely with each other, dark eyes twinkling animatedly in the sunlight. It was clear to see that they sensed the safety and peace of the realm, even if they did not know of or could not see the Elven guards on the borders of the wood, no more than watchful shadows.

Whilst watching them, Arwen found herself fascinated by a man leading the company. He seemed to be walking with more care than his friends, and a different air was carried about his shoulders. He was not Elvish, but there was not other word that suited him more. He was taller, and had thicker, longer hair than the others; and yet his garments were even shabbier looking than any of the others', and he seemed to carry heavier burdens deep inside himself.

This mystery magnetised Arwen's attention, and she subsequently found a very useful gap between the leaves in order to examine him more closely. She whispered to herself softly under her breath as she saw him, now only twenty feet away, and her heart began to beat much faster. She loved Aragorn – she loved him beyond the boundaries of Arda - but she could not deny the extent to which she found this man so wonderfully attractive; solely for the innocent reason that everything about him rekindled the intense memories she had of those precious rare moments she had snatched with Aragorn, and it was a blissful release to relive them more tangibly than her meagre dreams.

But, frustratingly, she was at the wrong angle, and his face was hidden from her view, even though he was so infuriatingly close. Arwen was extremely upset and edged further along the branch than she would normally dare, so determined she was to catch a glimpse of his concealed face.

Just as he was passing under the sheltering branches of her mallorn tree, the Ranger stopped. As if puzzled, he looked down, stooped, and reached out towards the whistling rushes. Arwen held her breath and watched closely as he, kneeling, rubbed some of the brittle leaves between his fingers, then placed them to his nose. Arwen gasped, noticing the trail she had left in the rushes, and sincerely hoped that this captivating Ranger with a - with a nice body - could not tell who everyone was by what they smelt like. It was such an irrational thought… it could not be that he knew her scent.

Arwen did not want to be discovered staring at him so impolitely, but she could not tear herself away from the scene, and as if the Ranger could feel her keen blue eyes on him, his hair brushed back over his shoulder as he turned his head and he looked right up the mallorn tree to where Arwen was spying on him. Shock struck Arwen hard in the chest and fell back against the branch, out of sight, struggling to catch a breath.

As chance would have it, however, the man did not see the quick elf-maiden, and, slightly confused, he moved his own eyes down the silver tree-trunk, back along the soft earth; and he sighed.

Rising, now not sure that it had been the person he had believed it to have been, he caught sight of some damp footprints in the soil. They were such slight imprints, and he would not usually have noticed, save that they were still glistening.

They were freshly trodden.

"What is it, my lord?" Another Man came up behind him, resting his hand down on the first's shoulder.

He blinked and looked away, focusing back on the pathway. It could not have been, he told himself.

"Oh… nothing."

He went back to his place at the head of the Rangers, leaving the confused friend to follow behind. Just as he was watching him, he could have sworn his lord had shaken his head to himself, sighed, and quietly muttered, "Nay Estel, don't dream," before quickening his pace and heading off determinedly through the trees.