The awkwardness following the aftermath of the storm hangs over us like a cloud of insects.  None of us really talk during the long traipse northward, our entertainment disappointingly limited to listening to the unpleasant squelch of our own footsteps, or trying to find some interesting sight in the empty plains of the Wold.  If there is any saving grace, it's either the rich, earthy scent that has erupted from the ground after rainfall, or the fact that Telamír's hair is in fact ruined while mine has barely a strand out of place.

Determined to avoid the mortification of my eye contact, Glorfindel focuses himself on leading us in the right direction.  It isn't a difficult task to head north, keeping the Anduin to one's right and the Misty Mountains to one's left, but I suppose if it stops him from blushing at me again, it must seem like a decent distraction.  Just the thought of that brief pink tinge to Glorfindel's cheeks is enough to send heat flooding to my own face.  That had been the first time he'd really become flustered in front of me, and Valar, it was adorable.  If we'd been alone, I might have teased him about it in the hope of seeing it again, but that isn't the case right now.

Even Glorfindel's magic has become closed off to me, in some desperate bid to restrain himself from interacting with me.  The others can't tell when our powers are interacting, so why shut his off?  I'd become quite used to our little dance of magic that hummed in the background of our journey before now, and miss it now it isn't there.

Alëaren is quiet, but that's nothing unusual.  Telamír, meanwhile, has gone into a sulk.  Most likely due to the fact that his hair and clothes aren't recovering too well from their experience with the rainstorm, and not really much to do with how we haven't seen sight nor sound of Fíria, Fírion and Tauriel.  Even when we reach the banks of the meandering river Limlight that borders the Wold from the Field of Celebrant, there isn't so much as a footprint to show that they might have passed this way.  I wonder if it's just me who has the nagging thought that they might have gone south as we'd originally planned, hoping to meet us in some Rohirric village.  If that is the case, then Valar save us.

After hours of searching for a point shallow and calm enough, we undergo the challenge of wading across the Limlight.  It is mainly a challenge because of Tel's complaining—a factor over which Lëa, Glorfindel and I all manage to bond with just a few exasperated glances between us.  Because of this slight amusement, the coldness of the water that laps around my thighs doesn't bother me, despite it being midwinter in these parts.

Once my legs have just about dried off, we find ourselves crossing through the realm of Lothlórien, and entering its rich forests just as the sun dips low over the horizon.  We journey under a canopy of golden mallorn trees, a species native to this part of the world which I have never had the pleasure of beholding before.  In spite of the season, all the leaves remain fixed to their branches—and not shrivelled in the typical winter brown, but fresh and pristine and an almost brighter gold than Glorfindel's hair. 

This forest is as ancient and powerful and mysterious as my own, but in a vastly different way. While Mirkwood rots under the growing darkness, Lothlórien seeks to blind us with its shifting kaleidoscopes of evening sunlight glinting off the elegant leaves. It taunts us with the knowledge that it could so easily trap us within its unfamiliar labyrinth of gold-dusted paths.

This is not your world, Woodland Star.

I blink a few times. That voice didn't belong to anyone in my company. It was as though it came from within my own mind—but it was not my voice that spoke.

Visitors do not usually hear me from this far away. You are strong.

It's a female voice, deep and hypnotic, inside my head yet somehow interwoven with the leaves and the sunlit air itself.

You know who I am. And I know you, Elfstar. I have seen what you will become.

I was told once that Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien could speak to people's minds, just like Lord Elrond of Rivendell has the gift of foresight. Forms of magic similar to those possessed by wizards or Maiar or Stars—similar to my mother's visions, a power I sadly did not inherit. However, I was not at all prepared to have one of these ancient powers addressing me. What has Lady Galadriel seen that concerns me? Something to do with my Star's task?

I wait a little while, but Galadriel doesn't communicate with me again. Perhaps she hopes to see me in person while I cross her territory.

Our acute Elven hearing alerts us of the approaching figures before we see them. Glorfindel quietly draws his sword, and the rest of us mimic him, our blades alighting with silent flame. In the dappled forest light, my white fire illuminates the face of the blond elf who bursts out of seemingly nowhere, his bow drawn and the arrow aimed between my eyes.

'White fire,' he says in Westron. Not a greeting, but an observation, as his calculating gaze lingers on my burning blade. He recognises our group. Three royals and a reincarnated warrior lord.

It is to that warrior lord that the steely blond ellon turns, lowering his weapons.  'Lord Glorfindel of the Golden Flower. You are known to us,' he says, touching a hand to his heart. 'My name is Haldir, and these are my brothers, Rúmil and Orophin.' He indicates two other blond Lothlórien ellons on the other side of the path, both of whom bow their heads in greeting.

'And you must be Princess Erainiel of the Woodland Realm and Erthelin,' Haldir continues, his sharp blue-grey eyes looking me over. 'The rumours do no justice to your beauty.'

My lips quirk upward. 'Well, they are only rumours.'

Glorfindel clears his throat deliberately. 'Here also are Princess Alëaren and Prince Telamír of the Dû-edhil and Woodland Realm. The other members of our company were King Fírion, Queen Tauriel and Princess Fíria, but we were separated from them by a storm.  Have they passed through here?'

'Not to our knowledge,' Haldir says gravely. 'But orcs have.  Packs have been roaming our lands of late, and the ground is no longer safe.  I know I am right in saying that King Thranduil will have my head if I do not keep his kin from harm. You are welcome to wait for your companions in our lands if you so desire, under our protection.'

'Thank you, my friend,' says Glorfindel.

Haldir doesn't smile, but glances warily to either side of the path. 'You must follow us.  Night draws near, so you can stay on a talan in the trees.  We will stand guard.'

After a few minutes' walk, we ascend a delicate rope ladder onto a flat wooden talan that surrounds the trunk of a large mallorn tree.  The platform itself is wide enough for several to lie down, an opportunity which Telamír immediately takes, stretching himself out on his back with his head propped up on his arms.  Alëaren follows suit, but sits further forward so she can swing her slender legs off the edge of the talan. I settle down against the trunk next to Glorfindel, whose magic doesn't so much as quiver when I try to communicate with it. Was he really that embarrassed about Telamír teasing him?

The three Lothlórien brothers do indeed stand guard around the tree, and to my amusement, I catch each of them separately trying to steal a glance at me.  I also catch Glorfindel giving all three of them a look equivalent to a hail of arrows.

'What was that for?' I ask. 

'What was what for?' Glorfindel replies unconvincingly.

'I saw the way you glared at them. Why?'

'To dissuade them from approaching Alëaren or yourself in the way I could clearly see they wanted to.'

'Telamír wasn't glaring, was he?' I counter, leaning in a little towards Glorfindel.

'Telamír is off in his own little world. He wouldn't even notice if we were to be attacked by a dragon.'

Any reply I had planned dissolves into the air when I realise that another group of people has appeared over on the next two talans along from us.  Haldir and his brothers are with them, encouraging them to settle down for the night.  It takes me a moment to register that it is who I think it is: the Fellowship.  Minus Mithrandir, it would seem.

I can hear Legolas conversing with Haldir in the latter's own dialect of Sindarin—one which I have not yet troubled to learn, yet it seems my half-brother has done so.  Valar, if Legolas finds out we've lost the others... He'll certainly deprive my father the pleasure of killing me. Both Legolas and Haldir seem quite engrossed in their talk, so it isn't too difficult to slowly inch around the edge of my talan so the trunk of the mallorn tree obscures me from Legolas's view. I tap Telamír on the shoulder, subtly signalling that his uncle is here, and he shuffles behind the trunk too.

With Alëaren, I am too late. She has already darted across the talan to get a closer look at the Fellowship.

'Ada?' 

Legolas's face shifted into disbelief. 'Alëaren?' 

'You fool, you gave us away!' cried Telamír, springing to his feet.

Legolas leapt over to our talan, abandoning a puzzled Haldir and a mightily amused Aragorn. 'Where's your mother?'

'Interesting story, actually,' I said, sauntering into my brother's view.

Legolas glares at me threateningly. Aragorn, on the other hand, has to look away to keep from laughing.

'Who's looking after you?' Legolas asks.

'We don't need looking after,' I retort.

'I am,' says a nonchalant voice.

Legolas casts his gaze past me to where Glorfindel is undoubtedly stood. 'Of this, I am glad.  Glorfindel, where are the others?'

'We were separated in the Wold by a storm—of the wizard Saruman's making,' Glorfindel says with a wary quiet.

Legolas goes deathly still. 'When was this?'

'Just a few days past.  We're on our way to Woodland Realm hoping to meet the others there.  Why, did you encounter the storm, too?'

'It came upon us on the Pass of Caradhras. We had to alter our course and travel through Moria.'

'Moria?' Glorfindel repeats, his eyes wide.

Legolas's throat bobs. 'We lost Mithrandir.'

'How?'

'I think you know,' Legolas says gravely, before leaping elegantly back onto his talan and settling against the tree trunk between Aragorn and Boromir.

I look to Glorfindel questioningly, but his beautiful face yields nothing to me as he sits down, crossing his long legs at the ankles. As I sit down beside him, my magic reaches out to his, one last attempt to incite an answer from him before I give in to sleep.

'I think you know, too,' he says at last, not making eye contact. His magic remains unresponsive.

A Balrog. Only the memory of that beast could make Glorfindel act this way. I wonder if he is hoping, like I am, that Mithrandir finds a way back after being taken by shadow and flame. Or perhaps he is merely trying to forget what it felt like to die.

***

Elvish:
Talan = a tree platform in Lothlórien