I knew this didn't fit as I was writing it, but I persisted out of sheer stubbornness. It just doesn't fit with the story I'm trying to tell.
He considers pushing on, but this is strange country, and even his keen eyes cannot discern a likely direction for his travels. It is peaceful by the stream, and its cool voice reminds him of the Anduin. So he spreads his cloak on the bank and lies atop it. The earth is damp and warm and pleasant in his nostrils, and he threads his fingers together and lets his hair fan over the ground in a silver corona. The moon and stars are bright and brilliant in the firmament, and with a contented sigh, he lets himself wander among them.
He resumes his journey at first light, the pebble he'd collected from the streambed tucked into his palm. The air is cool, and in the dusky, rose light of new morning, the world is lush and green. Dew beads in the grass and drips from the leaves, diamonds festooned over an emerald cloak. Songbirds twitter from the bushes and the boughs of trees, and squirrels scrabble up the rough, silver bark of their boles. Though his heart is eager to see Anariel again, he lingers among the trees, caressing their trunks to feel the thrum of life within and pressing his ear to them to hear the whisper of sap through the wood. He crouches to examine the soil and let it fall through his fingers, dark and fecund, and he plucks shed leaves from the ground and turns them in his hand, marveling at their color and savoring their crisp, elasticity against his skin. He's never seen such wondrous trees before, and never in such pristine condition, and once he has found his Anariel, he plans to spend his days among them, tending and studying them as he had once tended the great mallorn trees of Lorien.
He follows the stream to its end at a narrow road, and this he follows for hours. The road is little more than a footpath worn into the earth by the tread of numberless feet, and for much of the morning, it is little traveled. It winds from stream to plain to cool, inviting forest, and when he enters the latter at mid-morning, it sun-dappled and tranquil. His footsteps are muffled by soft grasses and the distant rumble of a mighty waterfall. He pauses to slake his thirst with mouthfuls of water scooped from a small brook and crisp and cold enough to burn his mouth.
Further on, he finds a grove of pear trees, and he remembers hunger at the sight of them. He plucks them from the branches with eager hands and devours them gladly. Their juice is sweet and thick as honey, and it bleeds from the fruit with every bite and drips down his hand and onto his wrist. He's just swallowed a bite from his second pair when he hears the furtive tread of approaching footsteps.
He turns to see a young elf strolling toward him. It occurs to him as he stands beneath the tree with juice on his lips that perhaps he trespasses and profanes a sacred glade, and he's seized by consternation, but the stranger merely smiles and presses a hand to his heart in greeting.
"Mae govannen, friend," he says as he draws near. "I trust the pears are to your liking?"
His hand is sticky with juice, but he returns the greeting nonetheless with a silent apology to Vaire for the soiling of her clothes. "Indeed. My journey has been long, and I thought to rest here a while."
"As you will. You are recently come from the Halls?" When Haldir looks at him in surprise, he says, "All those who leave Lord Mandos' halls come so arrayed."
"Yesternight," he confirms. "I seek my family."
"Like as not, you shall find them in Tirion. Most settle there, though there are some who dwell in the mountains near Aule's halls."
"And where am I now?"
"The forest of Orome. We few dwell here, and most of us are kin. Methinks you shall not find your kin here, but you are welcome to seek them, and to rest with us as you will. We have food and drink in plenty. You can provision yourself from our stores. Mayhap someone has heard tell of your family."
"I thank you for your hospitality. I am Haldir of Lorien."
"Or so you were. Now you are simply Haldir."
"That is so, I suppose," he agrees, and is surprised by a pang of longing for the home he left behind.
"And I am Bruithwin."
"Then, lead on, Bruithwin. I would see your kin and find my own."
They set off through the forest, Bruithwin's steps quick and sure as he shows the way.
As mine once were when I trod the paths of Lorien, he muses ruefully as he follows his newfound guide.
The journey is gladder for a companion, and they pass the miles in convivial conversation. Bruithwin tells of Aman, of its gossip and prominent families and petty squabbles, of the best places to harvest beets and onions or sow a crop of lentils, and of the merchants best trusted. Haldir repays in kind with stories of his brothers and his parents, of the glories of Lothlorien and its Lady of unrivaled loveliness, and of that which had passed in Arda since Bruithwin had departed its shores.
In this manner, they take themselves to Bruithwin's home, a squat dwelling of earth and moss and thatched roof. Around it are flowers tangled in merry profusion and ivies that climb the walls like rambunctious, sure-footed children, and within it are a willowy woman with dark hair and grey eyes and a bright-eyed, giggling child who lets out a whoop of delight and crashes headlong into Bruthwin's legs.
"Hello, my lad." He chuckles and sweeps the child into his arms.
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laguera25
