Chance Encounter

Slowly Narloth searched the area for the flet she knew to be nearby – she had helped construct it herself, but right now was so weary she hardly remembered where it was. The last few days had been long. She had crossed the Misty Mountains from Imladris with no real sleep; most nights had been spent lying half awake, fearing an Orc attack. Thankfully there had been none, but nevertheless she was close to exhaustion. Lembas did wonders – without it she would have collapsed hours ago, and if goblins had found her, she would have been as good as dead. There was no swift way from Imladris to Lórien that was not perilous, and the Mountains were riddled with Orcs and other foul beasts, despite the downfall of Sauron.

Finally she found the sign for a flet: just a metre away was a tiny leaf carved into the bark at the foot of a birch. The platform would be nearby, probably in an oak or elm. Within a minute she discovered the tree – it turned out to be an oak – and finding some hidden strength she swung up into the branches with ease. Immediately she dropped her pack and threw herself to the floor, lying down flat and doing nothing.

Twenty minutes later Narloth sat up with a groan and unceremoniously pulled off her cloak and leather boots, remaining in her tree-green leggings, soft tan leather tunic and the pale olive shirt she wore beneath it. Stretching out again, she pulled her cloak over her, and tried to get to sleep. Considering how exhausted she was, it should have been easy, but for some reason her mind kept ticking over her destination: Lothlórien. It would not be the first time she went there; she visited it every once in a while to see her sister Nimlos, who had somehow managed to fall in love a few score years ago, at only fifteen-hundred, and then she got married. Still, one more day – half a day, even – and Narloth would be in the fabled city of the Lady and Lord of the Galadhrim – and Nimlos and her husband.

Suddenly she heard a whisper from below the flet, and then when she listened closely, the sound of a beast – probably a horse – moving away from it. Instinctively she whipped her bow up in front of her, an arrow nocked on the bowstring aimed straight at the entrance to the flet. All weariness fell from her and the cloak lay pooled around her hips. A moment later she caught her breath as she saw white-blonde tresses – no orc had ever had such hair – and the elf swung around, hearing her. Narloth had trouble keeping her composure – although his face was stern and proud, he was as beautiful as most female elves could dream of laying their hands on. He noticed Narloth as she was lowering the bow, and his expression changed from boredom and weariness to one of surprise, which was swiftly replaced with an impassive visage. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise-” he said, simultaneously as she began, “I’m sorry, I heard-”

Narloth smiled sheepishly, embarrassed. “You first.”

“I’m sorry I disturbed you. I didn’t realise this flet was taken.” He moved as if to leave.

“No, no, it’s alright,” she put in swiftly. “There’s plenty of space here, and there’s no other flet for miles.”

“It would be indecent,” he stated stiffly.

Narloth shrugged carelessly. “If you don’t tell, I won’t.” She put her bow aside, within reach, and lay down again, pulling the cloak up to her shoulders. “Narloth of Imladris, by the way.” Hearing the elf walking over to the other corner and putting down his belongings, she smiled.

“Haldir of Lórien.” He settled down on the far side of the flet with a letter; Narloth noticed it was addressed to “the Marchwarden”. A few moments later the light failed completely, and Narloth fell asleep.

~*~

Haldir rose before dawn; Narloth still slept. He slipped the letter into his pack and straightened out his cloak, careful to move quietly so as not to wake her. The Marchwarden shot a quick glance in her direction; her cloak had fallen away and she was curled up, shaking in the cold dawn breeze. Feeling something in him he had never known existed, he leaned over and reached out, and taking her cloak, pulled it up to her shoulders. The elleth’s shivers slowed and she sighed. He turned around and continued to the exit; he descended from the platform and melted into the shrubbery in what was now second nature, heading to Lothlórien. Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel wanted the second of his thrice-annual reports – it wasn’t anything special, just routine: he simply had to show his face as the Marchwarden of Lórien and tell them that, as the Marchwarden of Lórien, there were fewer Orcs roaming the boundaries of Lórien. Then he could return to his beloved borders and get on with his job. Lothlórien was a beautiful city, as cities went, and Haldir was prepared to admit it; he simply preferred the borders where all was peaceful and calm, and more beautiful than any city could ever be.

If he had looked back, he would have seen a dark-haired figure sitting cloak-wrapped on the nearest corner of the flet, watching him through the foliage.

Through his short stay in Lothlórien he saw Narloth twice – once at the palace and once at the marketplace, each time with another elleth who resembled her so closely that they could only have been sisters. He didn’t see her notice him, didn’t see her sister point him out, or hear Narloth’s reply that she knew him; didn’t see her smile of recognition sent to him over the crowds. After leaving the city, he never saw nor heard of her again, save when his men reported an ebony-haired elleth on a chestnut stallion leaving the Golden Wood in the direction of the Misty Mountains. Haldir bade them let her leave, but left it at that. The Stern, Cold Marchwarden of Lórien cared nothing for ebony-haired elleths, and Haldir had a reputation to uphold.