The Fellowship had paused to rest before reaching Lothlórien. We sat around the fire, the cool breeze brushing against our skin. As the flames flickered, I shared tales of Lórien with our companions, weaving images of its golden woods and shimmering rivers.

After some time, my words turned to song—an ancient elven melody, one known only to us, the two elves in the company. The tune was old, yet its sorrow was timeless. It was The Lay of Nimrodel, the tale of an elven maid who lost her way in the shadow of war, never to find her beloved again.

They believed I sang it for them. But in truth, the song was for you.

“An elven maid there was of old…”