A New Age

The Lord of Lórien speaks of a new age, how the last vestiges of elvendom may exist in a world ruled by the second-born. Yet his words mean little to me. Anor's light shines down, driving away the foul air. Arda as it was ever meant to be. I reach out and pinch a new bud between my fingers. Soon Mirkwood shall be green again.

"Such matters can wait," I say. Taking my friend's hand, I lay it upon the bark of a nearby oak. Has his Noldo wife deafened him to its simple song?

He smiles. "Aye, they can."