Midnight of 8-9 April
Midnight. We break the silence of these sacred fields with a hymn in praise of Yavanna for the bounty she bestows.
I address the nodding wheatstalks, heavy with ripened kernels, thankful for their plentiful offering.
No sullying steel do we need to reap the grains; the plants willingly gift them to our grateful hands. As we fill the soft straw-baskets dangling in front of us, they seem to swell our bellies, celebrating the fruitfulness of the consecrated rows.
After the harvest, I will oversee the time-honored preparation of lembas cakes, for the Lady to bless and present to our warriors.
I spread my arms wide, palms facing the ground. Nenya sparkles in the lamplight as I appeal in reverence to the Powers.
Slender wisps of mist emerge from the earth, swaying gracefully — twining and then sundering anew, their fluid dance spellbinding.
The silvery tendrils spiral together, joining into a rolling fog that burgeons skywards. As the thickening cloud nears the talan where we stand, its top continues to ripple sinuously, rhythmically....
Like waves breaking upon the shore, relentlessly eroding the harbour defences, no matter how solidly wrought in stone.
A sudden wave of sea-longing surges through my fëa. I falter.
The billowing cloud-roof reaches the low talan, hiding the returning lembas-maidens beneath and muffling their song. The mellyrn whisper of a moonlit mantle shrouding the forest floor.
Galadriel gasps, turning pale.
I wrap her in my arms from behind; my fëa strengthens hers as it last did when her breasts were milk-swollen.
"Enough! Your mist extends throughout Lórien, and will shield the tallest mounted rider."
She murmurs a Quenya incantation to maintain her handiwork, then turns, exhausted, into my embrace.
As the power from my fëa ebbs, my hröa waxes.
"Come, my love. I would see you sleep well tonight."