The army moved out, into the woods on the borderlands of Lorien. The trees were ancient and spoke of deep memory, and strange voices echoed in their branches. On the second day, the air grew stiff, and Handorth moved to the eastern flank of the army, casting out for rumour of something he could not see. It was not Elves: it was devilry of one sort or another, and Handorth feared it, although he knew it was not hunting him--it was bound for the Elves. Handorth pitied the Elves: they would not meet a happy end in this world.
On the night of the second day, Handorth became sure that they were well within the territory of the Elves. The leaves of the mallorn-trees shivered at their passing. The army pushed ahead. The devilry of the previous day had passed: Handorth assumed those unknown demons were heading for their prey already. The captains then gave the word to speed up: they would go straight for the city without further pause. Handorth became increasingly paranoid: no sight of an Elf, and he felt as though every leaf was peering at him, like every twig was a pointed arrow, and every tree concealed an enemy. They fell into the darkness of night and continued under the cruel cold gleam of the elven-stars.
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Where is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? They have passed like rain on the mountains. Like wind in the meadow. The days have gone down in the west. Behind the hills, into shadow.
How did it come to this?
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