Hey so I knooooow it has been ages since I updated. I’ve been having a real pencil-scribble of a brain time lately. I’ve either got tons of energy (for anything that isn’t writing!) or I am very listless and tired. I’m ok, it’s just a bit hard to get a grip atm! Dumb pencil-scribble brain, gaaaah

anyway! 

Here is my wordcount update on ch47: 5K

And here is a lil sneak peek. Hope you enjoy!

---

“So. You have answered my summons at last, daughter of the
forest.”

Hröa. New hröa.
She had died, she had stormed the dark fortress, and…

“And far sooner than I had anticpated.”

She blinked her eyes, feeling the breath rush in and out of
her lungs, the expansion and contraction of her ribs, as she had never noticed
it before. Her toes scraped against the ground as she slowly stood up. Her skin
felt unbearably sensitive, as though rough cloth were being pressed against it,
though it was no more than the whisper of air around her limbs.

It was too bright, but she could just make out that her
hands were as she remembered them. This flesh was identical to the old, just as all the tales had promised.

Then she took in the gigantic figure stooping over her, and
her newly-beating heart nearly stopped yet again. “My Lord… Mandos?”

“Námo, if you please. Mandos is the name of my realm.”
The Vala was neither young, nor old. His skin was deep bronze, and the piercing
glow of the moon came from his eyes, etching the edges of the room in stark white and grey. His hair and body were swathed in scarves of many colours,
covered in fantastical designs so intricate and dizzying that they defied the eye. They wafted around him, blurring his silhouette, drifting about like ghostly tendrils.

She shrank back.

“I did not expect to see you for several centuries yet,” he
continued, and straightened up. The scarves floated in the air about him, as
though an unseen wind were toying with them. Half-hidden in this cloud of
complexity, he moved back politely to allow her some space in which to recover.
“Those who refuse my summons and my halls do not tend to change their minds as
readily as you have.”

“I did not change my mind,” she said, bravely lifting her
face to that moonglow. “I do not know why I have come, nor why I have been
given this new form. I would have stayed in my trees, entombed beneath the stones. There is nothing for me
here.”

“Hmm.” The Vala waved a hand (or was it a scarf?) at a table
which had suddenly appeared. “You are the daughter of that wood indeed:
stubborn, thorny and hard. There are clothes for you here, at least. Choose which pleases
you best.”

“It is my home,” she said, and as hurriedly as she was able
she dragged on a pair of green hose and a brown tunic. Her colours. “It is
where I would have my body remain.”

“You are an Elf, child,” said Námo quietly. “You cannot be elsewhere. Your very
essence is tied to the world. You may refuse the summons, but it only prolongs
the inevitable: this was always meant to happen. Your re-embodiment is the fate
of all Elves. Most find it a relief.”

“I am not most Elves,” she growled, shoving her feet into a
sturdy pair of boots. “I want to go back.”

“Why?”

That stopped her for a moment, but she firmed her jaw
nevertheless. “I left great evil behind me, roosting in the branches of my
home,” she said. “I will return and destroy it, now that I am whole once more.”

“Ah! Rejoice, then, daughter of the trees! For the evil has
been destroyed as you drifted beyond all hope of news.” Námo smiled,
and she was momentarily dazzled by the flash of his teeth. “The enemy has been
thrown down and can never be reborn, for his greatest and chiefest weapon was
in the end, the instrument of his destruction. No shadows will crawl from Dol
Guldur in the days and decades to come. It is destroyed, and not a stone remains.”

She stared up at him, overwhelmed by the glow and the myriad
patterns of his scarves and scarcely believing it. “Dead? Sauron is dead?”

“He is. I have turned him away, and he shall lie trapped in
the void until the Sun and the Moon both perish. This I swear to you.”

“And is that prophecy?” She sat down heavily, and stared at
her fingers. The lines and creases of her palms were exactly as before – the
stark harsh light painted them in black and grey upon her skin.

“It is truth.”

“How did this happen?” She looked up again. It was difficult
to say whether the movement was scarves or arms as the Vala drew closer once
more.

“Through trial and terror, bravery and fellowship,” he
said, and his smile pierced her again. “And love, of course. It is a tale long in the telling.
Therefore we must find a time long enough, and begin. As for you, I may hazard
a guess. Though the mightiest of the Elves yet in Middle-Earth were the ones
responsible for the fall of Dol Guldur, it was Aiwendil that sowed the earth in
the aftermath. He was a pupil of Yavanna before his journey, and it was his
task to protect the Olvar and Kelvar of Middle Earth. He has fulfilled his
task.”

“I do not understand.”

He considered her. “You stayed to protect your forest, did
you not? You gave the last of your strength, even unto your last breath, to rid it of evil.”

She nodded dumbly.

“Thanks to the Wizard, it is no longer in need of protection.
It is cleansed. It is free.”

She blinked. The knowledge sank heavily into her, as though
it was a stone and she a still woodland pool.

Then she said, “what do I do now? Where shall I go?”

The Vala’s expression was shrewd. “I, famously, have little
in the way of pity. I suggest you seek out a new purpose, Elfling.”

She sat motionless for another moment. Then her head whipped
up, an impossible hope flaring in her breast. “You see all those who die, do
you not?”

“That is my purpose.”
He sounded stern now, as though he anticipated her next question. “I see them,
yes. They are my charge. But only those of Elven blood may pass through my
borders. The Men and Hobbits and Orcs go on, to a place even I cannot see. Only
Eru Illuvatar knows their destination.”

She took a huge breath. “And Dwarves?”

He drew back, his scarves flaring in shock. “What?”

She scrambled to her feet. “What of the Dwarves? Where do they go? Do they also move beyond, to a
place you cannot see? Or do they stay as the Elves do?”

Stiffly, he answered, “They stay. But not under my care.”

Her heart began pounding with a new challenge. “Where? Under
whose care?”

But Námo was silent.

She spun on her heel, and all at once there was a door where
there had been none before. “Is that the way out? To Aman and beyond?”

“It is.”

“I will find where the Dwarves go,” she promised him, and
raced for the door. “I will!”

“Unusual girl,” he murmured as she disappeared into the
fields. “Perhaps I should warn

Aulë… or then again, perhaps not.”

After all, he was owed a surprise after that nonsense with Irmo, the Dwarf, the Hobbit, and the Olórë Mallë.

---

hröa

– body 

(fëa was the name for Spirit. Elven spirits are tied to the world, even after death. This is the reason that they are re-embodied by Mandos after death. They are meant to exist as long as Arda does.)

Olórë Mallë  – the path of dreams. Mortals can see Valinor in their dreams – the only way they can visit (apart from a handful of exceptions who could take the straight path). This is how Bilbo has been visiting Thorin in his sleep. Irmo (Lorien) is in charge of it. And Irmo is

Námo’s brother. 

Mandos – He is usually known by this name. But his true, and less common name, is

Námo. I just really like the idea that EVERYBODY calls him Mandos no matter how many times he has corrected them over the eons.

Aiwendil – Radagast. He was indeed a Maia of Yavanna.

The Dizzying Scarves –

Námo’s wife is Vairë, the weaver. :)))

The Doom of Men (and Hobbits) – they are not re-embodied, as the Elves are, because they are not eternally tied to the world. When they die, they go to a place that even Mandos does not know.