He returned to the story once again after years and time away. Back to beginning, having read to end, he thought ahead to the beautiful parts—chapters and people, tales within tale, that moved and inspired most.
He thought to the magic woods of enchanting elves; tall, beautiful, and fair. Lórien, Land of Gold; Lotlórien, Lórien of the Blossom—as it was named and known.
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He thought of the Queen, Galadriel—The White Lady, Witch or Lady of the Woods depending on from which side one received and learned their legends.
He dreamt her in the way as written: prescience of eyes and mind, purity of heart, one who read and knew men’s souls and secrets whether they be virtuous or shades of sin and how, by vision, she brought the seen to view themselves the same.
He dreamt her as told: tall and fair in clothing of white and patterned leaf and bloomed verdure; laurel and flowered garland on head, the only crown for wear and symbol for such kingdom.
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He was still in the beginning, far away from return to page and presence, in company again to the radiance and wonder of Galadriel’s spirit: Queen and White Lady of the Woods for those whose souls were pure.
He laid the book aside and stared outward onto dawn—morning rise as golden light through wood stand around. Golden rays shone into room in mote-framed and painted beam, reach of the light into heart of the room in illumination of fire-sign—hearth burning strong—and she beside in rest of chair; fair skinned and gown of thinness and white light patterned in intricate of blossom adorn; warmth and hue of truer bloom, wondrous, hinting through.
Signs shone all around, awakening of a magic. Land of Gold, she in blossom—White Lady of the Woods in gold-focus of the Light—Lórien was not so far. He lived amongst it then, alive in the enchantment and company of the Queen in rest and seeing beauty who read and knew his heart.