“…Frodo stood awhile still lost in wonder. It seemed to him that he had stepped through a high window that looked on a vanished world. A light was upon it for which his language had no name. All that he saw was shapely, but the shapes seemed at once clear cut, as if they had been first conceived and drawn at the uncovering of his eyes, and ancient as if they had endured forever. He saw no colour but those he knew, gold and white and blue and green, but they were fresh and poignant, as if he had at that moment first perceived them and made for them names new and wonderful. In winter here no heart could mourn for summer or for spring. No blemish of sickness or deformity could be seen in anything that grew upon the earth. On the land of Lórien there was no stain.”—J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Rings
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Such was way of winter’s end: false-springs, hopings—premature—dreamings of the warmth and wake only for freeze and cold’s return; harsher, stronger, more bitter in the end and last effort in dispirit of a soul in battle already lost.
Regardless of winter’s fight, in time, spring would come.
It was only time and waiting—patience toward world and nature’s way.
Winter came again, cold hard blow from north that settled in frozen still: a cold that brought no frost and thickened ice of the ponds and lakes that sent farmers about the fields breaking water for their flocks and herds and feeding hay where stockpiles were eaten bare.
Inside oaken home in the trees, before and in heat from fire of the hearth, they read together fantasies of worlds, in mind, they knew.
He read of a hobbit and Middle-Earth; she of a boy and owl and school, and unmoving settle of the winter cold and still, they basked in the fire-blaze that built and filled in room as they dressed in very little.
She was beautiful in this way, her white of skin, gold of hair, green of eyes, and blue that covered her most intimate in cut and draw that further highlight-accented shape and lines of hips and legs and guarded hidden fair and covered rose.
She was beautiful in the room, in read and rest and winter-flower where nowhere else did bloom.
Eyes rose from her page in catch of his sight, she blushed in a pleasure in find of his attention’s hold. On her side, in way of read, she shifted slight, her body lengthened, further showing of colours and open wonder.
It was dream-heaven of a place, in refuge and hide and sanctuary of home in woods made golden in autumn’s turn but then were bare and empty; the matted, blown, and drawn away.
It was she that shone in gold, gold of her hair and gold of her skin, silver made richer in touch of fire’s light; enchantment of a dream, and the ardor of his heart beat strong; she knowing, sensing, for the woods and dream-heaven were her home; she enchantress and queen of its wonder-realm.
Caught in his enamor, meek, he turned away. His eyes returned to page, but in his broken stare, he felt her eyes’ remain and reading of him still.
From the page, enchantment spelled in telling of a song:
“As Elven-maid there was of old,
A shining star by day:
Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,
Her shoes of silver-grey.
A star was bound upon her brows,
A light was on her hair
As sun upon the golden boughs
In Lórien the fair.
Her hair was long, her limbs were white,
And fair she was and free;
And in the wind she went as light
As leaf of linden-tree…”
Wonder-struck, touched in spell, he viewed again her way just then and dreamed her as a past: May and day in spring of old, mantle white and hemmed in gold—yellow blossoms in the boughs. “Her hair was long, her limbs were white, and fair she was and free…” He remembered the way she was that day, her lithe and spirit float of free as she moved about the scene: love and mirth and perfect of all as if conceived and drawn in uncovering of eyes—all in accordance with Wonder-Vision. “…and in the wind she went as light as leaf on linden-tree…”
Wonderstruck and awed again, vision returned to her in present. “A star was bound upon her brows, a light was on her hair as sun upon the golden boughs in Lórien the fair.”
He no longer cared of winter. There was no way or place he’d rather be than with her in living then: no blemish, only beauty, over all her winter-fair.
Wonderstruck, awed in spell, pang of heart and ardor’s strength, he moved to her, to love in fire’s light, in heat of the hearth and them.
Gently.
Gently, soft into sigh-rise swoon.
“Her hair was long, her limbs were white,
And fair she was and free;
And in the wind she went as light
As leaf on linden-tree…”
He held her through leaf-fall, through body-flutter, spirit-drift, taken in love-wind.
After, she glowed in lover’s way, rose of body returning fair in temper of the take, and in the fire light beside, her body hemmed with gold.
