days, and the last made their farewells and turned back only when they crossed the Mering Stream. When they had waved farewell to the last well-wishers, they turned aside from the road to Angrenost and their horses waded into the long waving grass of Calenardhon.
They travelled thus for another week, meeting no travellers and seeing no sign of any settlements, for this was a lonely corner of the realm that had never been settled. Each day the Hithaiglin, the Misty Mountains, loomed closer on their left. They skirted the dark and ancient forest called Fangorn, for it had a strange repute. They crossed the River Limlight, and at last late on a hot still summer afternoon they topped a low rise and saw below them a broad forested valley with a river flowing through it. The trees glowed a deep golden color, their leaves like waving sheets of gold leaf.
'The Golden Wood,' said Isildur with satisfaction. 'And just across the stream lies Lothlorien, the realm of Galadriel and Celeborn.' They hurried forward then and were soon under the eaves of the great trees. The cool shade was welcome after the long miles of open sunny grassland. The path wound between open glades, dropping gently down toward the Nimrodel Stream. The sun hid her face behind the mountains and the heat quickly went out of the sky. The air under the trees seemed cleaner, fresher, as if it had never been hot or dusty. A faint scent of flowers hung in the air, reminding each rider of some fair place he had once visited, though none could name the memory. At last the Nimrodel stream could be seen glinting between the white boles of the trees ahead. Just then fair voices floated out of the trees, singing an ancient Elvish song, though no singers could be seen.
They rode on in silence, listening to the music, until they came to the banks of the stream. There they were met by a company of Elvish archers, all dressed alike in green cloaks caught at the shoulder with silver clasps in the shape of leaves.
'Greetings, travellers,' said one of the Elves. 'You are come to the borders of Lothlorien and strangers may not enter without permission. What name should I announce to my Lords?'
Ohtar rode forward to herald the king, but Isildur waved him back. 'Tell the Lord and Lady that Isildur and his sons have come to call.'
The Elf looked at him in surprise. 'You are Isildur, King of Arnor? My pardon, my lord. I did not realize; you bear no emblems of your rank.'
'No. I wear no kingly armor for I have seen enough of arms and armor. And I bear no crown because it is yet in Annuminas.'
'Crowned or not, my lord, you are welcome in Lothlorien. Your deeds in Mordor already are sung by our minstrels.'
Isildur laughed. 'Are they indeed? Your poets move more swiftly than do I.'
'The Lay of Isildur is our most popular song these latter days. It is requested nearly every night. The people will all wish to see you. I am called Brethilrond, my lord. I shall ride ahead to announce your coming. My friends will escort you and show you the path.' He whistled, and a beautiful white horse stepped out of the shadows. He leaped lightly onto its back and splashed across the stream, calling over his shoulder, 'Welcome to the Golden Wood, my lords!'
They chatted with their Elvish escort as they rode along a broad lane through the trees. The dusk was falling, but the wood never grew completely dark. The smooth white trunks of the trees were so pale they seemed to glow in the twilight, while the golden leaves above caught every glimmer of light and set it shimmering. When the last purple tint was fading from the sky, they saw a golden glow high in the trees before them. Then they came out into a large clearing and saw before them a great high-crowned hill, set about with a thick hedge behind a moat. The hill was a solid mass of the tallest trees they had even seen, towering over all the rest of the forest. Among those mighty branches could be seen many lights; white and gold and yellow. Brethilrond was waiting for them at the near end of a bridge that spanned the moat and ended at a massive wooden gate covered with flowing, beautifully carved letters.
'Welcome to Caras Galadon, the city of the trees,' he said.
He led them across the bridge and the gate swung open at their approach, though they could see no guards or gatekeepers. They walked along neat well-tended paths and climbed many broad stairs, the way leading always up toward the summit of the hill. Finally they came out in a wide glade with a fountain tinkling musically into a pool. In the center of the clearing stood the tallest tree any of them had ever seen. The mighty bole stood fully thirty yards across and swept up into a mass of golden foliage that shaded the entire glade. A wide white-painted ladder was fastened to the trunk. Brethilrond turned at the foot of the ladder.
'The Lord and Lady await you in their hall.'
'And where is their hall?' asked Isildur, looking around, for no buildings could be seen.
'Right above you, my lord,' said Brethilrond with a smile. 'We make our homes in the mallorn trees. If you will follow me, my friends will attend to your horses.' And he turned and climbed quickly up the broad ladder fastened to the massive trunk.
Somewhat more slowly and tentatively, Isildur and his men followed. When they reached the lower branches, already so high that they didn't like looking down, they found a vast platform. As large as some mansions in the cities of men, this one platform, or talan, as the Elves called it, contained living quarters for more than a dozen families. The mallorn's branches were so huge that they were quite wide enough for four men to walk abreast on the broad upper surface, and a laughing group of Elf children dashed along the branch to stare at the visitors as they passed.
But Brethilrond did not pause. Already he was high above them, still climbing up the main trunk. The men climbed on. The ladder was wide enough for many climbers on each rung, and now and again a group of Elves would pass them, carrying burdens in packs upon their backs. They called cheerful greetings to the Men as they easily passed them. They passed talan after talan, each slightly smaller as the immense tree's branches diminished with height. The men's shoulders and thighs began to ache and complain with the unaccustomed effort.
'By my sword,' muttered Elendur, 'how high are we to climb? I would swear we must be above the clouds by now.'
'Above the sun, you mean, 'gasped Ciryon. 'We must be close to her now, for I am dripping with sweat.'
'I know,' agreed Ohtar, 'but I am loath to complain, for these pretty young Elf-maidens pass us by as easily as if we were nailed to the trunk. I would not have them know how much I am aching.'
'Perhaps you had better hold your breath, then,' laughed Isildur. 'You are wheezing like a strong wind in a pine forest.'
At last they reached a large white talan built right around the massive trunk. They climbed through a square opening in its base and stood gasping, glad to be standing on a floor again. Brethilrond was waiting for them.
'I have already spoken to the Lords. They bid you attend them at once.'
He led them into a lofty hall, oval in shape, with walls of green and silver and a roof of gold. The trunk of the mallorn, still a dozen feet across, formed the central column of the hall. Against this column and beneath a canopy of a leafy bough of the tree, stood two thrones side by side on a gilded platform. There sat the Lords of Lothlorien, dressed alike in white robes. Their hair, Celeborn's silver and Galadriel's gold, flowed from beneath golden crowns. They stood and came down to greet Isildur warmly.
'Welcome, Isildur Elendilson,' said Celeborn, clasping his arm.
'Greetings to all your company,' added Galadriel in her lovely musical voice. 'You are well come to Caras Galadon.'
Isildur bowed deeply, and the other men, struck by the beauty and majesty of the Lords, fell to their knees before them.
'May I present my sons?' Isildur said. 'Elendur, Aratan, and Ciryon.'
'Elendur I remember well, of course,' said Galadriel with a smile to him. 'And his brothers I should have known at once, for they have the look and bearing of your line. Ciryon especially I could have mistaken for his noble forefather Elros, so alike are they.'
The brothers stared at Galadriel in wonder, for Elros Peredhil, the founder of their line, had died many thousands of years ago. This woman, so lovely and fair, had actually known the great Elros himself!
'They look like fine bold warriors, Isildur,' said Celeborn. 'You may rightly be proud of them. Did they serve in the war as well?'
