Beyond the last belt of reeds at the edge of the Swanfleet, the damp breath of the marsh fell away, and a clean, cool wind rose to meet them.
The woods spread out before the company. Unlike the lush greens of Minhiriath, the trees here rose higher and straighter, their trunks a deep, shadowed green, like polished malachite in dim light. Clusters of red berries hung from the boughs, and in the sunlight they gleamed like beads of hardened blood.
They had crossed into the realm of Nargothrond. After another full day's march beneath that dark canopy, a brief flicker of gold slid between the trees ahead.
Six Elven warriors stepped from behind the trunks. They were clad in golden mail, their helms crested with plumes of white feathers. Longbows were slung across their backs, and the points of the spears in their hands shone keenly.
The captain at their head had eyes sharp as a hawk's. When he saw Gandalf's grey cloak his shoulders eased a little, yet the spear in his grasp still barred the way.
"Strangers," he said, "declare your road and your wounds."
Gandalf stepped forward and bowed slightly. "By command of King Kaen Eowenríel we bear the last seed of the Sacred Tree, and have come to present it before King Anrod."
The captain's gaze passed over the bundle at Aragorn's breast, lingered for a heartbeat on Corthalion and the other Sindar, then came to rest on the device of Gondor upon Denethor's armour.
Satisfied at last, he signalled his warriors to lower their weapons and bowed in return. "Come with us. The King and the Princess have long awaited your coming."
"Thank you," Gandalf replied.
For five long days they walked beneath those towering boughs before they came at last to the lands that once had been the realm of Eregion and were now the heart of the restored kingdom of Nargothrond.
Passing through a clearing ringed by titanic trees, they saw the city.
Unlike the crystal halls of Doriath, Nargothrond rose with the strength of stone and fire.
Black ramparts of hewn rock soared a hundred metres and more, and across their faces ran lines of fire-runes that pulsed and shimmered like embers beneath ash. The great gate was wrought of solid mithril and hard iron, and above it burned a vast red jewel, like a heart of living flame.
Within the walls, most of the structures were sharp-spired towers. Warm orange light shone from their high windows, the glow of forges that never slept. The air was thick with the scent of sulphur and hot metal, utterly unlike the usual fragrance of Elven realms, yet carrying a grave and weighty beauty of its own.
The captain led them to the base of the tallest tower. At its summit a huge furnace gaped open to the sky, tongues of fire leaping from its mouth and staining the clouds above with gold.
"The King is upon the star-watching platform," the captain said, bowing low before withdrawing.
They climbed a spiralling stair of bronze. Along its railings were carved the tale of the Noldor: the radiance of Valinor, the wars of Beleriand, the bitter road back into Middle-earth. Each scene was so finely wrought it seemed ready to move and speak.
The topmost chamber opened into a round viewing platform beneath the open sky. At its heart stood a mighty instrument of the heavens, its armatures set with many small gems that turned slowly as the constellations wheeled overhead.
Two figures stood by the device, conversing in low tones.
To the left was a tall Elf clad in a dark robe embroidered with flames. His short golden hair shone like quenched steel in the furnace-light, and though his face was fair, it carried a stern, hard line. This was Anrod, King of Nargothrond.
Beside him stood an Elven lady in a gown of deep fire-red. Her long golden hair fell like a waterfall to her waist. In her hand she held a scroll covered in runes, and in her calm, bright eyes there was both Elven grace and an unbending courage. She was Princess Anariel, sister to Anrod.
"Master Gandalf, welcome to Nargothrond," Anrod said, turning toward them. His voice rang like a bronze bell struck in a high hall. "Ingwion of Laurenandë and Elurín of Doriath have already sent word of your trials upon the road."
Anariel stepped forward, her gaze falling at once upon the bundle Aragorn carried. A smile touched her lips. "We have long awaited this seed, and have prepared much for its coming. All that was lacking was you."
Aragorn bowed his head and offered up the package with both hands. "Yes, my lady. It bears the blessing of King Kaen Eowenríel and Lady Arwen Dawnglow, and in it are bound the hopes of many who have fallen."
As Anrod took the seed, the great instrument before them gave a low hum. Every gem set in its frame flared to life, shimmering in time with the starry tracery that veined the seed's shell.
"It is stronger than I had guessed," Anrod murmured. His fingers brushed lightly over the smooth surface, and his stern face softened. "The Noldor are friends of Aulë among the Valar. We are skilled in craft and lore of runes. Perhaps we can coax it to take root and grow more swiftly."
Anariel's eyes shone with wonder. "A marvellous making indeed. It will need a great rite to awaken its holy power."
"Then we shall hold it tomorrow at sunset," Anrod said. "Let it strike its roots into the earth, and we shall count the world the better for it."