Of Morvannon and Sylwen

The forest was hushed beneath the moon,

save for the silver song that drifted through the trees.

Morvannon followed it,

his steps soft upon the moss,

drawn as though the very mists had taken voice.

And there,

through a curtain of willow boughs,

he beheld her.

Sylwen stood waist-deep in a woodland pool,

the water shimmering about her as she bathed.

her chestnut hair,

touched with gold, fell loose upon her shoulders,

and her skin,

bronzed by sun and wandering, glowed pale in the moon light.

The song upon her lips was clear and wild,

as though the river itself had learned to sing.

Morvannon stilled, struck between awe and guilt,

for he had not meant to trespass

upon such a sacred sight.

Yet the branches seemed to hold their breath,

and the mists to part,

that he alone might see her thus –

untamed, unbound, radiant as dawn.

Then her song ceased,

and she turned.

Her green eyes met his through the veil of leaves

and though he half-feared her wrath,

there was no anger –

only the deep and quiet knowing

that his wandering would never be the same

again.

“You walk where few dare,” she said,

her voice calm, yet edged with the strength of one

who has long guarded these woods.

“Do you make a habit of shadowing maidens

at their bath,

or has chance led you here?”

Morvannon lowered his gaze,

one hand tightening on the hilt of his worn sword,

the other lifting in apology.

“By chance, lady. The song drew me,

though I swear I meant no trespass.

I am but a wanderer –

A shadow among mists,

and the sound of your voice

was like light through storm-clouds.

Forgive me.”

For a moment she studied him,

and he thought she might vanish like starlight on water.

But instead, she spoke, softer now,

though no less keen:

“Few of your kind would speak thus.

Most would cloak their gaze in boldness

and call it courage.

Yet you bow before truth.”

She stepped from the pool,

water streaming like silver from her limbs,

and as she wrapped herself in a cloak of green,

her eyes never left his.

“Then know me, Wanderer.

I am Sylwen of the woodland folk,

and the mists are no longer yours to walk alone.”

Her name lingered in the air: Sylwen.

The sound of it seemed to belong to the forest itself.

Morvannon bowed his head.

“Then know me also.

I am Morvannon –

a name born of shadow,

but carried in hope.”

For a moment

he feared she would vanish,

leaving only the echo of her song.

But she turned,

her cloak brushing the moss, and said,

“Walk with me, Wanderer.

Let the night decide who you are.”

They moved together through the quiet trees

until they came to a small clearing.

A brook ran over stones, silver in moonlight.

There, Sylwen knelt and kindled a fire.

Its glow touched her face –

warm, alive, full of quiet strength.

They sat by the flame.

Morvannon spoke of his long roads,

of battles fought in silence,

of the weight of years spent alone.

Sylwen listened without a word.

Then she lifted her voice, not in the river’s wild song,

but in something softer –

a lullaby, gentle as the night breeze.

The hours passed

wolves howled far away, the wind stirred the leaves,

yet nothing troubled their fire.

At last, Sylwen wrapped her cloak around her

and rested against the roots of an oak.

“Keep your vigil if you must,” she said softly.

“But remember, wanderer –

The mists are no longer yours alone.”

And so, she slept.

Morvannon kept watch,

sword across his knees,

and for the first time in long years,

he did not feel alone.