She was born questioning her place in Middle Earth.
She grew realising that her powers brought only pain.
She journeyed, to find the truth and love for herself.
An orphaned ranger hailing from Imladris, Varilerin had always sensed an impending do...
There was a certain... strangeness to Middle Earth, Gandalf had decided immediately upon stepping foot on this unknown land. One was the delight he reaped from inhaling the pipe he was holding. He blew the air with a smoke ship he conjured from his mouth. Saruman found this habit disgusting and confounding, but it sufficiently occupied Gandalf as he ventured deeper into the woods of Imladris. A few months back he and the others of the Istari had arrived in the Grey Havens. Saruman, Allatar, and Pallando ventured to the east, whilst Gandalf himself decided to follow Cirdan's suggestion to go to Rivendell. The Shipwright believed he would find great knowledge there under Lord Elrond's guidance, but he didn't expect to find the forest so charming and soothing. But there was a suffocating silence among the trees—evil still threatened the valley despite Sauron's fall.
The leaves rustled. Gandalf paused his steps and scrutinised his surroundings. He was being followed. The Valar had specifically dictated that he should not aimlessly display his power, but as of then he had no other weapon besides his staff and his magic. He put his pipe weed into his pocket and raised his staff.
Three figures leapt from the trees, dropping to the ground as soft as feathers touching the grass. Their forms were not Orcly, and so were their fashion. All of them wore uniform brown cloaks, with quivers slung over their shoulders. One of them wore a darker clothing, he noticed, for he stuck out like a sore thumb.
"What is an old man doing in these parts of the forest?" one of them asked.
"I am one of the Istari. They called me Olorin where I came from, though here I am more commonly known as... Gandalf the Grey. I have travelled here to seek the wisdom of Lord Elrond," Gandalf explained honestly. "I believe he has received a message from Cirdan the SHhipwright?"
The rangers looked at each other. "He might be lying," the redhead said.
"But an old man with a pointy hat is already strange enough," the previous ranger reasoned. "He seems quite the real thing."
Gandalf cleared his throat, leaning against his staff. "I am a Wizard, and a strange one I admit. Who else walks with a staff as a walking stick?" he reasoned, slightly amused by their arguments. The one with darker clothing shifted, easing their grip around their bow.
"He's not lying," they declared. "I can feel it." They pulled down their hood to reveal the fair face of an elleth, her hair as dark as the night. Gandalf flinched when he saw that her eyes were silver—a rare colour he had not encountered so far. "Greetings, Gandalf. We shall escort you to Rivendell. However, if, by a miracle, your words are false and my judgement is incorrect, you shall suffer the consequences."
She directed the others to reveal their faces as well. One of them was an ellon with a dark hair, while the other was an elleth with fiery wavy locks. "Follow us, Master Wizard," the dark-haired elleth instructed. Gandalf knew that most Elves were, by nature, quiet, for their wisdom was in their silence. Yet, this elleth seemed to be far removed from this world, as if she existed in her own thoughts and dreams.
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