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The high pasture was nestled deep within Imlach Galen, an emerald set between jagged crags that loomed like weary sentinels. It cut into the Ered Wethrin like an ancient scar, but this was no wound. The valley was carved by crystalline waters that tumbled south to meet the Sirion, by the rivers and streams that sprung from the upper reaches of the vale, a place where the world hung suspended between earth and sky.
Meril sat in gentle repose upon a grassy slope, one arm draped over a bent knee. The alpine sun lay warm upon her shoulders, soaking into the roughspun wool of her robe, coarse yet comfortably familiar against her skin. Here the crisp mountain air was sharp and sweet, redolent with the perfume of blooming wildflowers that spattered the hills in bursts of purple, crimson, and gold. Down the slope, sheep drifted like errant clouds upon a field of green, grazing contently on the verdant grasses of the summer pasture. Further beyond lay the lodge, where the other herders – men and women of the Eastern Mithrim – shared a simple meal of bread and cheese. Her cousins, Arthondir and Oriel, had made their way down the glen, eager to find respite and conversation after the morning’s labor.
Meril did not wish to join them just yet, content as she was in solitude. Her hand drifted to her chest and slipped into the inner pocket of her robe, her fingers finding the cool, smooth cluster of pearls and glass she kept close to her heart. She drew it forth carefully, keeping it hidden against her palm until a sweeping gaze confirmed her cousins had not yet returned from the lodge. She slowly unfolded her fingers, allowing the delicate beads to shine resplendent in the alpine sun. The green glass leaves shimmered like morning dew, and the central blossom seemed to blush against the palm of her hand. She traced the rosy petals with the pad of her thumb, and a warmth bloomed in her chest as she remembered their last morning in the tower — his contented sighs as he shifted drowsily in her arms, the way he had presented his parting gift as she prepared to leave, and the softness of his voice when he confessed he no longer dreamed of Aman.
She bore no yearning in her youth, no dreams of meeting a lover with whom she’d share hearth and home. Desire remained a distant notion as she grew into womanhood, something as foreign to her as the lands across the sea. There had been suitors, of course — men who sought her hand in marriage, and women who longed for more than friendship — but they had passed with the seasons, planting no roots in her heart. Yet with Orodreth, it had grown so slowly, so unexpectedly, that she felt as though the earth beneath her had shifted when it finally came to bloom. He had not sought a lover, but a companion to walk beside him in wooded glades. Nor did he clad himself in pride and thirst for glory like the other Noldor she had met. His thoughtful vulnerability and steadfast dedication had unfurled in her a tender need she hadn’t known she was even capable of.
She sighed softly, cradling the necklace in her palm a moment longer before returning it to its place against her heart. Oriel would notice her absence and come calling soon enough, and other responsibilities awaited her. She reluctantly rose from the sun-warmed grass and adjusted her robe. Her eyes swept over the watchful expanse of the mountains, across the quiet grandeur of the hills. Somewhere far below, in the halls of Minas Tirith, Orodreth would be tendering reports, assembling ledgers, and bearing the burden of duty with unspoken dignity. She hoped life was treating him kindly. She would count down the days to the end of summer, when the flocks would descend and she could see his face once more. But until then, the mountain pastures awaited.