The stranger came as summer was dying. He came with hands free of hoe or sickle, so the path stayed clear before him and he walked on, into the secret gardens of the entwives. Visitors were rare in those days. The entwives watched him curiously, though for some time they made neither sound nor movement. 

He was a strange man, if a man was what he was. His hair was the color of marigold, and indeed, he had the golden and somber air of the last hour before sunset. For three days he wandered the gardens, praising the flowers and fruits that grew there. The entwives followed and they listened, for there was little that pleased them more than recognition of the beauty they had brought forth from the earth. Also, the man’s voice was very fair, clear and bright like sunlight upon running water. 

But as dusk gathered on the third day, the man stopped suddenly, as if stricken. All at once he began to weep. 

Then one of the entwives bent down her head and spoke.

“Why do you weep, Golden One?” she asked. “For the garden is fair and all the flowers bloom.”

“Indeed the garden is fair,” the man answered. “And that is why I weep. For I have not before seen upon this earth such beauty and such bounty. It grieves me beyond measure to think that soon it will be but dust and ash and wasted.”

A troubled susurrus passed through the garden.

“What do you mean?” the entwife asked. “It is true that summer falls to autumn, and in time the trees will grow bare. But spring follows upon winter—that is the cycle of growth and life, and it does not end.”

“Alas,” the man cried out and tears shook him once more. But he gathered himself and answered, “It should not fall to me to bear such news. But bear it I must, it seems. War sweeps these lands. A great army sits on your doorstep: a ravening horde of orcs and men, their thoughts bent to darkness and devouring. This place stands in their path, and they will not leave whole that which might bring comfort and respite to their foes.”

Then terrible fear fell on the entwives, for his voice held the heavy ring of truth. 

A great debate began. Once they had journeyed, but the thought of abandoning their gardens was a bitter one. Some said that they should stay and endure the passing army. After all, they said, surely what they uproot and mangle we may in time repair. 

But the man’s mien grew dark and he told them not to underestimate the blight that this dread army brought with it. 

“They will come with steel and fire; the song of destruction will echo in their steps. Will you see your lands made cracked and brown, and all life extinguished?”

To flee, then. But flee where? The entwives did not know well the land beyond their borders. They might pick out a direction, true, but how could they be sure that war would not follow them?

At last, when a grim silence had fallen, the man spoke again. He did know of one land where they might find refuge, a vast realm protected by towering mountains, its soil fertile and well-watered by an in-land sea. No war had ever come there and would not come, he deemed, for the lord of that place was great and terrible. He would not suffer intruders, but if they brought their bounty to his land, he would shelter them and ever their gardens would stand. 

In their despair, this counsel seemed wise to the entwives. With heavy hearts, they sang final blessings for their fruiting trees and unfurling flowers. And then they turned away and followed the man with the golden voice down through Emyn Muil, where their path turned East—and where it led them after, no songs dare speak.