BEHOLD, AN ELF!

Before you assume that I suffer from mental instability rest assured that despite years of knowing that normal is not a word applied to me I do not now nor ever have lived in a fantasy world, even one as appealing as Middle Earth. For those who are well-versed in Morgoth’s Ring, chronologically more years are on my plate than those of Andreth at the time of her fascinating discussion with Finrod Felagund. Not given to fashion, but comfort, enjoying the company of friends and strangers alike yet perfectly content alone, in other words a regular sort. So this odd adventure took me quite by surprise even though I do have an imaginative nature. It began ordinarily enough…….

Springtime. New leaves, flowers, birdsong, and life renewed after a cold, bare winter. Special and the same at once, as the wonder of nature’s yearly rebirth is observed. So it was not surprising to find me standing on the deck looking toward the treeline not far from the back of the house to enjoy the fresh, green abundance.

As on many a bright, clear country morning, my thoughts turned to the Elves of Middle Earth and I imagined them traveling through the nearby woods, filled with a longing to catch even the slightest glimpse of one of those elusive beings.

At first, being preoccupied with my thoughts, I did not notice the strange disturbance, a shimmering, like a desert mirage. What would a mirage be doing here in the midst of such a verdant display? Concentrating on this bizarre event and trying to rationalize its existence merely added to my perplexed confusion.

Yes, there are some unusual occurrences in this area, but nothing this odd. Come-and-go fog which will start at the end of the long field adjacent our acreage, proceeding to envelope the surrounding area only to rush back to its beginning and creep forward again, repeating the cycle many times before vanishing. The out-of-place sounds heard once or twice, then never repeated. The dogs barking wildly at nothing. These incidents I cannot explain, but am not unduly troubled by them.

But this visual disturbance is…disturbing.

Rubbing my eyes, blinking rapidly, shaking my head and still the mirage remained, and then coalesced into a human-like figure. Okay, so how did I fall into a Star Trek episode and which member of the Enterprise has beamed down for a visit?

Wait just a minute! Something is wrong with the uniform. And there is an abundance of long, dark hair. Instead of a phaser at his hip, this person has a sheathed sword and a bow over his shoulder.

Let me think! Very tall, slender, dressed in grey-green tunic and leggings? Carrying a bow, a wealth of waist-length midnight hair, ethereal beauty, appearing out of the trees?

Plopping suddenly onto the deck the realization too much for my brain to absorb or my body to handle standing, the obvious becomes apparent, but still not believable.

AN ELF!

And a Tolkien Elf at that. And the world as I had known it ceased at that moment. Mouth agape, too stunned to move; all I could do was stare. Afraid to look away for fear he would disappear, I froze in place, breathing in short gasps. And then smiling, he began to walk softly across the grass toward me.

Help! This is more than enough. Just a glimpse would have been fine, and here I have an actual, for-real elf come to visit?

Coming unstuck from the wooden deck, I rose to my feet, descended the steps and took a couple of tentative paces forward to greet him. Think brain! Remember the Sindarin you learned, you will need it now. Throwing caution to the wind and grabbing hold of the small amount of courage left in me, I faced the hoped for, but unreal meeting. He halted a few paces away as if to ascertain his welcome.

“Mae govannen”, my voice greeted him. And remembering the LOTR Elvish gesture from the movies, I placed my hand over heart and slowly swept my hand outward. Sure, like he had seen the movies and knew what I meant!

With an amused grin and imitating my gesture he replied, “Your welcome is pleasing to my ears”.

English, he speaks English! Oh good, now I do not need to show my ignorance of Sindarin. Or Quenya.

Wow! What a great imagination I have today.

But having been told repeatedly not to believe everything you see, I was ready to proceed to the next phase where reality could come home again. Certainly there would be nothing to touch since he was only a mirage and therefore had no substance. A few wavering steps and I was standing directly in front of the tallest being I had ever encountered. He looked real enough. Though he never moved when my fingertips met the skin of the back of his hand, I once again sat, abruptly and hard.

Badly shaken and trembling, my mind desperately seeking for logic and reason and some escape from this world gone weird, I focused on the grass under his feet. Then a pale hand reached into my line of sight. Still dazed I stared at the hand, skin smooth as a child, fingers of an artist, shapely, slender and long, wedded to a slim wrist.

“If you wish I will go,” said the elf, “But please rise now.”

“No! Stay! I mean, please do not go!” was my fervent reply.

With that admission, I gave in to the inevitable, that I had fallen, not down a rabbit hole like Alice, but into Middle Earth. Complete with elves. Since I was here now, I concluded, why not enjoy the adventure?

So taking his hand I allowed him to help me to my feet, which was accomplished with astonishing ease. Warm, soft skin covering a powerful grip with a not quite human feel. Since I had nothing to lose now that I already had been drawn into the fantasy world of Middle Earth, I became daringly bold. Long hair has always fascinated me and the gleaming locks which had fallen forward over his shoulder and now lay within my reach tempted me.

“May I touch your hair?” I asked with awe. Possibly a very rude request of this unearthly creature, but ye have not because ye ask not came to mind.

“I have always loved long hair,” I explained reddening slightly

“You may,” he acquiesced.

Permission granted, I stretched forth my trembling hand and tentatively lifted a section of his glossy mane, holding it loosely to stroke the smooth soft length. Allow me to add the movies do not begin to capture the true essence of elvish hair. Silky, heavy, richly dark yet elusive gleams from within each strand, like holding a live creature. Reluctantly with a deep sigh I released the glorious weight to fall back against his tunic.

Breathing once more my attention was arrested by the new fragrance in the air. Smiling brightly I uttered a silly remark, “You smell marvelous!” What an inane comment, but undeniably true which drew a breathtaking smile from the object of my one-sided discussion. Act like the mature adult you claim to be for heaven’s sake!  But I might as well talk to the sky for all the good it seemed to do.

Thinking introductions might be nice, I stated, “My name is Alysha and I am amazed and delighted to meet you.” True, but maybe too gushy. Oh well, it is out of the mouth and cannot be retracted. Did he actually chuckle? How embarrassing!

“I am well known to you,” he returned mysteriously.

“Had I met you before, I certainly would remember. You are unforgettable,” I said with absolute certainty. “And elves do not just drop by for a visit ever day.”

“You have read many of the books of Tolkien. Also certain fan fiction, in which I am featured prominently,” he said. Pausing for me to reflect on his identity he raised an eyebrow at my seeming puzzlement.

Logic is called for in an illogical situation, how unique.

Here goes. Dark haired as most elves, therefore not golden-haired Thranduil, Legolas, Glorfindel or Haldir nor silver-haired Elu Thingol or Celeborn. Forest colored clothing, bow, friendly (so far), no gems or ornaments, so a hunter, and still too many choices.

“Any hints?” I asked hopefully, not wanting to offend him with a wrong guess.

“What do my eyes tell you?” he said at last.

“I have been too scared to look. If the stories are accurate they are a snare for the unwary, and this meeting is unnerving enough without further complications,” was all I could say.

Now he laughed aloud and the melody of his voice lifted in humor filled me with warmth I would not have associated with sound until now.

“You are safe,” he replied gaily.

Sense of humor, playful. More clues?

Hesitantly raising my eyes to meet his pair of clear, storm-cloud grey ones (how can clouds be clear?) I fell up into dangerous territory. Youthful and aged together, frolicsome and deadly, intense and dreamy, vengeful and compassionate, contradictions unresolved yet blended perfectly in harmony. Compelling, ensorcelling, inviting, beautiful, filled with stars. 

“Please release me before I drown! “ I thought frantically, and he released me instantly, confirming to my mind the elvish ability to read thoughts.

Blinking to clear my vision, I would have thudded to the ground yet again but for the rescue of a strong, yet tender grip on my arms.

What did I learn? Elf eyes are devastatingly unsafe for mortals. What else? Something I am overlooking. What?? Ah, no strange bright fire indicating the Light of Valinor, so a Dark Elf. Oops!  Let me not be so rude to call this unbelievable gorgeous being hurtful names.

“Am I allowed a question or two?” I queried.

“What questions?”

“Are you of Beleriand?”

“No.”

Good, now we are getting somewhere. So he is probably not a Silmarillion elf. How about the fan fiction hint?  Then I was granted a sudden insight!

“Do you know Glorfindel?”

“Very well.”

“And are you a twin?”

With a sunny smile he stated, “Yes.”

“Then you are Elrohir?” my hesitant reply.

“You do know of me, as I said,” Elrohir grinned.

“REALLY!? You are THE Elrohir? Alive and talking to me, standing in my backyard like a neighbor come to visit? This is really nothing more than the delusion of a fevered brain, right?”

Sounding more like a feathered-headed fan-girl by the second did not help my self-esteem, but as abnormal as this situation was why worry about the small stuff.

“Yes”, he replied grinning broadly at my amazement.

Curiosity unleashed, a thirst for answers overwhelmed me. Feeling like a school child unhampered by formality or dignity, I grabbed his hand and drew him with me to the swing on the porch where he halted long enough to lean his bow, quiver and sheathed sword against the wall. Sitting, I tugged on him to sit with me, and good-humoredly he joined me. Knees clutched to my chest, eyes alight with enthusiasm, and I prepared for the revelation of a lifetime. Here before me sat fantasy-in-the-flesh who might be persuaded to reveal secrets of Middle Earth.

“Then Marnie is right, some elves are still here, but hidden in another layer of time or space or whatever. Wait a minute. How did you get here? Is this like going to visit you, we only get one chance? Are we allowed to visit, too?” I blurted out. Get me started and I cannot seem to stop. Drawing a breath, and changing direction, I asked, “Will you sing for me before you go?”

“In English, Sindarin or Quenya?” Elrohir inclined his head.

Given such a choice and wanting to experience everything he offered I simply said, “Yes, to all three, if you would be so kind.”

Another of those warm, engulfing laughs at my answer. “It would please me to sing for you,” his reply, then added, “You release questions like a flight of arrows against yrch, but they are in need of direction.”

“Forgive my impatience. Since I am not sure this conversation is any more than my vivid imagination and might conclude at any moment with pages of unanswered questions, haste seemed a good idea.”

“Some things may not be revealed to mortals,” he stated soberly, “We are forbidden by the Valar. Even this exchange is not strictly approved, though at rare times allowed.”

“Why me?  Why now?”

“You are sincere in your quest to learn of and from the Eldar, your home is secluded, and you harbor no desire to bond or join physically with the Firstborn.”

“How do you know all these things? Have you been reading my e-mail?” I felt sudden exposed and uncomfortable.

“No, but we have sources we may not disclose,” his look serious.

“Never having met a live elf, it might have been that I did not think an elf-mortal union actually possible. What if I change my mind and desire you?”

“You read of Andreth and Aegnor. Would you want her solitary, loveless life for yourself? If I were to return your affection, would you wish the long, lonely ages of Aegnor on me?”

Hanging my head and I belatedly remembered the loss of his sister to mortality and felt close to tears at the thought of wounding him with sad, though distant, memories.

“You are correct, of course,” I said with regret, “Every instance of Elf/Mortal union ended in tragedy and loss with Andreth and Aegnor the ultimate sorrow, never together and forever apart. But you are the most wondrous being I have ever met and the thought is appealing,” I continued, unable to deny the attraction.

Uncomfortable at skirting a forbidden topic I asked, “May we change the subject?”

“Yes.”

“Will you return again?” almost pleadingly I questioned.

“Perhaps.”

Coming to my senses…. well, maybe merely remembering courtesy due a guest, I inquired, “May I get you drink or food?”

“Water?” Elrohir suggested.

“Please do not leave! I will bring some. Unless you would rather come inside, though outdoors feels more appropriate when conversing with an elf.” I said truthfully, and then laughed. His light-heartedness must be contagious.

Rising to fetch water I nearly tripped over his long legs as he sprawled on the swing. He really does look like a large relaxed feline. Pondering the question of elves purring the words escaped without my consent, “Do you purr?” The ground did not obligingly open and swallow me whole and standing red-faced before this stunning elf I could say not another word. Restrained laughter from Elrohir finally broke forth as I fled to the house.

He responded to my fleeing back, “An interesting name for the sound,” and laughed harder.

Fleetingly I wished he would not  be there when I brought the water, then stopped short, mentally shook myself into submission and admitted that his departure would be too soon whenever he left. Anyway, embarrassment is not a mortal wound, usually just self-inflicted discomfort of short duration. Deciding I would survive the humiliation of some highly improper inquires I proceeded outside where Elrohir accepted the glass with a knowing smirk. Thankfully there were no other witnesses to my disgrace.

Trying a new direction I asked, “Do you still reside in Rivendell, I mean Imladris? Did I pronounce it correctly? My Sindarin lessons are going well, but I am far from fluent.”

“Yes, my home is Imladris, and you speak well for one of your kind,” he allowed.

Shock, long delayed, entered into the conversation. “Are you really, truly, without a doubt, honestly Elrohir?” And just how many elves have I met that this could be an issue?

“Yes, I am Elrohir,” he said, then responded with a question of his own. “Why did you wish to meet an Elf?” An honest question which deserved an honest answer.

“Curiosity, I guess, and because I love beautiful things. Since you are supposed to be far beyond what we mortals know of loveliness, I wanted to see for myself, hear your voices, talk with you, and learn from you all the untold tales. ”

“And have you found the reality equal to the tales?” he asked.

‘No. You surpass them as the sun does a candle. English words cannot define elves. Even though the acquaintance has been brief, and the memory will fade, this day will stand alone, shining like a bright star in the night.”

When did I begin to wax eloquent and lyrical? Maybe the company I am currently keeping?

“Are elves guardian angels?” I queried.

“Yes and no,” he said thoughtfully. “We may guard at times, but we are not angels. We are of Arda and though subject to a slower ending, an end will come at last. But this you already know of us.”

“Then you know about Heaven?”

“In tales, but not with knowing.”

Plaintively I asked, “Will you someday be there, too?”

“The Valar do not know or, if they know, do not say.”

“It would seem to be a fitting place for such ethereal, surreally, beautiful beings.”

Smiling benignly he replied, “Thank you for the high praise of my race. We are far from your description, but I know that your sentiments and esteem are sincere.”

Gazing intently at him as he drank, all questions for the moment forgotten, I studied the minute yet vast differences between our kinds. Clear, flawless, pale skin just hinting at luminescence, facial features much too perfect, movements effortless, harmonious symmetry, an absolutely exquisite, living artistic masterwork. And yet there was a subtle variation of his features as if he could not truly be viewed with mortal eyes.

“Hannon le”” he said quietly, jolting me back to the present.

“Pardon me for staring and not paying attention. You are just so”……think before you speak…..graceful,” I said relieved not to have again embarrassed myself.

His grin, however, told me I might as well have spoken aloud “beautiful ”.

Suddenly serious I queried, “Did you never hear the Sea?”

Brightness diminished in his face and he paused before answering. “We stayed at first for Arwen and her children who also shared human/elf bloodlines, but afterward because the Sea did not call. Many times we walked the shores, heard the seabirds cry, and even sailed upon the waters. Voices of trees we heard, but not the call to Valinor. Perhaps our mingled blood ties us to Ennor.”

“Is the West closed to all who remain?” concern for his plight urged me to speak.

“Ships no longer sail from our lands,” was all he would give me.

“Then there are others? Your twin, Elladan? Glorfindel? Celeborn?” I queried.

“Yes,” he said, grinning at my enthusiasm.

“Do any of them ever visit ?” my mind awoke to new possibilities.

“At times,” he replied.

Leaning forward with eyes alight I breathlessly asked, “Do you still sword dance?  Is there any chance I could see one?  With two elves?”

Closely watching me his smile faded as he stated, “Blood would be shed.”

Lowering my eyes I murmured softly, “I did not think of that. Forgive me, please, I only thought of the display of skill involved and to see the true art of swordplay.”

He was silent then for some time and I sat quietly, pensively waiting. Finally worried that I had offended him I asked, “May we speak of other things?”

“Of course.”

“Why did you come?” I asked, again bluntly inquisitive.

“Elladan and I have long endeavored to understand mortals with whom we share a common blood. And as was said long ago about a hobbit applies also to some humans. You can know everything about them for unnumbered years and still be surprised,” he said smiling.

“Not nearly as surprised as discovering elves actually exist,” I responded.

“Yes, that is true, though you were able to accept my appearing gladly, which does not always occur. There have been many who rejected our reality or imagined us evil creatures come to harm them,” as sadly he shook his head.

“Perhaps they never read The Lord of the Rings,” I said half-jokingly, trying to justify their actions. “This is too strange! Here I sit talking to a make-believe Tolkien elf about Middle Earth,” I mused aloud, “Completely unreal, but such fun!”

Effortlessly he arose, walked past me and reached for his sword.

My heart sank. I must have insulted or offended him and he was leaving! Leaping much less gracefully to my feet to forestall his departure, I stopped and watched as he drew the sword from its scabbard. The gleaming silver length was inscribed with Tengwar writing, the ebony dark hilt, engraved with curving, silver eye-teasing designs.

-lj7h9`7 1h71h  6`V6-  -2]Ts6`7 i7d-

Laboriously I deciphered the flowing elvish script, only to realize it was Sindarin, not English and finally shook my head in confusion.

*Elrohir torto nín.  Dagnir yrch*

“Please translate it for me,” I asked, “I can read the letters, but am not practiced reading Sindarin.”

*Elrohir wields me. Orcs bane*

“Do you wish to hold it?” he inquired extending his arms, the sword balanced lightly across his open palms.

“Oh yes, very much, please,” I exclaimed, excited at the privilege.

As one of my hands closed about the bright blade and the other gripped the hilt tightly he slowly lowered his hands from beneath the sword as if he feared I might loose my hold.

“It is much lighter than I thought and feels almost warm!” my amazement clear on my face.

Then realization dawned; in my hands I held a real elvish sword that had likely slain countless enemies of elves and elf-friends. Lethal and lovely blended together wielded by an elf who, like his weapon, was also double-edged; entrancing and dangerous. This quiet, amusing elf could in the blink of an eye transform into a serious and deadly foe. How many times had the elegantly crafted blade plunged in an Orc or other foul beast ending its miserable life? Quite an unnerving concept for one who avoids even the mildest of confrontations whenever possible.

After a long pause he asked, “Am I real?”

Bravely I glanced up looking him squarely in the eye. “Yes, and much different than I pictured you in my mind. You can be ruthless, unforgiving and cold in battle, spilling the life blood of an adversary with practiced ease,” I stated bluntly.

“How do I know this, Elrohir? Does your sword reveal its past to others?” I concluded, my thoughts troubled. “Is it a hidden power about elvish weapons?”

“You have never held a blooded weapon before nor given thought to its use. This blade has released many evil lives to their final fate,” he said solemnly.

With equal gravity I laid it back onto his upturned palms. Returning the slender, yet deadly weapon to its scabbard, he stood looking toward the trees allowing me an opportunity to observe him without embarrassment.

“Have you married?” I asked.

“No,” he said, and then added pensively, “Even though there is relative peace now, to bring an elfling into this place would be to risk another loss like unto Arwen. Unwed, this will not happen.”

 A flicker of thought passed over his serene, fair face. Almost I thought I imagined that subtle transition. Moving lightly he descended to stand in the midst of the clearing and paused, still and poised. Curious, I followed him.

The morning peace was enlivened only by bird song, and for the moment all I felt was compassion for the Elf and a joyful wonder at his presence.

The perfect moment was broken when a softly laughing voice behind me uttered, “Suilad, Alysha.”

Shrieking in startled fright, I spun around, then gazed with unrivaled delight at a second elf!

Even taller than Elrohir, more powerfully built yet elf-slender, golden hair, panther graceful, his clothing a more refined style and fabric, armed with a sword and carrying a cloth wrapped package, laughing merrily, he sank cross-legged onto the grass, Elrohir joining him. Not waiting for an invitation I followed suit.

Blurting out in a squeaky voice, I questioned in a flood of words, “Glorfindel?  Pardon me. Mae govannen.  Are you Glorfindel?”

With a bemused smile he answered, “Of course. I also enjoy blade-dancing.” Then facing Elrohir he began speaking. For some moments the sound of Sindarin spoken fluently by elves was all I could hear. Occasionally I would recognize a word or phrase, but the sheer pleasure of the moment held me enthralled.

Now I found myself contemplating the beauty of elves at my leisure. Seen together the subtle differences were more easily observed. Glorfindel being not merely a golden glory contrasted to the dark-haired Elrohir. Glorfindel’s skin was faintly aglow with gold where Elrohir had skin of palest cream. A soft breeze carrying two distinct scents: Elrohir pure like rain-freshened air, Glorfindel more exotic and complex. Even in gestures could be seen the subtle unique traits, Glorfindel elaborate and elegant, Elrohir understated and graceful. And ears that bespoke keen hearing, being curved back along the sides of their heads, the Noldor tip curled slightly more than the Sindar. Elaborate flowing embroidery and small golden flowers embellishing the pale blue material which glimmered in the sunlight for the Noldor, subdued tones of grey-green accented with darker green shades at throat, wrists and ankles for the Peredhil. An intricate golden filigree clasp with blue stones matching exactly the color of his clothing to hold loosely back a portion of the golden hair. The dark hair partially contained by a dark green leather thong.

Noticing the silence at last I left off my study of elves to find myself suddenly the object of elvish gazes followed closely by grins before they turned back toward each other and exchanged what seemed a private joke at my expense.

Chagrined at first, I then realized their conversation had allowed me an uninterrupted visual feast, indulging my intense thirst for things elvish.

Elrohir spoke finally in English, “Like an elfling, she is filled with unending curiosity and questions,” Glorfindel joining him in amused laughter.

Defending myself I quickly countered, “Tolkien left out so many fascinating details. And if you want answers, the quickest means are usually questions.”

“Master Tolkien was a scholar of lore and languages with less interest things in seen and felt,” responded Glorfindel. “Master Tolkien and Lord Elrond would each have greatly enjoyed the company of the other.”

“Glorfindel brings items of possible interest to you. Along with his blade,” Elrohir said grinning fiercely at Glorfindel. “He wishes to show you the expert use of a sword.”

“You need not speak of my superiority, Elrohir,” Glorfindel retorted with a smile, “We shall allow the blades to tell the tale.”

Opening the package, Glorfindel removed first a book wrapped separately for protection, followed by a small harp-like instrument, then what appeared to be the makings of an elvish picnic.

“Do you have lembas bread?” I could not resist asking.

“No, though these foods you should enjoy,” he replied.

My skeptical look apparently amused the elves. “Do not fear. It will not spoil the taste of your usual foods, but you will remember the flavors and smells with fondness,” Glorfindel assured me.

“I suppose recipes are not available?” I said hopefully.

“It is not the recipe so much as the food itself and where it is grown,” Glorfindel replied, and then inquired “Do you hunger?”

“For the book first, if you please,” I answered eagerly.

Glorfindel groaned in response, “Erestor was correct! It was he who suggested the book would be first chosen. Undoubtedly his smugness will be endlessly annoying as usual.”

Leaning forward to hand me the still wrapped book, a length of his waist-long, sun-bright hair fell across my hand. A sensation remarkably like a spark of electric current at the contact startled me, and I flinched at the unexpected touch, pulling back. Glorfindel shook with ill-contained laughter at my reaction. Elrohir merely shaking his head and grinning knowingly.

“Ai, the Noldo!” Elrohir smirking at the golden warrior. “Being a twice-born of Valinor changes an elf.” 

“Yes, you may,” Glorfindel answered my unasked question enjoying my dismay at being so transparent in my desires and ignoring the taunt from Elrohir.

Stretching my hand toward the gleaming abundance, akin to a golden waterfall, I prepared for that peculiar sensation, but instead held warm, glowing sunlight that curled softly around my wrist, much like static charged hair will cling. Gasping in awe at this new wonder, I was again reminded how very un-alike humans and elves actually are, even though similar in some ways. Loosing my tentative hold on his hair did not release my wrist and I looked up uneasily at Glorfindel. A toss of his head freed me, the fair, tumble of gold resting quiescent once again.

Glorfindel gave in to unrestrained mirth. Elrohir grinned hugely at me before joining the laughter.

“Valinor had ages of peace for elves to indulge in strange whims and the hair of the Eldar is not without life, as is human hair. Twice-born like Glorfindel are rare beyond the Blessed Realm and abound with peculiar traits.” Elrohir finally explained with a teasing look at Glorfindel.

Shaken and a little dazed, I hesitantly received the now unwrapped dark green book from Noldor hands. Examining the cover, then the pages of some heavy pale material, with an almost fruity aroma as one turned the pages. Enchanting illustrations graced pages written in beautiful cursive Tengwar, far beyond my meager skills to translate; I longed to have the tale revealed to me.

“I do not suppose you would allow me to borrow it?” I asked hopefully.

A gentle negative shake of the golden mane was answer enough, to my disappointment, but not surprise.

“Glorfindel, why do you continue to stay and not return to Valinor?” I boldly asked.

“The bloodline of Turgon, my King, is still in Ennor and may need my protection or guidance,” he said with a bright smile directed at Elrohir.

“He stays for the excitement and adventure. Be not fooled by his devotion to Turgon,” Elrohir retorted promptly.

Troubled long by a nagging question, I decided to broach a very possibly unpleasant topic.

“Glorfindel, may I ask a question of a personal nature?” I inquired hesitantly.

A fleeting glance toward Elrohir, then with a nod he acquiesced.

“Were you a kinslayer of the Teleri at Alqualondë?”

His friendly, open look vanished as the sun behind a cloud as he gazed fixedly into my eyes, the bright fire in his azure eyes reduced to smoldering embers in remembrance.

Truthfully he responded to the painful memory. “Those of the House of the Golden Flower have ever been loyal to King Turgon. We followed him faithfully through deeds both fair and foul, the kinslaying bringing us all to disgrace and eventual ruin. But the seeds Morgoth planted grow best where light has failed, as it had in Valinor with the death of the Two Trees. Though King Turgon thought only to defend his friends, the stain is ever upon those doers of the vilest of evils.”

Looking to Elrohir he said, “Almost I would rather have had a question in poor taste than one recalling such shame.”

Returning my gaze to the book, running fingers over the gold lettering on the cover, I tried to discern the title.

Sh62hj`6

G-O-N-D-O-L-I-N   I spelled out the individual letters slowly, carefully.

“Gondolin!” I exclaimed abruptly and with fervor, startling both elves.

“You are not without some skill, but you would require much study to read the whole of the book,” said Glorfindel kindly. Turning to Elrohir he added, “Had she the days, the mastery could be hers.” Looking up I saw a brief regret upon both fair faces contemplating once again the swift life of humankind.

Reopening the book I again attempted to decipher the contents, but decided time spent with live elves more absorbing. Reluctantly I returned the treasure, which Glorfindel carefully re-wrapped in the cloth setting it gently to one side.

Picking up his harp, he began playing a light airy tune; Elrohir joined him singing, in English, an amusing tale of hobbits. Both elves were merry and smiling, filled with fondness for the furry-footed people. Without realizing it, my eyes closed that my ears would hear more fully the song. It seemed I could almost see their comical antics and share the memory, the music was so strong. When the song ended, I felt like a floating feather drifting to the ground when the wind fails. Heaviness where lightness had prevailed brought back to earth and the solid mortal life. Opening my eyes, and with a deep sigh, I let go the happy tune waiting for whatever came next.

Glorfindel moved his long, slim fingers tenderly over the strings, to bring forth a haunting melody, in the lovely, lilting, high-elven Quenya, singing alone. Closing my eyes I sat immersed in the music. Elrohir added his voice to the song and as through a mist I heard the roaring of the sea and saw a sleek white ship, sail filled with the wind and then in the distance a faint shoreline. And I, who have never loved the ocean though my childhood was spent close to the shore, passionately longed to be in that graceful ship heading for what I could only believe to be the Blessed Realm. Aching with desire for the far-off land where mortals cannot go, I wept with desire for the beauty never to be seen, a region abounding with undying life.

Overwhelmed by the song I sat with eyes closed. Again the music ceased, and opening my eyes, saw tears like diamonds on Glorfindel’s face. So that was a taste of the sea-longing; a yearning plea and filled with sorrow. Elrohir sat unmoving, poised and still, seeming to hear a sound unheard by mortal ears. Closing my eyes again I waited for the third promised song.

After many moments Glorfindel placing his fingers on the harp-string the two elves began a new song, this time in Sindarin, the language of the Grey-Elves, their intertwining voices pure and clear. A third voice joined the song, rich, powerful and full of emotion, weaving fresh notes into the story.

Now I saw in my mind a sky filled with stars, deep shadows under tall trees. The three elves sang of the lovely Elf maiden, Luthien. I watched in wonder her matchless dancing through the starlit woods and dells accompanied by the piercingly sweet sounds of the incomparable music of the minstrel, Daeron, a shadowy figure at the edge of sight. A glade cloaked with dainty white niphredil, flower of Luthien. A world illuminated by neither Moon nor Sun, only brightly blazing stars in an ebony sky, loved beyond measure by the Elves of Ennor. And the song ended with a wistful sigh.

So THIS is what Bêor must have experienced as Finrod sang to the first men he discovered in the woods. Songs of days long gone, of elvish wisdom, but more than mere words; visions bringing words alive; seeing with the mind’s eye. Small wonder the men followed Finrod, wooed by elvish mysteries, and Finrod had a heart for the Aftercomers, the other Children of Eru. So it continues to this day and moment. Here. Now.

I was unwilling to leave the moment, awed by the fathomless power of elvish songs to keep memory fresh and alive in every detail, and the ability to share it with those who hear, even those of another race.

This time I kept my eyes closed to preserve the last small reminder of a world long gone, flooded, and lying unattainable beneath the sea. Another jewel lost to the malice and hatred of Melkor for the Eldar.

Suddenly remembering the third voice and curious as to the possessor of so magnificent a gift, I blinked once after opening my eyes and discovered that Elrohir and Glorfindel had risen to their feet, gazing toward the trees. Climbing to my feet, I stared intently at the same area, but could perceive nothing, until with a swirl of a long, grey cloak and two paces into the open the Elf revealed his presence.

My jaw dropped in amazement for the third time that morning. Approaching with a fluid stride this elf was all contained power and regal grace, with gleaming, silver-bright hair flowing unbound behind him. Bows of deference from Glorfindel and Elrohir were returned by a slight inclination of the star-frosted head, while I stood rooted in place, staring.

He stood noticeably taller than the other two elves and was imbued with an air of detachment or perhaps melancholy, unsmiling and stern, utterly male, absolutely breathtaking, dangerously feral, and completely otherworldly. Where Elrohir and Glorfindel were stunningly beautiful, this elf was magnificent, splendid and regal, an ageless majestic figure. The stuff of legends had come to life.

Apparently my silence alerted Elrohir to my stunned condition and thoughtfully, he turned to me saying, “My Lord Celeborn, this is Alysha.”  Shutting my mouth I managed to remember the respect which was certainly due to this Prince of Doriath.

“Mae govannen, my Lord Celeborn,” I somehow spoke the words without stuttering and performed an inelegant curtsy nearly losing my balance in the process.

This odd greeting elicited an amused smile from the object of my welcome. The slight nod of his head signaled the end of introductions and all three elves folded effortlessly to the ground, my seating being clumsily accomplished, but thankfully not overtly noticed. We sat in a loose circle with Elrohir on my left, Celeborn opposite me, and Glorfindel on my right.

How does one speak to Lord Celeborn, I wondered, and does he offend easily?  Finding my outspoken self tongue-tied was a disconcerting experience, but I felt it prudent to test the waters before annoying this solemn Sindarin Prince.

“I have never met Royalty before and am not sure of the proper protocol,” I murmured, the hesitation clear in my voice.

“As you would treat any other Elf,” he spoke in a voice like honey and fire.

Glorfindel and Elrohir chuckled at the trial awaiting their Lord. Casting a sidelong glance at Glorfindel, he inquired, “Do you wish to share your amusing thought?”

“This one is adept at uncomfortable questions,” Glorfindel replied still smiling, nearly a smirk,” She will ‘My Lord’’ you, then make you cringe.”

Red with embarrassment I hung my head. Now he will probably leave before I can get any answers. A benevolent, throaty laugh reprieved me from shame as Celeborn considered the possible consequences of his potentially rash decision.

“So be it,” he stated firmly. “I will attempt not to flinch under the onslaught.”

Still I hesitated to speak. Conversation began among them allowing me further uninterrupted elf observation. In the privacy of Sindarin the three elves spoke freely, causing me to despair of ever achieving the fluency they exhibited, but wishing it just the same.

Any one who thinks that the shine of silver metal is adequate to describe Celeborn’s hair needs to see it for themselves. Reflecting light as a mirror might, but for the impression that starlight is trapped in each strand. Much though I would love to touch it, the idea that this elf would accept careless handling of any portion of his person stopped me from even hoping.

Silver Tree. It fits him well. He looked the epitome of a Twilight Lord; extravagantly tall, elegantly slender, with a scent like the woods in high summer, pale skin faintly aglow with starlight, clad in shades of silvery-grey with dark emerald designs, his fair face serene, brightened by the occasional curve at the corners of his mouth. One could hardly call it a smile, as it never reached his eyes. As if sorrow and aloneness had erased all joy from his heart. Ever I have been sensitive to the suffering of others, this elf as well.

“How do you endure the loneliness?” I asked, the question emerging without permission.

Fierce as a wounded bird of prey mantling, his eyes impaled me for bringing his pain into the open. Crying out in shock at the dramatic change in Celeborn, I lowered my head waiting for the verbal blow for my insolence.

Glorfindel spoke softly, “Deadly aim.”

“Forgive me, my Lord Celeborn, but you appear so sad,” I apologized.

Well, that was certainly not an auspicious beginning.

“Glorfindel, you spoke truly, formidable indeed for a human,” Celeborn said wryly.

With relief I looked up to find him watching me warily. Gone was the aloof Prince, now I faced the stern Lord, and he was not to my liking. I squirmed under his intent gaze.

“I endure because I must endure; responsibility must not be thrown lightly away,” Celeborn’s voice was filled with anguish. “This is still my home, though for all the love I bear this land I cannot heal it nor stay the ravages of men.”

Tears tracked down my cheeks at this admission of eventual defeat despite his utmost efforts.

“Then why not go now to the Blessed Realm and join Galadriel? And your laughter.”

“My laughter?” he inquired with a puzzled frown.

“Calandil?” I replied, and was rewarded with a genuine smile.

“Yes,” he agreed with fond remembrance, “he was ever merry, even through misfortune.”

You seem so alone,” I said plaintively. “We have abused the world you freed from evil and, it seems, nearly broken you as well.”

With a brooding look he said, “Indeed you are a strange creature.”

“I, personally, do not want you or the others elves to leave EVER, but I am not so selfish that I would see you trapped in a world without hope. Besides, most people think I am just not right in the head, and I never considered myself normal anyway,” I responded. “I even thought I was a changeling when I was young.”

“You are still young, child,” Celeborn then added with an oddly wistful smile on his face.

Elrohir interjected, to my relief, “Shall we taste of the bounty Glorfindel supplied?”

Gladly I welcomed the distraction and the taste of elvish foods. Small packets were opened and set in our midst, along with four slender skin flasks. There was a pale yellow cheese, 4 small loves of bread, and strawberries. Knowing this would be common food for the elves, but a high treat for me, I was eager to partake, but I discreetly bowed my head to give silent thanks to God for the food and also the extraordinary companions who provided it.

Raising my head I met the thoughtful gazes of all three elves. They waited patiently as if expecting an explanation.

“To thank God before a meal is customary for me,” I said quietly.

 “That you give reverence to Ilúvatar is pleasing,” Celeborn returned, “But it is one of the mysteries of men, the parting of Ilúvatar from daily life.

Then Elrohir gestured to the bowl of strawberries, extricating me from the awkward situation. “You are fortunate that my Adar is not present,” he smiling winningly.

I laughed to realize the strawberries would most likely have been shared most unwilling had Elrond been in the company. Elrohir grinned in return and Glorfindel’s amused chuckle added to the merriment.

Hesitant still to eat elvish food, it was not until Elrohir placed a hunk of cheese and a loaf of bread in my hands that I took courage. Breaking off a small bite of cheese I slowly lifted it to my mouth, to the amusement of the elves.

Glorfindel reassured me, “It is safe to eat.  You will remember the tastes together with this day with fondness, not regret.”

Drawing a deep breath I placed the cheese on my tongue, experiencing for the first time a completely new, yet familiar food. Creamy smoothness with a sweetly tangy flavor, undoubtedly the best cheese I ever tasted. It was soon followed by a small portion of the bread, more like cake in texture, but a with savory scent and a fresh baked flavor.

Glancing up, I found myself again the focus of amused elvish attention.

Blushing hotly I stated firmly, “This may be common food for you, but it is the most delicious food I ever ate and I thank you for the allowing me this privilege.”

Glorfindel turning to Elrohir spoke in English, obviously for my benefit, “I will concede your choice of this mortal is unusual and occasionally entertaining.” With that said, he beamed wickedly in my direction, further discomposing me.

“I suppose I should thank you for the kind words,” I fumed, feeling quite put upon and the brunt of far too much elvish amusement. “I am, after all, only human.”

Celeborn glanced at me with a look of disapproval that told me that excuse would not be acceptable and I should have a care in his presence.

Chastised, I lower my eyes, causing barely suppressed mirth from the other two elves.

Elrohir leaned close and quietly stated “You are also descended from Arwen.”

Speechless in amazement, uncomprehending as if he spoke an unknown language, I sat back and simply stared at the abruptly perplexing elf.

“ME?  Part elf?  You are not joking?  We are related?” I stammered, wide-eyed.

“Very distantly,” Celeborn reproved me dryly, with a dark look at Elrohir.

“She has I right to know,” Elrohir stated resolutely.

“Alysha, daughter of Alice, daughter of John, back through long ages to Arwen Undómiel, who was elven by blood and mortal by choice, you are the last of your line as you are childless,” Elrohir recited the much abbreviated genealogical litany in a purely elvish cadence.

Bewildered and stunned at the revelation, I sat unmoving.

Of the many strange imaginings of my fertile brain, this possibility had never occurred to me. Unbidden, my hands moved to the top of my ears as if they might suddenly have sprouted points. No change. And I did not feel any different for this bizarre revelation, but wavered between astonishment and disbelief.

Looking up I found Celeborn a fierce storm brewing, Glorfindel hugely amused, and Elrohir stubbornly defiant.

With a slowly spreading smile I finally accepted his bizarre statement as fact, then blurted out with something akin to relief, “So I am not normal after all!”

That was more than Glorfindel could endure. Bursting out in laughter that infected first Elrohir, and finally, the reluctant Celeborn, Glorfindel managed to state, “Were I related to Lord Celeborn, I might feel the same,” then gave in to unrestrained merriment, his musical laugh resounding through the air.

Celeborn uttered with sincere reproach in his voice, “Vanyar orc.”

Turning to me, he stated unequivocally, “We will speak no more of this matter, troublesome human.”

My delight was considerably dampened by this dour remark, but the marvel of the discovery refused to be lessened. Wisely I refrained from further questions or comments.

Elrohir picked up the bowl of strawberries and placed it into my hands. With a curious look, I pondered the meaning of his gesture. ”They are for you,” he spoke gently.

“All of them?” I answered in a delighted voice.

“Yes.” was his reply.

Looking at Celeborn and Glorfindel, then back to Elrohir, I saw no trace of guile on any of the three faces.

Sighing deeply I removed a single perfect red fruit, popping it into my mouth to savor the juicy sweet berry before setting the bowl on the ground in our midst. Once again the startling fresh taste of a familiar food surprised me. Though desire for my favorite fruit warred with polite manners for a moment, the wish to share them with these glorious, kind-hearted elves overcame both feelings.

“I only wish they were truly mine to give,” I said finally.

Celeborn said bestowing me with a warm smile, “Consideration of others has become more uncommon with the passing of the ages, child.”

His approval seemed to me a gift after his aloof manner and intimidating presence since his arrival, even though meant in a general way and therefore not specifically mine, still a rare treasure.

With the mention of *ages* I found myself comparing the three beautiful, youthful faces, each many thousands of years old, yet stunningly attractive; lissome bodies, flawlessly graceful, morally pure, artistically creative. The gulf between our races is profound, yet we are ever drawn to them. Though for some the attraction is merely sexual, and so would be utterly offensive to the objects of their lust. I wondered if elves even understood the concept of sexual lust, but I left thatquestion unasked.

Glorfindel held out to me one of the unstoppered flasks. Taking it, grateful for the distraction from elvish beauty, I sipped the cool, clear, fragrant liquid, holding it on my tongue to enjoy to the fullest this treat. As we ate I reflected on this unique day, a gift of the elves and longed for some way to express my appreciation.

The meal concluded, I thanked them again, then begged their pardon as I had to go inside for a moment.  Scrambling to my feet I sped up the steps, nearly tripping in my haste. Dashing through the house I grabbed the items I sought, and then raced outside to rejoin the elves on the grass.

Breathlessly I laid my gifts on the cloth still spread on the ground.

“These are for you, to divide or share as you will.” I explained, and then identified the objects, “this is a copy of my favorite Tolkien book, Morgoth’s Ring, which taught me much about elves; this is a loaf of friendship bread, newly baked, from my hands to yours, one friend to another; and these are seeds of a plant which has lovely golden flowers, which I was going to sow for next year. But they would surely bloom unsurpassed in Imladris.” At the last statement I turned to smile timidly at Glorfindel, who acknowledged the special significance with an appraising glance.

Celeborn, Elrohir and Glorfindel looked from the gifts to each other and lastly toward me, apparently considering the implication of my actions.

“I wanted to give things that meant something to me, though they will never equal the pleasure of this day in my life. Please accept them; they are gifts from my heart,” I implored.

After a long pause Celeborn answered, “Seldom have we received gifts from men. That you give open-hearted is a wonder to us. Yes, we shall accept your gifts.”

“The seeds would seem to be for Glorfindel,” Elrohir added, smiling gaily at Glorfindel as he spoke. To which the other elf inclined his head in agreement to Elrohir, but a sent cheeky glance to the silver elf-lord.

“It appears she favors me most highly,” Glorfindel teased complacently.

“It might be that you two are eagerly awaiting the blade-dance to exchange blows instead of words. You should prepare.” Celeborn signaled Glorfindel and Elrohir to their feet.

Gracefully moving away they began a series of what appeared to be limbering or stretching exercises. Their every movement was fluid and almost leisurely, full of suppressed power and energy. Glowing vitality, supremely confident, alight with life, they were astonishing to watch. How can they be so young after so many ages and I feel so old after but a few years?  Because they are elves, the obvious answer.

Celeborn helped me bundle up the now empty containers, with particular care given to the gifts, to carry all to safety beyond the soon-to-be field of engagement. He sat on the steps to my left facing the open lawn. Glancing up I caught his gaze upon me and made the huge mistake of looking directly and intently into his eyes.

Instantly I was pierced with a spear to the heart, and found myself trapped in his fathomless sea-deep eyes, flooded with the memories of this ancient elf, engulfed in all the lonely ages, and weariness of fighting the long defeat. Groaning under the magnitude of his pain, in my weeping mind I begged him, “Please escape to Aman where you may find peace.”

The release was so sudden I went limp. I was too dazed to be aware of the powerful arm around my shoulders keeping me upright.

Swooning, yes that would describe it fairly accurately. A perfect imitation of a weak-kneed female! Sit up and pull yourself together!

“Are you recovered?” Celeborn asked with concern after a long moment, “I had not intended that encounter.”

“Yes, thank you,” I just managed to say, “It was entirely my fault. Forgive my curiosity.”

Releasing me from the support of his arm we sat for awhile silently, then my inquisitive nature arose yet again.

Turning toward Celeborn, I queried, “Do elves sleep like humans?”

A little off guard Celeborn turned away from the practice session in progress and facing me, said, “Only in times of great suffering, when we are seriously wounded, undernourished for long periods of time or when young and growing.”

“I know that you have been in many battles, and can not imagine that you have never been wounded, but your hands and face are unblemished by any scar that I can see. Do you heal without scarring?” was my next inquiry.

“Unless we will it so, as a reminder,” he stated flatly.

Even I could tell this was better not to tread upon this ground. The Lord Celeborn would brook no intrusion in certain areas as he made abundantly clear.

As I turned toward Celeborn to ask another question, he halted me with an upraised hand. “Mistake me not for Finrod to your Andreth,” he stated firmly, “I have not the affection for your race that Finrod had, which brought him only untimely death in the end.  My Lady still grieves the loss of her brother, Aegnor, who has vowed never to return for love of a mortal.”

Rebuked, I lapsed into silence. After reflecting briefly on the considerable differences between Celeborn, Elrohir and Glorfindel, I again gave heed to the display of seemingly boundless elvish energy.

Then a fleet-footed dash brought the competitors to stand before us. Eyes alight, skin glowing softly, long hair flowing, slender bodies brimming with youthful vigor, they represented to me the epitome of elvish perfection.

In answer to my questioning look Celeborn explained, “They will now each braid the hair of the other.”

After removing their short, supple boots of brown and long sleeved flowing over-tunics revealing sleeveless under-tunics of dark green, the two folded neatly to the ground with Glorfindel sitting with his back to Elrohir, who then proceeded to braid Glorfindel’s golden tresses with gentle hands. Without rising Glorfindel spun about preparing to perform the same service for Elrohir, but found the younger elf still facing him, a curious look on his face.

From my seat on the steps I was eye level with the seated Elrohir, so when he turned his grey-eyed gaze to me we seemed equals in height. He studied me for an endless moment almost as though waiting for a response. Uncomfortable under his close scrutiny, I shifted uneasily.

When Elrohir broke the long silence, I was so nervous I flinched at the sound.

“Alysha, would you braid my hair?” Elrohir spoke so softly I was not certain I heard him rightly.

“Pardon?” I fumbled to gain some sense from his question. Of course, I was hearing what I wanted and not what he actually said.

Repeating the question he said, “Will you braid my hair?”

My jaw fell open with shock, changing swiftly to delighted wonder. “REALLY!?  Are you sure!  I would love that above all things! Yes, oh yes, please,” And yes, I truly do show emotions extravagantly at times. Alright. Frequently.

Then as he turned his back to me I caught a glimpse of two astounded elvish faces, one expressing acute disapproval, and the other startled disbelief. Eager hands within inches of Elrohir’s shadowy hair, I was immobilized by the undeniable show of negative emotions. Drawing my hands to my chest, I waited.

“Elrohir this is not wise.” came the grave warning voice of Celeborn to my left. Glorfindel sat silently facing Elrohir, his unfavorable opinion clearly written on his fair face.

“She has the skill,” replied Elrohir, thinking this was the objection. Obviously he had noticed my braided hair, waist-length, but of little substance. And he already knew my love for long hair. “You may begin when you are ready,” he said gently. Then firmly to his fellow elves, “It is my hair and my choice.”

Reaching out with hands trembling in eager anticipation, I at last had in my grasp masses of dark, silky, Elvish, hair. Pausing to marvel at the sheer delight of this high treat I caressed his long gleaming locks, lifting it to my face to breath in the scent of the midnight curtain, enraptured by the texture, captivated by the pleasure. I then gathered those errant strands cascading down his chest and added them to thick mane behind his back. Only then I became aware of the tension in his back and shoulders, drawing him taut as a bow forced to its limit.

Reluctantly I permitted the wealth of ebony hair fall from my hands and, rising, moved to stand before him. Strain was visible on his pale, beautiful face, eyes shut, but the expression vanished when he opened his tormented grey eyes. Kneeling before him I felt confusion at his obvious distress.

“Have I hurt you? If you would rather have Glorfindel braid your hair, I will understand.” I said with sincere regret both for his discomfort and my lost prize; its shimmering glory exquisite to the touch.

Glorfindel in a tight voice explained, “Our hair lives and is not unlike skin to the touch. When in the hands of our mate it is intensely pleasurable; in the hands of others, tolerated, if done with care. Elrohir can sense your enjoyment through your touch, and thus suffers.”

Sitting back abruptly on my heels the dawning horror of the magnitude of my transgression overwhelmed me. A hand flew to my mouth in shock and tears welled in my eyes, mutely begging his forgiveness. Unable to look at him in my humiliation, I turned my face away. Not for the first time had I crossed an unseen line to my detriment, now dishonoring this great-hearted elf in the process.

Elrohir came swiftly to my defense. “How could she know? Mine is the fault.”

Celeborn replied grimly, “You are also blameless, elfling, as the Eldar do not take such liberties. Your heart is kind, but not always wise.”

Reaching forward Elrohir placed a slim, pale hand under my jaw; he lifted my head to look at him. Compassion for my plight unmistakable on his face, he said softly, “If you treat me with elvish respect and wish to continue now that you and I are mindful of the truth of elvish hair, I will allow it.” One the slight tremor of his hand betrayed the extraordinary cost if I should accept his renewed offer.

“Please let Glorfindel do it,” I replied. His instantaneous look of reprieve was so unmistakable I had to smile.

Returning to sit on the steps, I glanced toward Celeborn who was now gazing thoughtfully at me. With an almost imperceptible nod of his head he signaled approval. To know that I was again in his good graces eased my mortification.

Turning around to allow Glorfindel access to his hair, Elrohir faced me, relaxed and easy now in trusted hands. Briefly I begrudged Glorfindel his pleasant task, but knew I would never be able to treat it with the effortless care of a fellow elf.

With swift sure motions Glorfindel prepared his opponent for the engagement, both elves flowing effortlessly to their now bare feet. Gleaming blades held poised, fierce grins on eager faces; they paused long enough to salute the Lord Celeborn before sprinting to their places. Standing back-to-back awaiting a signal, they were filled with barely suppressed energy, but not so much as a muscle twitched, swords clasped lightly at their sides.

Without a sound they were released and with a blur of elusive elf and bright flash of metal they spun to face each other, with sword tips just barely encountering each other with a faint *ting* of metal on metal. Just as abruptly all motion ceased, as they stood poised and ready.

Glorfindel and Elrohir did not need take each others measure. They met with full force, each taking the mock battle seriously as the fighting–to-the-death it simulated. No quarter given or asked, but the elven pair was well matched. Glorfindel a little lighter on his feet, but Elrohir a bit more cunning, as the clashing of swords filled the clearing. This was no light-hearted play as even I could tell, but in deadly earnest, each wary, watchful and alert to the smallest miscalculation. Had they been less equal, dismemberment or death would have been decidedly possible.

Yet the agile soaring leaps and spins, bright flashing blades, effortless, swift, graceful moves, gave the impression of a dance simply portraying a battle, skills honed over centuries of use. But I had forgotten the real purpose of this training; survival. I did not see the contact, but blood materialized on Glorfindel’s left arm bringing back to me Elrohir’s warning about this contest. Obviously this was not for the faint-hearted or those squeamish around wounds. Elrohir received what appeared to be a deep gash across the front of his right thigh, red running freely down his leg, but it did not hamper him, both elves now ardent, the fire of the struggle blazing unreservedly.

Until Celeborn threw the heavy branch into the battlefield, I was unaware he had even moved I was so intent on the contest of arms. Instantaneously both elves spun to face the new enemy, eyes glittering with intense fervor, prepared to deal with this unknown foe. Glorfindel, spinning with lightning speed, caught Elrohir off-guard, his long slim blade coming to rest along the right side of Elrohir’s unprotected throat. A thin line of blood began to flow down the length of Glorfindel’s sword. Motionless for the space of two breathes, Elrohir lowered his sword, handing it hilt first to Glorfindel in surrender. Glorfindel dropped his blade from the unprotected throat of his friend, blood trailing down its bright length to the ground between them.

Shocked at the realization that had Glorfindel been a fraction less perfect in his stroke, Elrohir would be dead or at least mortally wounded, I sat frozen in place.

The two bloodied elves sauntered across the lawn laughing, overflowing with profound enjoyment of the vigorous exertion, and I was privileged to witness first-hand ‘glad elven lords’ coming from war into peace, causing my heart to sing with wonder.

Celeborn handed a packet of bandages and ointment to Glorfindel to care for the wounds he had inflicted.

“You were distracted to your death, mellon nín,” Glorfindel frowned over Elrohir’s deficiency in attention. “Fortunately you do not resemble an orc.”

“Or a Balrog?” Elrohir laughed merrily, eliciting a hearty laugh in return.

“May I bring water to wash your injuries?” I inquired.

Glorfindel merely nodded.

Returning with the bowl and clean clothes I set them within easy reach of Glorfindel, now seated on the grass with Elrohir’s injured leg across his lap. As he dipped a cloth in the water he felt the warmth and looked toward me.

“I thought warm would feel better, I hope I was correct,” again feeling I may have erred.

“An unusual luxury on a field of battle,” Glorfindel returned smiling at my trepidation.

“Perhaps if you are deft there will be warmth left for you,” Elrohir urged his friend.

“No need to hurry, there is an ample supply,” I assured both elves.

Glorfindel evaluated me intently before asking, “Will you clean the wounds for me to dress them?”

My assenting smile was all the answer he seemed to need as he handed a cloth to me. Since he had already cleaned the deep wound on Elrohir’s leg, it was left to me to gently wash the now drying blood from the small cut on his arm, a shallow slice across his left side, and finally the thin crimson line on his throat. This close I could see that it crossed his strongly pulsing jugular vein, and pausing I shivered involuntarily at how near to death Elrohir had come. Glorfindel glanced quickly over to see the reason for my tension, turning back with a knowing smile.

“He will not forget the lesson and it may save his life one day,” Glorfindel stated matter-of-factly, “Proceed with your work.”

Elrohir loosed the laces on his tunic and removed it to allow me to clean the slash on his side without further damage to his clothing, Glorfindel already having extended the opening in the legging around Elrohir’s leg wound.

Taken aback by the expanse of pale elven skin, I paused, unable to move, marveling at his slim torso, the rise and fall of the chest, the play of muscles under, smooth, flawless glowing skin. Sitting open-mouthed and utterly absorbed by the sculptured masterpiece before me, I was startled when Elrohir chided me calmly, “You may begin.”

Shaking myself mentally, I gingerly wiped the blood away from his wounds, then dried the areas, waiting for Glorfindel to finish his ministrations. But Glorfindel had other ideas and handed me the small jar of ointment indicating I should apply it sparingly to the wounds. Looking down I saw the gash in Elrohir’s leg needed stitches to close the opening and with competent skill and intricate care Glorfindel was accomplishing the task set before him.

With a slightly shaky finger I tried to apply the cool, fragrant ointment to Elrohir’s arm, not wanting to cause him more discomfort. Elrohir chucked at my futile attempt to do so without touching his skin. 

“You need not be hesitant when tending injuries. I am well used to much less sympathetic treatment,” he said glancing down at Glorfindel with a wince of pain.

“That was not the only reason, Elrohir,” I mumbled, trying vainly not to blush.

“I trust you to keep within the bounds established,” Elrohir said bluntly, “Now please continue, as the salve eases pain.”

With permission given and relief requested, I tended his arm and side. Then, after he brushed aside a stray tendril of his glossy hair, Elrohir tilted his head away from me, allowing better access to the site. I gazed at the flawless skin of his throat, drawing my salve covered finger from one end of the incision to the other cautiously crossing the vein, feeling the slow, steady beat.

It brought back childhood memories of my ear pressed to my daddy’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling warm and safe. With a sigh I sat back, my part of the nursing finished, I thought. But Glorfindel had other uses for me.

“Take this bandage and bind his arm and side, then you may bring fresh water.”

Delighted with the assigned responsibilities I worked carefully, covering each wound securely then went back inside for the fresh warm water arriving just as Glorfindel finished wrapping Elrohir’s leg with a thick bandage.

Elrohir cast a merciless smile at me saying, “Now we tend to Glorfindel.”

Between us the minor cuts Glorfindel bore were treated promptly and efficiently. Treating elvish wounds is not so different than doctoring humans, though elves do give the impression of being more stoic in expressing pain. Though I dared not mention it, I saw that a few golden hairs had been separated, quite neatly, from their elf. Such would seem to be the hazards of war.

When the impromptu hospital had been packed up, the three elves decided that with my enjoyment of their language, some practical lessons were in order. For some time we strolled about the yard then among the trees, the three elves identifying objects, various plants, articles of clothing or other words of interest or linguistic challenge in Sindarin for me to repeat. Being a short human among very tall elves truly made me feel the child Celeborn kept calling me. Occasionally my pronunciation amused them greatly, especially trilled R’s and the unfamiliar aspirants. However, they were patient with my abuse of their lovely language and encouraged me to keep trying.

Afternoon was heading into evening when Elrohir decided I should demonstrate my ability to write Tengwar, and after collecting paper, a pencil for me, a calligraphy pen for him, Elrohir and I sat next to each other while Celeborn and Glorfindel gathered wood for a fire. Marveling at his forbearance with my amateurish attempts, I wistfully surveyed his elegant examples.

“You make such splendid letters,” I commented with longing.

“Tîw,” Elrohir supplied the word.

“Yes, thank you. Tîw.”

Silently we worked, Elrohir occasionally perusing my efforts and making suggestions.

Then handing me the pen and his paper with the letters in columns he suggested I try to imitate his examples. At best my attempts appeared as childish scrawling next to his elegant flowing tîw. Heaving a sigh I turned to him with regret.

“Continued practicing will help,” Elrohir stated.

Glorfindel called us to join them at the fire, now crackling merrily. From some unknown source an evening meal was being prepared by the two elves. A cooking pot was suspended over the fire with an aroma as tantalizing as it was strange. Herbs not known in this land flavored the stew, vegetables common and rare in a savory broth.

Picking up the impromptu classroom, Elrohir and I approached the warm glow.

“A willing student,” Elrohir said simply, causing the color to flood my face.

Celeborn added, “Elrohir speaks truly. For all your flaws, at least you endeavor to improve.”

Not certain how to take this statement, but taking pleasure in the comment, I kept quiet.

Spring evenings can be cool and this one was no exception. Wrapping my arms around my knees for warmth, I was surprised when Glorfindel draped a cloak around me. Looking up I smiled my thankfulness and wrapped the garment more snugly around me. Taking a deep breath I identified the owner as Glorfindel. Smug contentment washed over me; here I sat swathed in a genuine elvish cloak, an elvish meal forthcoming and best of all, in the company of elves. Glorfindel was so right about remembering this day with fondness, though that particular word could not begin to express my emotions.

In the midst of a dream I sat, feeling very much as Sam must have when he, Frodo and Pippin encountered Gildor Inglorion and company in the Shire, bemused, delighted beyond belief to be surrounded by real elves. Likewise I was sad to think of their passing forever into the West, taking with them their glorious presence.  Though, unlike Sam, I reveled in the thought of the tenuous bloodline joining me to these superb creatures.

Elrohir startled me out of my reverie, handing me a bowl of delicious smelling food and a wooden spoon. After saying my thanks to God for this unique repast, I sampled their incomparable stew, eating slowly till the last bite was tucked inside me.

Setting the bowl down, I gazed about me intrigued by the firelight playing over elvish faces, serene and benevolent. A unquestioning smile on my face, I partook of the enchanted occasion, wistfully reminding myself that with the new day they would likely be gone.

Night had descended, filling the sky with stars, stray sparks from the fire rising to join their brilliance. With Celeborn on my left, Glorfindel opposite me, Elrohir to my right, each unrivaled models of perfection, visions of indescribable magnificence, I attempted to implant the glorious sights and sounds securely in my mind.

Celeborn initiated the singing to the gentle accompaniment of Glorfindel’s harp, softly at first, but expanding with a resonance and timber astonishing to hear filling the night with pure wonder, to be joined first by the voice of Glorfindel, then Elrohir.

The combination of a full stomach, the snug cloak and the heat of the fire conspired to lull me into peaceful relaxation. Eyes closing involuntarily, I gave into the magic of elvish song to be awakened from my dreamy state by Elrohir, against whom I found myself unconsciously leaning. Gently he lowered me to the ground placing another cloak under my head for a pillow, this one with his scent. Drowsily content, I lay for some time observing the purely elvish vision, but eventually the song overpowered my resistance, and I drifted into elf-song inspired dreams.

Celeborn in song showed me Lothlorien under his lordship, the carefully tended woods and glades, the much-loved majestic mellyrn trees, reaching up to touch the sky high above us, and lastly Cerin Amroth where his granddaughter, and my far distant ancestor, Arwen Undómiel, would one day die for love of the human, Aragorn. He sang then of endless grief and the loss of so much he had cherished. The sublime voice faded into the night.

Glorfindel picked up the thread of the dreaming tales, walking with me through the city of Gondolin, showing me through the lovely elven realm, peopled with those long gone to death or exile, and finally the path of escape were he met and battled the Balrog, to the destruction of them both.

Elrohir then picked up the song and revealed the hidden valley of Imladris, with its flowing river, the secret entrance leading into that last safe refuge for the weary and wounded, be they elves or men, hobbits or even dwarves, and most alluring to me, the library of Elrond. How I longed for the chance to delve into those volumes of elvish history and lore, events known only to the elves.

Somewhere in the dream I heard Elrohir speak a single word, “Navaer.”

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When I awoke early the next morning, feeling wonderfully refreshed and eager for the new day, I half imagined the previous day merely an illusion. But upon tossing back the covers to discovery myself still fully clothed, the stunned realization hit me that yesterday had been all too real. Apparently one of the elves, Elrohir I suspected, had placed me in my bed before they left, the farewell in my dream signaling their departure.

Leaping out of bed I hurried to the last site of the mysterious visitors to find that the charred ground, the remains of the fire, bore mute testimony of the previous days events. Of course, I glanced around quickly hoping without any real confidence to see a tall, slim elf appear from among the trees.

Each morning for days the ritual was repeated until I admitted to myself that it was only wishful thinking and resumed my normal life. But all the while a flicker of expectation kept alive the possibility.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The following spring found me much occupied with a pleasantly, busy life and so not dwelling often on the faded hope of another visit, though the notation on my calendar marked this as the anniversary of the most extraordinary day in my life.

Stepping out on the deck to reminisce on the memory, I was jolted by an unsuspected sight on the deck railing. Three objects met my astonished stare; a small golden flower, a silvery feather and a deep red strawberry still glistening with dew.

Dashing frantically into the yard, I looked expectantly for the messenger. But to my dismay, all was empty and still.

Smiling in wonder I ‘read’ the messages. The golden flower was no doubt from Glorfindel; the strawberry must be from Elrohir; but the feather gave me pause. Then the meaning was revealed. The Lord Celeborn had departed this Middle Earth; traveling to the Blessed Realm to reunite with his Lady, and the others who have long awaited his coming.

Tears welled in my eyes, falling onto the feather in my hand. Happy for him, sorrowing for me, I stood remembering that rare joy in the company of elves.

Each spring on what I now call ‘my begetting day’ I find a single, perfect, bright red strawberry awaiting me. As I savor that sweetest of berries I reflect fondly on the special elf who enriched my life with his choice, his thoughtfulness and his presence.  “Hannon le, Elrohir.”

The End

For those who have Tengwar fonts on their computers the strange number/letter sequences will appear as Tengwar script.