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“This is a story from before the Great Journey – the migration of the Firstborn from where they awakened in the starlit lands
surrounding the Water of Awakening, Cuiviénen – to Aman, the Uttermost West.”

“... before Nowë became Círdan, Elwë became Elu Thingol, Olwë became Olue Ciriáran,
and Elmo became a shadowy figure.”

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His long legs stretched out before him, Nowë sat in comfort upon the thick leather cushions, slouching against the high back of the wide, low bench; bathed in the caressing light of numerous lichen lamps.  Contentedly wrapped in the supple, woven robe provided to him by his kind hostess, he exchanged sated smiles with the other relaxing diners seated with him.  The food had been tastily prepared; the brewed drink excellent compared to what he was used to.  It was that pleasant time after a good meal when everyone that could would sit around the dying cooking fire and languidly digest.  Concerns about the world outside the longhouse set aside for a few short but pleasant hours of quiet socializing.

Delicate ripples of muted conversations lapped gently at the shoreline of Nowë’s hearing.  Breezy laughter accompanied another of the head-tracker’s humorous tales being told with hushed enthusiasm; this time a very amusing adventure about chasing rabbits with a noose.  The bleating children had all been herded away to nap, safely tucked into their beds and niches or laid down in their cradles.  Knowing a springy pallet covered with soft furs was waiting in a quiet corner reserved just for him added greatly to Nowë’s mellowed mood.

Indeed, he very much enjoyed guesting in the chieftain of the star-folk’s house where he was looked after better than in his own home.  But then, he did not have a wife or sisters or so many cousins as his absent friend to constantly see to homely comforts.  Neither did he have such a clamorous household where an hour of quiet was rare.  Greater peace was one of the few luxuries to be had at his homestead close by the Lake.  Something he was being sorely reminded of by two of the younger ellith getting increasingly louder as they childishly squabbled over who would scoop out the ashes from the fire pit when it cooled.

“Vennís, Sildis... you are disturbing our guest.”  It was Olwë, of course, who stopped the rising argument.  Both maidens blushed and became bashful at being directly addressed by the young ellon.  Not an unexpected response with Olwë possessing all the starry fairness of his father and a-full-measure-and-a-half of his natural nobility.  Olwë was always the first one to censure disorder.  Merely because he could, it sometimes seemed.  Still, Nowë appreciated the intervention for at least the whining had been changed to giggles and he gave Olwë a nod of thanks to let him know.

Elwë, lounging next to Olwë and being the eldest sibling, should have been the one to say something.  But, he had not; probably because he never had to when Olwë was around.  Nowë thought it just as well in this case.  He preferred there be no upset of Elwë’s present congeniality.  When dealing with any sort of problem, Elwë’s temper could turn either cold or hot regardless.  The older brother simply did not have the younger brother’s steadiness.  Besides temperament, there were several other differences between the two.  Such as Elwë’s more confident and exuberant personality which made him generally more likable than Olwë.  However, if not for the difference in their hair, Elwë’s stone gray locks being a perfect blend of both his parents’ coloring, the brothers appeared practically identical. 

“Maybe we should have our lazy little brother do it, ” joked the smiling Elwë as he picked up an empty drinking bowl and tossed it at their much younger brother on the opposite bench. 

Elmo had fallen asleep sitting up, his head lolled back with his hands limp in his lap.  The gourd cup stuck him square in the chest and rolled off.  Only with the clatter of it bouncing off the slate floor did he rouse and then barely.  Foggily aware that one of his brothers was probably teasing him again, he simply curled up and lay down where he was, apparently too tired to go into the next chamber and crawl up onto his sleeping shelf.  He had worked himself into exhaustion trying to finish every one of his assigned chores before the expected return of his parents.  Their youngest son was both the brightest and darkest of their three children.  His pale coloring and distinct features were a mirror-mere reflection of his father’s skyward face; his resilient heart was like his mother’s, an ever-flowing spring fed from hidden, unknowable depths.  Elmo cradled his head in his arms and went back to sleep, his uncombed gathered hair falling forward in a fluffy tail to blanket his face like a silver fox kit settled down for slumber.  Those who noticed his collapse laughed untroubled that they might wake him.

Nowë felt a little sorry for the lad.  He was clearly hoping to go with his father and brothers on the impending journey to Ezeldír’s outpost.  After working so hard to eliminate any excuse to not take him along, he was going to be sadly disappointed.  For his father planned to leave him behind with new responsibilities and Nowë on hand for guidance.  This next journey was going to be a long one else the brothers’ father would not have asked his eldest kinsman and best friend the great favor of staying with his youngest son and beloved wife until he returned.  Nowë was glad he would not be the one to tell Elmo.  When Gilwë and Araldawën arrived home from council with the leaders of the Minyar and Tatyar – which could be at any time now – they would explain their plans to their sons themselves.  Because, depending on how things went at the council meeting, their long-laid plans might change.  Nowë could not help but think about how so much of their lives had already changed since the coming of Oromë.

Someone began a song to honor the generous deer that had provided the best part of their repast.  Others gradually joined in however they might with voice or instrument.  Shortly, the song flowed into the strains of an old favorite consisting of endless verses about a forlorn farm-yard bird wandering lost through the forest seeking a safe place to roost and the funny sights encountered upon the journey.  Several people left the hall to find some rest themselves.  A few couples left holding hands possibly with other intentions.  While mindlessly singing along, Elwë stood and brushed off any remains of food from his fine, blue tunic.  Many had put on their better garments in anticipation of Gilwë’s and Araldawën’s return.  Their eldest son hopped over the fire’s faded embers to his youngest brother’s side and began to gently unwind the youth’s lean limbs, meaning to carry him to bed.  But, Elmo awoke enough to push away his brother’s hands.

“I’m waiting for Mother and Father,” he protested with a drowsy slur, although his mother’s forest-folk lilt could be clearly heard.  Then, he curled up again and went back to sleep.  There was some laughter at this, but the singing continued unbroken, tumbling into a plangent standard.  The switch from the current repetitive song a successful protest perpetrated by one of the musicians.

“As you like,” Elmo’s eldest brother replied with grinning good humor and leapt back over the fire pit to sit down next to Nowë.  Elwë turned to him and said, “I would rather he be where I can see him anyway.  As with you, it has been too long.”  Slouching down and stretching out just like Nowë, he folded his hands over his stomach and spoke affectionately.  “I am glad he has come home for I have missed him.  And he has grown so tall!”

Nowë laughed aloud at seeing such a young fellow acting like a doting grandfather.  Then he frowned, for he wished he had a real reason to act likewise.

“Your home is no longer his home, Gilwion,” he quietly reminded Elwë.

When he was still small, Elmo had been sent to live with Lenwë, the first chieftain of the forest-folk, the head of his mother’s clan.  The lad had returned to visit his parental longhouse on occasion, usually along with his foster family, but always with a guardian.  This was the first time he had traveled the distance alone with only friends.  More his mother’s son than were his brothers, Elmo fit in well with Lenwë’s family, calling him Papa and his golden-haired wife Mama, as if one of their own children.  Their son and daughter were as much Elmo’s siblings as Elwë and Olwë.

“This house is a home for all our people,” replied Elwë, “but especially for my little brother.”

Nowë knew that Elwë loved both his brothers dearly.  But Olwë being closer in age to him was a companion where as Elmo was more of a dependent.  Thus, he treated each differently.  Once in a while, it would cause jealous friction between the two younger brothers as much as when their parents showed more favor to one or the other.  Anyone showing special favor to Elwë never seemed to cause any consternation.

Sometimes, Nowë wished that Elmo had been sent to live with him instead.  Araldawën had promised that the next son would go to stay with the lake-folk and assist Nowë.  And probably became his heir too.  For even after many, many turns of the stars, there appeared to be no elleth suited to Nowë’s heart and spirit.  Araldawën had come the closest of any he had ever met.  Whoever he was fated to wed was simply not alive.  The romantic part of him was certain that he would feel her heartbeat if she were.  Araldawën was always trying to convince him that his mate was merely yet to be born.  For himself, he had accepted that she had long ago been slain as had so many others of his folk.  But, he refused to let himself believe that she was among those taken, prowling with the other left-over fell creatures of the vanquished Dark Rider, another innocent victim made into one of the still-moving dead.

To have Olwë with him would have pleased Nowë too.  But, the brothers’ father had wisely foreseen that he would need his second child as much as his first.  The number of his people was many and growing.  As was Lenwë’s.  Nowë’s own not so swiftly.  If the lake-folk ever recovered from their past losses, well then he would need a strong son.  Unlike ever having a wife, he could hold on to the hope that his people would be prosperous again.  Until such time, the other clans of the Third kindred would watch over his minority with compassion and generosity.  In great contrast to the other two kindreds.  The First and Second were struggling to survive in this bountiful – if admittedly dangerous – world.  They seemed hardly able to care for themselves sometimes let alone needful neighbors.

The reason, as he saw it, that his kindred prospered beyond what might seem a reasonable expectation was the Nelyar’s easy love of the land and nature.  The Minyar’s vulnerability was that they were too contemplative.  Very sympathetic and certainly compassionate, those delicately beautiful people were too often distracted from the toil of keeping alive.  Although of a later generation, their one and only leader Ingwë, was peculiarly wiser than any other elder while remaining full of the Minyar’s characteristic ingenuousness.  On the other hand, the Tatyar seemed to trade the amazing work of their hands more for praise then food.  They seemed always contentious and factionalized.  Most of them preferred contests to bargains despite the example set by such as young Finwë.  In Nowë’s opinion, they were incredibly fortunate to have even this one good leader among so many ineffectual ones.

The heavy front doors being swung wide open by the gate-keeper’s daughter interrupted Nowë’s rambling thoughts.  A refreshing breeze carried in the scent of the surrounding cedar trees and the distant sound of other, familiar voices in song.  The chosen leader of the Nelyar – chieftain of the star-folk, the head of his clan, along with his indispensable wife, the wise-one of their clan and prominent member of the Wise – had come home.  To announce their arrival, the traveling party began to sing in counterpoint to the singers in the hall.  When the returning folk finally entered the hall, all song was suspended as everyone awaiting them rose to their feet in greeting with cries of delight.

“Welcome home!” proclaimed Elwë.  “Welcome home, Father and Mother!” he exclaimed, arms held wide to embrace them.  But, it was Olwë who rushed forward to happily hug each parent first, then every member of their company. 

Packs and gear were quickly set aside, haphazardly against the walls; sharp, flint-tipped spears and varied stone axes carefully racked.  By turns, Gilwë and Araldawën embraced and exchanged greetings with whoever came to them while also making their way further into the hall until coming at last to where Nowë and Elwë stood side-by-side waiting.

“Welcome home, Mother,” said her eldest again, taking his mother into his arms.  He lifted her off the floor and mischievously tipped her from side-to-side, her feet dangling.  After kissing his brow, Araldawën cheerfully admonished him to put her down.  Turning to his father, Elwë and he clasped arms and threw their other arms around each other’s shoulders in a powerful clinch.  With a growling laugh, Gilwë broke Elwë’s grip to also kiss his son before greeting Nowë in the same manner.  Except that the kiss for his old friend was brotherly instead of fatherly.  Araldawën then pushed her husband aside to envelope Nowë in a warm embrace and bestow a sisterly kiss.  The affection Nowë shared with these two was so great and so pleasing to those around them that most had ceased their own reunions to witness this one.

“We have been apart too long, brother,” said Gilwë, touched at unexpectedly finding Nowë already arrived and waiting for him in his home – just as Nowë had intended.

“Yes, brother, much too long,” he replied.  “For I have not eaten so well in 20 turns.”  Laughter rolled over the sarcastic reply from Gilwë about that being the only reason Nowë ever came to visit.

“Where’s Elmo?” Araldawën suddenly asked, worriedly looking about and trying to see around the crowding household.  “Elwë, where’s your brother Elmo?” she asked again louder with a slight note of concern.

“Just here, Mother.”  He parted the curtain of people to reveal his youngest brother still curled up on the bench, still fast asleep.  Their mother was visibly relieved to find him safe. 

Although the homecoming had brought almost the entire household inside the large hall and the clamor had risen to that of a celebration, Elmo had not awakened.  However, now with everyone laughing so loudly all at once together, he stirred.  When the laughter hesitated because all were watching the youth, waiting for him open his eyes and see his parents, he went contentedly back to sleep, heaving an endearingly babyish sigh.  This would have resulted in a crashing wave of laughter sure to wake him if Araldawën had not immediately shooshed them all into silence.  Many had to hold their hands over their mouths and others to grab the person next to them for support in resisting the impulse to burst out laughing.

His mother took his father by the hand and led him over to their son, silently instructing him to pick Elmo up.  As gently as possible, his face alight with tender feelings for his child, Gilwë lifted the slumbering youth in his strong arms.  Tugging him along by his sleeve, his wife guided him away from the fire pit and into the middle of the room.  With a wicked twinkle in her eye, she indicated that he should toss Elmo up into the air.

The main hall of the longhouse of the star-folk was a large, narrow room with two fire pits to accommodate the great number of people that could fit into its space.  There was no obstructing loft under the eaves unlike the rest of the great building whose windowless rock slab walls were twice the height of a tall person such as Gilwë.  From the outside, it appeared very much as if the cap of a long furrow-shaped hill had been peeled off for a peek beneath and did not quite fit back on when replaced.  Hinged flaps in the roof released smoke and stale air.  On special occasions, huge stamped-leather curtains were brought out and hung from the timber beams to divide the space into separate chambers.  The heavy crossbeams were made of large trees stripped of their branches and bark which had slowly over time been thickly decorated by its inhabitants with pigment and carvings.  Above these crosstrees, a framed roof peaked, of slightly greater measure in height than the walls.  Half-way up to the rooftree, a series of smoothed, slim traverses spanned across to help bear the compacted weight of the thick sod roof.  From generations of continuous fires, a thick coating of soot and dust covered the entire roof surface making it pitch black even in voluminous lamplight.

Araldawën pointed to the high cross-pole above their heads.

With an insincere look of reproach, Gilwë shook his head no.  But knowingly grinning, Araldawën silently insisted.  Struggling to hide a smirk, her husband got ready, heaved mightily, and threw his youngest son so high upward that he almost hit the roof ridge itself.  At the apex of his short flight, Elmo hovered – for a blink of the eye appearing to almost float – turning slightly in the air.

“ELMO!”  His mother’s sharp shout snapped him instantly awake.  Whether by training or instinct, as he was falling, he twisted and caught the pole with his arms ere he fell past it, his legs swinging back and forth under him.  Laughter and amused cheers rose from those gathered below until forced back by a rain of soot.  Elmo hauled himself onto the rail to sit astride; the front of his clothes and leggings incredible filthy, his chin blackened.  Looking down at the audience below, his angry eyes sought for which one of his brothers had played this dirty trick on him – only to joyfully spy his parents.

“Father!  Mother!”  After gathering up his loosened hair, thereby gaining smudgy black stripes, he pushed himself up to stand, one foot in front of the other, on top of the slim pole, keeping his balance with outstretched arms.  “Watch!”

With abandon, he jumped up to flip forward, his hands not touching down, his feet flying over his head and coming down one foot following the other, to once again stand upright.  Slightly off-balance on landing, he struggled to regain his equilibrium; knees bent, arms jerkily flapping.  Many gasped thinking that he might fall down upon their heads or onto the hard stone floor.  An involuntary cry from his mother sent Gilwë, joined by Olwë, to stand beneath to catch him, both blinking from the invisible, drifting powder.  Elmo, fright spreading across his face, looked at them anxiously.  Then, he froze in mid-waver with one foot in the air and let out an impish laugh.

Jumping up once more from his one footed stance, he did several of the same flip as before only backward in place.  Below him, his father and brother backed away again to avoid of the snowing grime. 

Then, standing side-ways with arms over his head, Elmo could almost touch the roof frame.  Bending backward as he jumped up, he circled and grabbed the middle of the pole to swing around hanging by his arms, up and over several times, until halting in a straight handstand.  After rotating on one hand, he shoved off with the hand, dropping backside to the rail, as if he intended to dive straight into the ground.  Catching himself with his bent knees and grasping the pole to help transfer his momentum, he swung around to end up casually sitting atop.  He pulled his left foot up onto the pole, bending his knee to make a prop for his left elbow to rest upon.  Perched perfectly at ease, not the least out of breath – absolutely covered in black dirt from hair to shoes – he looked at his parents and grinned.  There was a burst of laughter and bird-calls along with clapping.  Gilwë was beaming, but Araldawën appeared annoyed, standing with her fists on her hips.

“All well and good, infant.” she loudly scolded.  “So you’ve been practicing.  But, can you yet recite the clan’s entire lines-of-lineage?”  A wave of laugher followed her words.

“Yes, Mother.  And your clan’s too!” he sassily shouted back.  The laughter doubled and there was more clapping.

“Come down, rascal, and greet your parents properly!” ordered Gilwë, proudly gazing up at his youngest son, his eyes star-bright and his smiling face dazzling in the glowing lamplight.

“Only if Olwë catches me,” Elmo teased, his eyes and smile just as brilliant as his father’s, but his face overcast with grime.

“Not upon your life, little brother!” responded Olwë, arms crossed.  “Well you know this is a new-made shirt!”

The resulting taunts and laughter continued unabated as Elwë walked past his father and brother and with a polite wave of his hand bide everyone to move further back.  Seeing that his eldest brother had decided for them, the youth stood up.  Elwë gauged his task and then signaled for Elmo to drop.  The lad took off in a high jump and then tucked into a half-somersault, straightening out to come down feet first.  Elwë easily caught him around the knees, shouldering his hips, and let him slid smoothly down to stand on the floor.  The show-off bowed to applause, visibly shedding sooty dust.  His assistant shook the loose ash from his hair and uselessly slapped at the black smudges left on his clothes.

“Mother!” Elmo cried, arms outstretched, stepping across the crunching floor towards Araldawën.

“Oh no!” she said laughingly warding him off with her hands.  “Keep your distance!” 

Elmo pretended to be shocked by her rejection.  Pelted with mock expressions of pity by the crowd, he turned to Gilwë.

“Father!  I’ve come at your command!” 

“Halt, shadow thing!” ordered a suddenly serious, but obvious play-acting, Gilwë.  “You will not leave your mark upon me either!”  The back of the youth’s hand flew to his brow in a melodramatic gesture of woe.  Causing another swell of laughter and insincere sympathy.

Elmo then turned all around, hands beseeching, uselessly searching the household for some compassion.  Suddenly, he saw one of his littlest cousins and let out a cry of hope.  Wakened by the ruckus, the child had come back into the hall.  Half-asleep, she had found her father who now carried her, yawning and blinking, in his arms.  Elmo rushed over and brought his plaintive, sooty face close to hers.

“LinLin, will you not give me a hug?”  She squealed, hiding her face in her hands and pressing into her father’s shoulder.  Elmo staggered back and brought his hand to his chest as if his heart were broken, his head dropping to hang in exaggerated dejection.  A roar of laughter drowned out any words of comfort from the grinning father to his peeking daughter.

Elwë went to his little brother.  “I will always love you, piglet,” he said.  And he threw his arms around Elmo, crushing him slowly until the air was squeezed out of him and the youth was suffocating on his own laughter.  “Let’s go for swim!”  Hefting the gasping youth over his shoulder, Elwë turned around and began to exit the longhouse with Elmo’s head and arms dangling over his back.  His little brother offered no resistance, smiling and waving back at people who waved at him.  When they neared the narrow side door that led out to the pond, Elmo raised up, waving both arms in a final farewell to the responding crowd.  “Duck, piglet!”  Just in time, he avoided bashing his head on the lintel as they passed through.

When the laughter finally died down, the gathering broke up.  It was understood that at homecomings, any business - especially with Gilwë or Araldawën - would be conducted only after everyone had had time to settle back in.  And the custom suited most.  The leader and his wife would sit on the high seat soon enough.  After that, approaching them at anytime was allowed.

“Nowë, did you see that?  He has his mother-father’s talent!” Gilwë boasted only after the lad was gone and out of hearing.  “Arwindír would be so proud.”  He slipped his arm around Araldawën’s waist bringing her against him then kissing her soundly.  “You breed excellent children, Arwën.”

“I’ve good stock to start from,” she replied, a self-satisfied expression on her face.

Nowë smiled until he noticed the slight hurt in Olwë’s eyes.  His talents were those of his father’s which, of course since they were his own, Gilwë tended to be much more modest about.

“Yes,” replied Nowë, putting his hand on Owë’s shoulder.  “We were right here, remember?”

Gilwë released Araldawën and threw an arm over Olwë’s shoulders. 

“So have you all been behaving yourselves?” he queried with barely tamped-down zest.

“Certainly,” his middle son replied, but with an arch tone.

“You might as well tell me now,” Gilwë warned, keenly smiling.  “I will find out soon enough.”

“Not from me.”  They laughed together, and then Olwë spoke candidly.  “There is nothing of concern for either of you.”

“My son, you burden yourself unduly.  Elwë’s misjudgments are not your mistakes.  Your duty is to help him, not to replace him,” Gilwë quietly counseled.  “If he leaves something undone, that is his decision.  He will not and cannot assign all tasks to you.  Ask about it when you deem something neglected.  Discuss it – do not presume one way or the other.  And do not let him either.”

Olwë looked surprised that his father knew exactly what sort of advice he needed.  Nowë however acknowledged it as further confirmation of why Gilwë had been made their kindred’s leader and not himself.  Besides having both insight and foresight, Gilwë had the ability to use them effectively.  Nowë realized that he would have left the young ellon continuing to question how to handle his brother’s amateur leadership.  Patience with Elwë, who was still learning to rule, would have been his advice and it would have been the wrong advice.  For though Olwë was a natural leader like his father, he had yet to show he had his father’s patience.

“If he calls you a nuisance, admit that you are and learn to enjoy it,” Gilwë went on, grinning at his own waggish suggestion.  “Offer all reasonable solutions and be prepared to carry out Elwë’s choice whatever it is – without anger or guilt.  By explaining your ideas without reservation or fear, he will come to know your mind and trust you, especially in a crisis.  You will be surprised at how soon he will unquestioningly agree with your recommendations.  And you will learn that you can trust his decisions.”

Olwë nodded; his expression serious, silently committing to think over his father’s words.

“Now,” said Araldawën, taking Olwë’s hands in hers, “go to your brothers and see that within the hour you all come meet with us for a family council.” 

“And do not bring them back muddy, wet, or naked,” ordered his father with a stern look of warning.  Wearing an innocent smile, Olwë left, his eyes alight.  Araldrawën heaved a resigned sigh and shook her head in sad anticipation.  Nowë laughed, both curious and unable to guess what Olwë might perpetrate upon his brothers after Gilwë’s restrictions.

“Husband, I must see to some things as well,” said Araldawën.  “We shall meet in our chamber.”  Gilwë nodded his agreement and watched her as she walked away, admiring her figure and graceful movement.

“I hope she does not bother my sister about sweeping up,” he mused, his blissful gaze lingering on her as she stopped to talk with LinLin and her father.  “She caused the mess after all.”

“I doubt she will do that.  Let us find a better place to talk,” suggested Nowë.  “Unless you must go too?”

“No,” he said, turning to give Nowë his full attention.  “However, I would seek some ale before we seek a seat.”  At that very moment, a jolly server came up carrying two brimming drinking-horns.

“At your command, my chief,” he said, plainly happy to be of service.  “But, I am off now.  Will you require anything else before I leave?  We have fresh bread!” 

“Thank you, Jastûr!  This is exactly what I wanted and, of course, you bring it.  No, we ate on the way.  Brother?”

Nowë had taken a sip to avoid spilling from the full vessel.

“This is fine.  And I do mean fine.  Please tell Lumdis I am impressed.”  He slightly lifted the horn in a salute to her skills.

“My pleasure to carry your words and hers to hear them, I am sure,” said Jastûr, who winked and went, obviously thinking Nowë was flirting rather than just complimenting.  Gilwë would have certainly commented rather than just grinned and taken a preventive sip himself if Nowë had not given him a hard look cautioning him not to.

Wandering around looking for a seat they did not have to share with others, they ended up standing alone outside the front entrance which had been left open. 

Nowë greatly appreciated that, unlike as in the more perilous past, there was no need to deploy fierce guards or quickly shut and bar the thick doors.  As they meandered out of the fan of light into dimmer surroundings, he enjoyed the invigorating coolness in the air that was typical for this time of the turning.  The chieftain and his sons would have to leave soon or there would be little food for their company to find along the trail.  But more than likely, Araldawën would materialize a supply of waybread for them just before they left.  She was a sorceress with her grain stores.  Few could brandish Yavanna’s gift as well as she.

They slowly sipped their drinks in companionable silence, surveying the cloudless, star-filled sky.

Nowë recalled his renewed wonder of the world when first told of the Valar and of how Varda had made the stars.  Gilwë had been a constant companion in those earlier times – whenever he was not out leading his band, foolishly hunting the Hunter and its pack.  Even so, Gilwë’s inestimable courage was how they had come to know that Oromë was not Melkor.  A sudden burst of carefree laughter caused Nowë to glance back at the rayed path leading into the hall.  He fell to contemplating upon Námo and the spirits of the departed said to inhabit his vast halls, wondering if they greeted the arriving dead like returning travelers.

“Plans have changed,” said Gilwë, speaking soft and low for Nowë’s ears only.  “And Arwën is not happy about it.”

“How so?” he asked just as quietly, instantly turning away from dreamy thoughts of a courtship in Mandos.  A part of him hoped the changes would include Elmo going north with his father even if the lad’s mother was against it.

“Oh, not overall or this next journey,” Gilwë assured him, grinning.  “You shall stay in our home and grow fat.”  They silently laughed and tipped a toast to that.  “But, there is to be a new journey after this,” he continued, “instead of my staying home for a while.”  Nowë sensed suppressed excitement behind Gilwë’s insouciance.  “But first, I shall be learning to ride a horse.”

“A horse?”  Nowë was surprised and excited himself at the prospect that one of their kindred would have that privilege.  The offspring of Nehar were very particular about making new friends.  “Is this Oromë’s doing?”

“Yes, of course.”  Gilwë took a hefty swallow from his drinking-horn.  “It is necessary for the distance to be crossed.”  He looked directly at Nowë, unexpectedly revealing a deep apprehension.  Something he would never have done with any other save Araldawën.  “I am to go with Ingwë and Finwë to the homeland of the Valar.”

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“No!  No!  No!  That’s wrong!  Elu Thingol was our ambassador!” Celebrian haughtily corrected.  “He went with Ingwë and Finwë, who was his very good friend!”

“Just who’s telling this story?” Hrassa asked sharply.  He roughly put down the child-sized tea bowl onto its little saucer.  It made a flat, clinking sound which caused Glamien to fear that the fragile cup or plate might have been cracked.  She paused her darning, braced to cross the room and intervene if necessary.  “You asked for a story about your daeradar’s daeradar and I’m telling it just as ‘twas told to me.” 

The green-elf was plainly irritated.  Not from having his credibility questioned by the child, Glamien was sure, but rather from being cooped up in Ost-in-Edhil instead out roaming the wilderlands as he had for the last four ennin.

“But, if Tauron picked Gilwë then... “  The little princess balked at the obvious fate of her forebear.  “... so Elwë went instead!”

Standing up from the low table, she angrily clutched the flimsy arm of her stitched-doll, a cheap bunny-shaped cloth toy brought home from the tailors’ street, in one hand while in the other she held her gleaming, empty tea bowl.  She gazed almost mesmerized into the sarnathra’lawar image in the bottom.  Glamien worried at her stare for she knew which of the Valar was pictured in the cup Celebrian preferred to drink from at her tea parties.  It had sparked the telling of this particular story as much as the tea set itself, a begetting-day present sent via Númenor by her grandfather Galadhon, a prince long gone to Eldamar.  The child would sorely regret tossing the cup while in a temper if it were broken.

Suddenly, Hrassa snatched the little cup out of Celebrian’s hand.  Picking up the cup before the marionette sitting next to him, he poured its tea into the stolen cup and set it down before the limp puppet.  The emptied tea bowl he forced into the child’s hand.  The appalled look on the little princess’s face was almost comical.

“I bid you close your mouth and sit down, my lady,” he said in a tight voice.  “Or no more stories at all.”  Glamien was shocked.  Not at what Hrassa had done or said, but that the little princess did as he ordered – without further complaint! 

“Yes,” he said when the child had settled in place.  “Gilwë died and ‘twas Elwë that went to Valinor.  Everyone was very sad and afraid.  But, Gilwë cared much for his people and had laid down wise plans.  He and Araldawën had taught their sons well and they became the great leaders of our people.”

“Did he plan to die so his sons could become Kings?” Celebrian asked deceivingly timid, her eyes downcast.  The strange question puzzled Glamien, unable to even guess what the child meant by it.

“Certainly not!”  Hrassa crossly replied.  Pausing to regain composure, he sighed and lowered his voice to a calmer tone.  “Like all wise leaders, he had prepared for his possible death.”  Pausing again, he waited for Celebrian to raise her eyes to his.  “Gilwë saw long into the future and he feared for when the eledhwaith, tawarwaith, and nenwaith would separate.  Like children growing up, he knew that they would someday become individual nations.  As had the three kindreds themselves increased and separated from out of the first quendi to awaken.  And he was inspired to build lasting bonds between the foremost families so that the ties between those future nations would not break over time or distance or custom.  The Lindar would remain united through his sons.  My lady, there were no Kings until the Eldar hosts reached Beleriand.  Gilwë did not know what a ‘king’ was.”

“But, you say he foresaw it.  Yet, Lenwë and Denethor never became the Kings of their people.  Nor Cirdan.”  She raised her head, looking hard and straight at Hrassa.  “And not Elmo.“

“Because those who remained in Ennor saw no need for any king other than Thingol Aran.”

“Because Gilwë died?  Might there have been a High King of the Lindar to rule in Lindon?”

“I don’t know,” Hrassa replied gazing admiringly at Celebrian, seeming to understand what continued to puzzle Glamien.  There was a vulpine glint in the cogndîr’s eyes when he said, “You really should ask your adar how it is that Kings are made and not born.”

With a slight tilt of her head, the little princess seemed ready to once again follow his instruction without comment.  Her expression softened and she drew in her lower lip, remembering Gilwë’s demise loomed in the story.

“What happened to Araldawën?” she asked, sweetly sorrowful for her forefather’s wife.  Her unspoken worry was that having lost Gilwë, his beloved expired.  Glamien also greatly wondered for among her folk few tales were told of these two.  In fact, very few stories from the time before her kindred left the March were ever told.

“Well, that’s another story,” was the bowman’s offhanded response, meant to tease.  Celebrian’s face brightened a bit, heartened that Araldawën had apparently carried on.  Seeing this, Hrassa hesitated a moment, perhaps regretting not telling of an earlier time when more frightening dangers abounded, but Gilwë and Araldawën were together and had more life yet to live.  “But, I think this story is ended.”

Hugging her rag-bunny close, the little princess nodded in agreement.

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Author’s Notes: 

All elvish is in Sindarin unless otherwise indicated and underlined means I put it together myself – corrections and comments are welcome!

Daeredair – Grandfathers

“before the Great Journey” – It appears that the leaders of the three kindreds at the time of the Great Journey were not among those who awoke first.  Very likely by that time, those few first elves still alive after the depredations of Melkor had become quiet like Cirdan.  Or perhaps became Avari, not being very accepting of any Powers similar to the Dark Rider.

Gilwë and Araldawën are OC parents for Elwë, Olwë, and Elmo.  According to Unfinished Tales, Galadhon, son of Elmo, is the father of Celeborn,

Hrassa and Glamien are OCs from another fanfic: Celebrian, Sell i Nos Galadhad.  Hrassa is telling this tale very soon after his arrival in the new city of Ost-in-Edhil.  Neither Oropher nor Amdir has as yet become the officially crowned King of his realm.

cogndîr – bowman Nandorin

ennin – year/years – a Valarian year consisting of 144 sun years

ellon/elleth – male/female elf

ellyn/ellith – plural of ellon/elleth

turning of the stars – I think the ancient elves had to have watched the movement of the stars to measure time

sarnathra'lawar – lighted stone stone-across-light – lithophane: porcelain impressed with figures which are made distinct images by transmitted light
I just think the art form would appeal to the Eldar

Gilwion – son of Gilwë – I suppose in later Sindarin this would be Giluion

Arwën – a pet name for Araldawën, not really an epessë but a shortening to a comfortable two-syllable name, Gilwë’s calling his Katherine - Kat

nenwaith – lake-folk or water-folk

eledhwaith – star-folk - eledh is an early word for elf, edhel is later.  I like to think Oromë was first greeted by Gilwë and his band and thus given additional cause for naming the elves the Eldar.

tawarwaith – forest-folk or wood-folk

Minyar – First Kindred whom the Noldor would later call the Vanyar

Tatyar – Second Kindred who later called themselves the Noldor

Nelyar – Third Kindred who would call themselves the Lindar and whom the Noldor would later call the Teleri and the Sindar (Eluwaith) and Laiquendi (Nandor)
It appears the eastern Nandor renamed themselves after merging with Avari and expanding their original territory along the Anduin river valley.  So that by the beginning of the Second Age when reconnecting with the grey-elves and green-elves, they were already the Silvan.  By the Third Age, ‘wood-elf’ had come to mean a Mirkwood Silvan.

Tauron – one of the many names of Oromë that Nandorin elves would use (where the Sindar would use Araw)