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Chapter 1.  Letter-bearer

Just ahead of him, Celebrían rode relaxed in the saddle.  Elrond watched her closely, delighting in the way her lithe body gimbaled with Morgarab’s every plodding step down the wide center of the rutted road over the already trampled and wilting grass.  With each subtle adjustment of her head to her mount’s motion, the balmy sunshine scintillated over her wide-brimmed, beribboned hat.  Her bright hair was accommodatingly pinned up and the open collar of her flattering dress was laid down, facilitating an alluring display of her shapely neck.  He closed his eyes for a moment to refresh his sight of her – which brought forth a heavenly sigh when he opened them again.  Barely seven years had passed since his arrival in Aman and it was still hard to believe that he was actually with his beloved again, her restored joy restoring his.

They had had to separate a ways back and ride single file to let a train of haywains trundle by; the drowsing drivers unconcerned with any inconvenience they might cause what few other people they encountered on this rural route.  Elrond might have raised a complaint, but that would have awakened them to his and his lady’s presence when he would rather not have strangers catch him watching his wife so closely. 

If not for the weather, he would consider this slow excursion across Eldamar an idyllic respite from the pressures of court and celebrity.  However, despite being removed from Arda, Aman kept the southern clime in which it had rested when part of the unbended world.  To him, this summer sun felt brighter and hotter than that of Gondor.  He much preferred the cooler hills and valleys of Eriador.  He closed and opened his eyes again; enjoying the same excellent result as before and wondering why he had not thought of this enjoyable activity sooner. 

Celebrían was really quite appealing in her glossy straw hat, a flattering style worn by the farmwives of this region especially when they tended their front gardens.  Use to wearing a hood, it had taken some patience on his part, but he had come to appreciate the airy shade provided by the broad drover’s hat his lady had given him to wear.  He was however even more grateful that she also considered a loose shirt without a tunic acceptable attire for someone of his station.  While on the road anyway, he thought grinning.  He glanced up at the dazzling azure sky.  A good breeze would be most welcome.  Besides cooling the skin, it would set the delicate tendrils of hair caressing Celebrían’s neck in tantalizing motion.

At that pleasant thought, his wife turned and looked back at him with an inviting smile that suggested he come ride beside her once more.  He smiled back; amazingly happy.  She turned forward again; coquettishly confident he would be joining her.  First though, he checked behind on their small luggage cart with its two passengers, just catching up after also yielding to the larger wagons.

Sencyllon and Hacylleth had been playing some sort of guessing game all morning and it appeared Hacylleth had stumped her father again for they were arguing – again.  But, that was simply the way it was with them, Elrond had learned.  It seemed these two did not know how to be at peace with one another, merely silent.  Facing ahead once more, he urged the huffing Lagorbad forward.  When they came abreast with Morgarab and his lady, the two horses fell into the same dreary pace making it easy for their riders to hold hands.

“Look, a milestone,” observed Celebrían.  Elrond grudgingly took his eyes off of his wife and read the ancient marker.

“Well, I figure we are less than an hour away,” he gladly informed her.  “Glorfindel said the village had a very nice inn.”

“That is good.  I would like to freshen up before going to the guesthouse.”  She knowingly smiled at him.  “And I am sure you would too.”

“Very much so!” was his emphatic reply.  An hour in a cool place, noisy taproom or otherwise, had become something he looked forward to.  “In fact, I should like to wait until after sundown to go out again.  Your grandmother recommended the evening as a good time to call since the rehoused would be retired for the night.  I am curious what the inside of such a place feels like.”

“I doubt we would be allowed into the actual guests’ quarters no matter what the hour,” she warned.  “Even if we had the Tári with us.”

Lagorbad shuffled over a large rock and Glorfindel’s letter jostled inside Elrond’s shirt.  The packet, even though now wrapped in soft cotton cloth, was growing more and more irritating as the day wore on – having to tuck stiff things next to one’s skin was a distinct disadvantage of not wearing a tunic.  Putting the letter under his pillow every time he lay down had been merely annoying compared to this.  More than once today, he had considered slipping it inside his saddlebag.  But, that would be breaking his sworn promise to keep it either in hand or in the lockbox.  He should have just brought the clunky thing along.  Finally handing the missive over would be a relief.  And relief was the reason he and Celebrían were on the road when they could be taking their ease in Tirion.  This was the last of the tasks he had undertaken on behalf of others before sailing from Mithlond.

After so many had carried messages for him, Elrond felt greatly obliged and had accepted a good many requests other than Glorfindel’s.  Delivering them himself rather than lingering in Lórien or Tirion had been the right decision – of that he was surer then ever.  Bringing word to those awaiting their loved ones had greatly aided his transition to a more serene life.  It had given him a way to gradually ease out from under his driving sense of responsibility, one simple favor at a time.  When this last and most important letter was passed on, he might finally be able to permit himself the leisure to recover at length, free of any but his own concerns.  Free... for more than just a few hours or days.

Reconciling himself to his children’s absence had not been nearly as easy.  In a very real way, by crossing the sea to the Uttermost West, he had become sundered from them.  A constant ache was not new to him.  For most of his life long, he had suffered from his elder brother’s decision to become mortal.  But, he had learned to handle his pain and carry on.  Celebrían’s absence had added greatly to what had already existed, but still he had carried on.  However, with Arwen, there would be only memories and never a reunion.  No more greetings, no more embraces, no more kisses.  He would never see her and Estel’s children.  That might yet be the unwanted outcome with his sons.

And then, there was Vilya – the other hidden fosterling he had harbored.  Over the age, the sapphire ring had become a integral part of him.  At the last, weakly lingering and agonizingly slow to expire, it had finally succumbed and been interred in the waters of the Belegaer along with its siblings.  The sore hollow it had left in him would never be filled.  Arwen’s choice and the end of Vilya had compounded his pain beyond endurance.  These accumulated sorrows had weighed heavier and heavier upon his heart the nearer the ship had come to Aman’s shore.  The ring-bearers – even Mithrandir – were so debilitated by the end of the voyage that they had to be quickly helped to Lórien.

There, Lady Estë had eased his bitterest wounds with a deep healing such as had never been possible in Ennor, not for Celebrían and not for him.  After the Vala’s challenging treatment – ironic for he had said it so often to his own suffering patients – he could at least live normally with what lingered.  He certainly had had enough practice.  However, there was also an increasing difference in his faer as to the person he had been, even before taking on the burden of his ring.  These days, he was feeling incredibly whole.  He might almost say young, despite having lived ages.

Maybe he had hastened his leaving Lórien a bit, but he was much happier for having taken control of the rest of his recovery.  Galadriel, on the other hand, would not leave the gardens of Irmo for a long time to come.  Her reconciliation lay in assessing the past, not the future.  Wisely, she had taken her daughter’s stern advice and surrendered herself completely into the care of the higher Powers that dwelt there.  After all, Celebrían had undergone a complicated healing only to face a long wait before her husband would be with her again.  Elrond knew how very much Galadriel wanted to welcome Celeborn with the same joy she had witnessed Celebrían welcome him.

Again, he closed his eyes and opened them to the vision of his wife, glowing and beautiful and riding beside him, and he smiled.  Life was wonderful – except he was sweating and the letter chafed.  She looked at him, deceptively composed, and chuckled at his imperfect contentment.

“And why must we wait for sundown to visit?” she asked, feigning petulance.  “I am so tired of waiting for everything that I can no longer tolerate delay over trivial matters.  What little patience I have left must be conserved for greater concerns.”

Elrond continued to smile, but shook his head.  It would be of great satisfaction to both of them – though not ever likely to be had – to know what was in the letter he carried and why it was so important that Glorfindel insisted Elrond hand it over in person.  However, Celebrían was beyond curiosity; she was determined.  How she could possibly find out what Glorfindel had written, and still be a good friend, remained to be seen.

“Is it a trivial matter that we have traipsed over half of Elvenhome to see my pledge completed?” he asked, putting on a serious face and quirking an eyebrow.  “And in this heat?”

The desired effect was achieved; she laughed in carefree, silvered notes that delighted his spirit.  He joined in, but when they quieted back into plain happy smiles, her glittering eyes narrowed and she once more reminded him – as she had almost everyday for the last week – that he had no cause to gripe.

“You campaigned under worse conditions in Mordor, my lord.”

“But this is Eldamar!  It is supposed to be perfect,” he playfully protested; it had become his personal jest.  “However,” he added, “I suppose, as it always turns out, anything real can only be nearly perfect.”

“ Aha!” Celebrían replied, triumphant.  Chagrined, he realized he had unwarily conceded a philosophical point they had discussed the very day he had landed, needy and depressed.

Her hauteur made him recall the other times she had won in debate with him.  Of how her victorious delight would fly through the Hall of Fire and heads would turn to amusedly smile at them.  Many times, she had celebrated her wins by showering him with affectionate rewards for his honesty and for having the confidence to concede at all.  Imladris... the hidden realm they had so cheerfully shared.  He wanted to live in that nearly perfect place again.  Celebrían had stayed with Finarfin and Earwen while waiting, but he knew that she also was more than ready to have her own home again.  The white peaks of the Pelóri hung in the air along the western horizon.  Perhaps, they could settle somewhere in the foothills where there were actual seasons, he hoped, and not Wet Weather, Warm Weather, Wet Again Weather, and Hot Weather.  At the moment, he would be thrilled to play in the snow, even if it was only nearly perfect snow.

“Why not return to Tirion through the hills?” Celebrían suggested, naturally in tune with him.  “Since there is no rush.  We could get a packhorse and send our squabbling blue-jays home.”

“That does sound tempting,” he said, seriously considering the prospect.

“We will go back when we can no longer stand camping out and prefer the comforts of a palace,” she airily went on.  “And who knows, perhaps without even trying, we shall find a new home just for ourselves.”  The rest of the hour was spent scheming about how they would simply disappear after discovering another hidden valley and reminiscing about their cherished homely house.

Almost unexpectedly, Elrond saw a cluster of buildings ahead.  He reluctantly released Celebrían’s hand and rode forward to ask for directions.  A plainly-clothed villager, lazily slouched down in a worn-out basket chair with broken reeds popping up like thorns and his long legs stretched out before him, sat under the shady loggia of what Elrond supposed was a gatehouse, though there was no gate to speak of.

“Alassë' aurë, heru,” greeted the elda without rising to his feet.  “Come to fetch friend or kin?”

“Neither, though the seronopéle is our destination,” Elrond amiably replied.  “I carry a letter for a friend to his friend.  Is the inn close by?”

“Well, depends on which one you seek.”  The fellow was expertly eyeing Lagorbad, who shifted nervously under the close examination and warily stared back.  Elrond reached forward and stroked his neck to soothe him.

“The oldest, I think.”  He looked to Celebrían for confirmation as she pulled up along side; never one to stay back as Amanyar propriety proscribed for a lady, noble or otherwise.

“Alassë' aurë, heri,” said the villager.  For her, he rose to his feet; the chair swaging and creaking in distress as he pushed himself out of it.  “That would be the stone inn straight down this avenue, sir.”

“Does this hostel have a name?” asked Elrond.

“No, sir.  Everyone just calls it the stone inn because t’other is built of wood.”

“Would you prefer that instead, Herves?” he asked Celebrían, switching to speaking Sindarin.

“I have no preference except that Glorfindel probably stayed at the... “ a smile for such charming simplicity tugged at her lips “... stone inn.”

He held back his smile too, and preferred that place for the same reason.

“Elrond Hir-nin,” called Sencyllon from the cart, parked in the middle of the road.  “Which has the better stable?”

“Please you, sir!” cried the villager with a sudden realization that obviously came only from the name spoken and not from knowing Sindarin.  “But, did you arrive aboard the Ring-bearer’s ship?”

“Yes,” he hesitantly replied.  He had thought themselves far enough into the countryside not to be known.

“Then you should not tarry at the inn if you hope to rest.  Word will spread quickly and you will be overwhelmed by the curious.  I would go directly to the seronopéle if I were you.”  A broad smile took over the elda’s face.  “The Aramillë will gladly host you if you are willing to tell the story to her.”

“Her?” repeated Celebrían, looking at her husband with cloaked smugness.  Elrond was genuinely surprised for he had assumed the letter was going to a brother, not a sister, servant of Nienna.  Celebrían had joked that he was assuming wrong because there were far more sisters than brothers, even if only a very few ever presided over their hospice.  If they were to make a wager, she would bet according to the overall odds and Glorfindel’s proclivities.

“Has the guesthouse always been kept by the Aramillë?” Elrond asked.  There could have been a change since their friend had last been here.

“Oh yes, she built it,” was the proud reply.  Celebrían flashed a self-satisfied smile when Elrond glanced over at her.

“We have servants,” he said to the elda, indicating the cart.

“Their staying along with you should be no problem.  But, they will not be allowed to attend you, I think.”  The fellow lightly cleared his throat.  “And the lady will be given a separate room.”

Elrond had to set his jaw and sniff to disguise an involuntary snicker.  The helpful elda could not know that they usually followed the decadent custom of separate bedchambers.  Or that they did not follow the slightly more discrete Amanyar custom of restricting love-making to the indoors.

He looked again to his lady wife, who with an amused twinkle in her eyes, nodded; agreeable to his thinking.

“It cannot be that much further, Herven,” she reasoned.  “And it does not sound as if we would be turned away – if we promise to behave ourselves.”

“Then,” he decided, fighting back an inappropriate grin.  “I think we shall go straight there”.  He turned back to the friendly villager.  “Which road do we take, málo-nya?” 

TBC

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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!

faer – soul or spirit (fëa - Quenya)

Alassë' aurë – ‘good day’ Quenya

seronopéle – guesthouse seron friend(peaceful person) opéle house(walled house/compound) Quenya

tári – queen Quenya

herven/herves – husband/wife

heru/heri – lord or sir/lady or madam Quenya

hir/hiril – lord or sir/lady or madam

Aramillë – mother superior high mother Quenya

málo-nya – my friend Quenya

Ulbanís and Rostaro are OCs from another fanfic: Beech Leaves.

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Chapter 2.  Mother-figure

Ulbanís dropped the soiled breechcloth into the covered hamper that Sindórië would soon collect to carry to the laundry.  Rostaro, unlike the restive baby he usually was, had been cooperative while she changed him so she tickled his bare belly with her pinky fingers to let him know she was finished and he could now move as he pleased.

“Oo yess! Oo yess!” she cooed over him.  “That is sooo much better!  Yess it is!”  He gave a joyful baby-cackle of laughter, energetically kicking his little legs and slapping his wee hands against hers.  She wiggled her fingers up to his ribs where he was particularly ticklish.  “You are such goood little seldo!”  He began laughing so hard that he turned red and in no time was exuberantly silent, unable to catch his breath.  “Yess you are!  Yess you are!”  She stopped only when it looked like he could stand no more.

Panting for air, he numbly relaxed; his eagerness to romp from morning until night finally depleted.  Ulbanís smiled.  Since noon, all her efforts had been directed to tiring him out and it looked as if he would now welcome a rest as much as she.  But then in next moment, he was enthusiastically kicking again; giggling and grabbing her hands, trying to pull himself up.  “Goodness, does nothing wear you down?” she lamented, actually more pleased than resentful.

She continued to cluck at him as she sat him up and struggled to wrap him in a clean short-gown, jiggling off his hands whenever he tried to get a grip on her fingers.  She carefully tied the string closers in such a way that he would not be able to undo them – which he promptly tested.  Then, she lifted him from the table to straighten out the blanket beneath him; laying him down again to swiftly swaddle him and take him up into her arms.

“Amee!” he shouted in protest, desiring to have been set down on the floor instead.  For he was beginning to find his feet and would readily travel around the room supporting himself against the furniture and walls.  He would also beg to be held by his hands to walk with stompy baby-steps however far his helper would take him.  Being swaddle meant taking a nap and as he was not ready to sleep, he squirmed against his confinement.

“My my, nercë!  You are in such a hurry to go places!” she said with teasing scorn.  After a few more ineffectual attempts to kick out of the blanket, he stopped and began blowing through his closed lips in frustration.

With a less than sympathetic chuckle, she crossed the room and sat down in her chair by the cold fireplace.  He wanted to climb onto everything too.  So, she had made a battened box to safely occupy his efforts whenever he got into a determined mood and put up her feet on the toy because it made a good hassock as well.  Sighing, she smiled lovingly down at him.  He instantly became happy again, gazing back at her with an open smile and adoring eyes.

Holding Rostaro like this was pure bliss for Ulbanís; she delighted in looking after him.  Until this child had arrived, she would never have thought that on her rare day of rest she would willingly choose to look after such a demanding baby.  In truth, he needed no more care than some of the feeblest reborn she had looked after and was much easier to lift.  She did feel a little guilty for loving him as much as she did.  But, it was meant to be this way between mother and child, she told herself.  Even if she were only his replacement mother.  Really, it was not that often she had him here to fawn over.  As he slowly settled down, she became more hopeful that he would fall asleep before his foster-parents returned to take him home to the village.  Her yondo hated separating from his amillë, especially after a full day of her almost undivided attention.

The gate-bell rang and it startled her, rousing Rostaro.  They should not be back so soon!  A little while longer and she could have handed him over without any parting wails!  The expected knock upon the chamber door came, but it was Sindórië who quietly came in.  Instead of picking up the hamper, the sister came over to her to tell her who was at the gate.  Ulbanís looked up at her apprehensive, but Sindórië smiled and shook her head no – Rostaro’s parents had not arrived.

“There are visitors for you from Tirion.  They looked overheated so I put them in the back room,” the seler silently reported.  “Varnëcil has taken their horses and cart into the barn.”  Speaking with only the lips was an important skill in this house where every unguarded whisper or open thought might carry too much information for a troubled reborn.  “Shall they wait until Rostaro has gone?”

Ulbanís weighed the importance of finding out her visitors’ business against the convenience of getting the child to go to sleep.  She looked down at him and he was wide-awake, confidently burbling his own incomprehensible opinion of the situation.  She shook her head in amused consternation.  His tongue was going to run as fast as his feet!  A month from now, he might have to be put on a lease like a yappy puppy.  She laughed at the image and surrendered to his stamina.

“I will talk with the visitors now,” she decided, speaking aloud.  With a helping hand from Sindórië, she rose from her chair.

“Shall I take this bundle to the laundry then?” the seler joked, poking Rostaro, who pushed out his tongue at her.  “There is still room in the basket.”

“No, let us see how well he behaves with strangers,” Ulbanís said with a wink.

Together, they went to the small room at the rear of the refectory where Sindórië first knocked then opened the door for her aramilllë to enter.  Here, Ulbanís easily determined, was a noble couple and their family servants, who were a family themselves.  The four stood up from the low benches where they had been sitting against the wall.  The maid servant took the others’ cups and bowls from them, placing them upon the coverless table.  Sindórië had thoughtfully provided them with water and fruit.  If any had arrived ‘overheated’, everyone was recovered now.

The lovely lady with starlight hair only appeared to be Teleri; her jade eyes indicated otherwise.  The sable-haired lord was probably Sindar too; his features were imprecise although distinguishingly handsome.  Sindórië introduced the four with the simplest courtesy.

“Aramillë, this is Sencyllon and Hacylleth.”  The father and daughter bowed and stepped back with their eyes respectfully downcast.  But, not without exchanging glances over the baby in Ulbanís’ arms.

“Aramillë, this is Elrond and Celebrían.”  The lord and lady graciously bowed, confident.  They were people not easily awed.  There was an aura of compassion and charity about them; a giving quality as natural as breathing.

“Aramillë Ulbanís.”  She returned to them all only a slight bow as she was rather encumbered by Rostaro – who loudly shouted “Ni!” and began to struggle mightily in his blanket.  The lady chuckled, at once understanding his outburst.

“I would very much like to hold you,” she said, stepping forward and reaching out to them.  Intrigued by his reaction to the lady, Ulbanís let her take Rostaro.  “What a darling you are!” she declared when she looked down at him in her arms.

She rocked him a little and then barely pressed his nose with tip of her finger, causing peals of delight to ring forth.  She tried to loosen his swaddling one-handed and her lord came to her aid.  Watching them handled the task with ease, it was obvious to Ulbanís that they had taken personal care of their children and not depended solely upon nursemaids.  As soon as his arms were free, Rostaro reached for the lady’s hair getting hold of but a slim, loose strand since it was coiled atop her head.

“Oh ho, Mallos!  You most certainly are an ellon!” she merrily adjudged.

“Yes, he is,” Ulbanís confirmed, out of pride and to let them know she understood Sindarin.

“He is yours?” asked the amused lord as he nabbed one of Rostaro’s little feet by the big toe and shook it to draw the child’s attention.  Rostaro released his grasp on the lady’s hair and reached for the lord’s hand.

“Elrond!” exclaimed the lady, embarrassed.  “Please excuse my husband, Aramillë.  He is not familiar with your holy order.”  The lord realized his mistake and immediately apologized.

“I do beg your pardon, Aramillë!  I am ignorant of the whole institution and that is my only excuse for such rudeness.  Please forgive me.”  His plea was sincere and elegantly presented with a penitent bow of the head and a hand pressed to his breast.  Ulbanís was more than pleased to forgive.  Rostaro, on the other hand, was not at all pleased with losing the lord’s notice.  Letting loose an adamant yell, he flailed and unintentionally gave Celebrían a back-handed slap to the face, which she mirthfully berated him for.  Unrepentant, he contentedly gazed at her, not caring what she said as long as she said it to him.

So, Ulbanís thought, the lord is newly arrived from Endor.  Yet, had she not heard these names before?  The lady’s name seemed especially familiar.  Celebrían... the granddaughter of Queen Eärwen... the daughter of Artanis... who had recently returned as Galadriel... the lord was then that Elrond.  He seemed little like what Ulbanís would have expected for his being such a powerful prince.  Perhaps it was his weariness, but more likely with both these quendi it was the deceptive lack of sophistication that most of the Sindar she had met habitually hid behind.

“What a tragedy losing this precious little one must have been,” said Celebrían as she sat down on a bench and stood the blathering Rostaro up on his feet upon her lap.  Elrond looked on them enchanted, clearly remembering their own children at this age.

“Please excuse my ignorance once again, Aramillë,” begged the lord as he unexpectedly turned to her.  “The child is a rehoused?  But, he is only a baby!”

“Yes, Lord Elrond, and we prefer to say ‘reborn’ here,” she informed him.  “In fact, he was newborn when he arrived in the arms of another who was not kin.  I expect his mother is alive somewhere, else they would have come back together.  He is more than likely Úmanyar.  Sadly, his case is not so rare.”

Elrond stepped back, contemplating upon the seeming injustice of it.

“I suppose it would be unfair to never allow him the life his mother gave him,” he pondered aloud.  “And what would he know of any parent other than the ones who raise him?  He does appear lovingly fostered and will never judge his being orphaned as cruel.  But under these conditions, Aramillë, how will his inevitable question be answered?  What will you say when he wonders from whom he has actually sprung?”  As the lord posed this dilemma, a judgmental eyebrow rose.  Ulbanís held back her smile at the charming affectation. 

For he spoke with the sympathy of someone who had been orphaned himself and had been confounded by his true parentage.  She sensed that, although still a young child, Elrond was older then Rostaro when he lost his parents and had vague memories of them.  During his most tender years, those around him – although loving him – had perhaps given him too many different answers regarding his mother and father.  And he was apparently still estranged from them.

“He will be told the truth,” she replied.  “That there is no means to know save by the grace of the Valar.  And that informing such children of their parentage is not one of Their concerns.”

“Considering what circumstances could have caused him to be slain while so very young... that may well be the best policy,” he reluctantly admitted.  “For all parties.”  The circumstance he was obviously considering was a kinslaying and the hatred felt by the victims; hatred which had lasted generations.  Ulbanís preferred to think it was wolves rather than that.

“My lord,” interrupted Celebrían.  She looked askance at her husband.  “The reason why we are here?” she reminded him.  Rostaro was pulling at the shiny buttons of the lady’s dress, utterly fascinated with how they stayed stuck to her clothing.

“Yes, Lord Elrond,” asked Ulbanís, “why have you come here?”

“On a personal matter, Aramillë,” he quietly answered.  She nodded and indicated to Sindórië to take the servants out with her.  Celebrían lifted Rostaro from her lap to stand on the floor and hang off her hands.  The child immediately tried to walk to Elrond, who stooped down and extended his hands to him.  A quick transfer from the lady’s hands to the lord’s and Rostaro confidently charged into Elrond embrace.

“Or!” he shouted.  Celebrían laughed with glee when Elrond hoisted the startled baby high over his head.  Rostaro plainly thought he was only going to be held and not thrown into the air.  His breath stalled – as did that of Ulbanís – until he was deftly caught. 

“Un!” he yelped.  The lord smoothly flew him back to his seated lady where Rostaro squirmed in her lap jabbering an unintelligible description of his aerial adventure; a hand clutching her dress and an arm waving over his head with one tiny finger ineptly pointing up.

“Goodness!  Did you fly up into the sky?” Celebrían asked good-naturedly incredulous and looking up to where he pointed.

“Lord Elrond,” said Ulbanís, recalling the lord’s attention and telling herself not to allow him the opportunity to do that with the child again.

“Yes, of course,” he responded, removing his rapt grin and turning a sober face to her.  “Once again, I beg your pardon, Aramillë.”  He reached into his shirt and brought out a thin packet wrapped in a kerchief.  Removing the cloth, he chivalrously presented it to her with both hands.  “Laurefindë sends this to you.”

She stared at it, momentarily stunned.  He was alive?!  He was alive in Endor?!

“Thank you,” she replied in a weak voice as she took it into her two unsteady hands.  The lord and lady were watching her reaction, rightly interested.  But, she refused to share her pathetic excitement with outsiders and forced an outwardly calm demeanor.

“As you have, I am sure, already surmised... “  She had to take a breath.  “Laurefinde was a guest here.  And someone I never thought to hear from again.”

“We understand if you wish to read it now,” said Celebrían, bouncing the thrumming Rostaro on her knees.

“Thank you,” she said, deeply grateful for such consideration.  Indeed, she was most anxious to read it!  “Please, will you stay as my personal guests?”

“That is very generous of you, Aramillë.  My lady and I would be honored to stay,” replied Elrond with a courteous inclination of his head and shoulders.

“I will have Sindórië return and show you to rooms and help you with anything else you may need.  His foster-parents will be here soon to take him home again.  I will join you at supper if possible.”  She tucked the unforeseen letter into the wide cuff of her turned-back sleeve and hurriedly gathered up Rostaro from Celebrían.

“Nama!”  Both lord and lady bid him farewell with a childlike wave of a hand.

“Nama!” he cheerfully called back to them, holding on to Ulbanís for balance and repeatedly clasping the air with the tiny fingers of an reaching hand.  Then, he suddenly leaned back and looked straight at his amillë.  “Nama?”  His sweet face scrunched up, rapidly turning crimson in a preamble to hot tears.

“There now, lisullë,” soothed the lady, coming to stand close to them.  She stroked his darkening cheek and he became tranquil.  After another slow stroke, he fell against Ulbanís shoulder.  Another stroke – he was fast asleep.  Ulbanís was amazed!

“He was very tired,” Celebrían explained, gently patting Rostaro’s back.  Elrond anticipated Ulbanís’ next question with an oblique warning.

“An easy trick for your kin, my lady, but not for the rest of us,” he said as he opened the door for Ulbanís.  But, she cared not if it were a family secret.  Before they left, she swore she would know how it was done!

“Thank you again,” she said, grateful on two accounts.  Rostaro snuffled loudly.  “And he thanks you too.”  They all quietly laughed and Ulbanís paused in the doorway.  “On behalf of Rostaro, I will speak.  He has enjoyed very much meeting you, Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrían, and hopes to play with you again someday.”

“May the stars light your path, Rostaro,” returned Elrond, speaking for himself and his lady.

Closing the door after the aramillë, he sauntered over to Celebrían, his hands lightly clasped behind his back.

“That was not a loving expression on her face when she received the letter.  In fact, it does not appear that she is at all pleased with the prospect of Glorfindel’s return.  I think you have lost your wager after all,” he said, teasingly arrogant.  However, Celebrían did not respond to his provocation.  She was distracted, still gazing after the seler and the baby.

“Rostaro... ,” she mused.  “Who named you that, I wonder?”

“Why?  Does it matter?” asked her husband, suspicious of her interest.  Celebrían looked at him annoyed that he should ask such a ridiculous question.

“Of course, it matters!”  She turned and faced him.  He knew exactly what she was thinking and brought up both his hands in a desperate halting gesture.

“Oh, no!” he said, shaking his head.  “We are not going to try and find his parents!  That is not our responsibility.”  He nervously watched her as she took a breath, preparing to argue, but then thankfully relented.

“You are right,” she said in a mild tone, only appearing to give in.  “ ‘Tis the wrong time to take on such a task.  Maybe when Naneth leaves Lórien and can be of help.  It could be something to occupy her until Ada arrives.”

“Celebrían, forget this entirely – right now!” he daringly ordered.

“Why?” she asked with a patronizing smile instead of railing him with her own instructions, which only meant she thought he had no reasonable arguments to make.

“Because the aramillë would have undertaken it herself if it were the right thing to do.”  He felt confident about that assessment, despite having had little speech with the seler.  Celebrían’s slowly changing expression told him that she was drawing the same conclusion.  Although qualified in some way.  So, he coopted her hesitation.  “Let him decide for himself.  Offer your help then,” he urged.

“Yes.”  She thoughtfully nodded then sighed.  “You are right.  Only if he asks.”

“Thank you,” said Elrond, relieved that things had not veered wildly away from any of their newly-laid plans for the future.

TBC

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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!

nercë – ‘little man’ Quenya

quendi – elves Quenya

seldo/selde/selda – boy/girl/child Quenya

yondo – son Quenya

amillë/amil/amm‎ë – mater/mother/mom Quenya

aramillë – mother superior high mother Quenya

seler/toron – sister/brother who is not a sibling Quenya

ellon/elleth – elf male/female

mallos – golden-bell (a variety of flower)

lisillë/lisullë – sweetie diminutive of sweet, fem./masc. Quenya

amee – mama babytalk ammë Quenya

ni – me babytalk ni Quenya

or - up babytalk or Quenya

un - down babytalk un(du) Quenya

nama - bye-bye babytalk namarie Quenya

naneth/nana – mother/mom

adar/ada – father/dad

Ulbanís and Rostaro are OCs from another fanfic: Beech Leaves.

 >> - >> - >> - >> - >> - >> - >> - >> - >> - >> - >> - >> -

Chapter 3.  Rat-slayer

“Tulkas come save us!  Ulbanís, how did you let it get this bad?!”  Laurefindë threw a couple more dispatched rodents into the filling crate of corpses and slammed down the lid.  Flamboyantly pulling off his gloves, he released them from shoulder height to drop on top of the tightly closed container.

“If I had known this wretched species bred so proficiently,” her angry voice reverberated against the sides of the large storage bin she was half inside and aggressively scrubbing out, “I would have taken the time to encourage them to find another place to despoil!”

She pushed herself out into the open air.  Charcoal-colored water dribbled from the heavy bristle-brush firmly gripped in one of her strong hands as she held it out and away from her hiked up skirt.  Fruitlessly blowing straggling strands of hair away from her sweaty brow, she wearily straightened up to wipe her empty hand on her soaked apron; plainly disgusted and as worn out as her scrub-brush.

“Merciful Elentári,” she said, in a tone wrought with bitter sarcasm.  “Are we not fortunate that so glorious a warrior as you needed a place to hide out anon!”

“Who is hiding out?” he asked, innocently blinking at her.  “Why, I am only quietly visiting a...” a boldly suggestive grin bloomed “... special friend.”

She automatically flushed at the innuendo and became so furious with him for choosing this moment to tease her that she threw her scrub-brush at his feet with enough force for it to land with a flat splash in the pooling water, splattering dirty streaks over both their clothing as well as the bin she had just cleaned up.

“I asked you not to call me your special friend anymore!!” she practically screamed through clenched teeth.  “I am sick of your clever wit!  Do you mean to ruin my reputation?!”

“No! Certainly not!” he protested, completely surprised at her vehement response – and, she could see through the haze of her anger, suddenly afraid that his almost habitual joke might be having the stated detrimental effect.  He raised both his hands either in surrender or to ward her off – it was hard to tell.

Then all of a sudden, he was looking past her and uttering another vain plea to the Ainur, this time to Oromë.  So she also looked.  A large, slinky brown rat was scurrying along the stone foundation of the infested storage barn intent on running across the open yard to the animal barn.  Flashing out a steely throwing knife from the full holster hanging off his belt, Laurefindë took quick aim and flung it at his sprinting target.  It pinned the animal to the ground, delivering a swift death.  Ulbanís cried out; a natural reflex to Laurefindë’s vicious, quicksilver move and the resulting mortality.

“That makes an even twenty,” he said, deftly whirling a second gleaming blade – pulled in case he missed with the first – before executing a showy flip and returning it to the holster.  “Pretty good for one morning’s tally, if I do say so myself.  I ken them now.  See if I do not get twice as many in the hours ‘til night.”

Ulbanís moaned in despair; her shoulders drooped under defeat.

Empty bins were on her right and spilled out mounds of contaminated wheat were on her left.  The stock-piled grain that was meant to be bartered for all the necessities of the guesthouse was now unfit even for pig feed.  As they stood here over the bloating bodies of the perpetrators, precious grain was still being lost; continually ruined by an exponential foe.  Three harried sisters and one young helper were simply too few hands to get ahead of the voracious rats and also care for the reborn.  She bent down and overturned her mop-bucket, spilling the sudsy contents onto the already squishy grass.  Then, she plopped down to sit upon it, bowed head in hands.

“Amillë!”  Laurefindë immediately came to her side, falling to his knees with a splash in the grey puddle.  He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and leaned her head against his chest.  “I am so sorry!  I should not have killed the creature right in front of you like that!  That was very callous of me!”  She shook her head for that was not what had overwhelmed her.  “You are right,” he said thoroughly contrite.  “I am a thoughtless cretin.  I should never have presumed.  I do not show you the proper respect.”  She shook her head again.  “Uh... I should not have arrived unannounced?  I am abusing our friendship and your kind hospitality... ?”  He was at a loss – because everything was always about him.  So why should he understand that this was about her?  Annoyed, she shook her head again.  Best if she just admitted the truth.  But, a sob escaped her throat instead of words.  She swallowed hard and strove to get control of her voice.

“... ‘tis nothing you have done...”  Another sob leaped out and tears began to flow.  “... we have all worked so hard... and this is all my fault... “  She drew a shaky breath.

“Nothing of the sort!” he adamantly declared. 

“... we needed this grain... ”  She pulled back and looked with unmasked anguish into his confused face.  “... I... I may have to close our gate!”   

Having said it, she broke down bawling.  The villagers had already been kind to a fault and could not be asked for more!  So many sponsors, some who could ill-afford it, had faithfully placed their donations into her inept hands!  How could she go back and tell them she had failed their trust?  She impulsively wrapped her arms around Laurefindë’s chest and clung to him, devastated.

“Please!  Please do not cry!” he begged, starting to become empathetically weepy.  “This is not all your fault!  You are not the only one to underestimate these trespassers!  They are spreading like a filthy plague across the countryside and should have been exterminated at the docks ere they were allowed to leap onto Aman’s blessed soil!”  He adjusted his position to more comfortably sit back on his heels while holding her.  “All will be well.  Everything will be fine,” he said, speaking to himself as much as to her.  He began to rock her and rub her back as one would a colicky infant.  “Please stop crying!  You will not have to close.  I will replace the loss myself.”

“... you have not the means…” she managed to say, muffled against his shoulder now damp from her tears, “... not any more than I...”

“Well, I will earn some means,” he assured her – peeved at her dismissal of him.  “I have some skills.”  Of course, he did – knowing he was more than good at his warrior arts was what gave him his great confidence.  He had proven his significant worth in dire battle – even to the Valar by dispensing vital training to the Host before it had embarked upon the war against Melkor.  But then after all he had done to prepare them, Laurefindë had been forcibly restrained from returning to Ennor – something he greatly resented.  “And I have an even more valuable skill now,” he declared.  “Along with your well-respected recommendation, I hope!”

He abruptly extricated himself from her and, standing up, took on the exaggerated pose of a theatrical hero.  She looked up at him in his grimy clothes and thought how truly impressive he was despite the sagging muddy knees, fly-away hair, and self-mockery.

“Rat-slayer for Hire!” he proclaimed with a gleaming faux smile, his fists planted firmly upon his hips.  “Rats, snakes, spiders and vermin of all kinds – eradicated!!”  He threw a hand up, executing a flourished snap of the fingers.  “Balrogs are extra.”  She could not help but laugh. 

“Alas, I cannot afford you, Master Rat-slayer!” she melodramatically replied, pretending a swooning helplessness.  “Have pity on a poor sister!”  Relieved that he had stopped her weeping, he swashed down beside her again on one soggy knee; gently lifting her roughened hands to hold between his calloused ones.  “An amusing game, Laurefindë, but no solution,” she said, sniffling but comforted enough to carry on.  “We are not your responsibility.  I will apply to Caloron for further relief.”

“No, you will not!”  For some strange reason, he had formed a dislike of her landlord.  Caloron was not high born, but when Laurefindë called him common – it sounded like an insult.

“No, you will not!”  He actually blushed as she fixed him in another fuming stare.  She sat up straight and withdrew her hands from his.  It occurred to her then that she had not ever seen him so taken aback by anything she had said – her tears had wholly overwhelmed him!  Recognizing her best opportunity, she went for it.  “If you truly wish to make me happy, go back to Ilmarin instead of sailing to Eressëa.”

“How – ?!  I never said anything about – !”  He sprang to his feet and stared down at her at first in disarray then offended.  “I suppose, you always will know my mind even without knowing my thoughts.”  She would not be enjoying her small victory – he knew exactly how to retaliate and would.  “How disconcerting you servants of Nienna are.  No wonder you have so few return visitors.”  Her life had indeed become one of isolation compared to the gregarious days of her youth.  Laurefindë was one of the few of their kindred to have actually visited her, and more than once, in this distant countryside.  However, he liked to think of himself as a disciplined warrior – and his derision spoke not of offense as much as mortification.

Yestereve during her welcome of him, she had sensed that this visit was a prelude to an important decision on his part.  He had purposely arrived under cover of night so he was clearly worried about being stopped from going wherever he was going.  His behavior at breakfast had denoted something of a parting ritual, so she figured he was thinking of leaving Eldamar.  Ever a courtier, it was not difficult to guess that the Lonely Isle was his destination and not some solitary wilderness.

In his present emotional state, if she silently beseeched him, appearing as if she were on the edge of tears again, which she was, he would be unable to bear it for long and have to say something.  She would then get the truth from him.  So, she held his eyes with hers, encircling his guarded heart with her plaintive one – and he could not turn away.

The sharp-edged shadow cast by the barn slowly crept towards them.  The grass began to dry; the smoky water seeping slowly into the ground.  Small birds came to frolic in the sloppy puddles formed around the bins.  The moldering grain began to stink.  Fat, glistening flies attracted by the spoilage, started buzzing around the closed crate seeking entrance.  The young barn cat, understandably cowed by the rats, came from across the yard and stealthfully stationed himself in a spot where he could bid his time until ready to pounce; his unwavering stare fixed upon the carefree birds.

Much sooner than Ulbanís anticipated, Laurefindë caved.  He huffed and crossed his arms; exasperated and reluctantly yielding to the situation he had brought upon himself by coming to see her.  Then unfolding his arms, he again knelt down beside her and hesitantly reached for her hands.  She quickly grasped both of his with both of hers.

“You are the only person I shall truly miss when I go,” he said with some umbrage, averting his angry eyes by looking down at their clasped hands.

“Why?” she gently asked; knowing the answer, but also selfishly eager to hear it.

“Because I love you most of all, Amillë,” he stated without any hesitation – then added more than she wanted to hear.  “For though you are my second mother, you are better than my first.”

“Your amil does not deserve what you just said,” she reprimanded him; disappointed he was still not able to set aside his grievances against his parents.  “How could she ever understand you, seeing as no other in your family has ever set foot off Taniquetil since settling there?”

“Did that give her and atar the right to disown me?” he asked, barely holding back his bitterness.

“In their eyes, yes.  In yours, no.  In mine, you have always expected too much from them.”

“Your family still talks to you.”

“My family is not as virtuous as yours.”

He looked at her and scowled.

“Very well then – as pious.”

“I tried to do everything that was asked of me when reborn.  I went back to their house repentant and they still refused to acknowledge me.  How can they continue to hold my going to war against me now when so many others including Ingwë’s own son have gone as well?”  His pained expression showed that his whining hurt even his own ears.  “I do not think that I should discuss this with you.”

“Who else is there?”  She squeezed his hands.  “Do not deceive yourself about the difference between you going to Endor under Their condemnation and Ingil going with Their blessings.  Are you angry that you do bear some of the fault for your being shunned by certain people?”

“No, I ... I do not wish you to be found at fault for abetting me.”  She realized with little satisfaction that she had been right to accuse him of hiding out when he came to her door.  He had obviously sneaked away from the Holy Mountain – without obtaining proper leave.  The last thing she wanted was for him to get into irremediable trouble.

“Then you do indeed intend to leave Eldamar for very foolish reasons!”

“You know nothing of my reasons!”

“Are you so blind to your own ambitions?” she taunted him.  Of course, he was not unaware of his wants, but he would not tell her everything if she did not push him.  “Save for foolish reasons, you would by now have regaled me with every detail of your little plot, when and how and why.  You know your plan is utter folly and you are embarrassed, not concerned for me!”

“But not so distracted that I cannot see what you are doing, Seler.”

“Well, I am glad you are paying such close attention.  Listen closely to this!”  She tightened her grip so he would not easily slip away from her.  “You are feeling useless – nothing more.”  She felt some of the tension go out of him which assured her that she was right.  “I can understand that feeling.  It is the greatest reason we became friends.  Your forbearers and mine were not the sort that would ever sit blissfully at Manwë’s feet.  We have been gifted with discontent.  Although, your parents – and mine as understandable as they are – would probably call it a bane and not a blessing.  Many cannot understand why we must act or that we need to do something more than bask in Ilmarin’s glory and compose praises!  My way is to be a mother to the reborn and yours is to be a captain to a prince.  But, being unordinary does not mean we must also be unwise.  I sought guidance – Their guidance! – in following my vocation and you should be doing the same.”

“You are not in such great straits as a result of that guidance, now are you,” he pointed out, with some malice.  “They have cheated me of my free choice once already,” he growled.  “I should have gone with the Host!”  He angrily jerked his hands away from her and stood up; his hands fisted at his sides.  He stepped away, but did not leave.

“And you would have been slain for a second time!” she fervently explained.  “Then what great straits might you be in?  The Halls of Waiting until the End?  Do not presume to always know what is best for you, child!”

“I am not a seldo but a nér!”  Now, she thought, he will tell me.  “And I have to go elsewhere for there is no prince here that will take me into his service.”  His pride had been deeply wounded and, knowing that pain so very well herself, it struck her hard.

“Oh, Laurefindë!  How miserable for you!” she cried, going to him and embracing him.  “But, why?” she asked, leaning back to see his face.  “You are supremely qualified!”

“Why do you think?  All to whom I have applied repeat Eönwë’s assessment of me.  That I am too single-minded.  Not the true reason, of course.  But, it is unconscionable to be unprepared for war!  Look at what has already happened following such a policy!  In Avallonë, there are those who share my opinion!”

She had heard his view on keeping a standing army many times before and she was still not convinced of the wisdom of it any more than King Ingwë.  And it was the High King of the Eldar’s opinion that the other Kings and princes were expected to follow.  Which was the true reason for Laurefindë‘s lack of a position just as he had said.  Nevertheless, he would not set his disruptive conviction aside – even for the sake of loyalty.

“Enough!” she ordered, alarmed.  “You need to go back to Ilmarin and avoid getting caught in the tangled nets of disgruntled Exiles, pardoned or not.”

“I am done with The Powers!”  But, she instantly knew differently.

“No, you are not, Laurefindë Vany’aráto,” she replied, calmed by the sure knowledge.  He glowered at her, obstinate.  He did not want to trust her, but was unable to dismiss her wisdom and past good advice – her advice perhaps the unacknowledged reason he had come to her before deserting the mainland.  However this time, she felt, her advice would not necessarily be followed when it absolutely must.  “If you will not do it for yourself, will you please do it for me?”

She watched him struggle to say the answer he wanted and not the answer she wanted.  Eventually, he did answer; although he was so frustrated at giving in that he could not use words.  Only a nod, yet it bound him as would an oath.  She was exceedingly relieved.

“Please,” she pleaded, embracing him again, “do not give up.”  Releasing him, she stepped back taking hold of his hands and searching his gloomy face for forgiveness.  “Strive as hard as you ever have.  If you are steadfast, Manwë will hear your petition for suitable employment.  And remember that you do have a home and family in Eldamar.  With me, wherever I am.”

“What if once again Súlimo simply sends me down to sit on Taniquetil in sublime meditation?”

“You slipped away this time, did you not?” she asked, intentionally flattering his skill and will.  “If there is no other recourse, you shall come to me for I will never send you away again.  I promise.”  She let go of his hands.  “Take courage,” she said and patronizingly patted his chest.  “They might make you Exterminator Lord General and commission you anew to train a troop of rat-slayers and save Eldamar from these fell beasts.”

“Ha-ha. Very funny. You could join a comedy troupe if this living does not work out for you.”  His cheerless countenance changed to a rueful smile before he kissed the cheek she offered with the added aid of pointing out with her index finger the exact spot where his lips should land.  Then scanning the surrounding scene, he said with a sigh, “Well, Mother, I will not go back to make a further mess of my life until this mess is cleaned up.”

“Thank you, my son,” she said in her most condescending aramillë voice.  “Would you then please turn that heavy bin over for me?  And this time brace it up so it may properly dry out.”

 >>->>  >>->>  >>->>

The stiff pages of the letter rustled in her shaking hand, rattling like autumn leaves.  She wiped away tears lest they fall and smear the ink.  She was laughing that hard.

Ulbanís laughed not just because she was relieved that someone she loved was alive instead of having once more been brutally slain.  Or that the disheartened reborn, who had become her disillusioned friend and an exile for an unprecedented second time, was instead happy and fulfilled and looking forward to coming back.  No, welcomed relief was not the whole reason for her glee.

What made her laugh so loud and hard was the florid signature on the last page: Laurefindë Nyarro-nahtar.

TBC

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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!

seldo/selde/selda – boy/girl/child Quenya

amillë/amil/amm‎ë – mater/mother/mom Quenya

aramillë – mother superior high mother Quenya

seler/toron – sister/brother who is not a sibling Quenya

nér/nís – elf male/female Quenya

amil/atar – mother/father Quenya

Súlimo – another name for Manwë, Wind(breath) Lord(person)

Elentári – another name for Varda, Star Queen

vany’aráto – fair champion (beautiful hero) Quenya - An anessë from Ulbanís, not Tolkien

nyarro-nahtar – rat-slayer Quenya

Ulbanís and Rostaro are OCs from another fanfic: Beech Leaves.

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Chapter 4.  Gossip-queen

Celebrían stepped off the low porch into the selers’ walled garden, instantly drawn away from the worn stoop by the ever-so-faint scent of lembas corn on the cooling air of the advancing evening.  She would never have expected this tiny community to have the time to tend a planting large enough to make its presence thus known.  As the sun slipped further below the horizon and stars tentatively peeked out into the transforming sky, she walked the winding pathways in a pleasant casual search for the corn patch.  An unaware observer would have thought that the lovely lady was only enjoying an aimless turn in the open air after dining.

A variety of trees, in all stages of growth from sapling to ruinous age, were spread throughout the compact grounds.  Their placement might have seemed unplanned, but Celebrían could see that was not so.  Tall, intersecting hedgerows obscured the outer walls and subdivided the inner area into numerous smaller plots, rather like a maze, beguiling one’s sense of distance and direction.  The kitchen garden itself looked regimentally well-tended, but at present there was no one to show it off to her.  A simple wellspring and basin sat midway along the swervy main walkway that led to a locked gate, which she knew must exit into the farmyard.

Everywhere were the signs of epochal occupation; sunken pavers, leaning rock walls, sloping stone benches, and the rough made shiny smooth from millions of fleeting touches.  All of these objects were of ordinary construction, never having been imbued with durability by a master builder.  As in the poorer parts of Tirion, the place had a neglected quaintness that came from worn-down things that were infrequently replaced.

Since the house was already surrounded by high walls, what she sought she would not have thought intentionally hidden.  After her exploratory tour without finding the source of the elusive aroma, she turned to studying the grass and paths for any traces by which she could track down the location.  When she found the crop close to the south wall – deftly concealed but not well enough to evade one of the Galadhrim – it was a very small plot indeed.  The strong fragrance bespoke of a robust strain of plant.  Standing relaxed and motionless, she sank herself into inner stillness; letting what residual heat that remained in the ripening grain rise and lazily flow around her.  When that warmth dispersed and she felt the plants coming to rest for the night, she bent down and plucked a single kernel; husking it between her rolling fingers with practiced ease.  Its flavor flooded over her tongue before she even bit down on it to bruise the bran.

“So, what do you think, Aranel?” asked Ulbanís as she came to stand beside the princess.  Celebrían had hardly heard her approach.  Quietness was a useful skill for a sister as well as a scout, she assumed.

“Aromatic.  Substantial.  Sweet.  Plump rather than middle-sized.”  She ran her fingers along the spry awn of the nearest stalk.  “A good choice for a small grower.  Reminds me of a heritage variety, Asar Asto.”

“Yes, exactly!  You were Yavannildi as well as... what is it in Sindarin... besain?” asked the aramillë.

“Not exactly,” she explained.  “A basdan – one of a sort of lay order and guild to be found only in the larger cities of Ennor.  We made plainer breads.”   She donned a slightly feline smile.  “And, aided the Ivonwin – as they are named in Sindarin.”

“Ah,” Ulbanís knowingly smiled.  “A greater need than can be met by the ordained maidens of the queen?  East or West, it seems that there are always too few participants in the production of coimas to meet the demand.”

“Yes, exactly,” replied Celebrían with sarcastic amusement, and then spit out the seed. 

The night had come full on and brilliant stars cast a soft glimmer over the top of the encircling hedges.  The two matrons looked at one another, faintly limed by the pale reflection cast by the slumbering corn.

“This is also by necessity,” the aramillë explained, indicating the tiny crop with a wide sweep of her hand.  “The village is far from any massánie’s oversight.” 

Ulbanís was freely admitting what was already obvious to Celebrían – that the seler was not authorized to grow or make the blessed bread, let alone distribute it.  But, how else would her guesthouse have a reliable supply?  No doubt, she gave it to the needy of the village as well.

“Even so, Aramillë, I shall not ask if you were ever Yavannildi.” 

They laughed together as fellow conspirators.  Both were guardians of this sacred gift, but just too pragmatic to act overly pious about it.  Celebrían would never tell anyone that she had found corn growing here.  Ulbanís would never say that the lady had seen it and done nothing about it.  Earlier, Celebrían had been preoccupied with Rostaro and so had not formed an opinion of Ulbanís.  Unsurprisingly after this short and frank conversation, she found the aramillë very likable and decided to seek her friendship along with the knowledge that had piqued her from the moment Elrond revealed his promised errantry for Glorfindel.

“I beg to change the subject,” she lightly pleaded.  Ulbanís nodded in agreement, clearly anticipating what subject Celebrían would broach when given the chance.  “I hope the content of Glorfindel’s letter was less shocking then its arrival.”

“Not exactly,” grinned Ulbanís as she slipped a friendly arm through her guest’s and began to lead her away.  “Let us sit and talk about that.”  Celebrían grinned too.  The seler apparently had questions of her own, which presented the excellent prospect of a fair – possibly extensive – exchange of information.

“My lord would call it gossiping”, the lady said as they shimmied through the protective hedge.

“I like your lord,” replied the aramillë, adroitly adjusting the foliage to remove any signs of their passage.  “Delivering the letter aside, he was very kind to treat Varnëcil’s knee, especially in his weary state.”

“He enjoyed being of help.”  Her generous husband was resting from his labors by perusing the small shelf of books and scrolls in the selers’ sitting room.  Something that would not take him very long to do even if he read every one of them.

“As with coimas, the village also cannot depend upon being visited by a master healer,” said Ulbanís.  “But fortunately, one who was born there will soon be returning from training and start his journey work in this region.”

“People had to come to us and my lord always wished it otherwise.  I had to be strict and allow him only one apprentice at a time else he would have overworked himself by personally trying to send a healer to every habitation in Eriador.”

The seler took Celebrían’s arm again and they headed back to the main path.

“You should guide him away from enlisting in any institutional hospital.  Their rules would upset him.  He would be much happier privately offering his healing skills.”

“I will be sure that he considers your advice when he contemplates taking up the occupation again.  As someday, he most certainly will.  What advice do you have for me, Aramillë?”

“For you, Lady Celebrian, I have no advice that, I am certain, you have not already heard from wiser counselors.  Rather, I should advise myself to be alert during our dealings.  You know how to weigh the worth of what you want.  Therefore in our exchange, I must not expect to get what I want on the cheap.”

“But please, let us set aside such worries and formalities.  Let us be friends,” Celebrían sincerely offered.  “We can share our caches and thus make a more pleasant repast for us both.”

“Vaírë, rest thy hand!” joked the seler, pretending a shocked wariness.  “Why are you are such a hurry?  For we have plenty of time to negotiate and enjoy our purchases.  No one, certainly not I, would ask an invited guest to leave at first light.”

Celebrían laughed, pleased that the seler felt so at ease with her that she would make fun.  Ulbanís slowed their walk and, with a polite gesture, invited her to have a seat on an unadorned bench with a view of the fount.

“ ‘Tis simple gratification,” Celebrían admitted with a mock royal air meant to entertain her hostess.  “Why, I said to my lord only this afternoon that I have lost all patience with waiting upon events to unfold at their own pace.  From now on, I would force the blooms – merely to please myself.”  She feigned a petulant sigh and settled down in queenly fashion, elegantly draping her skirt around her.  A successfully amused aramillë sat down beside her.  “I may have graduated out from Lórien but am a wretched backslider.”

Ulbanís’ blithesome laugh astonished Celebrían as she caught a glimpse of the seler’s innate maternal grace.  She no longer wondered why the aramillë was so loved by those she cared for.  The Light within the Vanya was luminous, even compared to Celebrían’s naneth and adar combined.  The revelation passed so swiftly, Celebrían was not completely sure she had seen what she thought she had seen.  Although long practiced into a true skill, Ulbanís seemed unconscious of her power – or perhaps she was too familiar with such radiance. 

“I think,” she said sagely, “you and Lord Elrond are both entitled to do as you please for a while.”  The seler’s hands were neatly tucked together inside her rolled-down sleeves.  She looked challengingly into the lady’s eyes.  “Shall we begin?”

“Certainly.”  Celebrían’s folded hands rested lightly upon her lap.  “What may I to bring to the table since you will be providing the main course?”

“Oh, a simple side-dish will suffice...  Such as how to put recalcitrant babies to sleep without any difficulty.”

“Naught else?  Really, Amillë, then I am buying on the cheap.  Elrond thinks it a wood-elf trick because, like any with a shielded heart, he has had difficulty with it.  However, I am sure that you can master it and quickly.”

“Then, as you are being openhanded, perhaps one thing more.  Which I will name after you have asked your questions.”

“Now, I suspect you of a trick,” she responded, her eyes sparkling.  They laughed, thoroughly enjoying their game.  “Nonetheless, I trust your integrity and will give you that option.”

“Ask then and I will answer as best I can.  Because, as you must know, there are confidences I cannot repeat.”

“I do understand for I have the same consideration to make.  Glorfindel is my friend too.  We are agreed that the letter itself represents the questionable subject matter.”  Ulbanís nodded.  “Given that... Do you know what became of him after he left here?”

“Not after the last time,” answered the seler, shaking her head.  Which told Celebrían that Glorfindel had visited Ulbanís several times after being reborn and released.  That did not surprise her, but she knew that it might not sit well with some people’s sense of propriety.  “He was supposed to go to Ilmarin and beg an audience.  He disappeared while awaiting an answer.  Never another word nor sight of him and I did talk to many.  I came to believe his rebellion had gotten him returned to Mandos, either through violence or drowning.  But sadly, by following my advice.”

“I am sorry to hear that you have bore such a burden of undeserved guilt all this time,” sympathized Celebrían.  “Did he tell what happened?  Was it not forbidden for a quende of Aman to sail beyond Eldalondë?  And someone reborn, at that?”  The smiling seler nodded in confirmation.  “Nevertheless, there he was, on our doorstep.”  Ulbanís smile brightened.

“Oh well, you see,” the aramillë was excited to say and shifted in her seat so that she might lean more confidentially toward Celebrían.  “The Valar let him go.  Thus, solving both Theirs and his quandaries.  It does not do to have a deadly warrior, especially one of the Vanyar purified through re-embodiment, running about inciting peaceful people to study violence.”

“No, I can see the problems that might cause!  However, I must say that I have never seen Glorfindel as that sort of tragic character.”

“They had brought him out of the Halls of Waiting with the purpose of readying for war with Melkor.  However afterwards, as with some warriors, Laurefindë had no suitable course to follow in Aman.  In Endor, he had had a strong role and therefore peace of mind.”

“Yet, for someone sent to watch over my lord, he seemed to be there entirely on his own.  I always suspected that he crossed back without permission of any kind,” Celebrían confessed.

“Admittedly, that was my suspicion too, for it was not beyond him back then.  However, I feared he had not completed the journey.  It turns out that he was permitted a chosen mission – to serve Eärendil’s heirs.  To resume his oath.”

“Resume his oath?” Celebrían pondered, and then felt embarrassed at her slow thinking.  Eärendil’s heirs were also Turgon’s heirs.  “He was always one of Turgon’s captains?”

“When Laurefindë was old enough, he left Taniquetil for Finwë’s court as had a few other Vanyar who followed Indris.  Being young, he naturally became part of the younger son’s crowd.  It was there he began to learn combat and warfare.  He found Turgon a worthy prince and pledged himself to his service.”

“So, he was not kin to any of them except by marriage?”

“Neither Indis nor Elenwë is his kin.  He simply wished to have a different life than that of most Vanyar... ”

“To make a difference in the world... ”

“Yes,” said Ulbanis.  “You understand.”

“So, that is how it was he rose to fly his own banner in Gondolin and not under Fingolfin or Fingon as would be expected of someone such as he.”  Celebrían paused at a new thought.  “Elrond is only the younger son.  Not being able to undertake the protection of Elros or his mortal heirs must have disappointed our friend.”

“He expressed no disappointment at all in his letter.  Nor, apparently, to you.”

“Did he tell you how he arrived in Ennor?”

“He alluded to finding work with a Númenórean free trader and taking ship to a harbor named Vinyalondë and from there to a city called Tharbad.  He made his way to Lindon from there.”

“That port has become known as Lond Daer.  Tharbad was a trade crossroads. Both have greatly declined.  But, with the return of the King, they may return to their former vitality.  At the time Glorfindel arrived there, Ost-in-Edhil was still ruled by my parents and Lord Celebrimbor.  For you see, our friend did come first to Eregion and stayed awhile before going on.  That is where we first met.  Before the rings were made... “ her thoughts drifted a little.  “The Three for the three... you will have heard very little of all that… ”

“Nothing at all!” said Ulbanís, intrigued.  “Laurefindë mentioned nothing of other rings of power except those of the wraiths.  Oh, we certainly must come back to this!” she said before asking a question of her own.  “But, did not Lady Galadriel or Lord Celebrimbor immediately recognize him?”

“Oh, Naneth did, despite what she called a calculated difference in his appearance.  Lord Celebrimbor did not until he had had time to observe him.”  Remembering abruptly made her laugh in an unladylike way.  She came close to snorting which, from Ulbanís’ joyful smile, only served to further endear her to the seler.  “It entertained Ada no end to have Glorfindel – the Balrog-slayer! – serving under him as an enlisted swordsman.”

“A common soldier?!  I cannot believe it!” cried Ulbanís, laughing.  “His pride would not take it!”

“Well, it was difficult for him.  Lord Celeborn saw to that!  But, ‘twas done to keep his new identity believable.  Eventually, he was bestowed a captain’s rank and sent off with a letter of recommendation to Gil-galad.  After all, he could not just show up and be made a commander without other Eldar becoming suspicious that he was his own namesake.”

“So,” the seler mischievously smiled.  “You spent time together.”

“Yes,” Celebrían admitted, trying not to grin and blushing slightly anyway.  “Really, Amillë!  I had not yet met my husband and had become unattached.  It served as a very believable excuse for my parents to send him off instead of advancing him further within their realm.”  She smiled good-humoredly.  “The family kept his secret... along with so many other secrets.  There were those that suspected when he vanquished the Witch-king of Angmar, but none truly knew until after the Ring was destroyed.  Still, how cruel of him not to have written you until now.”

“He claims not to bear the blame for that.  The limitation was placed upon him.”

“Yes, I can see that.  As wIth the Istari and knowledge of the Elven-rings, it would have been very unwise to let the Enemy know, by carelessness or an intercepted message, precisely what forces were being ranged against him.  It turned out to be dangerous enough with only a handful aware of all these truths.”

“We shall definitely be talking more about these rings.  But now,” insisted the aramillë, “ask me what is really on your mind.”

“Very well.”  Celebrian did not worry over her slightly lascivious smile.  “In his letter, did Glorfindel mention any elleth in particular?”

“Aside from yourself?  H’mm, let me see... “ the seler thoughtfully recalled.   “Why yes... several.  However, none that could be described as particular.”  Undaunted by the evasive answer, Celebrían tried a more round-about tact with a straight-forward question.

“Did you give Rostaro his name?”

“Is that not outside the subject?”  Another deliberate avoidance.

“Is it?” she pressed.  If the aramillë, and not his foster-parents, had given him his name, then it was sure to be an insightful one.  Ulbanís might be able to recognize a kinship to someone else she had met.

“Actually... ” the seler smiled, deciding to end her mischievous dodging.  “It is.  The child is not his.  Though we both might wish he was.  Nonetheless, you intrigue me with the possibility.”

“If Glorfindel did not include that information in his letter to you, we are indeed outside the subject, I am afraid,” stated Celebrian, disappointed and not being playfully vague.

“I am tempted to expend my option on gaining the particular’s name,” admitted Ulbanís.  “However, I will refrain and think of a different question for later.”

“Thank you, Amillë.  Perhaps, we should discuss another subject for a while.  My lord is upon the path in pursuit of me and shall arrive soon, I think.”

“Really?  Maybe how you know that at this distance will be what I shall ask of you later.  For now, why not begin to instruct me in how to encourage apparently tireless lapsi to sleep.”

Elrond came upon them deep in discussion about whether induced sleep was beneficial or detrimental to a child’s health and growth.  If he did not know that they had met only a few hours ago, he would have thought them lifelong friends.

In a way, he was annoyed.  He had hoped to hear them talking about what was in Glorfindel’s letter.  But, if Celebrían was not going to pry... well, he most certainly was not!

Epilogue…

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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!

aranel – princess Quenya

Asar Asto – celebration flour festival dust Quenya

Ivonwin – Yavannildi, the maidens of Yavanna who grow the lembas corn

lembas – the extraordinary kind of way-bread made of a special grain gifted by Yavanna to the Eldar for their Great Journey (coimas Quenya)

basdan – bread-maker , a member of the Gwaith-i-Basdain – Guild of the Bread-makers

besain – the Breadgiver - the chief elven-woman or lady who is charged with the keeping and gift of lembas

massánie – the Breadgiver Quenya

amillë/amil/amm‎ë – mater/mother/mom Quenya

aramillë – mother superior high mother Quenya

lapsi – babies Quenya  (plural of lapsë)

seler/toron – sister/brother who is not a sibling Quenya

Ulbanís and Rostaro are OCs from another fanfic: Beech Leaves.

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Epilogue

There was a hesitant knock upon the door of Finarfin’s private library, where the King was hosting a select group of male guests.  All spoke in Sindarin since there were no other Noldor present except for Finarfin and two of his sons.  When called to enter, a clerk came in carrying a round log of what turned out to be the first official maps of the New Realms, commissioned on behalf of his fellow rulers by Elrond.  The gathered elf-lords, princes, and kings eagerly set aside the cups they had just raised in a toast.  As they arranged themselves with grinning enthusiasm around the cleared table, Elladan and Elrohir unbound and unwound the sheaf; the sheets so new that weights were not needed to stay them from rolling up again.

“So, Finarfin, this is real reason why you invited us to slip away from the ladies.  Not to taste your new wine,” joked Thranduil, who had not been kind when asked about the vintage.  Everyone laughed for they were in a celebratory mood.  This evening was proclaimed by royal decree to be a feast in recognition of the success of the great endeavor undertaken by the former Elves of Ennor.  Although when they were first assembled in this room, there were some worried glances as to why the King of the Noldor was calling them together beforehand.

“Elrond mentioned that they would be delivered this evening and I thought you all deserved the first viewing,” replied the smiling king.  “Thranduil has given us his opinion of the drink.  What do you think of the maps, Celeborn?”  He gestured for his son-in-law to examine the stack.

“Excellent,” was Celeborn’s judgment as he leafed through, assisted by Legolas holding the pealed-back sheets.  The silver-haired prince was visibly impressed at the quality of work.  “One of your staff?” he asked his own son-in-law.

“No, someone of my acquaintance,” was the pleased reply.  Celeborn’s considerable cartographer skills made his assessment high praise and Elrond took pride in his choice of map-maker.  He swiftly finished reading the note that had accompanied the maps explaining how incongruities in some of the elevations supplied were resolved.  The Lord’s compliment would be included in his return note to the young loremaster.

Glorfindel was impressed as well and moved around to another the side of the table so he might more easily read the maker’s signature where it would be traditionally tucked into the southeast corner of the framing border of each map.

However at that very moment, there was another – sharper – knock on the door.  It swept open and a flurry of elegant ellith flew in with much laughter and admonitions.  The ladies had come to claim their lords and take them away to dine and dance.

“Aha!  You are found out!” cried Amarië, hurriedly joining her husband.  Finrod took her hand and kissed it.  Most others in her flock were kissed upon the mouth in greeting, even Galadriel.  However, she no longer blushed at that Úmanyar custom as she was once prone to do.

“Our sharp-eyed granddaughter spied your stealthy messenger and knew, if you were allowed to begin perusing nórelanni, we would be eating alone,” said Eärwen to her husband.  She turned to address the rest of the néri.  “You will not be reading them tonight, héruvi-nya!” the Queen declared with unassailable social authority.

With affectionate bribery and cloaked threats, wives and lovers and daughters led all but Glorfindel off to the waiting festivities.

Left alone, the elf-lord sighed; his usual smile at the happiness of his friends failing to bloom.  Not because no one was escorting him to the hall, but because he simply did not want to be in Tirion right now.  Life was easier in the west; keeping busy with work and away from the gawking popularity that kept him penned within propriety.  Afraid of the damage to his Amillë’s standing if he went to the guesthouse to see her.  It was barely comforting to know that he would some day be able to visit her again, when she was no longer under the close scrutiny of her superintendent.  Tomorrow, he would write her a letter, even though it could not be sent for a long time.  And that would have to suffice – as it had since his return to Aman.

Turning the top map so that the proper edge was conveniently before him, he looked closely for the name that should be hidden within the stylized Lindarin-knot border.  It was subtly done and not easy to read.

Rostaro, he finally discerned.

Without warning, Celebrían slammed her hand down on the map right under his nose.  Glorfindel stood up straight, feigning confused innocence about her having to come back for him.  With a put-out mien, she grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the table.  She let go, circled about his back, and gamely proceeded in trying to push him out the door; both of them snickering like eflings, as he leaned back in token resistance.

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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!

amillë/amil/amm‎ë – mater/mother/mom Quenya

nórelanni – maps – land(nóre) cloth(lannë) Quenya

néri – male elves Quenya (plural of nér)

héruvi-nya – ‘my lords’ Quenya

ellith – female elves (plural of elleth)

Ulbanís and Rostaro are OCs from another fanfic: Beech Leaves.