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   “This is a story about two people who fell into love but could not wed...

... in a time when only the stars shone above the forests of Beleriand...

... before the war with Morgoth Belegurth, before there was Doriath, before there was a Moon or a Sun... 

  ... he was a hunter of fell creatures and she was a disciple of the Wise.”

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“I am sorry, my son.”

Is that all you can say?  Was it not you who told me to stake everything because I was sure to win?  Except now, he was not going to be chosen the winner.   He stared at his father, who was apprehensively gauging his reaction to the terrible news.  A fit of righteous anger was clearly what was expected at his being robbed of the award he had rightfully earned – and desperately wanted!  Which was why his father had brought him here alone into their private lodge to tell him.  To get it over with.  So there would be no embarrassing scene at the official ceremonies.

But, after a fleet flush of heat, he found that he was not angry – he was devastated.  Unable to rise from his chair, let alone rise up in a rage.  It felt as if he was being crushed and had no strength to lift off the heavy weight.  All his hopes were being pressed out of him.  He had become as the cast-off fruit of the harvest, whose only yield would be vinegar.  His uncharacteristic silence was upsetting his father, who would rather see indignant fury from his normally resilient offspring then paralyzing shock.

“Indeed!“ his father declared, striking sparks off his own frustration in an attempt to ignite his son’s temper.  “You have proven yourself better than your cousin!  At everything!”

Yes, I have.  He always had.  When he was but a small ellon and since.  But, what had it ever gotten him?  Before or now?  Only hurt and disappointment.  Why had he expected this time to be any different?

“Dúlalf is the eldest son of your lord uncle and so he will go.”  Since empathy had not roused the right response, his father was attempting to be challengingly matter-of-fact.  “That is simply how it is.  Whether or not ‘tis fair.”

But, you swore that seniority would not count over greater ability when ability is what Elmo wants.  I trusted your judgment.  I believed you.  He sucked in a disconsolate breath.  Because I wanted to believe you.  A harsh self-admission.  He had not been ready to part from all he had ever known and loved.  That loved him.  I should have found the courage to go north with the other settlers.  He should have established his name and nobility the old way, instead of staying here laboring so hard for nothing.  And making foolish plans...

“Oropher,” his father firmly stated with familiar, overriding determination.  “We shall not be discouraged by this setback.”  Ûnfaron’s hand covered one of his hands, which tightly gripped the arms of the chair.  The supportive touch did not ease his dazed spirit anymore than did the earnest words.    He stared at his father, shaking his head; utterly bewildered at such sincere optimism in the face of helpless defeat.  Yet, that was his father.

The youngest sister of Dúorn, the Lord of Eryn Brethil and Dimbar, had wed a lowly hunter.  All the same, she had chosen well.  Ûnfaron had become an exemplary member of her clan.  He had proven himself with many brave deeds and had risen to become the Chief of the Hunters of Brethil.  But, this loving husband and father wanted his son to occupy a higher position amongst the nothrim than he ever would himself.  Oropher’s evident talents and starry, eledhwaith features – gotten mostly from his maternal side – had not unsurprisingly inspired a resolve in both parents to see their son rise above his inherited station as a minor noble.  The death of his beloved wife had not changed that objective for Ûnfaron.

As it turned out, the same unrelenting drive lay quietly dormant in their only child until stirred to life by adult desire.  Love had awakened in Oropher a fervor to climb higher and seek a greater goal than even his grandfather, Rasgalen Elmoion, had attained.

Although he admired his father and wanted to be like him, Oropher saw Ûnfaron as too trusting, by far.  The chief farrod never would comprehend how jealously his brothers-in-law guarded their rule and were possessed by their pride in it.  Apparently, if any from their lands was to have a place in Menegroth with their prince, they were just as determined that it be one of their own children.  As it had to at least appear that Oropher was being fairly excluded from the vastly elevating prospect being held out, the opportunity would go to Dúlalf, Dúorn’s first born.  Whether or not another had earned it through superior achievement – or if Dúlalf even wanted it.  The next sibling in line would take the elder brother’s place.  And Oropher – who had already generously divested his interests, transferred his fee titles, and given away most of his possessions in anticipation of his permanent departure – would have to start over.  When did my lord uncle decide to do this to me?  From the very start?  That spiteful thought shamed him.  Then, it angered him for its likelihood.

“You are young,” soothed his father, pressing his hand.  “Another opportunity will come – ”

“No, Papa!“ Varda’s Stars!  He had interrupted his father!  Something which was so disrespectful he had not ever even thought to do it before this very moment.  He should apologize!  No.  Enough is enough.  He shakily stood up, forcing his father to drop his hand away and lean back to give him room.  When he took a small step forward, his toe dragged, catching on the floor covering.  His faer felt similarly entangled – struggling in a confusing thicket of brittle lies, rattling in an ill wind of loss that went beyond watching a flimsy badge of merit being irretrievably blown away.  No.  I must not give in to easy, but vain, hopes again.

Closing his eyes, he drew all that remained of his betrayed devotion into the center of his being.  Breathe.  When rallied, faith could uphold will.  And I will survive.  He must take action against this miserable turn of fortune or perish from unremitting regret.  Breathe.  His poor father would have to deal with the result of this injustice too.  Breathe.  Once more, he been let down by this good parent, who never meant to mislead.  Breathe.  But, for the last time.  He opened his eyes, but the pain of what he was about to say kept them downcast.  Breathe.  Nonetheless, he spoke; his words wavering with sorrow.

“Sir... “  Breathe.  “For all the love and care you have given me and the great and many things you have taught me, I am deeply deeply grateful.”  Breathe!  He must not rush and lose aim.  One of the best lessons learnt from his father.  Breathe.   “I love you so much.”  Breathe!  “But, I cannot follow your... wishes... any longer.  From now on, I will decide for myself.”

Ûnfaron rose to his feet, taken aback by his son’s unexpected declaration, which was naught but an indictment.  Guilt-stricken, believing there was no argument against him being responsible for his son’s loss, the same heartfelt apology as before floundered from his lips.

I am sorry too... 

“Forgive me!”  Ûnfaron held out a beseeching hand to him, even though he knew there was no act of contrition on his part, however great, that would be enough to change his son’s mind.  “If I knew what I could do – “  Oropher then did raise his eyes to his father penitent face.

“Papa, this is not your fault!  Do not think that!”  The cruel selfishness of those who should have nurtured his potential had caused this.  Maybe it had taken this long to fully acknowledge it, but they both had to accept that his uncles would never let him lord over his cousins in any fashion whatsoever.  Nor let him come to possess something – especially something sacred – that was unreachable by any of their sons.  They are holding me back out of pure envy and spite!  These bitter thoughts finally and thoroughly hardened his heart against them.  “Dúorn no longer deserves my loyalty.”

“No, you must not say that!”  Ûnfaron was clearly afeared of what his son might do next.  “Do not act rashly!  Sit down!  Let us talk about what to do before you speak to anyone else!  Please!”

Ivrellas!  He had to tell his intended before someone else did!  But, how to tell her?!  How could he admit to having squandered their chance for future happiness?  That the ultimate prize would never be theirs?  He would not be going to Menegroth and be groomed to become a prince of Mithrim or any other new realm beyond the Crossings.  His wife would never be a Lady Breadgiver.  That being so, Ivrellas and he could never wed.  Fanulios!  I was supposed to meet her!  He ignored his father calling after him as he turned and fled.

Scooping up his gear before bursting out the front doors, he donned it as he ran.  The curious stares of neighbors followed after him as he raced away to the glade where he should already be.  His mind was also racing, endeavoring to shape some sort of speech to make the blow easier on her than it had been on him.

Running hard, the humid air brought forth a glistening sheen upon his face, neck, and sleeveless arms.  Like a young hawk, feathery crest streaming, he flew through the scattered groves surrounding his home village; hard training enabling him to effortlessly leap over ditches and fallen trunks without slowing.  The sky was cloudless and the starlight floated like a glowing mist over every leaf of every tree, casting sheltering shadows beneath their broad branches.  He soared across the springy swards of grass, stretched between the trees, tautly pinned by knots of thick roots like huge pelts drying.  He swooped through spinney and copse, careless of his disruptive passage.

A startled fox comically sprang into the air off all fours at once and bolted away.  He was beset by a gleeful urge to chase after it.  But, he pushed the unwanted impulse back down into the dimmer depths of his orë from whence it came, focusing on where he was going and why.  Finally, he glided up the sloping path to the meeting place long favored by shy lovers, slowing only to carefully slip through the tall screen of thorny berry bushes that fenced most of the glade.  Coming out on the other side, he was amazed.

Ivrellas was standing in the midst of the lit lawn, gazing up; nebulously haloed by a star-laden swatch of sky.  Her fine-boned face – crowned by a plaited coil of honey hair, bound and half-veiled – was a smooth mask of profound concentration.  Her lithesome body was beautifully poised, her limed figure arresting.  One of her slim hands was raised up into the air above her head as if to pluck down one of the shimmering lights, hanging there like a tiny, ripe fruit.

He froze in his stride, marveling and knowing he should not disturb her when she was so immersed in her craft.

If she actually touched the star she reached for, she left it in place when she drew down her hand.  However, her fingers came away coated with a dusting of blue light, like the watery base of a rushlight’s flame.  Staring fixedly at her lowered hand, she repeatedly rubbed her thumb over her finger tips, as if feeling a piece of cloth for the quality of its weave, until the radiance was smeared thinner and thinner into nothingness.  Though it looked to be completely gone, she continued to gaze at her moving fingers.  When her fingers did become still, she showed no sign of ending her entranced fascination with what had momentarily been there.

The impressive feat appeared done, and Oropher thought to announce his arrival.  But, he found he had no voice.  He was choked with emotion for what he had just seen her do as much as for what he dreaded to tell her.  A dry branch lay near his foot, so he stepped heavily upon it.  The sharp snap made her jump and turn to the sound, looking fearful that a dangerous animal had come upon her while she was imprudently unawares.

“Oropher! You frightened me!” she scolded, clenched hands dramatically pressed to her chest.  Her petulant relief fled when she saw the misery on his face.  “What has happened?  Who is it?”

He sighed.  Of course, she would assume someone had been mortally injured and needed her help.  Feeling unworthy, he dropped his gaze away from her heavenly eyes.  He was a farrod and sworn to defend against any creature, natural and not, that would harm the quendi.  But, he could fight and live.  Whereas, she – the most tender of maidens! – unflinchingly undertook a task much darker than any he ever would.  She journeyed with the dying unto their death, knowing that she too might well die.

Of all the ellith that had ever served Ivann, a simple fisherman’s daughter was among the most blessed. So gifted was this lass of the Falathrim that she had been invited to join the Wise at a particularly young age.  Even though, many turns of the stars lay before her ere she understood those gifts.  Amelwen, whom many considered the most Wise in Eglador, had herself taken on teaching the young maiden.  The wise lady had brought her protégé to Dûorn’s demesne in the inhabited forests below Dimbar’s moors in order to train her rarest ability into a true skill.  For here people died from more than infrequent accidents.  These lands were long inhabited but, besides the threat of wild animals, there still lurked fell beasts of the sort that had preyed upon the Eldar from before Thingol had returned and began to drive them out of Beleriand.

Ivrellas’s teacher never sang her prize student's praises very loudly.  What was more telling of how highly she valued her novice was that Amelwen determinedly safeguarded the maiden’s grace from being consumed by marriage.  Not that any Ivanwën’s grace was truly lost when she became a wife and mother, but the wise lady believed Ivrellas’ most precious power would likewise be rechanneled if she were to wed.  Therefore, Amelwen had deemed her even considering marriage the worse shame possible and tantamount to a betrayal of their people.

So, the matter of Ivrellas’ virginity had been settled long before hunter and disciple met.  Ivrellas had pledged her obedience.  However, upon the event of their introduction, Amelwen had discerned the depth of their feelings ere they did themselves.  Life had taught the wise lady the folly of forbidding the faer’s truest desire.  She was prepared when their friendship turned out to be simply a prelude to a greater passion.  By her authority as a great one of the Wise, she proclaimed that, if Ivrellas sought the love of a husband, the only acceptable restitution for her disobedience and transition to motherhood was for the rodwën to continue to bestow her grace upon their people as a bassoneth.

Thus it was that Oropher and his beloved came to make a grave vow, witnessed by his family and several of the Wise.  Oaths of service already given, hers and his, would not be circumvented by mere wantonness.  They would declare their intentions, but wait to wed until Ivrellas would become a queen.  At times, he deeply regretted placing duty, especially her perilous duty, above their love.  Particularly now, when he felt he had deluded himself into thinking he could succeed in gaining her hand in wedlock through his own efforts.

But then, here she was worriedly offering him both her hands, and he selfishly took them into his.

She stepped closer to him, bending low to put her face before his downcast eyes, trying to get him to see her.  He released her hands and backed away.  She moved with him and gripped his shoulders to halt his retreat.  Stopped, he quickly reached up, lifting off her hands to hold them suspended between them.

Always, from friends and strangers alike, there were disapproving looks and remarks.  Most made without any regard for their feelings, and despite the fact they conducted themselves in the manner of good friends rather than courting lovers.  The accompanying crude jokes he could also ignore, as long as Ivrellas did not hear them.  Their youth weighed heavily against them.  Few believed theirs to be a true love and not just an adventurous infatuation.  Those who did think them matched had been convinced solely by the openness of their affair.  Even so, none – save Ivrellas and his father – believed he would ever have her as wife.  That disparaging assumption had probably spurred his determination to become a prince as much as love.

She again attempted to come closer, but quit when he pushed back on her hands, silently warning her to keep the distance between them.

In the beginning, they had not only been chaperoned, but more closely watched than would be any other couple getting acquainted.  After their vow and over time, though, they had built up trust with their watchers that they would keep to their set boundaries and refrain from any advanced intimacy.  In fact, their only carnal indulgence was holding hands and dancing together at festivals – other than Mettarë, of course.  Not even one furtive kiss had passed between them.  Thus, they had earned a grudgingly permitted measure of much-appreciated privacy.  To tell the truth, he took some pride in knowing he had the discipline to forgo most of the normally expected pleasures of courtship.

Amelwen had come to see their odd arrangement as an excellent test for Ivrellas.   He would be a strong lesson for her student in dealing with the more dangerous attractions that would come along as she progressed.  Like everyone else, the wise lady smugly figured he would eventually leave the engagement in frustration and pursue another, more attainable, elleth.  At least, that was how she saw it until the competition was announced and he excelled past his kinsmen.  If it was a trial of wills between his intended and him to remain chaste, it had become a clash of wills between Amelwen and him over Ivrellas’ fate.  A conflict it looked like her mentor had won.  Which irked him as much as losing out to his cousin for the wrong reasons.

“Tell me what is wrong,” his beloved gently ordered, mindless that she was speaking to him as if he were one of her doomed clients. Her handling him was irksome, too.  He shook his head and heaved an exasperated sigh.  The same Minyar blood that made Amelwen and Ivrellas excellent ministers sometimes made them irritatingly condescending.  Still, treating him as if he were frail nudged him out of his silence.

“It will not be me.”  That was all he had to say for her to understand.  He would have spoken volumes more, talked until hoarse, if that would have made it any easier for her to bear.  What strength he could lend her through their touch, he proffered.  She drew heavily upon it; her hands trembling as her face paled.  But, she did not sink into despair as he had feared might happen.

“Now, I cannot speak,” she whispered.  “And must.”   Her eyes filled with troubled tears, although they did not fall.  She cleared her throat to regain some semblance of a normal voice.  “I had hoped to surprise you with happy news.”

“Best just tell me now while more pain may seem less.”   What else had he sent awry by his failure?

“Melian... “  She stopped and started again after mustering some fortitude.  “The Queen would have a few chosen maidens come to serve with Lúthien, now that the princess is almost of age.”  Her hesitation to continue relayed her news before her words.  He did not have to guess.  His breathing stalled at the thought of her leaving Brethil.  “I applied... ”  because you would be there “... and have been accepted.”  She swallowed.  “I must go.”

He had plainly heard her unsaid reason inside his own thoughts and it wholly startled him.  They had assiduously avoided that particular familiarity and now she presumed it?!  Then, he realized what it was she had said.

My dearest!  She had chosen to leave her exalted teacher and go to where she would be held in lower regard – just so they could stay together!   

She blushed – she had heard him!  But, instead of retreating back across the line of maidenly modesty after her indiscretion, she became more forward.  The feathery tip of her winging love brushed over his battered hopes, healing his wounded courage.  He possessively squeezed her hands.  Maybe chance of birth had taken away his best opportunity for happiness, but not every opportunity!

“We agreed that we should bear being apart for a while,” he reminded her.  “So that I might build a life where we could be wed and so you might rise to the summit of your powers.  You would set that wisdom aside?”  He looked deep into her blue-bell eyes, questioning her resolve.  She nodded slowly, warily hopeful.  He smiled, knowing what it was she was hoping for and elated to give it to her.  “Neither would I be without you!”  He fervently kissed the fingers of one and then the other of her hands.  “I shall go to Menegroth!  I can stay with some friends for awhile and shall find a living –  as a forester or as a guard or tyro to a bounty hunter – whatever I must do!  I will be there with you!”

“Your uncle!  Your father!  They will not give you leave now!”  She was right that his kin would cite his pledge of service and command him to stay.  Ûnfaron would want the same out of uncertainty about his son’s future.  The only reason his father had felt sure about letting him go at all was Prince Elmo would be his patron.

“I am not going to ask for it,” he instantly decided.  “I would rather be independent, if living without you is all that my life can otherwise be.  I had deemed my fortunes here at an end and was ready to go, and so I shall!  They can disown me and cast me off, for all I care.”

“Which makes you the very fool Lady Amelwen says you are!” she decreed in angry disapproval.  However, with her next breath, her temper melted away into reluctant but glad relief.  “Oh but, my fool!  My dearest!”  Before he knew it would happen, she kissed him.  It was only a quick peck on the cheek, naught compared to what should be exchanged between ardent lovers.  Nevertheless, he was as pleased as if it had been a full kiss on the mouth as deep as the sea.  “Our time will come,” she said with a solemnity that flowed from her faer.  And the truth of her heartfelt prophecy resonated within his own.

“Shall we then continue to abide as we have, keeping faith in our future union?”  Although he had just promised he would follow her to Menegroth, he assumed – even if they came to live under the very same roof and sleep in the very same chamber – their chaste commitment to each other would not be relinquished, and that their wedding was only possible when Ivrellas would become besain.  At first, he sought her answer only in her eyes, but then he spoke directly into her thoughts.  Is this your understanding too?

“Yes,” was her demure response.  “Our happiness may seem small to most, but it is precious to me.”  His heart sailed into the sky.  “But, I can no longer be your intended.”  And it fell hard to earth.  He could appreciate her reservations about being only the closest of friends for what – if Managh never stopped mocking him – might be the rest of their lives.  All the same, being asked to give up his official status as her lover felt like rejection.  She gave him an apologetic smile, which turned mischievous.  “We must be betrothed.”  His heart swelled, threatening to burst.

“Yes!  Yes!”  For had that not been the truth of it for quite some time already!  He greatly desired to kiss her and properly seal their betrothal – and not in any manner like to how she had kissed him.

He was saved from that dire temptation by the thudding sound of a horse galloping towards them.  Someone was riding hard up the close-by track.  High shrubs shielded the glade on that side and anyone traveling by that way was not able to see in.  They expected the rider to go past, instead he halted and called out.

“Hello to the Wood!”  Oropher immediately recognized the resonant voice of his lord uncle’s official messenger to the district.  “I seek Oropher Ûnfaronion!”

“Here, Sarnnef!”  The first challenge they would face in their renewed engagement had found them sooner than he wished.  He could not help but wonder what everyone would say when their new plans were revealed.  Would his family seek to physically restrain him?  His love for Ivrellas flared in worried anticipation of that possibility, and he simply could not contain it.  The luminous intensity of his feelings caused Ivrellas to turn away from the road and gaze at him with wonder.

“Do you still trust me to find a path we can walk together as husband and wife?” he hurriedly asked of her.  Because I will never give up.  Somehow, he would prove himself to Elmo and convince him to take them north with his new court.

“Yes,” was her sure answer.  Then she asked of him, “Do you trust me to know when we may set foot upon that path?”

“Yes.”  He would always trust her moral judgment before his own.  Aside from that, he harbored a bashful wish for her to desire him, not merely accept him, as her spouse.  He would always be eager to have her completely, but he was ready to wait until she no longer resisted the lure of that shared ecstasy.  Because then, with no bodily bond yet between them and the free choice of any ellon she wanted still hers, he would know.  He would know she loved him for himself.

He pulled her into his arms.  I love you!  Now and always.  No matter what comes.

She shone with him, returning his embrace, already gloriously triumphant in their seemingly impossible endeavor.   And I love you!  Now and always!

“Thanks to Elbereth!”  Sarnnef broke through the bushes, dismounted and leading his sweating horse.  “You are here together as I hoped!”   Ivrellas stepped away from Oropher; the aura around them fading.  They stood confident, side by side, holding hands with pride.  Sarnnef stared at them for a few seconds, his face momentarily lit by more than relief or starlight, before recalling his mission.  “There has been an attack at a farmstead close to Nenodoron village!  A mother and child are mortally wounded!  You both are needed!  Come!”  He offered them his horse.  “Rhimoll knows the way and will carry you.  You can send him back to me from there!  I will be on the high road, going to my lord’s longhouse!”

Further speech not needed, Oropher lifted Ivrellas onto the animal’s back and vaulted up behind her.  Knowing her lack of riding experience, he scooted up close to steady her seat.  He threw his arms snuggly around her waist and grabbed the horse’s mane.  Sarnnef shouted, shoving Rhimoll’s rear flank.  They sprang away through the yielding foliage to ride at an urgent gallop down the narrow road for a short distance before Rhimoll veered into dense forest.  Any unbidden thoughts roused by the press of her hips against his were driven out of Oropher’s head.  He was fully occupied with keeping them from being swept off by a low branch and otherwise disastrously falling.

When they arrived, after a harrowing ride, the frothing horse stuttered to a stop.  Oropher, letting go of the mane, pushed himself back onto Rhimoll’s jolting haunches to daringly roll off.  Watching out for the horse’s dancing hooves, he grabbed Ivrellas by her waist and swung her off.  Set on her feet, she neither chided nor glared at him for being manhandled.  She had already started her mental preparations for the hazardous task she was about to undertake.  An elder Oropher had met once before named Loenuiel – an elleth of such countenance that there was no possibility of mistaking her venerable age – immediately grabbed the rodwën by the wrist and hurried her to the side of a child lying in the grass beneath a beech tree.  Another body lay a short distance away covered by a cloak and watched over by a lone, weeping ellon.

Oropher’s breath caught in his chest.  The pervasive smell of blood was tainted with a faint, vile odor.  He suppressed an instinctive shudder.  This carnage was not the result of an angry bear or some mad animal.  A werewolf had done this.  Why had Sarnnef not said anything about it?

Rhimoll snorted, demanding Oropher’s attention.  He was stomping around in a tight circle, tearing up the turf instead of cooling down, shying at this proximity to the victims.  His anxious wish was to be released to return to his rider and get away from the predator’s lingering scent.

“Go, if you will not rest!” Oropher told him.  “Take yourself back to Sarnnef by the high road!  And thank you, good scion of Nahar!”  The horse immediately swung out of his repetitive course, gathered his feet under him, and eagerly bounded towards home.

“Farrod,” called Iûllaug in greeting.  The new leader of the band of young hunters formed by Oropher approached in as dignified a fashion as he could manage for being under the scrutiny of angry on-lookers.  It appeared the villagers did not think he was moving fast enough in running down the killer.  Iûllaug was not one amongst the best of Oropher’s friends, but his father had judged the ellon to be the best amongst his fellow hunters to promote into his place.  And Oropher agreed.  Iûllaug was a born leader, who – once past his nervousness at being made a hunt-leader – would become even better with experience.  He was likely to become a farrod himself.  Oropher fleetingly wished that his maternal kin could be as objective as he about another’s potential.

Another dark-haired ellon, a stranger, walked with Iûllaug.  He looked attached to the hunt-leader, not just following him around out of curiosity.  From his garb and manner, he appeared to be a Nando from Ossiriand, the land where Oropher’s paternal kin had once lived.  The fellow was intriguing for that reason, but also because the Laegrim had become infrequent visitors to Brethil’s hinterlands.  Something that started happening about the time Dúorn’s grand-daughters came of age.  Iûllaug stood before his old leader, keeping his back judiciously turned to those watching him.

“This is Alagastor.  He is joining in the hunt.  This is Oropher of whom I spoke.”  The ellon gave a curt nod to Oropher’s shallow bow, and leaned lightly on his unshouldered bow.  The heavy bow and the skills it represented was the likely reason Iûllaug was including him in what would have to be well-coordinated maneuvers.  ”Sir, would you please come, too?” Iûllaug politely requested in lowered tones.  “Morchantor is tracking it alone because Saerdos is in the heights and Sildulus is not back yet, either.  Jastûr is still laid up with his leg.”    These four were the ferryd of choice when faced with a very dangerous quarry like this.  “It was a lone wolf.  From its prints, large.  And vicious.  It torn the mother apart, limb from limb.  Snapped the daughter’s back.  The poor child is left paralyzed and slowly suffocating.  It did not feed on them.  The father’s body has not been found.  The grandfather is badly injured.  The brother is insisting on coming along.  I know ‘tis a lot to ask with the ceremonies coming up so soon – “

“Do not let it worry you.”  Oropher held out his arm for Iûllaug to clasp, an outward sign of his joining the hunt.  However, his real intent was to press a reassuring hand on Iûillaug’s arm.  “The ceremonies do not matter now, and I would never let you go without me when you are three down.”  His old subordinate’s relief was short-lived.

“Then, do you think you could convince that farmer not to follow us?” he asked, tentative of asking Oropher to do what he as the leader of this hunt should have already accomplished.  “Because, he won’t take no for an answer.  He’s a farmer, whose wife is with child, and he’ll get us all killed!”

“Perhaps, if he understood the real danger,” suggested Oropher.  He let go of Iûillaug’s arm, suddenly uncertain whether the hunt-leader actually knew what kind of monster he had on his hands.

“Gaur,” Alagastor said quietly, clarifying when Iûillaug gave no clear sign of comprehending Oropher’s remark.

“I was not sure... “ Iûllaug admitted, slightly flushed.

Oropher nodded with sympathy.  This was Iûllaug’s first encounter with that evil species and he had not wanted to believe the indications.  Even so, he had shown wisdom and had sought to enlist only the best suited hunters, just in case.  Seeing Oropher and Alagastor did not hold his qualms against him, he got control of his misgivings.

“I do not want anyone else to know that.  Last thing we need is an outright panic.”

Oropher nodded again.  It was an appropriate order.  This attack might not be a simple raid for food.  The flesh of neither mother nor daughter was consumed and the father was missing.  Told it was a werewolf, everyone would immediately assume the missing victim was carried off, not to be killed, but to be turned and enslaved.  People would fear for their own faer, and terrified people would do stupid – and insane – things.  It was best to wait until they were sure whether or not this was a lone beast.   He hoped that was so, for if a pack was rebuilding its ranks... to get to the spell-caster, they would have to fight and kill all his minions first.

“As you say,” he replied, his face set with false confidence for on-lookers to see.  “You will be gathering supplies?  Point out the farmer to me.”  However, looking over at the villagers, it was obvious whose family had been decimated.

The wretched fellow was dashing helplessly back and forth between his father and niece; his hands wringing then pulling through his hair then wringing again.  Loenuiel abruptly rose up from beside Ivrellas and sternly ordered him to sit with his wife and father or she would have him tethered and pegged like a wayward goat.  Someone nearby reached out to him, but was shrugged off.  He did stop his pacing, though.  Heavy with child, the farmer’s poor wife was kneeling beside her father-in-law trying to tend to him and in sore need of better help than the fumbling elleth aiding her.  They could barely handle him.  The wounded patriarch kept pushing them away and calling for his missing son.  He was clearly suffering the symptoms of a poisoned bite.  It was quite possible that he would be the next person tended by Ivrellas.   His daughter-in-law’s sobs were echoed by those of her neighbors.

“Nevermind,” Oropher told Iûllaug and turned to the waiting Alagastor.  “Come and be useful.”   With a savvy nod to whatever violence Oropher might ask him do to keep a vengeful ellon from becoming a nuisance, the forest-dweller walked with him over to the small crowd.

They had to pass by the gathered remains of the mother.  The covering cloak had become mottled with dark patches where her blood had soaked through.  The mournful ellon standing watch over her corpse did not seem to notice them at all.  When they walked by Ivrellas, where she sat in the depressed grass, stroking the slack face of the broken efling, Oropher barely glanced in her direction.  She would not see him anyway.

Of a sudden, it felt like events were bizarrely repeating.  He reasoned that was because they two had first met in a very similar situation, when Almawen had brought Ivrellas to the scene of another such attack to guide another very young victim down the path of dying.  At the time, the thought that someone could actually do what Ivrellas did had shocked and frightened him.  He no longer felt that way about it.

There would always be people, so terribly injured, that there was no hope of their survival.  Like any suffering creature, they deserved solace.  Especially, if the only real mercy was death itself.  However, once the spirit began to essentially separate from the body, even an extraordinary healer could not reach inside far enough to alleviate pain.  Ivrellas could.  Oropher imagined what she did to be like rescuing someone trapped inside a raging fire.  Besides throwing on a soaking blanket to block the heat of pain, she could calm their faer’s panicked thrashing by blindfolding them with her grace.  Perhaps there was still no hope of surviving, but Ivrellas willingly provided comfort until their last breath, unto their last heartbeat.

Not that she encouraged anyone to let go of life.  She merely eased their journey from it.  This gentle support was particularly important when the person became trapped, madly teetering, between life and death.  Desperate spirits were sometimes driven to try and rehouse themselves in another’s body.  He dreaded the times to come when Ivrellas would be expected to not only to dissuade such spirits from seeking corporeal existence anew, but to thwart them when they did exactly that.  It was bad enough that his beloved was oft times afflicted by terrible grief after returning to life alone.  Among the other such the things he guessed she was not really supposed to confide to him was that, more than once, she too had heard the voice of Mandos when the dying one was called.  That had given him an uneasy, eerie feeling.  Then, not long ago, the only other one of the Wise who had her ability had been taken along with his charge into the Halls of Waiting.  Now, he feared the same would happen to her.

His fervent wish was to be able to protect her from the dangers she faced.  But, the most he could do was lend his strength to her, so she might better protect herself.  He was certainly much more confident at being of support then when she first came to him, desperately hurting and doubting her vocation.  But, no less apprehensive... and I never will be.  To keep peace of mind, he had to consciously ignore the grim possibilities and repeatedly convince himself that she would each time return whole.  Not an easy thing to do, and it made him feel callous.

“What is your name, ellon?”   He had grabbed the troubled farmer’s shoulder from behind and swung him around, meaning to set him off-balance.  The fellow was shaky and looked about at the end of his rope.  Although, there was still a spark of sanity there, too.  He did become indignant, not manic, when he realized Oropher was one of the hunters.

“I am Belcam!  That other fellow tried to tell me to stay behind!”  He naturally thought Oropher to be the one in charge.

“Well, Belcam, you will be staying behind.”

“No!  You cannot make me!  It killed my sister and her child!  My brother is lying dead out there somewhere!”  Oropher noted that he said nothing of his father’s condition, because the elder would hear him.

“He has a right!” gasped his delirious father.  Beside him, the daughter-in-law blanched, looking as though she would wretch at any moment.

“Listen to me, Belcam.”  Oropher spoke calmly but sternly.  He knew he should only persuade at this point.  It was important that Belcam decide for himself, else Oropher would rightly bear the blame for any trouble that arose from the fellow not avenging his kin.  “Yes, we must take vengeance.  Except, you must put what is left of your family first.  Look to your wife.  Look to your baby.  Do you wish to lose them, too?  Abandon them now and you will regret more than not killing this fell wolf with your own hands.”  He also avoided mentioning Belcam’s father, figuring the elder would outright order his son to forget about him and go.

Belcam inhaled sharply. He had caught the small hint Oropher purposely gave him.  The thought that this was no ordinary animal gave the farmer pause.  His hesitance angered his father.

“I shall go then!”  The wounded elder’s attempt to stand sent him reeling into a swoon.  Thankfully, the helping elleth and another ellon caught him before he collapsed onto the ground.  His daughter-in-law cried out in despair for her husband, who stood frozen in a quandary.  Oropher held out his hand to him.  It was time to guide Belcam’s answer and make it the right one.

“Give me your knife,” he commanded with a will.  Belcam removed it from off his belt, only slightly bewildered as to why he trusted Oropher enough to do as he was told.  When placed in his hand, Oropher drew it from its sheath.  It was dwarf-made metal with a shimmering, honed edge.  A cold glint slid over the surface as he held it, point up, between them.  “I promise you, we will kill it and this very blade will cut out its black heart.”  His sincere promise noticeably steadied the farmer.  “Does that suffice?”

“Yes...  “ was Belcam’s faltering reply.  He turned to look down at his frantic wife, automatically seeking her agreement.  “It must... ” was his advice to her.  She eagerly nodded.

“Good.  And we will find your brother.  Tûgern will be returned to his family.  Know also that someday you will be the one who gives chase.”  He turned to include Belcam’s wife.  “You both must be ready when your turn comes to seek vengeance for another who cannot.”

“I will be,” Belcam promised.  Utterly relieved that their turn was not now, his wife nodded.  Belcam fell to his knees next to her, and they tearfully held each other.  Those witnessing this resolution approved and did not think less of the farmer for his choice to remain behind.

Iûillaug was waving for Oropher and Alagastor to come over to where several bundles lay on the ground.  Oropher sheathed the knife and tucked it securely into his belt.  The two hunters left the couple seeing to their father, surrounded by sympathetic friends and neighbors.

“That was well done,” Alagastor quietly complimented Oropher, when they were far enough away not to be overheard.  “And most considerate.”

“The fellow did not seem foolish enough to take on a foe beyond his capacity.  Yet, caring enough not to needlessly frighten anyone.  It would be wrong for him to feel guilty over something that is not his fault.”

“Thanks for doing that,” Iûllaug said, when they joined him.  He handed a small rucksack and a full water skin to each of them.  “Our rations and Morchantor’s.  I have sent word to the Hunters’ Lodge for five more to come follow us and to bring the hounds.  The trail starts over there.  It has a three hour start on us.”

When they were set, Iûllaug led off at a trot.  One of the villagers shouted, “About time!!”  Again, they had to go past Ivrellas, and Oropher kept his eyes averted.  His two companions started single-file down the marked trail, with him to follow last.

Suddenly, he stopped, struck with trepidation.  This might be the last time he saw her alive.  He could not go without saying farewell.  He turned around and looked at his beloved.

She was so beautiful.  Her veil was drawn over her head, framing a beatific visage; eyes lazily sliding closed with a sweet half-smile, her head slightly tilted as if listening to distant singing.  Ivrellas... Shimmering dark threads of spun honey wafted around her lustrous face like a spider web of liquid amber, broken through and lifted by an errant spring breeze.  A barely perceptible light, like a translucent pearl cut in half, floated over her and the child, sheltering them.  She would hear Námo.  But, not him.  I love you.  Now and always.

Loenuiel was sitting on her heels just outside the lustrous shell of light.  He noticed her watching him and returned her gaze.  She almost smiled and gave him a reassuring nod.  Everything was going to be fine.  She made a little shooing wave towards him.  He should go.  She would look after the rodwën.  With a grateful nod to her, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  Then, he turned away and turned his mind away to what now must be his sole objective.  He ran, swiftly catching up to the others.

  OO <<:>> <<:>> <<:>> OO

"And when the farrod returned from the hunt, he and the rodwën did go together to Menegroth.”

As a good story-teller should, Hrassa closed one long tale before it led into another, deciding this was an appropriate place to pause and let his listeners decide if they wanted more or preferred a halt.

He was sprawled on his stomach like a tomcat, atop a very low branch of a huge mallorn; one bent leg lazily draping down, his head contentedly nested in his folded arms.  Indeed, feeling the kind of profound satisfaction that might set a feline a-purring.  For just below him, beneath the tree serving as his temporary lair, several of the family he served were relaxing and pleased to have his company.  The newly-made King and Queen of Lórinand with their offspring Prince were listening with pleasure.  Although, their noble guest from the neighboring realm, farther up the Great River, probably knew this particular saga all too well to be as intrigued by it – since it was about his parents.  Nonetheless, the lord had made no corrections during and appeared to have enjoyed Hrassa’s version.  The normally garrulous little princess was the only one who did not show any interest.

“Hrassa!  You cannot stop there!” Amroth cooperatively insisted.  “Go on!  Tell us of the hunt!  I for one really want to hear about that!”

The deeply shaded hollow where they were taking their respite was quite removed from the crowded meadow where the many guests and attendees gathered for the coronation were being entertained.  Everyone that had lunched with them, including Thanduil’s younger sister and her married daughter, had gone back to the vast mowed lawn for more lively fun than what was to be found here.  Celeborn and Galadriel were there acting as substitute hosts during the dimming daylight hours, while the new royals rested until their required reappearance at eventide.  Whenever the breeze shifted, the distant sound of music drifted into their dell, along with the luscious smell of slow-roasting meat.

“But, the ladies – “

A spindle-back bench, covered with a thick quilt and thin cushions folded over the arms, had been securely suspended from another strong branch of the accommodating tree.  Celebrían sat sideways upon the lap of her gwador, Amroth, comfortably leaning back on the arm of the bench, her bare feet sticking out from her skirt.  She was braiding a goodly handful of Amroth’s long silver tresses into a lengthily cable of fancy twists – because she had been expressly forbidden to tie any knots.  Amroth would let her have fun at making a token, but was not going to cut his hair in order to spare himself the embarrassment of wearing it.

“They want to hear it too!”

The Prince’s slim true-silver circlet sat slightly askew on his handsome head, accentuating his perfect profile.  He sat next to his beautiful mother; one arm thrown across the back of the bench with the other resting atop the bench’s arm, tucked under the cushion behind Celebrían.  His long legs allowed his feet to meet the ground, and he was gently nudging the swing back and forth.

“Well, ‘tis a mite frightening... “  Hrassa suspected that Celebrían’s parents would, in fact, object to the content.

“Then, it should wait until another time,” said Miphillim, her mithril crown of delicately spun spires held negligently on her lap.  Legs not as long as Amroth’s and barely brushing the ground, her feet were relaxingly crossed at the ankles, as bare of shoes as were Celebrían’s.  “I think perhaps, at the bonfire.”

“Excellent idea, Nana!”  Amroth smiled at his mother’s proposal.  The nighttime atmosphere would certainly be much more conducive to a scary tale from before the First Age, and any children would, by that time, be tucked away into their beds.  He grinned up at Hrassa.  The cogndîr might evade a young prince’s request, but he would never ignore a queen’s suggestion.  “Something to look forward to.”

Amdir, his masculine matching crown flashing with every little movement of his golden head, was stretched out on his side upon a thick carpet, leaning on his bent elbow with his head lazily propped on that hand.  Facing him was his similarly reclined gwador, Thranduil.  They were casting dice and trying not to be too obvious about keeping close track of their points.

Hrassa knew about the secret wager between them, and why they had not mentioned it to the Queen.  Miphillim would not approve of their gambling as a means to settle who would uninvite Celeborn to their fishing expedition tomorrow.  She would say they should both tell him together that they wished to have some time alone as brothers.  The Lord could understand that and not be offended.   Besides, Amroth had already hinted that he would like some individual time of his own with his Daeradar Celeborn.  But, Amdir and Thranduil had been childhood friends and, it seemed, continued to enjoy playing juvenile games with each other.

“Cliff,” Celebrían abruptly chimed in, after absolute silence throughout the finished tale.  “Please tell us how the rodwën fared until the farrod came back,” she requested without looking up.  Apparently, she had been listening, despite being focused upon her handiwork.  It was typical for her to want to know more about the lady love in the story.  Although, she never seem interested in emulating their ladylike behavior.

“Oh well, that’s another story,” he taunted – as was typical for him whenever the princess made her usual request.

“I suspect Dúlalf did not end up with the appointment,” said Amroth, deliberately pulling Hrassa away from recounting events he considered boring.  “Uncle, is that how it turned out?”  A bit of mischief sparkled in his eyes.  “And just who was Alagastor, anyway?”

“Hrassa is the story-teller, not I,” said Thranduil.  “And Alagastor,” he nonchalantly explained, “was exactly what he seemed – a wanderer.  Oh, and Denethor’s master-of-the-hunt.”  He cast a twinkling eye up at Hrassa.  “When he showed up for duty.” 

“Elo!” crowed Amdir, rocking back and forth.  “Triples again!”

“Watch it!” warned Thranduil with mock alarm.  “You’re going to take out my eye with that thing.”  Amdir laughed and removed his elegant headband, tossing it carelessly aside.

“Oh, do not be so jealous.  Your family’s turn is coming.”

“Jealous?!”  The lord smirked.  “Spare me your sad jests.”  He took his turn and was not happy with the results.  “Adar is never going to let it happen, if the Lord and Lady do not back off.”

“Ah, but the Rînneld have made a wise recommendation in that regard.” 

Miphillim frowned at the name coined by Oropher.  The three most powerful elven-queens of Ennor were part of an unofficial cabal of noble ladies that could easily stand up to any council of lords or kings.  Galadriel, Ivrellas, and Miphillim did not rule the others in their society.  But, it seemed they could not stop their husbands from using that misleading label.  To Hrassa, the lady wives were simply a natural adjunct of government.  However, being a natural force, not always benevolent.

“Wonderful,” was Thranduil flat response.

“I shall be advising my allies to follow it,” warned Amdir, with a wicked grin.  The King took his turn and rejoiced again at his good luck.  “I and my Queen... “ he flashed her a wink “... shall lend legitimacy to your family’s ascension – not the Lord and Lady.  One of them shall provide a presence in Lórinand.  So that, for an enjoyable change of pace, we with our progeny may venture afar.”

“As good an arrangement as any, I guess.  As long as both do not come back and preside together.”  Thranduil picked up the dice and threw.  He was not enjoying what had every indication of becoming an unlucky streak.  “Will Galadriel speak to Celeborn before you do?”

“She said she would,” informed Miphillim.  “Ivrellas is prepared either way it goes”.

“Lord Oropher and Lady Ivrellas did not get married for such a long, long time!“ Celebrian suddenly interjected.  “I do not want to be Ivonwin when I grow up, if one must wait so long to wed.”

“Do not be in such a rush, Gwathiel,” lectured Amroth.  It was widely welcomed – and assumed already fixed by some – that these two might marry.  And thereby, the daughter’s legacy would come to the foster-son's family.  Amroth was already the Lord Warden of Lothlórien, its lord in the absence of Celeborn and Galadriel.  If when grown up, Celebrían returned, he would be there to greet her.  “A good person does good works, and it takes time to learn how to do such things well.  I myself have an ennin yet to serve as a junior captain, prince or no.  And I shall not consider marrying until I become a full captain, at least.”

"I am going to be a captain, too!” she announced.  “I am already learning.  Cliff is teaching me.”

“I’m teaching you wood-elf skills, my lady.”  She had asked for him to train her in combat and her parents had said no – not unless it became an unavoidable necessity.  They both could be rather foolish about shielding Celebrían’s innocence, and Hrassa would tell them so if ever they bothered to ask for his opinion on the subject.

"Why, what then would be my job?" asked Amroth, feigning annoyance.  “If I am not to be your protector?”

“There are other things for you to do than just the cooking,” was her not-so-naïve-sounding response, which was rife with her Naneth’s vocal overtones.  Amdir and Thranduil burst into laughter, and Amroth, equally amused, playfully sniffed at the question.

"Ellith should keep to motherly tasks, would you not say, Nana?"

 “Of course,” stated Miphllim, not as entertained as the ellyn by Celebrian’s apparently inadvertent precociousness.  “And you will serve with the Ivonwin, Celeborniel.  As all noble ellith do.”

“Naneth never did.”  Concentrating on what she was doing, the child appeared unaware of the stunned gape all around caused by her revelation.  Amdir shot a querulous look at Hrassa, who shrugged – he had no answer.  Thranduil fell into in fit of uncontrollable laughter, falling over onto his back.

“Galadriel is not an idle person,” Miphillim loudly insisted.  As if that in itself were enough circumstantial evidence to prove that her friend would never have frittered away her tender youth accomplishing nothing of worth – not anymore than she or Ivrellas.  Although, Hrassa could think of another remotely possible reason the Lady eschewed her gender’s elite service.

“Presumably as much a busybody then as now?” suggested Thranduil, still snickering.

Hrassa had known the Lady even longer than Amdir and had not heard this tidbit.  For the Queen was right.  It was impossible to think Galadriel had not been Yavannildi in Aman, even if never Ivonwin in Ennor.  To serve as a court page instead might not be the usual path for a noble maiden in Aman, but certainly an acceptable one.  So, maybe it was not so odd that this particular about the Lady’s past had never come up before.  It did put a young Nerwen’s interest in swordplay into clearer perspective.  And her young daughter’s penchant for the same.   

“So, what was her service?” he made bold to ask, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Celebrían shrugged, still not looking up from her busy hands.

“You mean to say your naneth was of help to no one?" prompted Amroth.

“Oh no, I do not mean to say that!  Naneth liked to run.  So, she carried messages everywhere, all the time.  Do you know she won prizes for long-distance?  Though, not so many for being fleet.  Once, she carried a message all the way from Lorien to Ilmarin and delivered it to Elbereth herself!”

 “Trained for endurance, eh?”  He grinned.  “Should’ve guessed ‘twas more than born talent.  She could never keep up with Caun-anim, otherwise.”

“Hrassa!” reprimanded Miphillim, angry for the child’s sake.  He could see that she herself was not the least embarrassed by his lightly veiled innuendo.

Celebrian apparently had finished her intricate rope to her satisfaction, and she tied it off with a narrow ribbon pulled from her festive dress, which was where she had gotten the tie for the top.  She fussed with making the tiny bows absolutely perfect.

“Isn’t a sense of rhythm and good body technique more important to a dancer?” posed Thranduil with a devilish smirk.

“Thranduil Oropherion!  I will be seeing your naneth again soon enough!  And don’t either of you dare remark!” Miphillim warned her husband and son.

“I wasn’t going to say anything!” claimed Amroth, donning a comical expression of bewildered innocence; his empty hands raised into the air over his head in surrender.

Hrassa saw the little princess reach for the new prince’s belt knife.  Just as he had suspected when she first asked if she might make herself a token, Celebrían was bent on taking a special souvenir back to Ost-in-Edhil – even though her gwador would be left looking rather ridiculous with a hank of hair noticeably missing.  Without a doubt, she had prodded, meaning to create an opportunity to get what she wanted.  If he would ruin her sly move, he would have to speak up quickly.

“Oh no, you don’t!”  Amroth brought down his arms and pulled her hands off the knife handle, shoving it back into its sheath.  “Undo it right this minute and then go sit on the ground for trying that!”  Amdir and Thranduil laughed louder and harder than before, this time both of them rolling helpless onto their backs.  Hrassa’s glowing grin widened till practically all that could be seen of him was a smile.  He was thoroughly delighted that someone other than himself had caught the little ruschên at one of her tricks.

Arrested, Celebrian clasped her hands together upon her lap, her lower lip pushed out in a contrite pout, and her eyes filled with remorse.  Peeking up at Amroth through her pretty eyelashes, she simply expected his forgiveness.  With that, Hrassa lost control and laughed aloud.  Attempting to charm her way out of trouble with, of all people, Amroth – a charmer himself and someone quite aware of his family’s traits – struck the bowman as absolutely hilarious.

“Do as he says,” sternly whispered the Queen, who was definitely not amused with the elleth’s antics.  Celebrían immediately began to unravel her handiwork in good haste.

“That’s it, Son,” commended Amdir, wheezing out his words between laughs.  “Start early keeping her in line or regret it later.”

“Oh, nicely said, my lord,’ drawled Miphillim, fixing her sharpened gaze upon him.  “And, I do hope that rug is comfortable.  Seeing as you shall be sleeping on the ground...”

  <<:>>  <<:>>  <<:>>  <<:>>  <<:>>  <<:>>  <<:>>  <<:>>  <<:>>  <<:>>

Author’s Notes

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

Farrod a Rodwën în – The Noble Hunter and his Noble Maiden

farrod – hunt lord   fara- to hunt arod noble, high ranking (arata / arta Quenya)

ferryd – plural of farrod

rodwën – noble maiden (High Virgin Noble)  arod noble, high ranking gwen maiden

Ivann – the Sindarin name for Yavanna

Ivonwin (Yavannildi Quenya) – the elven-maidens who are the only ones permitted to handle the sacred corn which is used for the making of lembas (coimas Quenya)

Ivanwën – singular of Ivonwin

besain (massanie Quenya) – breadgivers

bassoneth – singular of besain

According to the Professor, cooking is generally considered the province of males

Oropher and company settled at Amon Lanc before the Lord and Lady grew the Golden Wood.

I have him as a great-grandson of Elmo through one of Galadhon’s younger siblings.  This makes Oropher a legitimate kinsman of Celeborn, but not in the direct line of royalty.

Thranduil and his OC sister were born in Beleriand, and I think not young children when Thingol was killed.  At this point, he is still unmarried.

Ivrellas – is an OC wife for Oropher

Amdir (Malgalad) Like Erienion who was fostered by Cirdan in relative safety by the sea, I have fostered by Celeborn and Galadriel in relative safety across the mountains at Nenuial.  He leaves to rediscover Lindórinand before the third Kinslaying at Sirion.
I have him as another great-grandson of Elmo, but also of Denethor through his eldest son.

Personally, I think his name got changed so that his and Amroth’s name would reflect the father-and-heir pattern we see in the names of many families.  Interestingly, Oropher’s line seems to be exempted from this.  Whereas, it is applied to Celeborn’s and Nimloth’s daughters.

Amroth is Amdir’s son.  I think he was born prior to Oropher heading east.  At this point, he has yet to meet the elusive Nimrodel.  

“... if Amroth were indeed thought of as the son of Galadriel and Celeborn when Lord of the Rings was written, so important a connection could hardly have escaped mention.  But whether he was or not, this view of his parentage was later rejected.” (C.T.)

“Amroth was King of Lórien, after his father Amdír was slain in the Battle of Dagorlad.” – Amroth and Nimrodel – The History of Galadriel and Celeborn – Unfinished Tales

Miphillim – is an OC wife for Amdir

Hrassa is an OC from another fanfic Celebrian, Sell i Nos Galadhad.  Amdir’s coronation is being celebrated not too long after Hrassa arrived in Ost-in-Edhil.

Cliff – Celebrian’s simple translation of Hrassa’s name and her personal name for him

Nerwen – the ‘mother_name’ of Galadriel

Caun-anim – prince for myself, My Prince – Hrassa’s name for Celeborn

nothrim – Household or clan members (collective form of nos)

faer  – spirit (fëa Quenya)

orë – heart, inner spirit

gaur – werewolf

gwador/gwathel – brother/sister who is not a sibling

muindor/muinthel – brother/sister who is a sibling

ellon/elleth – male/female elf

ellyn/ellith – male/female elves

eledhwaith – star-folk - eledh is an early word for elf, edhel is later

nenwaith – lake-folk or water-folk

tawarwaith – forest-folk or wood-folk

rínneld – the three queens (three crowned ladies)

ruschên – fox kit (fox child)

naneth/nana – mother/mom

adar/ada – father/dad

daeradar/daernaneth – grandfather/grandmother

cogndîr – bowman Nandorin

manadh – fate, fortune, doom

elo! – behold! or zounds! or ‘hello, look what we have here!’