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“This is the story of a hunt to kill a werewolf...

... when only the stars shone above Beleriand... 

... when only one King ruled in Ennor...

... and when the hunter could become the hunted.”  

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In its mad withdraw, the werewolf had swathed an evident trail through the thick trees.  And so at first, the scout need leave no marks of his own to guide the pursuing trio of hunters.

The three loped in single-file – Iûllaug in the lead with Alagastor following and Oropher last – no one yet concerned enough to keep an eye out for any problem other than closing the long stretch between them and their fleeing quarry.  The woods around them had been rendered almost silent by the alarming passage of the fell creature.  High above the interwoven branches that arched over them, sparkling star-jewels set in a cloudless velvet sky cast a crisp light over the western woods of Dimbar.  Thus aided, they were swiftly covering ground.  In fact so swiftly, Oropher began to hope they might actually catch up to the werewolf and bring it down before it got past the tree-line and onto the upper moors.  He appreciated the constant flow of cool air that gently floated down from those highlands to the very banks of the Sirion, but he would not care to chase the beast over that hazardous terrain.

However, over the next handful of hours, the scout’s job became observably more difficult the further along they traveled.  Eventually, it was by Morchantor’s diligent efforts, not the werewolf’s decreasing carelessness, that they knew in which direction to go without having to slow to a walk.  Blood drops had become the only reliably trace of the quarry itself.  More elusive clues would start and stop, erratic and deceptive.  Indicating that the beast certainly knew it was being tracked and was attempting to evade the astute scout by various, so far thankfully slipshod, tactics.  As if it were not used to being hunted.  Oropher latched on to that thought as an encouraging possibility, since it looked like the fell creature would, after all, make the moors ere they would encounter it.  For it might also not know how to fight someone skilled with a long knife.  If bow and arrow failed, it would not be as hard to kill as a more cunning animal.

Iûllaug suddenly halted, gesturing for them to spread out to either side of him and look for trail-marks.  The quarry had succeeded in shaking off its unwanted second tail.  But, since Morchantor had not waited for them, the hunt-leader rightly expected that his scout had picked up the trail again somewhere ahead of the track they were currently on.  After a short while of slow searching, a low whistle from Alagastor brought Iûllaug and Oropher to him where he stood quite some ways away, off at an angle, from the end of the curtailed trail.  When the two grey-elves had joined him, the green-elf pointed to a broad ivy-leaf, its edges pulled together to make a round fold, sticking out of a crevice in the bark of a spreading beech.  He then indicated a slim stick propped upon some exposed roots of the tree; new-growth which had been cut and stripped of its leaves then purposely positioned to point in a particular direction.

Without thinking about it, Oropher placed a flat palm on the tree’s broad trunk and offered polite thanks to it for graciously holding on to the message until they arrived.  A small kindness greatly appreciated, tall one.  If nothing else, a bird or squirrel might have disturbed it just out of curiosity.  The verdant layer of leaves overhead rustled slightly as if freshened by a very light breeze, although there was only the weak current of moving air.

“You’re well-named, Farrod.”  He turned to see Alagastor smiling at him with twinkling eyes, entertained by his easy rapport with the beech.  “How’re you with birches?”   The unassuming humor of this visitor to Brethil reminded Oropher that his cousins thought his galadhren name rather presumptuous, as if he were not same as they also one of the Children of Elmo, and had received none of his great-grandfather’s gifts.  Just because, like Alagastor, his father was Nandorin.

“Oh, he is good with every sort,” joked Iûllaug, with a straight face.   “Horses tend to like him, too.”  The hunt-leader lightly plucked the ivy leaf and let it fall open in his hand.  “Although, he scares the dogs.”   Which caused Alagastor to snort back a laugh.  Oropher smiled too.  In truth, feeling flattered by their good-natured teasing.

The thin lines of the stick-figures hurriedly scored onto the ivy leaf contrasted clearly against its slick, reflective surface.  Frowning, Iûllaug handed the message to Oropher.  -wolf carry ellon-  Meaning Belcam’s brother, Tûgern, is alive!  He was not lying dead in the forest somewhere near the place of the attack.  And was, as feared, a captive.  Else, the message would have been -wolf carry food-.  This would explain the odd tracks.  It was switching back and forth from four to two feet depending on how it needed to haul its catch; in its jaws or using its forelimbs or upon its back.  Less of a wonder now that it is not doing so well escaping pursuit.  He passed the leaf to Alagastor.

“Not good,” adjudged Alagastor upon reading it.  Oropher nodded.  The werewolf holding on to the encumbering ellon confirmed that it had not attacked from hunger, and most likely had come so close to the village to nab a strong back to force into like service to its sorcerous master.  A pack was possibly in the making.  He reluctantly recalled the worst known case in this region.  All the ellyn of a small settlement had been turned by a powerful spell-caster, and then sent to prey upon their neighbors.  Such a preventable tragedy must never happen again.

“Yea,” agreed Iûllaug.  He crumpled up the returned leaf in his fist and cast it to the ground.  “Oropher, mark the trail to here and start hanging back.  Come on, Alagastor.”  The hunt-leader started in the new direction indicated by the pointing stick, the green-elf following on his very heels.  Oropher made sure those coming from the Hunters’ Lodge would have a clear trail to follow before he took off after the other two.  Lagging behind but keeping them just in sight, he moved with more stealth and watched the woods on both sides of them for anything untoward.  Alagastor would unobtrusively glance back, every so often, and make sure he was still there.

This was how they went on for a few hours.  Until, at the edge of a small spring-fed pond abounding with many different sets of tracks but no animals to be seen, another message was found.  After reading the delicately scratched piece of bark, Iûllaug decided on a breather.  They took turns drinking from the spring while another kept watch.

Alagastor decided for himself that he would be the one to remain on look-out.  He hunkered down close to the tall clump of sunken reeds that grew close to a rocky edge; settling into an apparently relaxed position with his knees jutting outward like a frog poised to jump, his shoulders hunched with upper arms resting on his bent knees and holding his bow, arrow nocked, in front of him.  The other two stretched out upon a scant patch of grass.  Oropher pulled out some waybread from his rucksack and, breaking off a small piece, held it out to Iûllaug, who accepted it with a nod.  He offered the next piece to Alagastor, who shook his head.

“ ‘Tis very tasty,” he claimed, trying to tempt the forest-dweller.  He was curious to know if what his father said about the waybread made in Eglador being much better then any found in Ossiriand was just a matter of opinion.  In addition, he liked being able to flaunt having lembas among their supplies – one of the better privileges granted to a farrod.

“I was just finishing my meal when I heard the cries of the villagers,” Alagastor explained, not wishing to appear discourteous in continuing to refuse.

Oropher nodded in understanding.  Many wood-elves did not subscribe to the seemingly practical notion of eating whenever possible and would eat a meal only every half turn-of-the-rim.  The austere custom sprang from being nomads.  Without carrying some supplies, just a few people traveling through could easily strip a plot of forest of all sustenance and adversely affect any future bounty.  Depending on the clan, Nandor could be fierce about their territorial ranges.  In a few hours, when the hunt had lasted longer than twelve hours, Alagastor would start sharing rations with them.  Oropher tucked the bread into his own grateful mouth.  The rest he re-wrapped and packed away again.

“I am glad that you came to the call,” said Iûllaug.  “Both of you.”  He looked again at the new message with a beetled brow.  Oropher exchanged a quick glance with Alagastor.  They had already pretty much guessed why Iûllaug had called a stop so soon.

“Who was that pretty maiden you arrived with, Farrod?” asked Alagastor.  He continually scanned the surrounding area as he talked.  “Is that the rodwën I’ve heard tell who can talk with the dead?”

“The maiden’s name is Ivrellas.”   He smiled at Alagastor’s poking fun after his little boast with the waybread by again addressing him by his rank and not his name, which he had every right to use.  In fact, the fellow was plainly setting up a friendly contest of wit to put Iûllaug at ease, just so he would ask their advice.  And so, I shall play along.  But, play to win.  “Actually, she can only hear the dead.”   He turned a composed face to the much-older wood-elf.  “But not just them.  Námo, as well.”  Alagastor did a double-take, startled by the off-handed reference to that particular Vala.  Then, the wood-elf grinned appreciatively and went back to watching.  Score one for me, Laegel.  Still, Oropher got the definite impression that the fellow knew more than he pretended.  “She assists the dying in their passage from life.  Iûllaug has likely told you all about her and me.”  Alagastor was about to take his next shot when Iûllaug interrupted.

“From his message, Morchantor suspects that our quarry is headed for an old lair he knows of on the moor.  He intends to get there ahead of it.”   As anticipated, he was turning to the more experienced hunters for guidance.  “He knows that it knows that it is being tracked.”   Their young hunt-leader sounded unsure of his scout’s decision.  “Was he worried it would double back on him again and attack?”

“Not while dragging around prey it does not want further damaged,” offered Alagastor.  “And will not risk have escape, if left alone.”  His eyes became focused on something far away, watching it with narrowed eyes.  “As yet, every evidence is that it’s bringing its prize back to its master.”  His attention came back in close.  “They could take Morchantor were he to go in too close behind.  He’s right to try another approach.  If he’s making a guess, feels to me to be a good one.”

“I agree,” said Oropher.  He was watching their leader, unconsciously judging Iûllaug’s assessment of their opinions.  “We should avoid alarming them into a reaction.  Better to find out how many we are up against first.  I think we should keep going at speed ‘til we catch up to Morchantor.  By the time the faroth arrives with the hounds, we will have scoped the lair and can get this job done quickly.”

“You’re so sure the spell-caster will be there?” questioned Alagastor of Oropher.  “Are you that confident we can wipe them out all at once?”

“To me, this lone-wolf raid indicates a very small pack, desperate for more members.  Yes, I think its master is probably there, anxiously awaiting his soon-to-be minion.”

“What if they scatter rather than fight?”

“If a couple of cowardly ones run off, we can track those down later.  The spell-caster is who we need to take care of for sure.”

“And what if he actually had many more than this one to send out?  Each to bring back its own prize?”

“Then, the chaos of more captives will aid us.  And, if not all his servants are there when we attack, we can trap them as they return.”

Alagator responded with a shrug, but did not disagree with Oropher’s strategy.

“Very well,” decided Iûllaug.  “Let us go swiftly to Morchantor.”

They stood up together.  Alagastor stowed his bow upon his back, and they all hitched up any loosened gear.  The hunt-leader looked for their readiness, and receiving a nod from each, took off at a run down the scout’s tangent trail.  One and than the other hunter followed after him – Oropher again as rear guard.

Within the second hour of the new course, they passed out from under the dense trees onto low-rising slopes of scattered and stunted black-pine.  A boggy hint in the air advised Oropher that they were coming to the elusive edge of the moorlands.  Its borders continually encroached and retreated depending on how recently there was wet weather and to what degree.  The next time Alagastor looked back to check on him, he signaled the visitor, whom he suspected might be unfamiliar with this sort of terrain, to watch for sinking ground.  Alagastor gave no reply, but Oropher noticed that he did lighten his step.

Hardly an hour later, Iûllaug halted them, pointing out a fresh sign from Morchantor – a warning.  They had unexpectedly caught up with their scout – and their quarry.  The hunt-leader motioned for them to nock bows and be prepared to loose arrows.  Fingers on taut strings, they carefully kept behind thinning cover as they silently moved forward in tandem.  A faint flickering appeared in foliage far in front of them.

As they neared to it, the motion became Morchantor’s pale bare hand, signaling them to stay quiet and hidden.  They stowed their weapons then and closed the last distance in a stealthy crouch.  Iûllaug joined the scout inside the overgrown shrubs where he had hidden to wait for them – after silently sending Oropher and Alagastor, left and right, to watch from further away.  They were to observe all they could for now and await further instructions.  It would be at least four hours before someone would have go back and meet the party bringing the dogs.

Oropher slipped through clumped vegetation, unnoticeable, seeking an advantageous but comfortable spying spot to settle into for the wait.  The height of the plants was just enough to properly hide his movements.  His hooded cloak might have made it very easy to move about unseen.  However, he tended not to bear it, save in snowy weather, for he really did not need it to blend into the landscape.  With his bright coloring, that was the one stalking skill he had had to master early on and perfectly.

The ground about was not exactly dry, but he hoped to find a patch that was not too damp either.  He had just picked a place when a strong whiff of the werewolf’s scent wafted past, carried on peaty puffs of air tumbling in turns off the close-by heath.  So, he moved slightly aside of the downwind draft to a location that would give him just as good a view of where the beast now obviously lingered.  After carefully crawling forward to his chosen post, he expertly whispered his way into a nest of delicate ferns and tall flowers.  If any animal gazed in his direction, it would never detect him.  With great patience, he slowly fingered a gap, as narrow as possible, in the grass curtain of his low blind to take his first real look at the werewolf.

Varda’s Stars!  His pulse quickened at the sight, and for a moment, he worried the pounding might give him away.  So big!  Larger even than its paw-prints had implicated.  In fact, size enough to have taken on him – and one of my kinsmen! – let alone two of farmer Belcam’s ilk.  He had not wondered at both a mother and her little daughter dying in the short attack, but now he was amazed that the grandfather had survived his encounter with the killer.

It paced, as if invisibly caged, within a small clearing defined by bubble-clusters of lichen-mottled boulders.  As it walked to and fro, its enormous head swung left and right, growling in consternation.  When it came to the turnarounds of its deepening track, it would pause for a moment; head bowed with its nose almost touching the ground, seeming to be listening.  Then, it would raise its head and pull back its lips in a twitchy snarl to bare clinched, dagger-like teeth.  An adamant whip of its tail and it would proceed round again.

Every two or three circuits, its filthy ragged coat would shimmy, as if half-heartedly shaking off a clinging rain that had not washed it clean.  A downpour would not be enough!   It was an odiferous hank of pitch-black evil that could only have walked out of a nightmare – potently armed with a poisonous bite and deadly claws – fouling the very starlight that failed to grace it.  Oropher suppressed a repulsive shiver.  This monster was not something made by the hands of the Valar, but an unnatural, malicious contrivance – both in form and in spirit.  He had to turn his eyes away and look at something else – anything else.

There was a cramped dark opening, where some broken boulders crunched together, that appeared to be the entrance to a den of sorts.  However, the earth in front was not scrapped bare by the repeated passage of a large body.  Nor were there any fresh swipes across the thick moss around the opening.  Nothing to indicate that it might currently be sheltering a master or a comrade, or... a mate?  Upon Valaroma! From one sick thought to another…

Pairing was possible for these creatures, for all he knew.  Scary tales were a campfire staple of hunters and wood-elves alike, and he had heard hushed tales told of abandoned infants marred by strange canine features being found mewling in the woods.  But, it was also said that they always died for they must suckling from their ensorcelled mothers.  Whether or not there really were female werewolves, or that they raised or rejected offspring, he had never asked.  Loathing to hear any answer at all.  There were always better things to occupy one’s thoughts before sleep.

The monster’s bruised and abraded prey lie sprawled facedown, prone upon rubble-strewn ground.  The ellon was shoeless, his bloodstained clothing shredded and mostly gone.  However, his limbs appeared to be unbroken.  The beast had indeed been careful not to damage Tûgern too much.  Shallow but steady breathing indicated that the farmer yet lived, but was either unconscious or dared not to move.  More significantly though, than there being no spell-caster within sight or hearing, there was no wolf-skin spread out in preparation for the making of a new werewolf.  So then, why ever has it come here?  His thoughts were interrupted as he suddenly sensed Morchantor skulking around behind him.

Completely noiseless, his fellow farrod sidling up like a stick bug until he was right beside Oropher.  He then sank down into place, lying flat on his stomach in like manner, hidden behind the grassy blind.  Oropher looked surprised at his unexpected guest, who returned a chagrined smile.  Iûllaug had obviously sent him over, while their leader most likely went over to consult with Alagastor.  The scout silently slid his tall spear forward and settled it in the laid-over grass between them.  Oropher could not help admiring the impressive weapon.

The bladed javelin was much prized by Morchantor, having been awarded to him by his high-lord, Oropher’s uncle.  Its proud wielder had named it Karakalar.  Sadly, in order to carry it with him, most of time the brilliant mithril-chaised blade of the trophy had to be muted with a coating of mud or paint.  Oropher himself had not regularly carried a spear since receiving his first longbow.  As before and after that symbolic passage from childhood to adolescent status, compact sling-darts remained his preferred throwing weapon.  He used a spear when going after big game such as boar, but he would never choose to be weighted down by carrying what amounted to a sapling everywhere he went.

On the other hand, Morchantor generally kept to older traditions.  His bow was a stout flatbow.  Like Alagastor and unlike Oropher or Iûllaug, he bore no long knife, only a much shorter stone knife.  Sometimes, he brought along his versatile stone axe, although not today.  Even his bottom-half apparel, when he chose to wear more than a simple tunic, was a set of separate leggings tied over his loincloth rather than the single, completely covering, garment worn by most ellyn since the settlement of Neldoreth.  Oropher had known the older ellon since birth and had always liked his straightforward character and uncomplicated integrity.  When young, he had looked up to the wily hunter as a model to emulate.  Now practically adult and advanced in their craft, he looked upon Morchantor as a senior colleague.

“It has been doing that since it got here,” the scout motioned with his lips then raised his eyebrows in question.  Oropher gave him a minimal shake of his head.  He had as yet no opinion to offer.  Morchantor closed his eyes and slightly tilted his head.  He wanted to get some rest while the junior hunter did all the labor.  Oropher gave him a rueful smile.  Rank must exert its privileges on occasion.  Just to remind everyone of their place.  He got a smug smile in return, and the scout laid down his head with a soundless sigh, his eyes left wide open.  Show-off.   Morchantor was not truly asleep but ‘staying awake’ – completely at rest in a dreaming state and yet alert to his surroundings.  One very useful wood-elf trick which Morchantor knew Oropher was continually working on to learn.  And I will get it.  You will see.  He really did not mind letting Morchantor get some rest.  Iûllaug was probably giving Alagastor a chance to eat something.  At least, I hope he is.  He looked back to the clearing and diligently tried to make sense of what was going on there.

It was waiting, of that he felt sure.  Not for a pack to show up, though.  There were no signs of encampment by more than one.  No gathering howls, from it or issuing from the heights.  In all the time it had paced, no kill-partner had come to its side looking for a share.  So, it is alone and on its own.  But for some reason, it keeps its catch whole.  Tûgern had not moved.  Exhausted from fighting it?  Which would have distracted it from leaving him to deal with any pursuers.  Except, it could have dealt with a single scout, at the very least, and then retaken its captive.  And, why had it not fed?  For it seemed obvious now, there was to be no transformation forced upon the farmer.  Why is the ellon still alive?

A glop of drool dripped like cold syrup from the werewolf’s jaws.  The translucent saliva was streaked with red.  The ground beneath its treading paws did look slightly spotted.  That blood can not be from the victims.  That would have been licked off long ago.  There had been much blood on the trail.  If all from Tûgern, then much too much for him to be yet breathing.   Its own then.  The grandfather was strong and somehow wounded it.  That badly?  Enough to send it wildly running.

The beast stopped in its repetitive locomotion and shook itself hard.  When resettled, its lower jaw moved rather tentatively, up and down.  The lip flaps drew back as the tongue repeatedly slithering out, tasting the air and delicately wiping over its nose.  Glaeru!  It is healing itself – fast!!  He had not bothered getting a description of the attack from anyone there, which he could now see was an oversight.

What best fit the facts?  Why was the dismembered mother left behind?  Rage.  Ripped the mother apart when she would not let her daughter be carried off.  Why not take a piece of her and leave the child behind?   A preference for living, tender flesh.  The child’s back was purposely broken to render it helpless.  Then, why take the father instead of keeping the child?  The grandfather arrived to save his granddaughter.  The courageous elder had cracked its jaw!  It was forced to run. Deprived of its intended prize.  With the alarm raised and being wounded, it could not wait for another easy target.  The father had been taken by surprise on his way to the scene!

But reasoning out events begged the same question as before, why keep Tûgern alive with hunters in pursuit?  Why not simply tear off some flesh and escape?  Because, its kind craves the fresh kill, for that sort of meat greatly fortifies them.  Maybe that was why the farmer was relatively unharmed.  The beast was recovering, but must feed well afterwards.  Perhaps, it was already weak when it attacked the holding.  Yes, and more desperate now then before to get the nourishment it needs to remain strong!  Thus, a dangerous attempt to snatch a child, and then being forced to drag off life-saving sustenance no matter how taxing.  There was no threat here other than this one wounded beast!  Tûgern can be saved!

The fell creature turned, showing its back as it started on the return leg of its current round.

Oropher sat up and quickly shrugged off his bow and quiver.  There was no time to explain to the others!  He had to move!  Before it heals completely and starts feeding!   It could be a matter of seconds!  Now – Right now! – was the best chance of killing it without anyone else being killed!  Tûgern can be saved!  He grabbed the spear lying beside him and sprang upright.  Taking three leaping strides, he hauled his arm back as far as he could – counting on the werewolf to come around at the noise.

“Fly Karakalar!” he shouted as he launched the weapon using all his strength and skill.  The moment it left his hand, he drew his two knives and sprinted headlong towards the clearing.  Away to his right, Iûllaug had heard him and also broke cover.  He too raced forward, stone knife and long knife both drawn.

The werewolf was startled, frozen for a blink of the eye by the sight of Oropher’s imposing charge.  Snarling, it rose on its hind legs to stand almost erect – and then it saw the hurtling spear descending.  It tried to evade it, but did not get quite clear.  The weapon drove hard into its left shoulder, piecing through the joint, although missing the intended target of its heart.  It threw back its gruesome head and let loose a toothy howl of frustration and agony.  Its stricken forelimb swung weirdly loose, like a flailing pole.  Faint vapors sizzled from the neat wound where the spear’s long blade entered and from the exited bloodied point.

In a canine grimace, the werewolf braced the wooden shaft against the ground and leaned on it with the other forelimb.  The shaft snapped off, almost to the spearhead.  With incredible strength, it ripped away the remaining splinters and bindings, leaving the gleaming tang of the spearhead exposed.  Its articulated paw fisted around the cross-hilt, and it tried to extricate the blade.  Although it pulled with all its might – jerking up and down, left than right, screeching in excruciating fury –  Karakalar would not come loose from its bones.  Thwarted, its raging eyes set upon Oropher.  It flung wide its good arm in a taloned threat, issuing a growling roar of hatred.

“Get out of the way!” bellowed Alagastor.  With a sneering glance in Iûllaug’s direction, the werewolf realized it was caught between two assaults.  But, Oropher being nearer and the perpetrator of the spear remained the opponent it was fixed upon.  It continued to challenge him alone, eager to engage the onrushing hunter. 

“Get out of the way!”   Bow draw and aiming, Alagastor blindly dashed to his right to shoot while running.  The green-banded arrow zipped to its target.  It cut across the werewolf’s throat, ending its terrorizing howls.  Blood rained in heavy splatters over the rocks and the ground, flung far by its reactive spasm.  Still moving, Alagastor managed to loose another deadly arrow.  This time, his shot struck deep into the beast’s chest, a hand-span below the wisping spearhead.

Its body shook as if the arrow has stuck a nerve not a heart.  Blood surged from the wound.  With a final convulsive jerk, the fell creature collapsed; its forelegs thrown forward above its lolling head, as if making obeisance to its mighty slayers.  The lodged arrow broke in the crash to earth, but the true-silver blade did not budge, tilting the fallen body at a peculiar angle.

Oropher recklessly ran up to it, intending to quickly make good his promise to cut out its black heart with the knife Belcam had given him for that vengeful task.  Hastily sheathing his weapons, he heaved the heavy body over with a shouted grunt.  The immovable spearhead shoved into the earth.  However, by Oropher’s hand, the blade came easily out, and he tossed it to one side.

When the beast went down, Iûllaug had slowed his charge.  He was shaking with relief as he strode into the clearing.  To his right, Belcam’s brother stirred.  The ellon weakly pushed himself up onto an elbow and drew up a trembling leg in an attempt to stand – which elicited a fey cry of pain from him.  Iûllaug quickly sheathed his knives and veered aside from joining Oropher to giving aid to Tûgern.

Do not touch him!!  Some instinct within Oropher screamed in sudden panic.  Fear so intense it took away his breath, and he could not get out any sound to warn Iûllaug.  Frantic, he leapt over the werewolf’s body, landing behind the hunt-leader.  He grabbed Iûllaug’s quiver with outstretched hands, desperately hauling back and pulling the hunter off his feet entirely.  Tûgern nimbly sprang up from his struggled crouch.  Like a panther, he pounced at Iûllaug and succeeded in grasping the jutting handle of his long knife.

Drunkenly spinning, Oropher swung Iûillaug around him.  At the same time, he crashed his shoulder into Tûgern, sending the ellon staggering.  But, the blow also helped to pull the grabbed blade out of its sheath.  He let go of Iûllaug, so he might draw his own long knife.  The shocked hunter flew backward and slammed against a boulder with a sickening thud; the wind knocked out of him as well as bouncing his head against the stone.  Following through on his spin, Oropher used his momentum to smoothly pull out his long knife in a raised arc, meaning to come down in a heavy blow with the pommel.

Tûgern had steadied from being jolted aside and was poised to lunge at Oropher with Iûillaug’s long knife.  Just as Tûgern extended his arm, Oropher saw that he had to change from pommel to blade to deflect the deadly thrust.  But, Tûgern skillfully circled his point around the Oropher’s blade and leaned in.  Not expecting the farmer to be so able, Oropher moved his block barely in time.  He was further thrown off-kilter when he reached for his stone knife with his other hand.  It had become misplaced from twisting about.  Instead, he had to awkwardly pull Belcam’s belt knife lightening quick.  In that confused moment, Tûgern closed in on him.  Their blades sparked as they grazed along the honed edges and slammed together at the cross-guards.  The ellon grasped Oropher’s wrist, almost turning the belt knife back onto him and into his belly.  They strained against each other – blades locked at the hilts, wrestling for control of the knife – engaged in a fierce death-match.

In the midst of this mortal clinch, Oropher suddenly felt as if his skull was struck by a rock.  His brain reeled, made deaf and blind by the ringing glare.  He barely hung on to consciousness, falling back as his foe tried to force him down to the ground.  Physical training alone kept him standing.  When his disarray cleared, he found himself suspended in a surreal state of slowness.  The weird lengthening of seconds when in grave danger was not unfamiliar, but this time he was not only consciously aware of himself – he was conscious of Tûgern too!  As if the he were both of them at the same time!

Fool! spoke another voice within his head.  Powerful, vicious intentions crashed over his confused thoughts like storm-waves, threatening to wash who-he-was away, if he did not hold fast onto his wildly-tossing mind.  He was inundated, drowned in venomous knowledge.

Araw!  The corrupted spirit that should have remained imprisoned in its wolf-skin was not bound there by any spell-caster!  Belcam’s brother had not been abducted to be made into a slave or kept alive as a cure-all – but to become a new host for a one of the Houseless!  Araw! Oh Araw!  Tûgern’s faer was gone!  His spirit had been callously removed from existence, ripped out like straw stuffing.  Then, this fiend of darkness had thrust its supernatural foulness into the ellon’s place.  Although his body breathed, Tûgern was dead!  Truly dead!  Not only to the living, but to creation!  Neither to wait nor to fade!

You shall go the same way!  His head, not his ears, heard that merciless, sadistic promise.  I shall have all that is yours for mine!  What his ears heard was a pitiable cry of horror.

No! No!  He did not want to die!  Not like that!  He felt on fire, but there were no flames! It is not real!  He would not be torn away his body by a lie!  It is not real!  He clung.  He refused.  He protested.  He grasped.  He resisted.  He rejected.  Utterly desperate, he shoved his faer into the darkest depths of his orë from whence it might never resurface.  Better lost in inner shadows than destroyed by this one!  The evil spirit shrieked in his head, outraged.  It dug into him, chasing after his soul like a starving dog after a coney, mad to have it.  But, his faer could not be pulled out, anymore than had Karakalar.  The fiery torture meant to force his surrender stopped.  His relief, however, was short-lived.

Have it your way then!  His hand that still gripped Belcam’s knife began to move.  Upward, it slowly rose and was turned, with little effort.  He struggled, but this physical assault he could not hold out against as he had the spiritual.  His arm was wrestling against itself, guided by two minds, and his foe was winning.  The razor edge of the knife scrapped over his chest, slicing through his jerkin and the sleeveless shirt beneath, shaving away the surface of the skin beneath that.  He was going to cut his own throat!  The end of his life was coming!  And without life... !

I am without Ivrellas...  He would never see her again.  ... nor hear her voice... nor hold her hand... They would be parted forever without ever having been truly together.  There would be no wedding.  There would be no children.  Those consolations would not be there to help his beloved endure.  ... because I was too weak to stay alive...

A strange clarity came upon him.  Something Ivrellas had tried to explain to him – and at the time had remained completely obscure in his understanding – suddenly made absolutely perfect sense.  She had claimed that when commencing contact with a dying person, she experienced their pain.  Her mind and body would become entangled in a bizarre empathy with each other where thoughts and spirits somehow remained separate.  After the initial connection, she could eliminate any and all pain from their shared existence.  Being stronger than one who was dying, she would take over both.  She said it was from within, not from without, that she found the strength to overcome the pain and the fear of death.

Your end is come! the fell spirit confidently declared, almost cackled, inside his head.  For the knife was at his throat.  In a redoubled effort, he was able to push it away.  But then, his confused arm began to push it back again.

Despairing, he dove down into his heart to find whatever strength he might have left – going deeper than he had ever gone before – into the fearsome depths where his darker nature held sway – into the unfathomable place where now his faer helplessly wandered.  Of a sudden, he broke through, not into a shadowed interior, but a luminous, hitherto undiscovered, cavern of hope.  A! Elbereth Gilthoniel!  Starlight, like the rain and dew that falls up on the earth, had permeated through his outer being and pooled into a still reservoir within him.  Therein, he chose sacrifice over despair.  He emerged infused.  He rose up renewed and determined.  This fell creature would not escape to kill again!

Your end as well, shadow-thingl!  If this fiend could move his body according to its will... 

Focusing on its body instead of his own, he bid the hand holding onto his wrist to release its grip.  It did!  Quickly as he could, before it might catch on to his ploy, he moved the arm into the path of the knife hovering at his throat.  Then, he abruptly stopped his effort to hold it off.  The knife snapped sideways from the release of the tension.  In a stroke of something that was a bit more than luck, the tip of blade only grazed him and sliced across his foe’s bare forearm, opening a vein.  Blood flowed out like wine from a toppled bottle.  The wave of disbelief Oropher felt was not his, but the victorious shout he heard was.  He watched his own fear-contorted face change to delight as he reveled in the satisfaction of fighting back.

The Houseless one reclaimed control of its host, relinquishing its deadly hold on Oropher’s body.  But, once again it grabbed his wrist, to stop the plunging knife, and the struggle over it resumed.  Nevertheless, it was too late for the evil spirit to win by killing him.  Its stolen body was bleeding to death.  So, it now sought to infest him.

Since it could not eject his spirit nor control his body, it intended to ride along hidden inside, goading him like a bridled ox, until it could get to a more malleable body in which to dwell.  Its furious bewilderment at his continued defiance poked into Oropher.  From head to toe, his muscles felt like they were being randomly jabbed by ill-aimed darts.  Could he sling his emotions at it in the same painful way?

Too strong! Too strong!  I must escape or be destroyed!!  He felt the arrowed notion hit hard and true.

The fell creature erupted with a terrified roar, wild-eyed and panicked, shoving him away.  It staggered backward, necessarily releasing his wrist.  The cowardly monster was fleeing from him!  Just as it had from Belcam’s brave father!

It was gone!  His body and mind were free!

With separation, time snapped back into its normal gait, and the change was too rapid for Oropher to cope with.  He stayed on his feet, but was disoriented by the precipitous return to his individual self after having adapted to the altered state.  He stabbed at his foe, but he had not regained mastery of his limbs.  It evaded his clumsy attempt, apparently having no need itself to recover.  It reared back its arm, raising Iûllaug’s gleaming long knife.  Oropher strove to bring up his long knife to shield against the fatal blow.  Then, he could strike from beneath with the belt knife   But, he was moving too slow.  He would be unable to save his life again.

A grey-feathered shaft slammed into the possessed body – straight into the heart – a hairsbreadth from striking Oropher as it flew past.  Only slightly paused by the impact, the evil spirit continued its strike.  But, Oropher gained just enough time from the in that infinitesimal delay and the slowed swing to meet its blade with his.  Instead of backing off, for his legs were like logs, he dropped Belcam’s knife and reached forward under his raised arm.  He grasped the shaft of the arrow – twisting it and viciously wrenching it out.  The gaping wound gushed.  The wrecked Houseless one fell back, gasping – then lurched away at an unnatural speed towards the stunned Iûllaug!  Incredulous that it was still alive, Oropher made to stagger after it.   Nevertheless, he knew he would not reach it before it reached the helpless hunter – and took him!

“Curse you!” he screamed at it.  “Die!”

His hysterical demand was fed by the power still channeling from deep inside him.  Feeling that power and terrorized by it, the Houseless one turned back onto him, insanely charging.  It howled in mad protest, incredible hatred distorting its stolen face.  Oropher automatically slashed at it , a diagonally swash over its entire torso from shoulder to knee, as he awkwardly pivoted on one foot to get out of its way.  It silently swept past him on it own momentum.  Somehow, his sloppy cut had struck an artery in the thigh.  More blood drained away; its already pale face turning stark white.

Weaving on its feet, it looked utterly bewildered for having lost sight of its tormentor.  It turned around, tottering like a drunkard, to look with disbelief into Oropher’s blazing eyes.

How can this be?   It could not comprehend its demise.  The long knife dropped from its hand.  How... ?

At last, it gently folded onto the ground; heaving its own curse upon him, unheard for lack of breath.  Oropher could sense it struggling to evacuate the corpse before the last spark of life was gone, seeking to rise into the air and survive, if only as a haunt drifting with the wind.

No!  He would not let it!  You will suffer the same fate you perpetrated upon your victims!  He dropped his long knife and went down on hands and knees to fetch Belcam’s belt knife.  You shall have pain and then nothingness!   They shall have justice!  He scrambled over to the stolen body and fell upon it with great wrath.  Coming back to his senses only after he had done to the farmer’s brother what he had promised to do to the werewolf.

He looked up...  not knowing how long he had been kneeling there... The other hunters stood around him, too cautious to come near.  Alagastor had his drawn bow steadily trained on him.

Slowly, he got to his feet.  He looked down at the gouged out body of Tûgern and trembled.  Blood dripped from both his arms, both coated red to the elbows.  He held a soaked blade in the one hand, a ravaged heart in the other.  Seeing his savagery, he felt sickened and disgusted at himself.  He was slathered with another’s lifeblood.  It did not matter that he had destroyed a vile evil.  All he saw at his feet was the desecrated innocent he had not been able to rescue.

“Peace, Farrod,” Alagastor said to him.  “ ‘Tis done.  ‘Tis gone.”   His firm assurance helped Oropher to drop the knife and bloody organ.  All is done.  All was gone.  Taken from the poor victims by that...  He swayed, feeling off balance.  Taken...

Alagastor passed his bow to Morchantor, who wavered, not sure where or whether to aim.

“Come sit down,” invited Alagastor in a decidedly even tone of voice.  “Over here on the grass.”

He went to the spot indicated, guided but left untouched by Alagastor, and wearily sank to the ground next to a boulder.  He leaned back upon the stone; head bowed, legs crumpled, his arms falling limp to his sides.  His brain was pounding against his skull; his heart against his ribs.  His lungs felt wrung out.  His chest began to burn.  His muscles ached and his very bones hurt.  He felt as if he could not move – now or ever again.  He wanted to wash off the blood, but not nearly enough to make the effort to get up and walk to water.  Alagastor hunkered down next to him, facing his side and leaning a shoulder on the large rock.  Elbows propped on bent knees, the wood-elf stared at him with pursed lips.  Morchantor carefully laid Alagastor’s nocked bow on the ground within its owner’s reach, but out of reach by him.

 “Oropher... ”   He heard his name.  He looked up and stared at Iûllaug.  The young hunt-leader, whose head was now wrapped in a bloodied bandage, spoke softly, plainly in awe of how his life and very faer had been saved.  “Thank you.”

He had no reply.  He was relieved to be alive, and happy that Iûllaug was alive.  At the same time, he was ashamed of how and why.  He remembered he had promised Belcam that he would return him his brother, dead or alive.  The family would ask why their kinsman’s heart was torn out.  What will I say?  How can I tell them?

 “We have to get him back to his family,” he forced himself to say aloud.  The hoarse voice that spoke scarcely sounded like his.  He swallowed, but his throat remained dry.

“We shall do that,” said Iûllaug.  “After the wolf carcass is burned.”  The hunt-leader was trying to sound confident, but the slight quiver in his voice betrayed his state of mind.  “The others should be here soon enough.  We will wash the ellon and wrap him – ”

“Tûgern!  His name is... was... ”   There is no Tûgern anymore.  Not in Mandos or in Arda... or Eä.  He closed his eyes in sorrow and shame.  I failed him.

“We will take Tûgern’s remains home to his family,” promised Iûllaug.  With a gesture to Morchantor, they left to start the business of disposing of the dead werewolf.

“You do not have to worry,” he told Alagastor, when the two were out of earshot.  He knew why he was being left with this particular hunter.  He was not one among Alagastor’s lords.  The green-elf was not subject to any bond of loyalty other then that of the hunt now finished.  “I am not going anywhere.”   It was too hard to lift his head or even see the ground before him.  Let alone madly run off or attack his comrades.

“Just as well,” was the reply in the same even tone as before.  “Here.  A water-skin was held to his lips and he drank thirstily.  It was taken away when he stopped swallowing.  “Better?  Good.  Let me check your wounds.”  Alagastor very gently began to inspect the injury to Oropher’s chest.  A wrong touch caused him an eye-popping wince.  “Sorry!”  The wood-elf proceeded with more care.  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen any dúan move that fast, ever in my life.”  The suspicion in his voice was meant to be heard.  “I don’t know how you kept pace with it.”  He lowered his head enough to look directly into Oropher blank eyes and raised an eyebrow in askance.  “I’m supposing that this was an old one that had become weak.”   Oropher was not surprised by Alagastor’s savvy conclusion.

“From long before the Great Journey.”  His answer was barely audible.  Much too much information about the evil spirit’s origin and its deeds had flooded through his mind before the gate was closed.  Surprisingly enough though, there had been no name amid the deluge of repulsive memories – as if it had purposely forgotten who it was.  Rather, forgotten who it once was.  Now, it was no one and nothing at all.  Less than Tûgern, who at least would be remembered by his loved ones.  “At first, it feared extinction.”  That was the reason it had made the choice to become houseless.  “Then, it feared judgment.”  Over a hundred people had been extinguished while that very fate was what it justly deserved.  Ignorance and cowardice...

In the time before Oromë’s coming, it was true that the quendi were ignorant about the nature of their immortality.  Death had seemed absolute.  Hence, there had been those who chose the Dark Lord’s fraudulent offer of eternal life in exchange for obedience.  It matters not.  An evil choice is an evil choice.  Waiting in the Halls was the Powers’ counter offer to such temptation, and sinless re-embodiment for answering Mandos’ summons was not exactly an empty promise.  Except, everyone knew that no one had ever been reborn and probably never would be.  Oropher’s choice was to live this one life as well as he could and fade.  He had no desire to witness the end of the world.

“Why a gaur?” Alagastor asked.

“The skin was given it before it became houseless.”  Although it could not make one invincible, the physical abilities the bewitched pelt gave the wearer were considerable.  It had wanted to heal in that form first, so it could shuffle off the robe without the object sustaining permanent damage.  After entering the newly prepared body, it would don it again.  As it had been doing for more than a thousand turns-of-the-stars.  “It held the spell, not another.  So, it was not imprisoned in that shape.  It could return to quendi form whenever it wished.”   A thousand turns... living like that...  He wanted to stop thinking about it... about everything...

“Oropher... Oropher,”  Alagastor called him back from the insensible haze he was slipping into.  “It had you for a moment, did it not?”

“Yes.”  To be a true son of Elmo was to never lie or equivocate, especially about matters as important as good and evil.  “Actually... for a more than a moment.”   He was still awash with debris from its polluted mind, feeling unclean in spirit as well as body.  However, he was not left with any malevolent desires.  His faer was unscathed – even if it was swanning about in the wilder regions of his orë.  He turned his head to see a concerned Alagastor.  He eyed the green-elf, encouraging him to ask what he really wanted to know.

“Did you throw it off in time?”   The question demanded an answer, while still trying to remain respectful of Oropher’s ordeal.

“I think so.”  The threat lying beneath Alagastor’s conscientious question was oddly comforting.  It reminded him that he had fellow guardians.  Someone would carry on when he could not.  “Do I appear possessed or corrupted to you?”

“Well, I don’t think so.  But, they’re spooked.”  With a slight tilt of his head, Alagastor indicated the busy Iûllaug and Morchantor, who were casting worried glances in his direction while building the pyre.  “It really looked like you commanded it to die and it obeyed.”  A bit of the usual twinkle returned to Alagastor’s eyes.  “Although, with some protest.”

“Not a command, merely a desperate wish.”  Oropher spoke with convincing sincerity, without his even knowing he was doing it.  “It was going for Iûllaug.”  He shook his head no.  He had not defeated it, only distracted it.  “Morchantor’s arrow is what took it out.  My blade put the finish on that.  Not some terrible power in me.”

“Well, that’s good to know.”  Alagastor’s lightly sarcastic tone did not hide his belief that a benevolent power had indeed been manifested when most needed.  “I’d hate to have to kill you, Oropher.”

“I would not much care for that either, my friend.”  Baiting humor was bad habit with this fellow, and he would have smiled had he felt well.  The Laegel had at last deigned to use his name – even if while admitting the dire reason for staying close by to him.  “But, it pleases me to know, that if necessary, you would do it.”   He loathed poor Tûgern’s fate.  Even Mandos would be better than that.  Nor did he care to become a dark lord over an enslaved people.  He did not mean it as a joke when he said, “I would do the same for you.”

Alagastor, however, took it as such, drawing back in wonder at the unexpected comeback.  A broad smile of admiration at the young lord’s resilience lit up his face.

“You Elmoi are sometimes astonishing.”  Clearly saying so because of far more he had witnessed than Oropher’s remarkable survival against a Houseless one.

“Yea, ‘tis as they say,” he sighed, this time intentionally adding irony to the conversation.  “Where there is one idiot, there are probably a few more hiding in the same tree.”  His father would say that more often then his lord uncle cared to hear.  Nevertheless, it was true.

“Come on,” Alagastor almost chuckled  “Let’s get you washed up before you begin to smell even worse.  There’s a stream over near where I was posted.”  With hardly any effort at all, he hauled Oropher onto his feet and got him to walking.  Albeit in a good deal of pain.

Oropher gazed long at the slain as they slowly passed by.  How often shall I walk away from the dead ere I am one of them?  ... when I should have been one of them...  Both ellyn, innocent and taken against their will.  With Iûllaug almost the next.

“Glaeru!  How could I have been so stupid?”  His guilt surged, and he became angrier at himself than he would at another for having done the same as he.  “I should have known better!  I do know better!  I got excited and broke rank and almost got our leader killed!”   At the strident rise in his voice, Iûllaug and Morchantor apprehensively straightened up from breaking apart a large branch they had dragged over and looked at him, noticeably holding their breaths.  Something Alagastor did calmed them, for they went warily back to work.

“No, Oropher, you saved him,” Alagastor explained with patience.  “That’s why he thanked you.  You’ve also saved a good many who’ll never know to thank you.  Besides your own ungrateful self.  And you almost saved that poor farmer too.  If the spear had struck its heart, there mightn’t have been any chance for it get into him. You really should practice more.”

“Almost!  Almost!”  He was reminded of the all-important competition he had only almost won.  The true reward of which he believed would have been Ivrellas as his wife.  Thus, completely missing Alagastor’s attempt to cool his anger with more humour. “ ‘Tis not enough to almost win!”

“Remember you said that the next time someone asks whether you are content courting a rodwën.”

Oropher abruptly stopped walking.  His courtship of Ivrellas was not lacking satisfaction!  And he was not a fool for respecting the chaste limits set upon the lady he loved!

He was about to angrily chastise the grinning green-elf when he realized his reaction had less to do with his beloved and more to do with Alagastor.  The wood-elf refused to see defeat in vanquishing this evil – in spite the cost.  Perhaps in this way, a simple forest-dweller was wiser than he.  For the price was certainly less than it might otherwise have been.  He really should value, all the more, the good that came with his labours, rather than be burdened by his failures.  From now on, I will savor the good…  At the moment though and ere they returned to the village, he was going to deal with his new friend’s unguarded tongue.  No one, however well-intentioned, was going to talk so rudely around his beloved.

“Well, if you would know... ” he sadly informed Alagastor.  “It no longer matters whether I would or would not sample bonded bliss with her.  The courtship has ended.”

“Oh no, I’m sorry to hear that.”  The poor fellow honestly meant it and was embarrassed at his inconsiderate remark.  “Please forgive my careless words.  I didn’t know.”

“No offence taken.”  He stopped feigning a frown and openly smiled.  “For I am glad to say that my lady and I have become betrothed.”  Which brought a chagrined smile to Alagastor’s face, along with a nodding acknowledgement that Oropher had chalked up another point.  “Indeed, I do not intend for her and I to almost wed.  We shall be husband and wife – if there is anything I can possibly do about it!”   

<<:>>  <<:>>  <<:>> <<:>> 

“And the farrod went on to do more than anyone thought possible,” concluded Hrassa.

“Ah, the incredible optimism of youth!” commented Amdír to Thranduil.  “And I should know.”

“Ah, the incredible arrogance of youth!” declared Thranduil.  “And you do know, Gwador.”

The crowd of coronation guests, comfortably encircled around the dying embers of the bonfire, laughed at the chosen-brothers’ chiding each other.  Indeed, Amdir’s monumental decision to leave Nenuial on his own, although not yet fully adult, and winning his lady wife’s hand by deeds was very similar to events in Oropher’s history.  That their personalities were not as similar, everyone knew as well.  The witty exchange was also taken as the royal host’s acquiescence for the festive socializing, which had paused in atmospheric quiet for a harrowing story, to resume in full.

Hrassa courteously bowed to loud applause and thanked those that tossed out compliments to his presentation.

“But, what happened next?!” cried a decidedly youthful voice.  “What happened when Oropher made home?  What did his father and uncle say to the betrothal?  How did Ivrellas fare with the child?  Did she talk to Mandos this time?”   The startled Hrassa halted his return to his seat beside an equally startled Glamien.  The recommenced chatter of the guests became an avid inquiry as to the source of the disembodied questions.

“Celebrían!” admonished the little princess’ angry mother.  “Come out from behind there this very instant!  You know better than this!”  Galadriel sat upon a cushion on a broad bench with Miphillim.  Mirathel and several other noble ladies surrounded the Lady and the Queen – all of whom were striving to hide their amusement.  For the children had all bid their goodnights earlier and had been put to bed.  Celebrían’s blatant disobedience reflected badly on her mother and father’s parenting.  However, compounding that small embarrassment was Galadriel having just earlier proudly spoken of how well behaved was her growing daughter, especially in overcoming the tendency during her toddling phase to throw tantrums.

Playful uh-ohs and sly oohs at the little elleth being caught issued from the audience. The next entertainer, who had already stood up, sat down again.  The unfolding domestic pantomime promised to be much too interesting not to let it play out for everyone’s edification.

Surprised by Celebrían’s shout, Glamien had swallowed her just-tipped drink of ale a little too fast.  She started coughing from the hasty gulp going down the wrong way.  Long before any story about subjects as dark as evil sorcery and houseless spirits was allowed to commence, she had dutifully tucked the lass in.  Her parents depended on their daughter’s nanny to carry out their wishes, even if once in a while she had to invoke their authority to enforce them.  In fact, that was how Hrassa had ended up in the palace goal his first day in Ost-in-Edhil.  But, this was the first time ever that the lass had left her room to wander when her Nîni had specifically asked her not to.  Glamien was as upset as Galadriel, if not more so, at Celebrían’s return.

When her coughing began, Hrassa immediately strode over to Glamien, perhaps looking relieved at having an excuse to flee to the sidelines.  He took her cup from her rattling hand, passing it off to someone, and solicitously slapped her back.  She waved him off, as the fit was already passing.  Sitting down in his place, he rubbed her back until she was breathing more or less normally.  They exchanged a knowing glance, after which his worried expression turned to bland stone.  She, however, was not as decided as he to stand by and do nothing to shield her charge from the Lady’s temper.  Seeing that, he took her hand in his in a silent request to let things take their own course.

Calling the truant forward did not bring her into full view.  Instead, she peeked out from behind a curtain of draped cloaks thrown over a long plank, suspended atop ropes stretched between a couple of trees.  A number of such boards had been strung up to provide temporary seating.  Several young Galadhrim marchwardens were sitting there, upon the springy bench; feet off the ground, looking like a row of bobbing grey otters, drinking bottled beer and passing around a bowl of crisped turnip slices.  If they had been aware of the child listening beneath, they had not shown it.  And did not dare now.  Although, one noticeably looked over to Lord Celeborn before quickly turning his eyes front again.

“Your daughter is disobedient, my lord,” Galadriel petulantly complained to her husband, sounding as if their child’s bad behaviour was entirely his fault and she was helpless to command any parental respect.  She leaned lightly on the Queen, the back of her hand laid against her brow, like a delicate young maid seeking consolation from a matron.  Which, of course, elicited a wave of laughter.

“My lady, I am not the one who sent her to bed too early.  And, with her knowing Hrassa would continue Oropher’s tale,” Celeborn dryly pointed out.  He was sitting across from his wife and her friends, on the opposite side of the glowing bed of embers, next to their foster-son, Amdir, in the chair that had been set out for the new Queen to preside in stateliness with the new King.  Ranged around them were Amroth, Thranduil, and several other lords.  “You too are old enough to know better.”

The gathering reacted with unrestrained laughter.  Only because it appeared the matter was not going to be treated with much gravity by either parent.

The Lady received her husband’s rebuke with sardonic grace, which included an insistent gesture that the disruption was his to remedy.  With a supplicating gaze to the heavens, the Lord sighed and held out his goblet, containing whatever was actually in it other than his usual tea, to be taken by Amdir’s attentive cupbearer.

“Celebrían,” he wearily called.

“Yes, Ada.”  For him, she came out into the open, but not in any way acting as meek as she would if indeed being taken to task for misbehaving.  She put on a brave face, intentionally making a show for the audience of heroically taking her punishment.  If her parents’ moods were different, she would act differently.

Because, she knew that if she could delay her mother taking immediate action, she could wheedle out of any punishment at all.  Naneth might forgive, and many times had forgiven, an incident when she was not longer anger.  Or, she might just forget about it over more pressing concerns.  On the other hand, Ada would never forget and rarely pardoned.  Celebrían had learned that however long she tried to avoid it, his judgment would be served.  The best she might do was – as he had said about the fire on the docks that happened shortly after Naneth’s and her arrival in Ost-in-Edhil – mitigate the severity.  Any dishonesty on her part – whether protesting false innocence, claiming unfair treatment, crying for sympathy, showing her temper, or inducing another to plead for clemency – would only increase the degree of her punishment.  And unlike Naneth, Ada always seemed to know what would be truly punishing and not simply annoying.

Glamien gave a small sigh of relief, thankful that the lass was properly dressed and not in her nightgown.  Although, still barefooted.  At least, the congenial evening would not be ruined by a public quarrel.  Hrassa tugged her hand and shook his head in warning.  Apparently, the cogndîr thought his prince was not steering towards a short and more-or-less pleasant outcome, despite the occasion.

“Sell-nin,” drawled Celeborn, “go to your Naneth and promise her that from now on you will stay put where you are told to stay put.”  This paternal order was deceptively pervasive, and Celebrían knew it.  She would have to obey, not just her mother – which was marginally acceptable since she had done wrong this evening – but anyone given charge of her.  She only had to say he was trying to trick her, and she could avoid having to make the promise.  He would have to think up something else.  Even so, there was defiance in her she could not ignore.

“But, Ada,” she whined, her put-on courage falling away.  “I cannot!”

Glamien shook her head now, for Hrassa had the right of it.  Trouble was coming.  Celebrían craved her Ada’s praise and attention.  The lass knew she could count on hugs and kisses from her mother even when the Lady was not pleased with her.  But, to displease her father risked the withdrawal of any sign of affection, and she would avoid that at all possibly cost.  In particular, after the last time Celeborn had felt it necessary to act indifferent to her.  Most here would never understand why such a seemingly cruel treatment was used with such a charming, outwardly pliant, child.  Or how to difficult it was to accomplish the needed level of discipline to do it.  But, Celebrían’s parents were amongst the very few who could meet the daunting challenge of raising offspring as intrepid as they themselves.

“Why ever not?” questioned her father with mock bewilderment.

“Because, I cannot keep that promise!”

“Cannot or will not?”

“Will not,” was the truthful answer for she dared no other.

Many in the crowd chuckled at this feisty reply, but some judged it plain insolent.  No youngster should be so willful as to outright refuse a father’s command.  However, a few, like Glamien and Hrassa, could see that Celeborn had deliberately lead her to admit her stubborn willfulness.  He obviously had a lesson already planned and was taking advantage of the opportunity to teach it.

“Then, whatever will you do to properly make up for your misdeed?”  He paused; empty hands raised up in querulous brackets.  “Wait, I see.  You think my sentence too harsh for a misdemeanor.”  He paused again, rubbing his chin like a thoughtful judge should.  “I do believe you underestimate the degree of your offence.”  His law court manners appeared good-natured and amused the crowd.  “So, I shall enlighten you.”   His flattened hands came together, fingertips touching to form a steep roof over his palms.  “Your Naneth is afeared you will fall prey to harm, if you continue to wander about as you are wont to do.  Especially, in dark places where unseen evils may lurk.”  His hands clasped together, the roof caving in.   “After that story, are you not afraid of what lurks in the dark?”

There was complete silence.  The tone of his voice had changed.  The lightheartedness with which this game had begun was gone.

“No...” was Celebrían’s hesitant answer; unsure why he was asking her this question.  Her lower lip retreated slightly.  She was sometimes very afraid.  So, afraid she could not bear it.  Not so much now as before, though.  Because, Ada had taught her what was feelings and what was real.  Panic was a feeling.  A monster was real.  He had shown her how easy it was to be brave if you knew that what was making you feel afraid was not really where you were and so could not hurt you.  If ever she were cornered by something real, well then as she already knew, there was naught to do but scream.  Help would come.

“Why not?” her father pressed.  “You think you would have any kind of a chance against one of the Houseless?”

“My lord!” Galadriel exclaimed.  “There is no need to –”

Freeing a hand, he stridently motioned for her to not to interrupt, causing a soft gasp from the audience.  She herself sucked in her hot retort to his gesture and remained silent.  Only the unbreakable trust she had in his wisdom prevented the Lady from letting loose a tempest upon the Lord.  Mirathel slipped a supportive arm about her friend’s waist.

Hrassa stirred beside Glamien, his jaw grinding.  She also held back from voicing an objection, strongly reminding herself that, more than once, Celeborn had helped his daughter to overcome her errant conduct rather than continue to suffer for it.  When all others had failed.  Could he help her overcome her incautious roaming about?  Short of physical restraint, nothing the princess’ keepers had tried could keep the clever lass from sneaking away and out of safety when the whim took her.  The best her parents had achieved was getting her to tell someone where she was headed and hope for a bodyguard to be following after.

The bright embers of the faded fire snapped loudly in the ensuing silence.

“Well, sell-nin?” Celeborn finally asked.

“No...”  Her head tilted, and she looked anxiously at her father.  From what he had done in the past, she had a vague idea of what he was doing now.  There was probably something to be gained if she surrendered to participating, instead of seeking her mother’s easily obtainable protection.  “Not alone.”  She was never alone, never by herself.  Strangely, that always made her feel both happy and unhappy at the same time.

“So, you would be afraid only if there were no one around to protect you?”

Glamien’s breath caught in her chest.  If Hrassa had not been around that awful night...

Celebrían’s lower lip pulled into her mouth until it disappeared behind her upper lip.

“You will be alone, laesiel,” stated her father in a deceptively calm voice.  “Many times in your life, you will be all alone.  Alone in the dark.”  He leaned forward and opening his hands to her.  “Your Naneth has long known this, and it makes her very afraid for you.”  He drew back, withdrawing his hands to let them fall useless onto his lap. “Alas, there is nothing that I can do about it.”

There was a mutual gasp at his disregard for his daughter’s innocent childhood, followed by a rumbling disapproval which gradually rose in volume.  Glamien might have been as equally ready to fault him, had she not known the truth.  The lass had already experienced terror.  She had already witnessed cruel death dealt by blood-thirsty beasts.  Nevertheless, it had not changed her own disregard for her own safety.

“Oh Naneth!”  Celebrían turned to her mother, her eyes glistening with repentant tears.  “I am sorry!”  Shocked silence reigned as everyone stared.  Although it appeared she understood the nature of her mother’s powers, the little princess was not at all alarmed at being told she might face a terrible fate.  The Lady sat up straight, where a moment before she had been poised to leap to her daughter’s side.  After a flickering glance at Celeborn, she opened her arms, and Celebrían ran into her embrace to end up bawling against her breast.  “I am sorry!  I did not mean to frighten you so badly. I did not know!”

A tear tracked down Galadriel’s cheek as she gently rocked her child.  She looked at her sullen husband; her furrowed expression changing to grateful.  Celebrían’s sobs rapidly subsided.  She squirmed out of Galadriel’s arms to stand before her, sniffling.  She placed her hands atop her mother’s flat palms; her watery eyes gazing into her Naneth’s shining eyes.

“I will be better.” she sincerely promised.  “You will not have to worry so much anymore.”

Hrassa took a deep breath, and Glamien swallowed down the lump that was had formed in her throat.  Until now, the little princess had followed the rules laid down for her only because she herself would gain something from doing so.  Now, she was selflessly pledging not to wander because it would ease her mother’s fears – fears the lass could sympathize with.  She had learned a lesson in compassion.  Her nanny felt suddenly hopeful for the lass’ poor pony.  Maybe now he would not go hungry so often waiting upon his mistress to remember to feed him.

“I did not know, Naneth!  I did not know that you could be so afraid!  I thought you did not understand why when I woke I screamed and screamed and could not stop.  I thought you thought I was just being noisy.”   Glamien was sure that the echoes of Celebrían’s cries upon waking from her first nightmare were still echoing in Moria.

“I did not think that you should know, lisillë.”  Galadriel leaned forward and kissed her daughter’s brow.  “I am sorry I did know how to comfort you then.  I should not have hidden the truth from you when your knowing might have been better.”  The pair lovingly clasped hands.

“So, little one,” asked Milphillim, “that very scary story did not make you afraid that fell creatures will come after you?”  She stoked Celebrían’s head, smoothing down her mussed hair.  The Queen’s blessing eased away any remaining sentiment in the guests that the matter at hand had been dealt with undue harshness, not beneficial sternness.

“Oh, Your Majesty,” Celebrían replied with goodly manners, “bad things come after everyone, even princesses.”  Glamien heard one of Hrassa’s lessons in that phrasing.  “If any shadow-thing ever comes my way,” she declared in her own words.  “I will be brave and fight and win!”

“Like Lord Oropher?” prompted Celeborn.

“Yes, Ada!”  She turned and answered him with an enthusiastic nod.  “Like Lord Oropher! “  Turning back to her mother, she said, “See, Naneth, you do not have to worry that I will be careless.  For I shall gather my best warriors and suss out the dark lair of the foul beast ere we take it down and administer cleansing fire!”  This audaciousness garnered much laughter.

“You have much to learn before you can fight like Lord Oropher,” deemed her father.

“Then, I shall learn,” Celebrían affirmed to him.  To her mother she said, “And I will not go a-hunting fell creatures until you say I have learned enough.”

“You will be wise until then and run away?” asked an astounded Galadriel.  The Lady was not deceived that the spirit of the moment was merely coloring her daughter’s speech.  Celebrían meant to someday do what she had just said.  And, she would.

“Yes, Naneth,” she agreed.

Glamien sighed.  If only they could absolutely count on that.  The lass was not going to change that much overnight, despite a million good intentions.

“So, you will not go around poking sticks at sleeping badgers, big or small, anymore?  One of them just might be more than he seems…” posed her father.

“Never again, Ada.”  She giggled, amazingly bright and gay – her left-over tears and contrite frown dispelled by the reference to what had happened with a visiting skin-changer when she was a very small elleth still living in Lothlórien.

“There is a story for you to tell me,” Hrassa whispered to Glamien.  She smiled in reply, her cheeks almost blushing.  The episode with the skin-changer, which may have started out dangerously, had ended up a delightful and educational encounter for all involved.

Celeborn beamed with love for his daughter; his unrestrained joy and pride dazzling those not familiar with him in a blissful mood.  He lightly tapped his knee in invitation to her.  She dashed away from her mother, barely skirted the hot fire-bed, and eagerly vaulted up onto his lap.  Kneeling there, she threw her arms around his neck and they embraced; both their faces revealing their great relief at not being at odds with one another over the lesson.  Celeborn relinquished the hug first.  He pulled her arms off from around his neck and shifted her sideways, moving her legs out from beneath her.  He lifted her from his lap in a hammock fashioned from his long, strong arms, and she snuggled up against his chest, resting her head on his broad shoulder.

He looked over at Amdir, who then turned and nodded to the next performer.  The fellow acknowledged His Majesty’s request and stepped forward.  Without any introduction, for he really did not think he needed one, he began singing.

Sensing that she about to stand up, Hrassa rose to his feet and gave Glamien an assisting hand.  As he was acting as her escort this evening, he went along with her as she moved to stand unobtrusively behind the Lord’s seat to be at hand when needed to carry the little princess back to bed.  However, Celeborn did not ease the lass into sleep as Glamien expected.  Instead, he talked with his daughter.  Apparently, having a little more guidance to convey while the lass was so receptive.

“Laesiel,” he spoke in a whisper, just to her.  “When we get back to the City, your Naneth will expect you to start learning what she wants you to know.  It will be just a little bit at time, so you will not notice it so much.”  Celebrían sighed, resigning herself to even more schooling than before.  “She has a great deal of wisdom to impart.  For that reason, it will take a very, very long time.”  Celebrían gravely nodded, heaving another long-suffering sigh.  “You will not be inattentive or impatient, will you?”  She shook her head no and condescendingly patted her Ada’s chest to reassure him.  “Because if you show aptitude and discipline in the arts you must learn...  well then... you will be taught other arts... “  She raised her head, pushing against him with her hands to lean back and look straight at him, eyes wide in anticipation.  She wanted to be sure what she was hearing.  “... that you have asked to learn.”

“Hrassa will teach me to fight?” she eagerly whispered.  “For real?”   Her glee was as radiant as one of the small lamps that hung above the chairs.

“Yes,” her father promised with a lean smile.  She gave a tiny cheer, accompanied with a little bounce of excitement.  “If that is who you want to instruct you...” he conceded, sounding a bit sulky.

“Oh Ada, I would like to learn from you too,” she said consolingly, again patting his chest in the same way she would her pony.  “In society and life, it is very important to be able to dance with grace and aplomb... however inept one’s partner.”

Those around them that had strained a curious ear to their private conversation almost burst out laughing.  Or perhaps, it was her father’s flabbergasted reaction to the latter part of her remark being delivered in his own unmistakable, sarcastic style and voice that nearly ruined the polite pretense of privacy.

Glamien threw a hand over her mouth.  Hrassa swayed with mirth, his face completely buried in his hands.  The King’s Cupbearer stopped himself just short of snorting aloud.  Amroth helplessly grinned from ear to ear.  He kept his eyes focused the singer, but looked very cognoscente that this spirited little fox-child was quite possibly his future wife.  With the discretion required of a king, Amdir kept a straight face as he leaned over, one father to another, and sympathetically patted poor Celeborn on the shoulder.

Thranduil, however, raised his cup to the little princess with a grateful smile.  When he got home, the first thing he would cheerfully report to his father was how such-a-darling-baby-and-when-shall-we-get-one-from-you Celebrían was proving to be a perfectly good antidote to the he-is-my-good-friend-but-much-too-clever-for-his-own-good Lord Celeborn.

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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!

Farrod a Orë în – A Noble Hunter and His Heart

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

orë – heart, inner spirit

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

faroth – band of hunters/hunting-party (as in Taur-en-Faroth) could be interpreted as The Hunt

galadhren – tree-like or tree-looking

Araw – the Sindarin/Doriathrin name for Orome

Laegel – one of the Laegrim, the Green-elves of Ossiriand.  Nandorin elves that migrated from the Anduin river valley with Denethor, son of Lenwe, after the Sindar settled in Beleriand.

“turn-of-the-rim” – appox. 24 hours.  With the North Star as the center/hub of a night sky/wheel, a star that touches the horizon will travel at a consistent rate in an imaginary circle/rim, completing the circuit in approximately 24 hours.  This is produced by the rotation of the Earth.

“turn-of-the-stars” – appox. a year.  A complete cycle of seasonal changes in the night sky takes approximately 12 months.  This is produced by the tilt of the Earth.

Glamien and Hrassa and Mirathel are OCs from another fanfic Celebrian, Sell i Nos Galadhad.  It is the occasion of Amdir’s coronation as the first King of Lorien, which is being celebrated not so very long after the founding of Ost-in-Edhil.

Ivrellas and Iûllaug and Alagastor are OCs that appear in the first part of this tale, Farrod a Rodwën în

Miphillim – is an OC wife for Amdir, she is also in the first part of this tale

Elmoi – the kindred and clan of Elmo – Elmo was the younger brother of Elwe (Thingol) and Olwe, and he was Celeborn’s grandfather.  In my stories, he is Oropher’s great-grandfather on his mother’s side.

faer (fëa Quenya) – spirit or soul

gaur – werewolf

dúan – shadow-thing dark-monster

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

ellon/elleth – male/female elf

ellyn/ellith – male/female elves

naneth/nana – mother/mom

adar/ada – father/dad

sell-nin – my daughter

laesiel – baby (f) - babygirl

cogndîr – bowman Nandorin

nîni - nanny a Sindarin form of nyéne ‘she-goat’ Quenya  (the english word ‘nanny’ comes from ‘nanny goat’)

lisillë / lisullë – sweetie (diminutive of sweet, f/m). Quenya - Galadriel’s endearment for her daughter

Glaeru! – a minimization of the Music of Iluvatar, Eru’s Lay! - kinda like saying ‘ods bodkin!