Belen Menel
Chapter 1: “Abandon All Hope”

The woods of Ithilien were content, content that the First-Born were back among the woods, whispering soothing words, sharing in old stories. The woods felt vibrant, renewed from their long slumber under dark. But these woods still held their secrets, some would say dark secrets. It was with anticipation that the woods waited for their secrets to be revealed.

If I were to find woods such as these, I am not sure my heart would be in for the game, but I have heard that trees have quite a sense of humor, that simple folks like me truly will never get. I don’t think treeish humor translates well to human form. It’s a humor that has an extended punch line. I guess punch line isn’t the best word for treeish mirth, as punch line is strictly a human word born from human impatience. The thing is I don’t think a human’s life lasts long enough to “get” tree humor, but maybe those of Númenórean blood can, maybe. To be sure then, trees are fond of Elves, as a child is fond of a parent, for the Elves have witnessed the passing of generation beyond generation of trees, and so I think these trees hold secrets not only for themselves, but for the Eldar, whom they aim to please.

It is true that the Elves had come for Eryn Lasgalen to Ithilien, with their Prince, to waken the grace of the woods, but the darkness that had permeated these woods tucked itself in here and there. On a quite normal summer day, Legolas, in the company of Faramir, Prince of Ithilien went for a stroll amongst the trees. Something out of place, caught Legolas’ attention, hidden amongst vines, imperceptible to the human eye. Legolas approached the area and amongst the vines he saw the wrought iron form of a gate. He cleared the vines away and stood back to admire the iron gate he uncovered beneath the vines and between the trees.

Legolas stared at the words neatly inscribed on the old iron gate…

Faramir pressed closely behind Legolas, close enough that Legolas could here the patterns in Faramir’s breath, which indicated that Faramir was struggling with the same thoughts. “Awartha pân amdir hyn ai minna sí” Faramir murmured in a tone suggesting he wasn’t quite sure if his translation.

Legolas nodded, “Yes but it is not written properly. It seems whoever wrote this translated the phrase 'Abandon all hope ye who enter here’ from common to Elvish literally” [1].

“…As if those who etched this inscription knew only rudimentary Elvish, but wanted to translate this ominous warning for reasons unknown”, Faramir continued, his head tilting towards the inscription, hands placed firmly on his waste, willing the puzzle to reveal itself.

The old iron gate stood up well to time despite its apparent age. It was the only remnant of whatever it stood to announce the presence of. Two large trees had grown on either side of the gate, partially engulfing the gate on each side, serving as the posts that held the lonely marker up. The gate had remained hidden under overgrowth, and surely no one would think to find a gate framed by trees in Ithilien, but Legolas was not ‘no one’, he was an Elf, and let us not forget Elves are magic, are they not?

But not a dull and doltish magic of card tricks and slight of hand…no Elves possess many types of magic, but the one I love most is that fey magic that winks at you leaving you with a dumb smile on your face, whether from awe or sheer lack of understanding. That other magic, if it really can be called magic, that seems to capture the currents of the breeze and intoxicate the hell out of ya, I would say this kind of magic is more than magic, it is spell bound, it is enchanted—if you can imagine the most beautiful woman in the world sharing a good bye kiss with her secret lover, that breath she inhales as she draws her lips away from his, if that were enchanted then maybe that would be what it is. How else can I describe that melancholy sparkle that also is Elven magic. So many kinds of Elven magic, and I’ve just described two, but let’s get back to that gate that has Faramir and our favorite Elf quite puzzled.

“Look here,” Legolas pointed to a symbol so faded it was hard to make out, “it appears to be some kind of cone.”

“Almost like a hornet’s nest” Faramir answered with a frown, “but I cannot make out the number of rings.” Faramir squinted his eyes, but they were of no use.

“There are nine rings” the Elf with adept vision replied, “and it does appear to be like a hornets nest, strange thing this is.” Legolas’ voice trailed off, and both he and Faramir continued to study the mysterious iron gate. Legolas heard a buzz around his head but was too interested in what he was looking at to pay much head.

Faramir yelped in surprise, causing both he and Legolas to jump back, “I’ve been stung” Faramir grumbled in annoyed disbelief.

“Indeed you have my friend. It seems we have disturbed a living hornets nest.” Legolas pointed up into the branches of the trees where some of the vines that had been removed had disturbed the nest.

“Do my eyes cheat me mellon nin—“

“They do not Faramir. There are nine pronounced rings around that hornets nest.” Legolas paid no mind to the insects, and they in turned paid him no attention. This caught the ire of Denethor’s youngest.

“By the Valar, Legolas, while you stand there and inspect the nest, I am under an onslaught!”

Legolas turned to see his retreating friend, wildly waving his arms around his head, eliciting a hearty laugh from the Elven prince, “’Tis mere provocation. Be calm and they will not harm you. They are only acting to protect their own.”

But the darned things would not give up their assault on the Steward. Legolas, unmoved by Faramir’s predicament proclaimed “They do not respect your title! They will however react to your respect of them.”

Faramir had run a distance from Legolas, yelling back “Maybe if I’d kept my rod of office these drasted insects would let me be…seriously Legolas it hurts!”

“Very well then Faramir,” and with that Legolas sang a soft lullaby that seemed to sit well with the hornets. They felt the vibrations of Legolas’ voice and were soothed. Upon the hornets return home, Legolas faced the gate, trees and nest, answering the challenge, “Very well then, we will return to discover your riddle”

And that was some of that fey Elvish magic that winked at Faramir, but left him, nonetheless irritated. Legolas, no doubt, understands, as does Faramir, that whatever secrets this gate holds, there is a darkness there. The hornets no doubt are a reminder of that darkness and a warning to those who dare explore its meaning. While I am not wise in the ways of fair nobles or high Elven princes, I am wise in the ways of us common folk, and my part in this tale will have me cross paths with the Lords of Men and Elves. One point of clarification—and one not lost on the Lord of Emyn Arnen, I am not Lorded OVER by men, only by the whim of time, the wrinkles in my face, and my joy at seeing this land renewed.

[1] From "The Divine Inferno" .

Belen Menel
Chapter 2: A Home in Emyn Arnen

“Lady Éowyn” a young girl called to the White Lady, “the messenger you sent for has arrived.”

“Please have her come in” Éowyn replied absentmindedly, as she stared off into the distance, in no particular direction.

It was a glorious day in Emyn Arnen, the northernmost reaches of South Ithilien. From Faramir and Éowyn’s home, perched high upon a hill, one could see the river Anduin meander below. To the east were the Mountains of Shadow that could not completely shake the dark places that lingered, but there were also mists that rose from the mountains, catching the light of the sun, which seemed to explode deep into the crevices of the mountains that had been so overwhelmed by darkness. The mountains seemed to shimmer with excitement, as if the very trees were shaking out their branches, awakening from a deep slumber. The old stone and rocks murmured quietly, welcoming old friends back to paths once lost in the impenetrable shadow of Mordor.

The sun shone with a fierce determination, a determination to reach its silky bright tendrils into all the corners of Middle Earth. The times of peace brought great changes, interesting and unexpected changes. Some had not yet come to happen, but the King’s providence would shape things to come.

Éowyn gathered herself and stepped onto the stone veranda that surrounded the home she and Faramir had built with the help of many friends, and the will of the common people of Gondor, whom Éowyn was ever grateful for their unabashed love for her. The White City gleamed in the distance, and the river danced with anticipation as it coursed its way south to the Bay of Belfalas. Breezes carried the warm scent of the sea causing her skin to chill ever so slightly, not because they were cold, but because of the reminder these breezes brought. Indeed the breezes from the south were warm and luxuriant, but they brought a longing with them that pained Éowyn.

“My lady,” the messenger’s voice interrupted her wandering thoughts.

Expecting the messenger, Éowyn turned and addressed the young woman with a graceful smile, “Please, take some nourishment.” Without the need for a word from Éowyn, her handmaiden bid the messenger to sit and offered an array of fruits, breads, cheeses and drink to the tired messenger. The messenger did not hesitate, partaking in the bounty of food, but not without a gracious acknowledgment of her generous Lady. The Prince of Ithilien and the Lady of Ithilien insisted from the day they were anointed as such that the strict Gondorian etiquette was not to be brought to the Princedom of Ithilien. In this garden of Gondor, life was less rigid than in the King’s court, although even in Minas Tirith, the noble etiquette was loosened considerably from the days of the Stewards, and nothing at all like the harsh and silent environment familiar in Denethor’s times. While Éowyn had a hand in this, it was Faramir’s desires for gentleness and care that set the standard for relationships.

It was also the presence of them that so changed the interaction between all folk, common, noble and unknown. The First-Born brought to Ithilien what can only be described as grace. They had come from Mirkwood now Eryn Lasgalen, the merry folk of the Green Wood, with their Prince to bring back the beauty of the gardens of Gondor and the woods and fields beyond.

Éowyn sat silently as the messenger ate the food offered her. She laughed softly at the ease of this young girl, who reminded Éowyn of herself not long ago—eager to fulfill duties not easily given to a woman, but Hild was a Daughter of Eorl, come to live and serve the White Lady of Rohan now the White Lady of Ithilien and Emyn Arnen. Éowyn had long known Hild, daughter of one of Theoden’s Marshall’s fallen in battle, and looked after by Éowyn, following the death of her mother during the dark times. Hild would not have it any other way. She insisted she would serve the brave Éowyn, and threatened in that way that cares less about rank and rightful place, that regardless of Éowyn’s wishes, she would come to serve her lady. This struck Éowyn, and she saw herself in the young woman’s face, really just a girl, and if Éowyn admitted, there was also guilt, for much like Éowyn Hild had fended for herself. Éowyn pledged that she would help this young girl restore the happiness that had long eluded her, just as she now devoted her time to the healing arts.

Hild proved her worth, taking on the job of messenger and delegate of the Shield Maiden of Rohan, learning the ins and outs of her duties with more than due diligence. Faramir welcomed Hild, for he felt this young girl would bring the comfort of the familiar for his fair lady and understood Éowyn’s recognition of herself in Hild.

“My lady?” the young messenger queried, not wanting to interrupt Éowyn’s thoughts.

“Yes, Hild, what news brings you so hastily from Minas Tirith?”

“My, lady” Hild, exclaimed, remembering her exciting news, “A host comes to the White City.” Her excitement was so great she did not notice she was now speaking Rohirric, a practice she avoided in order to ensure her use of Common melded with the Gondorians. Although similar, most Gondorians did not understand Rohirric even though the language shared origins.

Éowyn’s interest was now piqued. It was rare that Hild would let her childish excitement take over. “What is it Hild, prey tell!”

“You will not believe this—an envoy of Woses comes from the Drúadan Forest to Minas Tirith!”

“What?” Éowyn uttered in disbelief, “…Woses?”

“Yes, my lady, WOSES!” Their surprise and disbelief was appropriate, for the Woses, as known to the people of the Mark were a secretive and strange folk, generally thought to be a wild sort. During the War of the Ring they had provided safe and secret passage to Theoden’s army through the Drúadan Forest, avoiding the orcs that secretly waited to ambush the riders of Rohan. If it were not for the Woses, Sauron would indeed have prevailed on the Pelennor Fields.

Éowyn sprung up from the table she had taken a seat at, stammering, “But, but, how and why?”

“They come to speak with King Elessar,” Hild replied, trying to regain her composure, “and they sent word they seek permission for their kin in Drúwaith Iaur-“

Unable to contain herself, Éowyn interjected, “But there were no more of those folks from old Púkel-land.” But the excitement in Éowyn was quickly quelled by a new focused interest. She continued, “It is said that in Drúwaith Iaur, the old Púkel wilderness" Éowyn whispered these last words, remembering the old carved stone images on the way to Dunharrow. It was there Éowyn lost all hope, but now her hope was alive. She smiled as she heard herself sound much like her husband, "the Woses, in Gondor called the Drúedain, were driven out and killed by the men who settled in the White Mountains long ago, but tell me Hild, in my hasty excitement, I know not what they seek permission for?” (1)

Hild nodded her head in excited understanding, this was after all her first mysterious endeavor, “I heard as much my lady. It seems the Drúedain from Drúwaith Iaur,” Hild corrected herself, using the Sindarin name common in Gondor, “wish to settle a family in fair Ithilien itself!”

Éowyn’s eyes widened in further surprise. This she had not expected. She knew that this new development would be priority for her in the time to come. She welcomed it. It did not feel dark, like the continued cleansing of dark things that Remained. This felt welcome. “And this is all we know at this moment, is it not?”

“Yes, my lady, more will be known when the envoy reaches Minas Tirith.”

“And Aragorn has already sent out emissaries bidding them welcome” Éowyn stated, sure of the King’s course of action.

Hild smiled, “The King has, my lady.”

Éowyn stood up and leaned against the stone pillar that supported the garden roof thinking of the tasks that lay ahead for her and Faramir. Without a word, Hild rose and left the lady on the veranda. Lost in her thoughts Éowyn did not see Faramir approaching the white house, nor did she notice the Elf that accompanied him trying to inspect the small welts on Faramir’s face.

(1) From Unfinished Tales; see pp. 398-404).

Belen Menel
Chapter 3: The White House

Faramir sat in his study, reading the missive from Aragorn himself:

Faramir,

Headed our way is an envoy sent by Ghân-buri-Ghân himself. Ghân’s son, Goban leads this envoy. What we know is that the men of Drúadan Forest wish to open limited relations with Gondor, on the bequest of their brethren from the mountains near Andrast, of the Drúwaith Iaur region. No doubt this comes as a surprise to you as it has to me. It appears, from what my emissaries discerned, there are families from this fabled place who wish to come to Ithilien to fulfill an obligation of old. No more is known. This will no doubt be decided by you as it concerns your lands. Let us speak of this soon.

Aragorn

Faramir knew as much from Éowyn, but Aragorn’s message added an interesting tidbit—what could this obligation be? The scholar in Faramir was stirred, and he remembered some ancient manuscripts he read in the libraries of Minas Tirith that wrote that the Drúedain were the first Men to cross the Anduin, and came through Ithilien, before settling on the vales of the White Mountain (1). That is what the historians of Gondor wrote. It was also told the Drúedain had come with the Second House of Men—the House of Haleth. Faramir wondered if this history was related to the request Aragorn spoke of. Whatever came of this, at least, Faramir hoped, some history regarding their origins could be settled.

“That would be a long time to wait to fulfill an obligation,” Faramir spoke aloud, as he pushed the chair he was sitting on back. As he stood, he glanced at the paper in his hand, and decided to leave the message on his desk. He could hear Legolas and Éowyn in the gardens outside chattering about which plants would best help the injured Lord of Emyn Arnen. Éowyn asked many questions of Legolas, “Which plant would best reduce the swelling? Which plants would reduce the sting of the welts? Was there a plant that could do both? What about sage, or better yet alliums?”

Faramir smiled, listening to Éowyn’s unquenchable thirst for knowledge that would aid in her healing skills. Legolas had previously applied mud to the stings, and covered them with Faramir’s kerchief, which had been ripped into long pieces to accommodate the multiple stings. Fortunately, Faramir was not prone to become sick from stings, but they ached nevertheless. From his private study, he went into his and Éowyn’s private sitting room. The White House kept with Gondorian convention for noble manors, but it was also more open, eschewing the closed manors of the past required by dangerous times. It took architectural advantage of its hill location, with vistas to all directions. Part of the home had three levels, while the other portion of the home, sitting on the highest point of the hill had two levels. Meandering terraced gardens surrounded the White House, taking advantage of the gently sloping hill. A series of stairways and paths connected the gardens, providing choices for either leisurely strolls on the paths that gently rounded up the hill, or cobble stoned stairways that provided more direct routes.

On the first level of the home were the kitchens and storage rooms that took advantage of the hill side for cold storage such as the bottelry for wines, the pantry for perishable foods, and the buttery for beverages, primarily used for ale. On the first level was the west main entrance, that opened up into an impressive foyer in which the Garden of Gondor seemed to spill with an array of foliage and flowers, in delicate shades of ivory and yellows—brought to life by the touch and gentle whisper of the Eldar. Off to the sides of the foyer were hallways through which attendants came to and fro taking guests outerwear and other items that needed to be stored in coatrooms. Guests would often remain longer than anticipated in the foyer, taking in the strange smells of flowers that came from the lands south of Gondor, from Far Harad itself. Off to the other end was an inconspicuous hall that led to Faramir and Éowyn’s modest receiving room. It was not used much, but at times, when in need of formality the Lords of the White House would receive their visitors. The receiving room was fondly referred to by Éowyn as the Oubliette, a secret cell in which prisoner’s were left to die, because of Faramir’s practice of letting really annoying and pestering visitors practice patience in wait for the Prince of Ithilien.

While not imposing, a grand series of stairs led up towards the mezzanine level, and into the Hall of Ithil, so named for the delicate tiles made of both mithril, sparingly used, and luminous rocks that adorned the ceiling depicting the summer night sky of Ithilien. Even in daylight, the ceiling had a luminescence to it. Besides the sparkling stars, the ceiling was luminescent due to the use of radiant minerals in the plaster. The effect of this process under the light of torchlight and hearth fire mimicked the glow of the moon, ithil, honoring the region on which it sat—Ithilien, land of moon where the moon famously lit the night skies with its silver glow.

The Ithil Hall served multiple purposes including meetings, dances, and dinners, anything that needed accommodation in a large room. It was the largest room in the White House. Its ceilings extended up towards the second level. The east end, or back end of the Hall, opened up into a garden patio, that had less of the manicured look than the typical gardens of Men. This garden patio seemed to spring naturally from the earth itself. Unlike the stone benches typical of Gondorian décor, the garden was appointed with furnishings made of dried woven vines, shaped into an assortment of seats, covered with hearty moss, another gift of the Elven settlement in Ithilien. The remainder of the first level consisted of guest chambers.

On the second level of the White House, were the guest chambers of the likes of Kings and Queens, and special friends, along with the vast library Faramir insist he have. There was a smaller, more intimate dining room, and small serving kitchen, connected by stairs to the large working kitchen of the first level. Instead of the stone floor of the first level, the second level was laid of exotic dark wood acquired through the new trading routes opened into the Far South, of which Faramir was key in negotiating for. The remainder of the second level was given to the large Ithil Hall, but due to smart planning, the library abutted the Hall. The actual rooms that were closest to the hall were small rooms devoted to manuscripts that needed to be kept under a special atmosphere to protect old scrolls and valuable and important manuscripts that needed to be kept under lock and key. The library itself was large, fashioned after Elrond’s library, a gesture to Faramir’s similar passion for safeguarding and cataloguing the history of Middle Earth. A secret door led up to Faramir’s private study on the third level. The third level consisted of the solar suite, Faramir and Éowyn’s private chambers. Discrete doors for the staff were unobtrusive and minimal.

The solar suite was light and airy, oriented in such a way to take advantage of the seasons, keeping the home warm in the cold seasons and cool in the warm seasons. It was the warm season and the fragrant breezes so common in Ithilien were blowing through, unobstructed. From this highest level, one could see clearly in all directions. To the north, west, and south one could see the river Anduin, and to the North the gleaming White City at the foot of Mount Mindolluin and the green of North Ithilien, empty of settlements. The tower of Minas Ithil had been destroyed, and the land was left alone, to be cleansed of all dark things by Faramir and his White Company.

Walking into the private sitting room, Faramir smelled his prepared bath. Lazily, he disrobed, haphazardly throwing his close as he made his way into the bathing chamber. The steam rose from the water in the bathing pool, welcoming Faramir to soothe and cleanse his body, using Elven technology that piped in hot water. He obliged the water, letting himself sink into the water until he was fully submerged. It further quelled the itching welts. Under water, Faramir smiled, Éowyn had anticipated this bath, adding the proper dried herbs and salts to his bath water. His black hair floated in the water. He must be a sight to behold, if one was to look down on him. He mused that his hair must appear like black snakes floating in the water, like the Corsair tails of the snake haired witch with unseen eyes that turned anyone beholding her into stone. Faramir indulged himself, seeing how long he could hold his breath under water, and blowing air bubbles, watching them rise. Closing his eyes, he came up for air and let his body float freely, feeling the troubles of the day melt into the hot water. He submerged himself once more, letting his body sink towards the shallow bottom.

For a second, Faramir thought he heard what sounded like muffled and echoing giggles. He came up for air, and heard the loud laugher of his wife. He opened one eye and grinned at Éowyn. “Care to join me, my love?” Without another word, he closed his eyes and submerged himself. Seconds later, he felt Éowyn’s legs plunge into the water. This time he rose out of the water, and stayed this way for some time.

***
The water in the bathing pool had cooled, and Éowyn squeezed closer to Faramir for warmth. She laid her hand on her husband’s chest, watching it rise and fall with his breath, feeling the deep vibrations of his voice as he spoke. Her pale skin contrasted with his darker skin. She wondered what their children would look like, a combination of the two? She hoped that if they had a girl, she would look life Faramir’s mother, Finduilas, a dark and exotic beauty to Éowyn’s eyes. She hoped that a little girl with the likeness of Faramir’s mother could restore the sadness tied to Finduilas’ memory.

Éowyn sighed, Such childish thoughts, she chided herself. Her own life showed her one cannot look to others or other things to repair the hurts of the heart.

“What is it, my love,” Faramir whispered into Éowyn’s ear.

“‘Tis nothing, my dearest, but do tell me more about the iron gate you and Legolas found.”

“Legolas was the one who found it, and it was most peculiar…”

Their conversation traveled back and forth between the iron gate and the Drúedain envoy, but was soon cut short by the coldness of the water. Not wanting to chill themselves further, they stepped out of the pool to dry. Faramir smiled inwardly as he grabbed for his newest import, a plush dwahila whose extraordinary absorbent abilities made it a wonderful device for wicking water off the body (2). The trading routes into and from the lands east and south were proving to be the main impetus for opening and maintaining diplomatic relations between former enemies. But there was still much caution for treachery and distrust remained, and so trading while lucrative was also perilous.

Éowyn watched with much amusement as Faramir used the dwahila he had given to her the day before. Somehow, Faramir’s new diplomatic role in securing trading routes was turning him into a merchant himself. It appeared to Éowyn that Faramir was selling his wares, mumbling with intense satisfaction to himself about how quickly this new dwahila dried him, the soft feel of it against his skin, much better than the old cloths he used to use.

“My Lord, you need not convince me of the use of this cloth-they are a most thoughtful gift, but it seems you are wasting your talents in diplomacy. You are a most appealing and convincing merchant.”

Faramir stopped mid dry, turning to look at his wife. His voice suddenly serious, “Do you think dwahilas should be included in the welcome gifts we give to the Drúedain?”

“Scoundrel!” Éowyn giggled as she threw her dwahila at her ducking husband.

(1) From Unfinished Tales; 399-400.
(2) Old High German for towel

A/N: I am hopefully driving home for the holidays soon, if the flood waters of the great Northwest will allow it, and so I will be posting a bit less frequently, probably at the rate of a chapter a week. I hope if you are reading, you will be patient and keep on this journey with me!

Belen Menel
Chapter 4: Iarwain, Oldest

Legolas stood on the hill, eyes closed, singing a melancholy song. His voice, so lovely and compelling, the breeze seemed to dance around him, lightly whipping his hair in the breeze. It was a song of longing and joy, of patience and love. Legolas’ sea-longing was stirred by the sweet smell of the sea carried by the summer winds, although it was always present ebbing and flowing with the currents of the Anduin.

Faramir and Éowyn had left to Minas Tirith to meet the Drúedain envoy and participate in the talks that would ensue. The Elves did not participate directly in such dealings, the dealings of Men, the Second People. Their time on these lands was coming to an end, but the Eldar continued to delight in the rebuilding of green things, before sailing West to the Undying Lands on the Straight Road.

Elueth, one of the folk who came from Eryn Lasgalen to Ithilien listened to the melancholy melody. She was one of the Old Folk, who awoke at Cuiviénen and began the Great Journey, only to end her journey and settle in Greenwood where she dwelt through the Ages. The coming of the Sindar, of Oropher and Celeborn, had brought great change, but none greater than the changes imposed by darkness. It was during these times that Elueth became Elueth, maiden of the Blue Water of Awakening, when Thranduil Oropherion in time of great sorrow sought her to become caretaker of his only child. It was a Silvan tradition to take on a new name when undertaking an unforeseen and new path. The old name, not discarded, becomes a part of times past, to be remembered in family oaths taken and used only by those closest and dearest. The Silvan proclaimed her new name, or epessë (after-name) in old woodland rites during the somber first anniversary of the death of Thranduil’s wife (1). It was decided then that Elueth, Maiden Mother of the King’s son, should be known as such, a title, a name she wished had not come to her, but it had.

Elueth had simply been a mother whose daughter received the joy of a son, the King’s son, a strong son whose little fingers grasped his mother’s and his daernaneth’s fingers with the strength of the storied bow people of the Wood. Her daughter’s joy, the bliss of new motherhood was cut tragically short when in the year 2463, following the end of the Watchful Peace, an evil shadow waylaid the young mother and son, exacting a terrible price upon the King’s family. The choice—her life or her son’s and she grasped the babe to her chest, placing a tender kiss on his forehead, and letting her tears bathe the child’s head. All her hope, all her strength, and all her love were given to the boy on that fateful day. Understanding the choice, she placed her precious bundle on a bed of niphredil and elanors in bloom, white and golden blossoms like the moon and stars of night and the sun of day. As she stood the Black Breath ripped out her last breaths and her golden skin turned pale. Though the Shadow had taken her life, it could not take her beauty that in the paleness of death was likened to the petal of a niphredil.

The folk of Lake-Town oft heard the story of the King’s wife, taken by Shadow. It was said, amongst mortal men, that the Elven Queen, if such can be said of a Silvan elleth, put all her magic into her tears, and as she cried, the tears that fell to the earth turned into flowers, enchanted blossoms that caressed and held the babe on their delicate petals. That the Silvan Queen could stand up to Shadow and indeed choose was tribute to the strange fey and queer magic of those strange Elves. That she could protect her child from this evil was altogether unheard of! But deep down in their hearts, women folk understood this Sacrifice, understood the bond between mother and child as something more into the realm of Faith. Soon after the Elven maiden’s death, word soon reached the folk of Lake-Town that one of the Iarwain, Oldest, mother of the tragic Silvan elleth was now Queen mother, or as the Silvan called her Elueth, mother of all, Maiden of the Blue Water of Awakening.

Legolas was singing of Tol Eressëa and the elanor that there bloomed. Elueth did not interrupt his song. He was singing a soothing song, calling on his magic flower, on his mother’s faith, and he was singing of his longing of the sea, of the Undying Lands beyond. Beyond in the Halls of Mandos, his mother was waiting to return to her kin, to her son, on the western shores of Aman, waiting, biding her time as Vairë wove the tapestry of her son’s life into Being. But Legolas, Elueth understood, was bound by love to Middle Earth, if only for a brief moment more.

Legolas opened his eyes as he finished the last refrain of his melody. He felt his daernana Elu watching him, and her presence brought warmth to him. The corners of his mouth turned up into a slight smile. He gazed into the West, his eyes taking on that strange look that only Elves get, when seeing beyond things Mortals can. “Nana Elu,” Legolas called to his grandmother, “I can see the elanor that blossoms on Eressëa and beyond them I see the tower of Avallónë.”

“Yes ion nín (my son), and beyond the Lonely Isle are the western shores of the Blessed Realm. It gives you great comfort that she is there, does it not?”

“Yes,” Legolas answered, his eyes intense and bright, as if giving him sight to the lands Beyond where his beloved mother waited in the Halls of Mandos, “it does.”

“Like your Adar,” Elueth responded, adding, “as it does for me my dear little lass (leaf).” Elueth came to stand next to Legolas, taking in the beauty that unfolded in the trees, flowers, birds and creatures that seemed to shake, quiver, and scurry, vying for the Elves’ attention. “Let us move with the Airelinde (holy song).”

The two faced West, with eyes closed, stilling their mind, and slowing their breath to the rhythm of the earth, deep and constant. Their bodies moved in unison, flowing beautifully from position to position, moving slowly, powerfully in ways strange to the bodies of Men. Their movement was music embodied, veneration of life, an ancient and sacred bodily text first discovered when the First Born, born into darkness, discovered the stars of Elbereth. The Airelinde, carried on by the Oldest, was a peculiar Silvan tradition that had somehow been lost in other Houses of the Eldar, only to be rediscovered and reintroduced by the merging of the Sindar and Silvan in the Second Age. Yet it remained that only the Oldest, the Iarwain could teach the Airelinde for they were there at its beginnings by the Water of Awakening.

Morning passed into day, and day gave way to the veil of uial, twilight. Elueth and Legolas had hours earlier stilled their bodies, and now they sat on the green earth in silent repose, gazing up towards the stars that appeared, the net of silver thrown up in the night skies.

“Nana Elu,” Legolas broke the silence, taking his grandmother’s hand in his.

“Yes Lass,”

“I could not have come to Ithilien without you.”

Elueth did not answer. She simply squeezed her grandson’s hands and looked upon him with love and pride—not like the pride that drove the Kinslaying. It was a humble pride, the type of pride she felt when her daughter and Thranduil were betrothed amongst the beeches and oaks of Greenwood the Great, reborn Eryn Lasgalen. It seems that on that clear and moonlit night, all of Elves of Greenwood had come to share in the betrothal, the same clearing where Thranduil and Amarant had plighted their love to each other, the same clearing where Amarant had lost her life and gifted the chance of life to Legolas. Amarant, earth-gift, a simple Silvan name full of faerie enchantment, she never wore elven slippers. She seemed to draw energy from the earth itself, like a tree sending roots deep down into the womb of Arda, her hair dark and wild from her joyful dancing under starlight.

“Oh Lass,” Elueth sighed, “It seems, even for one as old as myself, that many, many moons have passed since I last saw you dance,” she paused, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, “dance the way you used to, wild into the night, without a care in the world!”

Serendipity must have been listening in on the conversation, for at that moment, Elven drumming burst into the night, accompanied by a Silvan fiddle. Legolas’ eyes grew wide and his mouth opened, letting out an excited gasp. His Nana Elu’s magic was like that, loving and playful, old and wise. The weariness that weighed heavily on Legolas’ heart was lifted. Elueth sprung to her feet pulling her grandson with her. Both Elves ran to the merry-making and joined in the dancing that would last until minuial (morning twilight). There was much joy, and Legolas danced with his feet bare like his Nana Elu, like his naneth on those clear nights long ago. His hair, free of braids, hung long and loose, bouncing with the drums, and whipping around as he twirled and leapt to the joyful Silvan fiddle and drums. In the air Legolas could smell the delicate scent of niphredils and elanors. His magic was in full bloom.

[1] The concept of after-name is drawn from Unfinished Tales, p. 279.

Belen Menel
Chapter 5: Leuruna-Noss Mother

The Drúedain envoy was small, numbering no more than twenty. Gobân-buri-Gobân, son of Ghân-buri-Ghân, led the Drúedain delegates through the Great Gates of Minis Tirith. Among them were Rhûn-bamo-Rhûn, also of the Drúadan Forest and Leuruna, noss (clan) mother from the Drúwaith Iaur.

It had been long since her folk had crossed this way, but the stories they told of the Journey provided Leuruna guidance on this new journey. The convoy had been met by emissaries of the King outside Minas Tirith, extending welcome and warmth to the Drúedain. Leuruna had heard of the White City, described as the city in the mountain. It was a sight to behold, but as her legs carried her up its winding streets, her bones voiced their disapproval. She would have it no other way. Upon her feet, feeling the earth, the stone beneath her, she would meet the very King himself, and he, he would meet Her. She had insisted that she wanted to meet the King and the Lord of Ithilien high upon their Mountain throne—to relive the tales she heard of the old Numenorean Kings her peoples had lived with.

Scores of Gondorians lined the streets, awaiting with eager anticipation the strange and mythical visitors that descended on their city. The crowds were full of cheer as the convoy ascended the main road. Gobân was secretly relieved as he looked upon the faces of Elessar’s people. He recognized curiosity in their smiles, but not ill will. He felt the same. These were curious people with curious customs. But to Elessar, to Ellesar—Gobân and his father owed much respect. He glanced over to the old clan mother of his mountain kin. He knew her old bones were hurting, but he also knew her feet would not leave the earth.

Leuruna had long silver hair that she wore wrapped in a bun that settled at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were a brilliant hazel. The folks from the ancient forest of the White Mountains shared striking features—clear eyes in hues of hazel and amber and dark red hair—that many say are remnants of the Folk of Haleth. Although it is said that the Haldin were dark haired and brown-eyed, the descendents of Haleth, before unknownst in the lore of Gondor, were born, it was told, with the color of fire. It was said Haleth had no children, as Haldan her nephew became chieftain upon her death; yet ‘twas not so. Haleth indeed had children, born from the union with a Drúedain warrior. From Haleth’s legacy was born the line of women who lead the Drúin of Drúwaith Iaur, the ancient Drû homelands of the White Mountains. Leuruna was that leader, the noss mother of her people [2][3][4].

Her stature, taller than that of Hobbits, was strong, even for one so old as she appeared to be. The Drúin did not have the long lives of Gondorians. They shared many customs with their cousins of the Drúadan Forest where Ghân-buri-Ghân ruled. Their life span short, but not as short as the average sixty years lived in the forests near Rohan. The Drúin of legends, in comparison to Men, lived shorter lives. The noss mothers lived longer life spans, perhaps because of the line of Haleth in their blood, or perhaps because their gift of foresight was strongest. What was sure is the Drúedain did not tarry long on middle earth. They did not fear death, but they did deeply mourn the untimely, tragic death of one taken before his or her time as did any of the First and Second Born. Leuruna understood that she would have much to learn, but she also knew that she would have much unlearning to accomplish in her Gondorian hosts, for she was well aware of the myths that permeated the stories of her people. In fact she was aware that beyond myth, little was known of her people in these lands. This ignorance had been the salvation for her kin, but now times were different; and Leuruna had an old promise that was now ready to be fulfilled.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

[1] pronounced leh-oo-dhu-na
[2] Drú is singular of Drúin, shortened form of Drúedain (plural)/Drúadan (singular) for wild man/men or wose(s). Drúath is the collective form of drû the people of the Drû or Woses.
[3] noss is Sindarin for clan
[4] See Unfinished Tales for more on the House of Haleth. The red hair, clear eyes, is my own creation. Although there is an entire section devoted to describing the Drúedain in Unfinished Tales, I depart from the physical description contained in that text.

Belen Menel
Chapter 6: Anticipation and Regret

Faramir was peering over the crowd in front of him, searching for the visitors. His excitement was barely contained as he stood on his toes in order to get a better view of the envoy that wound its way up the paths of the White City. He stood near King Elessar and Arwen, Queen of the Reunited Kingdom, as they waited in the Court of the Fountain. Faramir had insisted upon meeting the Drúedain envoy at the Great Gates, but upon hearing the requests of the delegation he acquiesced and waited, albeit impatiently.

Éowyn squeezed her husband’s hand reassuringly. Both Faramir and Éowyn anticipated the Drúedains’ arrival with child-like excitement. She could feel Faramir’s body doing its best to stretch taller for a better perspective. It was strange in those days after the fall of Sauron, how events such as the coming of the Drúedain could cause such a stir. Éowyn at times chided herself for feeling the way she did. Maybe it was due in part to a lifetime of living under Shadow but at times she felt there was a void in her life, a void beyond feeling the loss of loved ones. It was as if the void was for a loss of a familiar life—all that she had known. She had confided to Faramir about her feelings, and he surprised her by admitting the same.

~*~*~*~*~*~

They had been laying together in a field near the White House, staring up into the wide expanse of the night sky and the stars of Elbereth, Star Kindler. She had been riddled by guilt, a guilt she could not shake nor admit to, but on that night as she lay there next to her husband, she felt her breath become shallow and her chest tighten.

Faramir felt his wife’s body tense, heard her breath grow shallow. He turned his face towards hers, “Éowyn?”

Éowyn could see the concern on her husband’s face, but she did not want to reveal her secret. How could she? She did not want Faramir to think that she was not blissfully happy and that she did not love him. How could she explain the loss, the emptiness she felt?

But Faramir insisted. “Éowyn,” he asked, worry coloring his voice, “your body is chilled on a warm summer’s night.”

“Do not worry,” Éowyn responded, “I am just being silly.” She tried to cover her anxiety with laughter, but Faramir was not fooled by her nervous laughs.

“Éowyn,” Faramir soothed, clasping his hands lovingly around her face, “Éowyn, I know your heart as if it were mine.” He looked deeply into her eyes, his own face taught revealing his concern.

She sighed. Faramir had such an ability to soothe her as she felt his warm hands caress her checks. As she looked up at him, his dark hair seemed to blend into the night sky and his eyes luminous like the stars. With him she felt safe. She felt she could lay herself bare. She bit her lower lip, as if trying to keep words from spilling forth.

Faramir’s lips turned up slightly in a smile. He knew his wife’s habits, and this biting of her lip indicated to him that she was trying very hard to say something delicately. He laid a light kiss on Éowyn’s lips, letting his lips linger lightly upon hers. He breathed in her breath and he could feel Éowyn’s lips part in a smile of her own.

“Sorcerer,” Éowyn murmured, “you are trying to enchant me to reveal my deepest thoughts.”

“I am,” Faramir thoughtfully replied. He continued, more determined, “If sharing these deepest thoughts with me will unburden you and I could enchant you to do so I would. But I prefer it if you share them with me wholly on your own. Éowyn I have never judged you. I only love you.”

Éowyn sat up. She looked up at the stars as if seeking reassurance. Sighing deeply, she looked back down to Faramir, who was gently holding her hand. “It is so hard to express,” she began, “it is so hard to express this strange emptiness that seems to overwhelm me at times.” Éowyn spoke without interruption from Faramir. As she finished relating her feelings, her guilt, she paused, waiting for her husband’s response of shock. Instead, Faramir’s reply took her by surprise.

He told Éowyn that he was subject to the same emotions. “I spoke to Aragorn of this disquiet, knowing if he did not share my emotions, he would nonetheless understand them.” Faramir paused, trying to gage Éowyn’s response to his revelation. There was no misgivings in her countenance, no reproach for speaking to Aragorn instead of her. He resumed, “But he did share them. You see Éowyn it seems that many a folk find themselves faced with such conflict.”

“But why,” Éowyn asked.

“I think deep down you understand these emotions,” Faramir replied, touching his hand to her heart.

Éowyn felt his hand on her chest and she grasped it tighter to her. “Oh Faramir, but it should be so simple to grow accustomed to the peace we now have. It seems almost criminal that I cannot outgrow the life I had known in dark times.”

“But it is what we knew,” Faramir countered, “it is all we knew, and we must be patient with ourselves.” Faramir laughed at the irony, “To think that we were so accustomed to Shadow and Fear and now that the dark veil is lifted, letting that aspect of ourselves be put to rest is not so simple, and the guilt, the guilt that we survived…” Faramir’s voice trailed off, his eyes becoming distant.

Éowyn felt Faramir’s hand slip from hers, and so she grabbed his hands and with all her strength pulled him up towards her, embracing him and pressing her lips to his.

Faramir felt the life in her lips, the strength of Éowyn as she pulled his weight towards her. He responded in kind, pressing his lips firmly against hers, tasting her, his love, his LIFE!

It was not easy for anyone who had survived the War of the Ring to remake new lives, remembering those that did not survive and leaving behind a life largely shaped by darkness. These were new times, times to be reborn, times to live more fully and remember.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Éowyn felt Faramir’s hand tighten around hers. They shared a knowing glance as they heard the sounds of cheers and the sounds of drums announcing the arrival of the Drúedain. Both were now standing on the tips of their toes, smiles wide, caught up in the excitement of the moment!

Belen Menel
Chapter 6: Laughter & Frienship

Leuruna, as was typical of her people, had keen vision. She saw Elessar and his Queen, resplendent, triumphant, but most of all beautiful. The light seemed to glow about them, the white stones beneath their feet luminous, and the White Tree, reborn.

The White Tree, Leuruna exclaimed silently. She had heard in her peoples’ stories of the White Tree of Numenor, of Nimloth, that her ancestors had beheld and mourned when it was cut down in ages past. As a child she imagined seeing it with her own eyes. In her dreams she willed it to live, for the White Tree was not only the symbol of the Kings of Gondor, of Men, it was the hope of Return, of her peoples’ returns to live by the Great River that had generously guided them and fed them during the days of the Old Journey, before the sundering of Middle Earth. And when her people heard that the White Tree was reborn, they know it was time for them to Return.

Next to the brilliant King and Queen stood another dark haired man, similar in countenance to the King. His lady was fair, her hair pale like the sun. Their smiles greeted the old Drú woman, clan mother. Leuruna returned their smiles with hearty and joyful laughter, ‘rich and rolling,’ infectious[1].

As the envoy stood before the Lords of Gondor, the crowds gathered hushed in anticipation. Elessar raised his hands to his guests, and speaking in Drughu, “Welcome, friends. Welcome to the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor. Welcome on behalf of all of us to Minas Tirith.” Arwen repeated Aragorn’s welcome in the common tongue, and the crowds erupted in cheers of agreement.

Gobân-buri-Gobân, son of Ghân-buri-Ghân, of the Drúedain Forest, whose people aided the Riders of Rohan during the War of the Ring, answered for the envoy. He bowed slightly to the King and Queen, to which Elessar indicated with his hand for him to rise. Gobân spoke in Common, “Thank you for welcome. Drughu, we are in the service of Elessar and his Queen.” Though spoken simply, it was spoken sincerely.

Gobân retreated a couple of steps, and the old woman that stood behind him came forth. In turn, and in that peculiar Drúin way, she bowed her head to the King and Queen and to the other Lords present. Leuruna looked up to the group before her, tears welling up in her eyes. “We have waited long. I am Mother, standing for Drúwaith Iaur, ancient Drughu-land. Humble, we pledge friendship.”

Elessar was taken by the old woman’s show of emotion. There was no embarrassment or attempt to hide her tears of joy. She stood before them in plain sight, no masks. Elessar addressed her in his simple Drughu, “Welcome Noss Mother. Your return is welcome. It is as told.”

Arwen, again, said the same in common, adding, “and we dear Mother pledge our friendship.”

Leuruna did then what Drúin always do in times of happiness—she laughed with pleasure, and so infectious it was, that everyone who heard shared in her laughter, even the Elves who watched from a distance beyond the Tower of Ecthelion. Leurana heard their laughter, like bells of silver floating on the wind, and with her keen sight she saw them, gathered by the Tower. Her smiled brightened and her laughter rang out in the sky. Long ago her peoples had lived with the First Born, but she had never seen them. She had never laid eyes upon the Eldar she dreamed of as a young girl, and there they were—beautiful.

Elueth and Legolas brought their hands to their heart, greeting the old woman and her people, their laughter ringing throughout the courtyard.

~*~**~*~

All ceremony aside, the Drúin were introduced to the Prince of Ithilien and his White Lady. Faramir could hardly contain his excitement as he swept up the old woman in a hug. Her eyes were bright with amusement as the young and handsome man settled her back down to the ground.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Faramir realized, embarrassment causing his face to flush, “I know not what overcame me.” He could hear Éowyn giggle behind him.

Leuruna reached her hands up to clasp the young man’s handsome face—the stiff formalities of other cultures was not Drughu custom—“No son, I think you have fallen for Drú magic.”

“My lady,” Faramir countered as he gently placed his hands over Leuruna’s old weathered hands, “we have heard tales of Drúin magic. I am only glad that it is so delightful.” Faramir gifted the old woman with a sincere, but heavenly smile [2].

After, taking in Faramir’s smile, Leuruna turned her attention to Éowyn, “I know you Lady of Shield-arm,” placing her hand on the once injured arm. “I come from long line of maiden warriors. We too lead our People.”

Éowyn’s eyes beamed with pride, a warmth radiated from the old woman’s touch through her arm.

Leuruna turned to Aragorn, “King Elessar, your lovely Queen took leave. I heard of the beauty of the First Born, but words are not big enough for her beauty.” And turning to Éowyn, “No, words not big enough for the beauty I behold here.” She brought her gaze to Faramir, and then finally laid her eyes upon Aragorn.

Aragorn chuckled as he gently clasped Leuruna’s hand, “If I may be so bold…Mother?” Aragorn was trying to establish the protocol of conversation. There was not much prior experience to fall back on.

Leuruna squeezed the imposing King’s hand, “Ai, Mother I am, and Mother is my name. You can call me by my birth name, Leuruna, if wish, but Mother is who I am.”

“Then please Mother, I am simply Elessar.”

The Lords of Men had been surprised that the Drughu of myth long hidden in their mountains were in fact not myth, and they spoke Common well enough as Leuruna’s conversation with them so proved.

Anticipating this query, Leuruna offered, “While we Drughu are secret, we had dealings with the men of White Mountain. To survive we listened to the men. To listen, we needed to understand their tongue.”

Aragorn laughed in understanding.

Leuruna, offered a more interesting tidbit, “As Mother, I am bound to know many tongues our People knew of Old, even that of Numenor.”

“Adûnaic?” Faramir queried, half disbelieving.

“Yes, lord. Our lives number few years, but our memory is long-lived. Our knowledge never forgotten.” Leuruna’s eyes twinkled, enjoying the looks her revelations caused in the handsome men’s faces.

Like Aragorn, Faramir offered, “Leuruna, Mother, please call me Faramir, and I hope that I will soon hear your people’s tales of Numenor.”

The old woman smiled in acknowledgement. Aragorn—Elessar—extended his arm out to Leuruna, and she accepted his help, as she placed her tired hand on his arm.

“So tell me, Mother,” Aragorn asked as he walked Leuruna and the others to their lodgings on the sixth level, “are you familiar with any of the tongues of Elves?”

“Familiar, yes. I speak some, but not like Common or Adûnaic.”

Éowyn and Faramir fell behind Aragorn and Leuruna as they wandered down on private paths to the sixth level lodgings that would house the guests.

Gobân-buri-Gobân had quietly observed Leuruna’s interactions with the King and his Lords. His faith in Elessar and his people was affirmed. It really was the dawn of a new age.

[1] In part four of Unfinished Tales concerning the Drúedain, Tolkien writes: “Their voices were deep…but their laughter was a surprise: it was rich and rolling, and set all who heard it, Elves or Men, laughing too for its pure merriment untainted by scorn or malice.” (p. 394).

[2] In the same section of Unfinished Tales concerning the Drúedain “possessed uncanny and magical powers” (p. 396).

Belen Menel
Chapter 8: Of History, Philosophy, and Stealth

The weeks the Drúin spent at Minas Tirith were full of excitement, debate and general good will. It was clear that Gobân, Leuruna and the rest of their delegation had prepared for this visit.

The people of Ghân-buri-Ghân knew of their kin from the old Pukel-land, ancient Drughu land, to the west of them, but they had feared for their survival. After the War of the Ring, the two communities reestablished communication, and began the process of finding kin amongst the groups that had been previously separated by time and distance. They rejoiced in their reunions, celebrating the longevity of Drughu knowledge.

In preparation for their trip to Minas Tirith, they had gathered their most learned people from both the Drúadan Forest and the Drúwaith Iaur. For many weeks they debated the best way to achieve the Return of Drughu families to Ithilien. Some expressed concern that stereotypes about the Drughu would stall talks. Others were quick to point out that while the Rohirrim may have possessed inaccurate attitudes about them, much had changed since that day Ghân-buri-Ghân met King Theoden and guided the Rohirrim through the Drúadan Forest.

Their unease was not without basis. For as long as their stories were passed on, they told of how other evil groups of Men from the East had persecuted them, and it was for this reason they journeyed west, to find places in the mountains they could live in peace, hidden from other Men. [1]

Ghân reminded both communities of the benevolence of Elessar. Elessar had after all granted the Drúadan Forest to his people. Leuruna also reminded them that their peoples had not always feared all other Men. She told of her people’s time with the Folk of Haleth and how the merging of the two had helped their survival. Ghân followed her tale with the story of “The Faithful Stone” that recounted the deep friendship between one of Haleth’s folk, Barach, and Aghan the Drûg, a story familiar to all Drughu [2]. The two communities agreed that friendship could be won. They had faith in Elessar. They had faith in this new age they were embarking upon together.

But their remained the peculiar and irksome issue, that hornet’s nest that had been recently stirred in Ithilien. Leuruna had come with other families from Andrast, from Drúwaith Iaur, to resettle in Ithilien. This Return, though was not without peril. As told the Drúin are a people of immense foresight and uncanny magic in recognizing nature’s signs. Without a doubt, the return of hornets to Drúwaith Iaur was not taken lightly, for the Drúin understood the language of nature all too well, and she had told them very loudly that they needed to tend to unfinished business. It would be up to Leuruna and the group that came with her to not only find a good home in Ithilien and get on with the cultivating and renewal, but it was also up to them to restore hope to a lonely little corner in Ithilien.

~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~

With Aragorn’s permission, calls went out to gather nobles, diplomats, and scholars that would have interest in meeting with the Drúin. The Reunited Kingdom’s wealth of thinkers of all sorts, from philosophers, historians, to esotericists descended upon Minas Tirith, along with merchants, military diplomats, and others. The Drúin understood their hosts well—they had the advantage of planning. In this regard, a summit was convened, covering a diversity of topics. Philosophers flocked to the symposiums on Drughu cosmology, while the historians flocked to the lectures on the Drúedain migrations. At a symposium titled, “Númenor and the Drúedain: King Ar-Pharazôn's Legacy,” Gondorian nobles, sat next to diplomats and historians, merchants, healers, and many others that were fascinated by the glimpse into Númenorean life from the Drúin perspective.

Historians also rushed to catch the colloquium on Drúin memory and relating of history. Philosophers were also present in large numbers, and following the colloquium spoke excitedly with their historian colleagues about the astounding similarities between Drú and Elvish knowledge. One philosopher, with a striking black head of hair that curled wildly about his face, did what a philosopher does best—philosophized.

“Fascinating, while the Drúin live rather short lives, the collective memory is ancient, passed down from one-generation to the next.” A historian, a woman of late age, but incredible stature added, “Yes their organization of stories, in essence of knowledge within this impressive breadth of historical memory is quite similar to the Elvish knowledge system, and more precisely the Silvan way of historical narrative.” They then turned their queries to the Drughu that had presented the colloquium, taking care not to get caught up in the technical language of their disciplines. Some Drúin spoke better Common than others, but the entirety of the delegation sent to Minas Tirith spoke, at minimum, conversational Westron.

These same historians, philosophers and diplomats conducted seminars for the Drúin as well, relating their histories, their beliefs, and more detailed accounts of the War of the Ring. It was a fruitful exchange of ideas, and would remain a vital and exiting aspect of Gondorian-Drúin relations.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The summit brought not only Gondors’ intelligentsia, it also brought some numbers of Elves. Legolas, though he loved visiting Aragorn and Arwen, was not keen on visiting Minas Tirith. There was much beauty to it, but it remained a city of the Edain, for the Edain. While he enjoyed the deep presence of stone beneath his feet, he missed the presence of green things. As he walked the pathways of Minas Tirith, he would imagine his friend Gimli going on about the nature of the stonework, pointing out his handiwork here and there. This always brought a smile to his face. He would have to send word to his friend to visit soon. He missed him.

As he wandered the pathways, some private, some public, in his contemplative mood, he remained willfully unaware of the sidelong looks he received from many of Gondors’ folk. Some were curious, others filled with admiration, still others were simply in awe to be so close to one of the Nine Walkers. He heard familiar steps fall in line behind him. Legolas could not contain his mirth, “My lady, you realize I have been aware of you following me for quite some time now.”

He heard the steps behind him halt. Legolas turned to look at his shadow that wore a look of disappointment. After a minute of silence, Legolas sighed with amusement, “Go on.”

“I knew you knew I was behind you, but I thought that maybe…I thought that maybe it was only until a moment ago you knew I was there.”

“Now Hild,” Legolas replied, still quite amused, “I must state my gratitude for your company. I would be most ignoble if I did not.”

Incredulous, the young maiden of Rohan offered, “Gratitude, how have I gained your gratitude, my lord.”

Legolas chuckled, amused by Éowyn’s herald. But his laughter only caused further indignation. Hild held her head down and tried her hardest to keep her lips from puckering in what she perceived to be childish indignation at being discovered. But as always, around Legolas, as hard as she tried, she could not help but feel so immensely child-like. In the world of Men she was young woman, but amongst Elves, she felt but a babe. Her lips quivered as she tried with all her might not to pout.

“Dúath nín, my shadow,” Legolas spoke softly, his voice betraying no hint of his pleasure, “I did not mean to offend.”

Hild’s head shot up, her eyes wide with concern, “No, no, my lord, I…uh, you have not offended me!”

Legolas knew quite well how Hild would react. If only Hild knew how to read his eyes. He was clearly enjoying her predicament. The young woman was wringing her hands, clearly trying to think of what to say next. Being not a cruel Elf, Legolas, gently clasped Hild’s hands in his own. “Dúath nín, you know that you did not offend me. I meant to say that it would be rude of me to not to let you know that your presence here amongst these stones is welcome. Your company, though quiet, is much better than stone!”

Hild’s eyes brightened, and a slight smile crept on her lips.

“You are certainly becoming more stealthy. I think, to the ears of men, your presence would remain unnoticed.”

Hild was now smiling widely, but a doubt remained. This so much Legolas could tell from her singly eyebrow that refused to settle. “My lord, I would never confidently claim this skill to one so knowledgeable as you.” She paused, looking down to collect her thoughts and carefully plan her next statement.

Hild observed Legolas’ hands, his very strong and masculine hands, holding her own hands. Suddenly she became aware of his touch, his warmth, and how little her own hands felt engulfed in his. Color began to rise in her cheeks, but she could not move her hands. She tried to force her gaze away from his hands, but feared that if she did Legolas would see that her pale face was now aglow, cheeks flushed with the blood that was rising.

Legolas could feel Hild stiffen. He could feel the blood pour into her hands, the heat the blood generated, a not uncommon reaction of the fairer sex. Poor girl, he mused, he had not considered that Hild could feel anything but childish awe for him. He had not been around children of the Second Born enough to judge their maturation. But Legolas was generous.

He raised one hand to her chin, and lifted Hild’s face to face him. Releasing her hands completely, he brought up his other hand to tuck a few strands of golden hair that had fallen over her face behind her ears. He spoke gently, “My shadow, I speak truthfully, your skills at the covert arts are superior for that which involves Men.”

Hild heard his words, but they were less important than the feel of his hand grazing her ear as he tucked her hair. She let out a nervous laugh. “Lady Éowyn will be pleased to know.”

“Indeed she will Dúath nín, indeed she will.”

A gentle but hearty laughter erupted from a garden near Legolas and Hild. Legolas turned to the source of the laughter, his eyes betraying his continued good mood. “I had heard of the uncanny ability of Drúin to be absolutely still and silent,” Legolas offered the sitting figure. Turning to Hild, he added, “Now that, my shadow, is stealth.” [3]

“Ai, dearest, I simply sat here gathering my thoughts,” Leuruna replied, eyes sparkling. “I was overjoyed to watch an elegant cat play with a stunned little mouse.”

“Oh, dear Mother, and where has this cat gone?”

Leuruna was thoroughly enjoying her first interactions with Legolas. “I hear it purring with satisfaction. Do you?”

“Oh indeed, I hear it now,” Legolas purred.

“I cannot,” Hild interrupted. “Where is the cat? I have not seen it.”

Leuruna and Legolas shared knowing chuckles, and not wanting to be left out, Hild joined in their merriment.

[1] Christopher Tolkien writes in Unfinished Tales concerning the origins and migrations of the Drúedain: “Another note says that historians in Gondor believed that the first Men to cross the Anduin were indeed the Drúedain. They came (it was believed) from lands south of Mordor, but before they reached the costs of Haradwaith they turned north into Ithilien, and eventually finding a way across the Anduin (probably near Cair Andoros) settled in the vales of the White Mountains and the wooded lands at their northern feet. ‘They were a secretive people, suspicious of other kinds of Men by whom they had been harried and persecuted as long as they could remember, and they had wandered west seeking a land where they could be hidden and have peace.’” (pp. 399-400).

[2] The story The Faithful Stone can be found in Unfinished Tales, and like I tell in the body of the story, it tells the story of a friendship between a Folk of Haleth and a Drûg.

[3] Tolkien describes the Drúedain as having incredible powers of stealth in Unfinished Tales: “But among the powers of this strange people perhaps most to be remarked was their capacity of utter silence and stillness, which they could at times endure for many days on end…” (p. 395).