Finrod looked up from the scroll he was reading and gazed indulgently at the ellon who was bent studiously over the angled surface of the scriptorium on the far side of the haryon’s study. Eluréd had been occupied with quill and ink for most of the morning, and the prince was intrigued. It had been some time since the young Reborn had willingly sequestered himself indoors when the weather was so fine outside. Normally Eluréd would try to do whatever work he was doing out into the garden, using the excuse that he needed to see the real flowers in order to paint them accurately in the illuminated borders that he was becoming known for. Finrod, himself, had retired to the study to avoid being dragged into the last minute preparations for the Feast of Gratitude that would take place that evening, to rejoice in the harvest and to pay tribute to the gifts of Yavanna.

“What are you doing, yonya?” Finrod finally asked, his curiosity getting the best of him, laying aside the trade agreement he was reviewing for his father.

Eluréd glanced up over the top of the writing desk and smiled at his “Atar Finrod.” “A present for Ammë, for tonight.” He sat back and laid down the quill, flexing his fingers. “Do you think she’ll like it?” he asked, inviting Finrod to take a look. “Elurín helped me with the words to the first stanza.”

The golden-haired former King of Nargothrond got up and crossed the room to stand behind the son whom Lord Námo and Lord Irmo had put into his care. The single page of parchment was already fully illuminated, with flowered vines embracing the text area. The tengwar were elegantly scribed—far more so than Finrod had ever managed to achieve in either of his lives—and the lines at the bottom of the page were still glistening in the late autumn sunlight that streamed in through the window that overlooked the garden. He read the words aloud.

An i-vanessë Ambaro, An i-aclar menelo,

An i-melwë, i nostalmallo or ar pélala me untúpa;

Ai, Valar, le ortalmë sen airelindalë úvëa laitalëo.

An i-vanessë ilya lúmëo i-aurë ar i-lómëo,

Ambo ar tumbë, alda ar lótë, Anar, Isil, ar eleni calimo;

Ai, Valar, le ortalmë sen airelindëlma úvëa laitalëo.

There was a blank space beneath the second verse, and Eluréd said, “I think it needs another verse, but we couldn’t figure out what it should be, and then Elurín went to help with the baking while I wrote this out.” He smiled up at Finrod, his grey eyes suddenly going glassy with tears, and he dropped the quill and threw his arms around the haryon’s waist, hugging him. “We have so much to be thankful for, Elurín and me, it’s hard to say it all. When Lord Námo told us that our real Ammë and Atto weren’t ready to leave Mandos, we were so sad. But then he and Lord Irmo told us about Ammë Amarië, and you, and that we were going to live with you.” He hugged Finrod tighter. “Thank you for being my new Atto. I love you.”

Finrod felt his heart swell, and he bent his head and kissed the top of Eluréd’s raven head. “I love you, Eluréd. You, and your háno, are as much a part of our family as our own blood children. We are so very glad that Lord Námo and Lord Irmo asked us to stand in for your Ammë and Atto. You and Elurín have filled our hearts with joy, best beloved.”

The ellon sighed contentedly, and reluctantly let go of Finrod, wiping the dampness from his cheeks with the cuff of his sleeve. “I’d better get this finished or it won’t be ready for tonight. I just don’t know the words to the last part yet.”

Finrod kissed him on the forehead and regarded the verses again. “You know, yonya, I have an idea for that last verse. Would you mind if this were a gift from all three of us to Amarië?”

Eluréd shook his head and, smiling, offered the quill and piece of scrap parchment to his Atar Finrod. In short order, they were bent over the scriptorium, bright and dark heads together, the quill scratching sporadically as Arien moved Anar across the sky.

* * * * *

The feast consisted, as usual for this particular celebration, of an abundance of food of every type: breads, meats, and the fruits of the field, tree and vine. Elurín had proudly presented the first loaf of bread made from the season’s grain to the king, flushing as the queen advised the Noldoran that the ellon had helped to make it.

Finrod sat between his Atar and his beloved Amarië, nursing a goblet of wine between the last remove and the presentation of the subtleties, enjoying the atmosphere of cheer and gladness that filled the feast hall. Soon it would be time for everyone to raise a toast to Yavanna, thanking her for the munificence of the Harvest, and for the full storehouses and pantries.

At the end of the high table, where Eluréd and Elurín sat next to each other, the twins were whispering together. Eluréd cast a grin at Finrod, who nodded, and then leaned over to whisper something quietly to his father. Arafinwë gave him a quizzical glance, then nodded.

“What is it?” Amarië asked as her husband got to his feet.

“I’ll be right back, beloved.” He lifted her hand, which she’d placed on his sleeve, and kissed it before slipping off to the side of the room where the twins had retreated.

Arafinwë whispered a few words to his queen, Eärwen, then got to his feet. The great hall quieted slowly, and the Noldoran gazed out over the assembly and smiled as he met the eyes of those gathered, some of whom had been beloved friends for more than an age.

“Another harvest has come and been gathered in, and we find ourselves gathered together to offer tribute to Yavanna, the giver of fruits. But for more than just the gifts of the land, we find ourselves grateful for all of the blessings that have been bestowed upon us. This night, we offer our gratitude to the other Valar as well, and to Ilúvatar, for we are His Children.” He took a deep breath, feeling his heart fill with emotion as he looked down at his wife, and then across the hall to where Finrod now stood, holding his harp, the twins standing close at his side. “Before we formally offer our thanks, my son—and his sons,” he added with a smile at the two younger Reborn ellyn, “have something they wish to share.” Arafinwë seated himself, and signaled the servers to begin to refill the wine cups for the toast.

The golden-haired prince moved to the middle of the hall, framed by the twins, and faced the high table. Elurín stepped forward a pace and bowed, not to Arafinwë, but to Amarië. “Ammë Amarië, Eluréd and I, we wanted to give you a gift—to thank you for choosing to be our Ammë until Ammë Nimloth is Reborn. Atar Finrod helped us with this song, for you.”

He stepped back into place, and Finrod began to play a simple but lovely melody on his harp, and then Elurín began to sing in a light, clear voice, his pitch pure and beautiful as the words of the initial verse filled the hall. Then he fell silent and Eluréd took over, singing the second verse in his fine counter-tenor as Finrod continued his accompaniment.

Finally, all three voices rose, blending in harmony as the hymn resounded in the high arched ceiling of the candlelit hall.

An i-alassë melmëo ammelda, i onútalmë ilyë;

Nossë ar nildor i hostar harë, ar i marir mardi Mandostessë;

Ilúvatar, le ortalmë sen airelindëlma úvëa laitalëo.

The feast hall was silent for several long seconds as the last notes of the harp hung in the air, and then a wave of applause and approval swelled. Amarië’s eyes were filled with tears of love and joy as the three ellyn bowed to the high table, and returned to their places there.

Arafinwë stood and beckoned the twins to his side. He embraced them tightly before releasing them to Amarië’s arms, and likewise embraced his own son, whispering, “I have a feeling that Axantur will be importuned to make this song part of the celebrations next year.”

Finrod laughed at the reference to the Master of Ceremonies who was notoriously reluctant to change the rituals that had been used for yéni. He hugged his Atar then slipped his arm around his wife’s waist, remaining on his feet as Arafinwë turned to face the hall. The Noldoran raised his filled goblet before him and, once all were standing likewise, uttered the words of the traditional toast.

“To thee, oh, giver of fruits, we offer our praise and thanks for all of thy gifts. Accept our deepest gratitude for the plenty thou hast provided us from the fields and forests. Know that we are ever aware that it is by thy bounty and by thy love that we are fed in hröa and fëa. Praise to thee!”

Finrod tightened his arm around Amarië and felt her lean into him as he echoed, “Praise to thee!” and let all of the things—and the people—he was most grateful for run through his mind as he lifted the wine heavenwards. Catching a glimpse of his dark-haired foster sons from the corner of his eye, he added a silent thank you to Lord Námo and Lord Irmo as well.

As he set down his drained cup, he felt an invisible Presence touch his mind, and he recognized the thought of the Lord of Mandos.

You are most welcome, best beloved.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I adapted the hymn from Folliot S. Pierpoint’s hymn “For the Beauty of the Earth”. The adapted English verses that Fiondil was so kind as to translate into Quenya are as follows:

For the beauty of the earth,

for the glory of the skies,

for the loveliness, which from our birth

over and around us lies;

O, Valar, to you we raise

this, our hymn of grateful praise.

For the beauty of each hour

of the day and of the night,

hill and vale, tree and flower,

Anar, Isil, and stars of light;

O, Valar, to you we raise

this, our hymn of grateful praise.

For the joy of love so dear,

that together binds us all;

families and friends who gather near,

and those who wait in Mandos’ halls;

Iluvatar, to thee we raise

this, our hymn of grateful praise.