Author Notes:  'Namárië!' reflects Elrohir's final farewell to Celebrían. For the Tolkien Weekly 'Crumbling' challenge.

'Namárië!'

He had vowed to be strong; to not show his grief and lingering sense of guilt – but he could feel his resolve crumbling.  Tears began to fall, and he embraced her for one last time.  “Farewell, mother.   I love you – and I will miss you so much.”

Weeping, he turned to Elladan, and then together they drew Arwen into their embrace.  They clung together for comfort and strength as she boarded the ship, sails billowing in the wind.

He was used to the touch of Elladan’s mind on his – but now there was a threeway whisper of farewell:

‘Namárië, Nana!”

The Fall Of Gondolin

Gondolin. 

A city of gardens and waterfalls, of gleaming white stone and tall towers.  Until its fall it had been the fairest city of all – or so Glorfindel said.

Perched atop the highest tower, Elladan kept a careful watch for the enemy.  “Balrogs!”  he cried in warning.  “Orcs!”

In the same moment, Elrohir spotted fiery dragons circling in from the roof of the high-ceilinged library.  As they battled their imaginary foes, stabbing and slashing with the short wooden swords which were all they were allowed, the towers of Gondolin wobbled and teetered, threatening to fall and crash to the ground.  Just like the legendary heroes of long ago, it seemed they would soon have to flee the city.

The towers lurched again, and Elladan looked down at the distant floor.  “Jump, El!” he commanded

They leapt for their lives, landing amid a rain of destruction as the carefully stacked tables, chairs and stools collapsed around them.  Battered and bruised, they exchanged gloomy glances as they surveyed the wreckage.

“Ada is going to be cross,”  Elrohir stated.

Elladan nodded his agreement.  “And Erestor.”  Then, glancing at Elrohir again, he grinned.  The city was nearly destroyed, but at least they were alive.

Author Notes:   Written for the ‘Back To Writing Month’ challenge.  The story had to finish with the line ‘The city was nearly destroyed, but at least they were alive’.

1st March, TA 2971

Messengers From The West

“Captain Thorongil!”  the errand runner called.  “Some messengers have come from the west.”  He paused, catching his breath.  “The thing is, they’re Elves, and they don’t seem to speak our language at all.  But I think you know a little bit of Elvish, don’t you?  Can you come and talk to them, and try to find out where they’re from and what they want?”

Curious, Thorongil left the training grounds and followed the runner to the stables courtyard.  The Elvish messengers, hooded and cloaked, waited beside two magnificent black stallions.  He slowed his steps, holding his breath, then hurried forward.  “Mae Govannen!”  he called, trying to conceal his joy.

In a low voice he added, still in Sindarin: “What is this nonsense about you not speaking Westron?  You speak it every bit as well as I do!”

Elladan pushed his hood back a little, smiling.  “Of course we do – but this way, we knew you would be sent to interpret for us, so we could see you without raising suspicion.”

“I assume you would still rather be known as Thorongil rather than Estel, and not have your true identity revealed?”  Elrohir added.  “We came to say happy birthday, little brother.”

Narn I Hîn Elrond

(The Tale Of The Children Of Elrond)

1^st March, FA 120

As Arwen left the House of the Kings the great doors closed behind her with a final, fateful thud.  She came down the time-worn steps and it seemed to her brothers that all the ravages of age and time had fallen on her in an instant.  No longer their little sister, she looked older now; her face worn with sorrow and lined from a life lived with both great joy and an even greater loss.   Her head seemed covered with a cap of silver lace and frosted strands threaded the braids of her dark hair.

Elladan and Elrohir had already made their own parting with one they loved like a brother, leaving her to make her own final – and eternal – farewell.  As she emerged into the silent street they stepped one each side of her, enfolding her with their love and comfort.  Elladan cast his cloak about her shoulders to ward off time’s bitter embrace.  “Come, little sister,”  he urged.  “Our ship awaits.  Will you sail with us?”

The light in her seemed quenched as she nodded sadly, leaning against him for support; as frail as a wilted flower.  “Yes.  There is nothing here for me now.  We will sail.”

Author Notes:  A three-way double drabble for the HASA Birthday Challenge for May - for River Otter (who requested Fourth Age), Nath (Time) and Dwimordene (AU).

The Bridal Chest

The chest – packed with dresses and jewels – had first come with her from Lórien when she wed Elrond.  Then her bridal gown, laid among sweet-smelling petals and lavender, had been carefully stored away; only to make way in later years for pairs of tiny embroidered robes, white shawls and soft, warm blankets.

They had been replaced by toys, books and wooden swords, then by more baby clothes and pretty frocks.

But now the chest contained only the bitter remnants of her life.  Listless, she watched as Arwen closed the lid and turned with a bright, brave smile. 

“All packed, mother.”

Author Notes:  For the Tolkien Weekly 'Chest' challenge.

Tomb Raiders

The stone-walled chamber was hidden by dense undergrowth of thorn and gorse, and overgrown with trailing tendrils of ivy.  Curious, Elrohir clambered up onto the great weathered slab that topped the structure, brushing away a hundred years of leaf fall as his fingers traced lichen-encrusted letters.  “There’s writing!”  he called down.  “Here lies …”

Below, Elladan prowled around the structure as he explored, and his voice became muffled.  “The stone is broken – there’s a hole!  I can crawl in and … ai!”  He scuttled out rapidly and looked up at Elrohir, his face ashen, and gulped.  “There are bones inside!”

(Author Notes:  Written for the Tolkien Weekly 'Tomb' challenge.  In one draft I had the twins reacting with 'ghoulish glee' - but then decided that they would have more respect for the dead.)

Cornucopia

Legolas was at the head of the line of elves as they approached Thranduil.  The Elven King wore a crown of autumn leaves and berries to celebrate the bounty and harvest of the forest, and his robes were of the same autumnal colours of red, gold and green.

Legolas bowed to his father and held aloft the basket he carried.  “Blessed be Yavanna, the Giver of Fruits!”  he cried. 

“Blessed be Yavanna!”  came the response.

Legolas set the basket at Thranduil’s feet and stepped back.  Apples, berries and nuts from trees and bushes, mushrooms gathered from shaded glades all spilled from the basket of woven reeds. 

Thranduil waited as the gifts were laid before him – dark red wine from blackberry and elderberry, lighter whites fermented from apples and elderflowers, silks woven from spider thread, bread baked from wheat grown on the fringes of the forest.   Children carried crude dolls woven from corn stalks.

As the last basket was placed before Thranduil, Legolas bowed again.  “We present to you the fruits of the forest, my lord.”

“Blessed be Yavanna,”  Thranduil replied.  As his hand touched Legolas’s shoulder, he smiled.  “And you are the greatest gift of all, my son”  he whispered.

Author Notes:  A double drabble to celebrate the harvest in Lasgalen and Jastaelf's birthday.

Winter In Imladris

Elrohir laughed as he bent to scoop up a handful of newly fallen snow to fling at his brother.  Elladan ducked, and the missile flew over his head to find another target.

Elrohir looked up in horror as Glorfindel blinked snow from his eyelashes.  “Elrohir!  Was that you?”

Elrohir gave a jerky nod.  “I’m sorry, Glorfindel.  I didn’t mean to hit you.”  He glared at his brother.  “But it was all Elladan’s fault, really.”

As Elladan spluttered indignantly, Glorfindel looked down.  “Really?  And how do you work that out?”

Elrohir shrugged as if it was obvious.  “He shouldn’t have ducked!”

Think Of A World Without Any Harvest

The harvest was scant that year.  As the shadow of Dol Guldur grew ever closer and darker, little grew in the forest – small hard apples formed but never ripened, and berries remained sour and green.  Bitter black mushrooms grew in the shaded glades and in the fields all crops withered and died.

Only one thing grew in abundance, sprouting overnight in grass and beneath trees, in glades and on river banks.  Brightly coloured toadstools flourished and thrived in the poisoned earth, bringing terrifying hallucinations, agonising cramps, and – finally – a welcome death.

There would be no blessing from Yavanna this year.

(Written for the Tolkien Weekly 'Famine' challenge)

The Clouds Burst

He watched the first heavy drop splatter to the ground, raising a puff of dust into the still air.  Another fell, and another, pattering in a staccato rhythm on the parched earth in an increasing shower.  Droplets dripped and splashed through the trees, washing the dust of the long drought from the leaves.

He could feel the branches stretching skyward and the roots beneath his feet drinking in the life-giving water as it soaked into the arid soil.

Soaked to the skin, Thranduil raised his face to the deluge, listening as the trees rejoiced and life returned to the forest.

(Written for the Tolkien Weekly 'Water' challenge)

The child suckled at his mother’s breast, eyes closed, one tiny hand tightly clenched.  Thranduil watched with renewed love and wonder as he crossed to the bed.  He set an empty wine goblet on the table and sat carefully, drawing Telparian against him.

She stroked the silky blond hair with a gentle fingertip, then tore her eyes away from their son and looked up with a smile.  “Your firstborn takes after you.”

He kissed Legolas’ downy head, then shook his head solemnly.  “Nay, my lady.  You must be mistaken – the child drinks milk.  Clearly he is no son of mine!”

(Written for the Tolkien Weekly 'Milk' challenge)

Red, Red Wine

Thranduil poured the wine into a goblet of clear crystal and lifted it towards the sun streaming through the window.  Light shone through the wine, glowing a pure dark ruby red.   It carried a scent of blackberries and summer, reminding him of long hot days and warm nights.  He swirled the wine in the glass and then took a careful sip.  The wine tasted of fruit and sunshine, with a soft hint of cinnamon.

Finally he nodded, smiling.  “It is good.  Very good.  Well done, my son.”  He raised the goblet again.  “A toast, to the first vintage of Ithilien!”

It Comes In Pints

The liquid was dark, and smelled sour and rank.  Thranduil eyed it dubiously, then took a tiny, cautious sip from the great tankard.  He nearly gagged at the bitter taste.

“What is this poison?” he murmured to his son.

Legolas kept a polite smile on his face, though his expression had an edge to it.  He raised his own glass and lifted it to his lips, though he took care not to drink.  Nodding to the Master of Laketown he lowered the glass again and discreetly poured the contents into an obliging potted plant.

“They call it beer,” he whispered.

Author's Notes:  Written for the Tolkien Weekly 'Beer' challenge. 

A Wedding In The Greenwood

Thranduil’s heart raced as he waited for the ceremony to begin, and he longed for a glass of chilled white Dorwinion to ease a mouth dry with nerves.  His crown of woodland flowers felt prickly and uncomfortable and he resisted the unseemly urge to scratch his head.

However, all nerves and discomfort disappeared when he turned.  For there was Telparian, radiantly beautiful in a gown that glimmered with the colour of every leaf in the forest. 

As he took her hand a sudden shower of leaves fell from the windless air, and Oropher smiled.  “The trees bless you, my children.”

Author Notes:  Written for the Tolkien Weekly 'Wedding' challenge.

Author’s Notes:  Young Eldarion has a new history tutor – who has a great deal to learn about his pupil’s heritage.

Primary Sources

The sun shone in bright diamond patterns on the schoolroom floor.  Eldarion stared glumly out of the window, wishing he could be out fishing along the banks of the Anduin with his mother’s brothers, rather than trapped here with his new tutor.

Herion coughed.  “Your attention please, Master Eldarion.  For our first lesson we will look at the history between Gondor and Rohan.  How did the bond between the realms begin?”

 “Cirion, and the Ride of Eorl, and the battle of the Field of Celebrant,” Eldarion answered quickly.  

Herion nodded.  “Good.  You have been well taught.  But how do we know this?”

“Well – there are stories.  Legends.  Songs and ballads.”

“Good.  But storytellers and bards can embroider the truth.  How can we determine the truth behind the legends?”  A finger tapped meaningfully on the cover of a heavy, inches-thick tome. 

Eldarion paused.

“Letters, Master Eldarion.  Letters and diaries written by the men who were actually there.  First hand accounts.  How else can we know what really happened, after so many years?”

The sun spangles on the floor flickered as two shadows passed the window – Elladan and Elrohir, coming to find him.  Eldarion grinned, and pointed. 

“I would ask my uncles.”

Zirak-Zigil

Zirak-zigil loomed above him; a tall, brooding presence that matched his mood.  There was silence apart from the moan of the wind, broken only by the faint cries of eagles far below him, yet there was a harsh beauty here so high above the world.  Weather beaten stone, sculpted and worn smooth by wind, rain and snow surrounded him, twisted into fantastic shapes.  There were a thousand shades of grey as rock, sky and cloud merged into one.

But here at last was a different colour, a tumbled rock split open to reveal a glittering vein of pure white quartz.

(Author's Notes: Written last year for an alphabet challenge - the drabble had to begin and end with the same letter.  Many thanks to Elena Tiriel for reminding me about it!)

What Was That?

“What was the thing, or were there many of them?”

Elrohir shook his head, his eyes still wide and startled.  “I don’t know, El.  Was it chasing us?”

“I don’t know.  Whatever it was, it was big!”

Elrohir nodded.  The thing had pursued them from the edge of the farmlands into the trees, crashing through the undergrowth like a pack of wargs.  “But there can’t be anything dangerous in the valley – Ada or Glorfindel would chase it away!”

They peered around the shelter of the great tree.  There was a grassy clearing, and there, grazing peacefully, was …

“A cow?”

Author's Notes:  Written for the alphabet challenge last year, beginning and ending with the same letter.

Written for a birthday request:  'I'd like to see scenes about diplomacy. Between allies or enemies, showing success or failure, and any time or place.'

Elladan and Elrohir find their skills of diplomacy and tact stretched to their limits when Estel asks for advice.  A double drabble.

The Art Of Diplomacy

“Well?  What do you think?”  Estel asked.

Elrohir exchanged a hopeless glance with his other brother.  Young Estel’s ‘poem’ was trite, badly rhymed, and full of clichés.  “It’s …”  he fumbled for words. 

“Totally unique!”  Elladan declared.  Elrohir shot his twin a look full of admiration.

“Yes!  It’s unique, and … and says something that only you can say,”  he agreed.

“Then you think I should show her?”

“No!”

“No – it’s too personal and private.  You should … ah …”  This time it was Elladan who faltered.

“You should keep it to yourself for a while, Estel,”  Elrohir advised.  “Treasure it, and savour it;  keep it for days when you do not see her …”

“ … as a solace against your loneliness,”  Elladan finished with triumph.

Estel’s face glowed.  “Oh, yes!  Thank you – I knew you would know what to do!”  He folded the paper reverently and slipped it into his shirt pocket.  “I shall keep it by my heart,” he vowed.

After he left, Elladan dropped into a chair and groaned.  “Do you remember when we had to negotiate a peace treaty between two warring Dwarf clans?”

Elrohir nodded.  “Compared with a lovelorn thirteen-year-old, the Dwarves were simple.”

Elena Tiriel requested a birthday drabble about 'Geeks being Geeks — whether you call them sages, scribes, lore-masters, healers, herb-masters, masters of tongues, jewel-smiths, Valar, or just The Wise.

Anything about what they (alone) see as important, or how they see others, or how others see them.... '

This jumped into my mind immediately.  With apologies to Elrohir, but somehow I see him as being far more geeky than his brother! 

The Love Of Learning

“No, but you see, El – this is important,” Elrohir explained passionately, waving a scroll under his brother’s nose. “The Amorata is one of the most beautiful love poems ever written, but there is so much debate over it! We know nothing of the poet, nor the woman he wrote about. Who was she? Was she real … perhaps his wife or some unattainable love; or a figment of his imagination? If I can read it in the original Haradric, perhaps there will be some clue!”

Elladan listened to all this in silence. “But El,” he asked at last. “Who cares?”



Mischief and Mayhem

“Really, Estel, whatever possessed you?” Elrohir asked, surveying the damage from the top of the steps.   Foaming water covered the cobbled yard, and soap suds still bubbled up through the fountain.

“Well …” Estel scuffed his feet, wondering how to explain that the plan to wash his mud-caked clothing himself had seemed like a good idea at the time.  “I didn’t want mother to see …”

“Never mind, Estel,” Glorfindel advised, observing from the sidelines.  “Ignore them.  Your brothers have no right to chastise you.  You may not know, but they were known as Mischief and Mayhem when they were younger.”

“Glorfindel, please!”  Elladan protested weakly.

“They flooded the cellars once by diverting the stream instead of filling up the water barrels as they should have done,” Glorfindel continued.

Estel stared at his brothers.  The tips of Elladan’s ears had gone red.  “You did that?” he asked.  “When?”

“Never you mind,” Elladan said quellingly. “It was a long time ago.” 

 “And did they really call you Mischief and Mayhem?  Which was which?”

Elrohir gave a snort of laughter, and jerked a thumb at his twin.  “I was Mischief, and he was Mayhem.  Unless it was the other way round …”

Author Notes:  Inspired by two young twins I saw, wearing matching T-Shirts mrked Mischief and Mayhem.

Meals On Wheels

A solitary figure came into view, riding up the mountain path in a little cart pulled by a pony.  The orc sentries watched curiously as it drew nearer.  It was no hated bright elf, nor a man; but short, stout, and covered with bushy hair.

“ ’Ere,” Gorlung whispered.  “What’s that, then?  It ain’t no elf.  What do you reckon, Captain?  You ever seen one before?”

Magrat watched as the figure approached their post.  “ ’Course I know what it is,” he growled.

Gorlung spared him a glance.  “You do?  What is it, then?”

Magrat grinned and licked his lips.  “It’s lunch!”

Elrohir is sick and tired of being confused with Elladan.  Written for the Tolkien Weekly Shakespeare Challenge 'A Comedy of Errors'.

Sometimes You Just Can't Win ...

Snarling under his breath at a maid who had just confused him with Elladan yet again, Elrohir hurried downstairs, nearly colliding with his mother.

"Elladan, would you …"

Elrohir bit back his first retort. "I am Elrohir," he reminded her.

"Forgive me. If you see your father, would you ask him to come here?"

Passing his father's study, he delivered the message.  Elrond nodded absently.  "Thank you, Elladan."

"Elrohir!" he snapped through gritted teeth.

He continued on to the training grounds, stopping briefly to watch the warriors at their swordplay when Glorfindel hailed him.

"Elladan!"

He turned with a weary sigh.  "Yes?"

No More Confusion

“I have been thinking. From now on, I am you and you are me, and we are both each other,” Elrohir declared, waving his empty glass at Elladan.

Elladan blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?” He peered at his own glass questioningly, as if seeking clarification there.

“I am you, and …” Elrohir began, before losing his way in the maze of his own tangled reasoning. He frowned and shook his head. “Look, it makes sense. No-one can tell us apart anyway. Not Glorfindel, not
Erestor; sometimes not even Mother and Father.”

“So …”

“So we answer to both names. Elrohir, Elladan – it makes no difference.” He shrugged. “No-one will know anyway!”

“So when they call me Elrohir …” Elladan began slowly.

“You answer! As I will if they think I am you. No more denial. No more confusion.” Elrohir gave a wide grin. “And no more mistaken identity!”

A series of drabbles written for the Tolkien Weekly ‘Ailments’ challenge.  When Bilbo settled in Imladris in TA 3002 he brought a family heirloom with him – Belladonna’s recipe book.

Making Jam (prompt: Headache)

A clatter of pans drew Elrohir to the kitchen door.  “Whatever is that racket?” Elladan queried.

“Bilbo.  He brought his mother’s old recipe book from the Shire, and wants to make us all some jam.”

The noises stopped, and they heard Bilbo muttering to himself.  “Bother it all!  Why do elves have to be so tall?”

Elrohir peered in to see Bilbo stretching precariously towards a high shelf.  He leaped forward as the hobbit wobbled, only to be hit by a cascade of heavy saucepans.

“Oh dear!  Oh dear!” Bilbo exclaimed.  “I do hope I haven’t given you a headache!”