SONG: Name That Tune

SUMMARY: The members of the Fellowship amuse themselves with a guessing game while journeying through Eregion.

****

"And take the hidden paths that run...."

"Oh, I know that one, hang on," young Pippin exclaimed and Merry obliged by remaining quiet.

The four Hobbits were playing a guessing game of reciting a line from a song and the others having to guess the opening line while they walked through the wilderness. They had been at the game for some time now as the night waned and another day was beginning to dawn. The other members of the Fellowship had been entertained simply by listening to the plethora of different songs that these Halflings all knew, marveling anew at how many seemed to center around such simple pleasures as eating and drinking, sunshine and rain, walking along a country lane or working in a garden.

The young Hobbit scrunched his face in thought and then his expression brightened. "Still round the corner there may wait a new road or a secret gate," he recited with a pleased smile.

"Very good, Pip," Frodo said with an indulgent smile of his own.

"One of Bilbo’s Walking Songs?" Aragorn asked quietly, giving Frodo a small grin.

Frodo nodded. "Do the Dúnedain have any such songs?"

"Nay," the future king of Gondor and Arnor shook his head. "Our songs are usually about death and loss."

"How sad," Pippin exclaimed. "No wonder you’re such a grouch in the morning."

"Pippin!!" Frodo and Merry shouted at the same time while Sam just shook his head in dismay.

Aragorn merely laughed and both Legolas and Gimli smiled. Gandalf made a hrumphing noise but there was a twinkle in his eyes as he winked at Aragorn. Boromir, having taken point this time around, was scouting ahead.

"Well, if you’re going to sing sad songs ALL the time," Pippin protested in defense, "you’re bound to be as moody as a... as an Elf."

"PIPPIN!!!" Now all three older hobbits came to a complete halt to confront the youngest member of their Fellowship, forcing the others to stop as well.

"What did I say?" the tweenager asked, throwing up his hands in exasperation.

Legolas knelt down to better see the youngster’s eyes, his own expression unreadable to the Hobbits and Gimli. Only Aragorn and Gandalf realized that the Elf was more amused than affronted. "Elves are not moody, Master Hobbit," the prince of Mirkwood said soberly in that lovely voice that was more musical than anything the Mortals had ever heard. Even Gimli found himself wanting the Elf-prince to speak more often than he did, just to hear that lilting voice.

Pippin gulped. "Sorry," he whispered, looking at his hairy toes. "I wasn’t thinking."

"Apology accepted," Legolas said, casting the tweenager a warm smile. "However, you are correct about one thing."

"What’s that?" Pippin asked, looking up in curiosity.

Legolas’ grin became absolutely wicked as he glanced up at Aragorn. "You are a grouch in the mornings."

Aragorn gave him a swat on the head in mock affront while everyone else laughed, the tension broken. As they resumed their march, Frodo turned to the Elf. "So now it’s your turn, Legolas," he said.

"It will hardly be fair, Frodo," Legolas said gently. "The songs I know are unknown to any of you."

"Except maybe Strider and Gandalf," Sam interjected as he encouraged Bill up a small rise. The land around them was becoming more hilly the closer they came to the mountains. "Go ahead, Mr. Legolas, see if you can stump ol’ Gandalf here."

Legolas gave the Wizard a merry look before turning his attention to the Hobbits and nodded. It was a moment or two before he started singing though and when he did it was not in Westron. "Alcarë Ardahínion, elen morniessë, mirë andúnessë, alcarinqu’ arinessë!"

The beauty of the words, which only two others amongst them understood, smote the listeners and the Hobbits stopped in amazement and delight. Gandalf raised a bushy eyebrow. "And which part of that should I consider the first line?"

Legolas gave him a gay laugh that sounded like the lightest of bells. "Just the beginning of the canto, mellon nîn," he said.

Gandalf nodded and gave the Elf his own smile. "Sië Eärendil attullë metimav’ Eärenna," he quoted.

"But what does it mean?" Pippin asked in confusion.

"It’s part of the ‘Narn en-Êl’, which means ‘The Tale of the Star’," Aragorn explained. "It is the story of Eärendil and the Silmaril." He pointed towards the burgeoning sunrise. Already the stars had faded from view, all but one. There, shining brightly, was Eärendil, a beacon of Hope against the Shadow. He turned to Legolas, his own expression quizzical. "I did not know you knew it in Quenya, mellon nîn."

Legolas nodded, his grey eyes shining with reflected starlight. "Elladan and Elrohir taught me that version many centuries ago."

Then before anyone else could comment, Sam turned to Gandalf. "Do Wizards have songs they sing, Gandalf?"

Gandalf gave the Hobbit a considering look. "I have heard and learned the songs of Men and Elves, Dwarves and Hobbits, Sam, but the songs of Wizards...." He shook his head. "Our songs are not for the ears of the Eruhíni."

"The Eru-who?" Merry asked and only Frodo among the Hobbits did not look confused.

"The Children of the One," Gandalf explained gently. "Elves, Men, Hobbits and Dwarves." He nodded to each of them as he named their races.

"We Dwarves are the Children of Mahal," Gimli muttered with a hrumph. "Eru had naught to do with our making."

"Yet it was by the grace of Eru that the Fathers of Dwarves were given existence, my friend," the Wizard said without taking offense. "You might say then that the Dwarves are Eru’s stepchildren, but no less loved by him because of it."

Gimli looked thoughtful at Gandalf’s words. Sam, however, was still intent on his own question for the Wizard. "Don’t you have just one song for us, Gandalf?" he asked. "You guessed Mr. Legolas’ song, so now’s your turn."

The Wizard sighed and closed his eyes. Then, an errant memory came to the fore, a memory of an earlier time and place when he’d been called Olórin. Well, after all, why not?, he thought to himself and nodded as he opened his eyes to see his fellow Walkers looking at him expectantly. "Well, none of you will guess this song so I’ll just sing it from the beginning, shall I?"

The Hobbits all nodded enthusiastically while Aragorn gave his old friend a wry smile. Legolas’ expression went distant and Gimli just stood there with his axe before him, waiting. Gandalf closed his eyes again and then started singing. At first, the voice was rough and unschooled in song but then as he continued, slowly, almost imperceptibly, his voice began to change, to deepen and lighten at the same time until it’s beauty rivaled that of any Elf’s. The song was not long but when it was done the others just stood there in shocked amazement. None of them could move or speak at first but, finally, Legolas stirred.

"What song was that, Mithrandir?" he asked in a whisper. "Never have I heard such... such a terrible beauty."

The Wizard smiled at the Elf, his eyes gentle with sympathy. "It is the Song that your ancestors heard on the shores of Cuiviénen when they first awoke under the stars," he explained. "It is the Song of Awakening sung by Ilúvatar himself as he welcomed his Firstborn Children into Arda."

They all stood there, frozen by awe at Gandalf’s words. Before anyone could respond though, Boromir came up to them, his expression quizzical. "Did I miss anything?"

Aragorn gave a start as if coming out of a dream and looked at the Gondorian. "Nay, Boromir," he said with a tinge of sadness, "you have missed naught. The Hobbits were merely playing a game. Have you found our camp for the day?"

Boromir nodded, giving them all a searching look. "Aye, it’s just beyond this ridge," he said, pointing ahead.

"Then lead us, good Boromir," Gandalf said, clapping a hand on the Man’s shoulder in a friendly manner, his expression warm and loving. "I wish to be under cover before it becomes too much brighter."

"And while we’re getting breakfast together, perhaps Mr. Boromir can entertain us with a song," Sam suggested, giving the Man a bright smile, as he pulled on Bill’s lead.

Boromir gave the Hobbit a surprised look, then nodded, smiling down at the gardener. "I would be honored, Master Gamgee."

"Nay, sir," Sam said with all seriousness. "The honor will be ours."

To that all the other Walkers agreed.

****

Alcarë Ardahínion, elen morniessë, mirë andúnessë, alcarinqu’ arinessë!: (Quenya) "Splendour of the Children of Earth, star in the darkness, jewel in the sunset, radiant in the morning!"

Sië Eärendil attullë metimav’ Eärenna: (Quenya) "Therefore Eärendil turned back at last towards the sea."

The line that Legolas gives are the words spoken by Eönwë to Eärendil at the coming of Eärendil to Valinor, as recorded in the Silmarillion. The line that Gandalf speaks is also from the Silmarillion. The full text can be found in Chapter 24, ‘Of the Voyage of Eärendil and the War of Wrath’. We don’t know how the Narn en-Êl went but I am assuming that Eönwë’s greeting to Eärendil would be part of it. The Quenya translation is my own.

Mahal: The Dwarves' name for the Vala Aulë who created them.

LAUGH: iLálala Vala

SUMMARY: For those who wondered how a certain inn in Aman got its name. This takes place in my Elf, Interrupted universe.

****

"So what are you going to name your inn?" Vánadur asked Carnifindo as he helped the would-be innkeeper with the tables. The carpenter had slapped together several tables for his friend, though the craftsmanship was no less exact than if he’d been commissioned to make them for the High King himself. Vánandur prided himself in his work, and even though he had only just achieved his mastership, his skill in woodcarving and carpentry was already well-known among the people of Eldamas.

"Well, Isilmë wants to call it the ‘Aranel Indis’," Carnifindo answered with a grunt as they set the table against the far wall.

Vánandur gave his friend a surprised look. "Whatever for?"

"In honor of the marriage of Lady Indil to Lord Tamurilon," Carnifindo replied, naming the event of the year — nay, the yén — when the eldest daughter of the High King had finally married one of Ingwë’s closest and most beloved of Councillors.

The woodworker snorted in disbelief. "What do you want to call it?"

Carnifindo gave his friend a sheepish look, unconsciously running a hand through the reddish-gold locks for which he’d been named. "I thought I would name it after whichever of the Valar first stepped in for a pint."

Vánandur felt his eyebrows leave his forehead altogether. "You’re not serious! Why would any of the Valar want or need to stop at an inn, any inn?"

Carnifindo shrugged, now feeling embarrassed and thinking perhaps he should go with his wife’s suggestion after all. "I... I guess I just thought it would be nice if... well..." he sighed and shook his head. "Never mind, it’s a silly idea. Isilmë is probably right and we should just go with ‘Princess Bride’. You want to grab that bench and I’ll get the other?" he asked, pointing to one of the benches that Vánandur had made to go with the tables.

Vánandur nodded and gave his friend a wicked grin. "What would you’ve named this place if Lord Námo had been the one to stop by first? ‘Mandos’ Antechamber’?"

Carnifindo laughed. "I could put up a sign that says, ‘Fëar on their way to Mandos get a free pint’."

Vánadur joined his friend in laughter as they continued bringing in tables and benches, never seeing the two unclad Maiar who had been wandering through the town and had overheard the conversation.

Manveru turned to his brother in the Thought of Ilúvatar and grinned. "I’ll tell Lord Manwë if you want to tell Lord Námo."

Erunáro laughed and nodded as the two thought themselves away.

****

"So, who’s going to do it?" Varda asked the other Valar as they all gathered in Manwë and Varda’s mansion in Valmar, taking their ease. The Queen of Stars had a wicked grin that was matched by her fellow Valar.

"We’ll draw straws," Manwë suggested. "Shortest straw gets to go."

They all agreed and Manwë gestured to Eönwë, who stepped forward with fourteen reeds clutched in his hand. One by one, beginning with the Elder King, each of the Valar chose a reed. Eönwë stood before each Vala in such a way that none of the others could see the length of the straw chosen. When he was finished, he bowed to them all, then stepped aside as the Valar opened their fists. There was silence for a long moment as they each compared their reed with the others.

"Well, I guess I’ll go see if the ale is any good," Tulkas finally said with a mischievous grin, and then he started laughing as he faded from view.

****

All words are Quenya. 

iLálala Vala: The Laughing Vala

Aranel Indis: Princess Bride

Yén: Elvish century of 144 solar years.

Fëar: Plural of fëa: Spirit, soul.

GOBLINS: The Herald’s Summons

 SUMMARY: On the heels of the first battle in the War of Wrath, Eönwë brings a message of hope to three unsuspecting Elves.

WARNING: Rated PG for discussions about war and killing.

****

"What am I doing here, lord?"

Eönwë, Herald of Manwë, Oathkeeper of the Valar and Captain of the Host of Valinor, looked up from the reports he had been perusing to see Arafinwë sitting dejectedly in a camp chair, his hands lying idly between his knees, his expression one of deep distress. The King had been sitting quietly for some time since coming to the tent at Eönwë’s summons, willing to wait until the Maia finished reading the endless lists of supply requisitions, casualty and death reports and who knew what else.

"Do you mean, here in this tent, here in Heceldamar or just here in Arda generally?" the Maia asked in a diffident tone, knowing full well what the Noldóran had meant but unable to resist the small amount of levity. This had been the first day of battle in what would prove to be a long and bloody engagement and Arafinwë was just beginning to appreciate the horror of it all.

The King of the Noldor in Aman grimaced, not in the mood for playing games. It had been a wretched day all round and he was feeling heartsick and footsore and this was just the first engagement. He wondered if he would even survive to the end, whenever that would be.

Eönwë cast a sympathetic look at the Elda and relented. Pushing back his chair he stood, his snow-white hair flowing freely about him, his head bound by a circlet of mithril in which was set an apple-green heart-shaped laurelaiquamirë gemstone. He wore a mithril-linked hauberk under a surcoat of azure samite shot with silver on which was embroidered an eagle in flight, emblem of the Elder King in whose name he led the Host against their Fallen Brethren. The Maia’s silver-grey eyes shone with an inner light that few could endure for any length of time. There was a depth of wisdom and compassion in those eyes that left most, be they Eldar or Atani, feeling faint and unnerved in a way they could not fully articulate even to themselves.

The Maia walked over to the still seated Elda and placed his right hand upon the ellon’s shoulder. "You are in Arda because Eru wished you to be," he said quietly, all levity aside. "You are in Heceldamar because Ingwë could not, and Olwë would not, come, and you are here in this tent because I summoned you. Does that answer your question, son of Finwë?"

Arafinwë glanced up at the Herald of Manwë and gave him a jaundiced look. "Not really."

Eönwë nodded and cast his eyes at the other Maia in attendance. "Fionwë, please leave us and see that we’re not disturbed."

Fionwë bowed to his superior and, giving the Elda a sympathetic glance, left the tent to stand guard outside. The Herald turned his attention back to Arafinwë, staring down at the dejected ellon for a moment before moving to a sideboard where sat a decanter of wine and goblets. He poured some wine into two goblets and silently handed one to the Noldóran. Then he resumed his seat at his portable writing desk, pushing the piles of vellum reports to one side to concentrate on the person sitting before him.

Arafinwë drank some of his wine and sighed, closing his eyes. Without opening them he spoke. "Did you ever have to kill someone, lord? I mean before today."

"I didn’t kill anyone today, Pityahuan," the Maia said, neatly avoiding the question, addressing the Elda with the epessë the Elder King had bestowed upon the Noldóran during the time of the Darkening. "I was too busy trying to keep those young fools who came with us from getting themselves killed."

Arafinwë opened his eyes at the Maia’s acerbic tone. "We’re all very young, even I, compared to the... the Sindar and the Exiles. Even the Eärendilioni, for all that they’ve not even reached adulthood, I deem, are far older than I."

"Older in experience, perhaps, but not necessarily wiser," Eönwë responded. "Arafinwë, what truly troubles you?"

The King of the Noldor stared at nothing in particular for a moment before answering. "I killed my first orc today... and my first... Atan."

"Ah," was all Eönwë said, now understanding fully what ailed the Elda. He gave the King a sympathetic look. "Which disturbed you more, killing one that might once have been a Firstborn or one of the Mortals?"

Arafinwë gave the Maia a startled look. "Firstborn? Are then the rumors true? Are these foul creatures...." He found he could not continue down that avenue of thought, too shocked by the implications.

Eönwë shrugged. "I do not know for certain," he answered softly and gave Arafinwë a wintry smile. "Lord Námo refuses to discuss the issue, even with Lord Manwë."

Arafinwë nodded and took another gulp of his wine, draining the goblet. "It was the Atan," he finally said.

"Excuse me?" Eönwë asked.

Arafinwë stood and stretched for a moment, going to the sideboard to refill his goblet. When Eönwë indicated that he did not need a refill, Arafinwë resumed his seat. "Killing the Atan disturbed me more," he finally explained.

"Why?"

The Noldóran gave him a troubled look. "He... he was an Eruhin... and I wondered if I were now as guilty of... of Kinslaying as...."

"Nay, Pityahuan!" Eönwë exclaimed, standing to go to the Elda and laying his hands on Arafinwë’s shoulders. "Thou’rt not guilty of Kinslaying. The Atani who fight alongside the orcs and goblins and other fell creatures of my Master’s Fallen Brother are no kin to thee or thine. They are thine enemies," he concluded forcibly.

Arafinwë still looked doubtful as he pondered the Maia’s words, then sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I shouldn’t be here," he whispered dejectedly. "I should be home with Eärwen, with my wife."

Eönwë stepped back, a faint smile on his lips. "As should we all," he said.

Arafinwë gave the Herald a jaundiced glare. "You’re not even espoused, lord."

"That you know of," came the quick retort and Arafinwë was left wondering about that as Eönwë resumed his seat, taking a sip of his wine.

"I don’t think Celeborn will begrudge you killing that Easterling," the Maia finally said.

"Who?" Arafinwë asked in confusion. These Sindarin names were so uncouth sounding and he couldn’t keep them all straight.

Eönwë gave him what the Elda could only describe to himself as a wicked grin. "Your daughter’s husband? Remember him?"

Arafinwë felt himself go red in embarrassment. He must be tired if he couldn’t even remember Artanis’ husband’s name. "Oh... you mean Teleporno." He shrugged somewhat diffidently. "I’m sure the ellon appreciates my saving his life."

Eönwë threw back his head and barked a laugh that held no humor. "Ai, you Children are so amusing." He gave Arafinwë a knowing look. "That ellon, as you call him, is a prince of the Sindar, kinsman to Elwë and therefore deserving of more respect than that."

"He’s my son-in-law," Arafinwë retorted with a grin. "I don’t need to respect him. If Artanis can..."

"Galadriel," interjected the Maia.

Arafinwë scowled. "Stupid name. What’s wrong with the name I gave her at her birthing?"

"Nothing," Eönwë stated, "except that is not who she is any longer."

Arafinwë sighed. That was a sore point between him and his daughter, so proud and haughty. They barely spoke to one another and that Sindarin prince who had stolen her away from him.... No, that was unfair, he admitted to himself. Teleporno was not at fault here and he had been honestly grateful when Arafinwë had rescued him from that ambush.

"I wish we could end this," he finally said.

"As do I," Eönwë said with a nod, "but soon or late, it will end, my friend. The Valar spent nine years of the Trees in war against Melkor before we summoned you to Valinor. I do not believe it will take quite as long to subdue him this time, but it will not be done in a day or even a year."

Arafinwë nodded, closing his eyes. "All these years I wondered what it might have been like for me if I hadn’t taken the easy way out and had continued on to Heceldamar with my children."

"Do you honestly think yours was the easier way, Pityahuan?" Eönwë asked gravely, "If so, then perhaps you do not appreciate fully what you did in turning back."

"What did I do?" Arafinwë asked.

"You saved our people, Atar."

Arafinwë stood up in surprise and Eönwë gave him an amused look and shook his head. "I really need to teach Fionwë the meaning of ‘I don’t wish to be disturbed’."

Arafinwë ignored the Maia as he stared at his daughter and the silver-haired Sinda who stood behind her. "Artanis, what dost thou here, child?"

Galadriel, however, did not answer. Instead, she stared in bemusement at the Maia Herald. "But... did you not summon us, my lord?"

Eönwë nodded. "Yes, child, I did. Fear not, you have not importuned us. Come, take your ease, both of you." The Maia gestured and there were two more camp chairs like the one Arafinwë had been sitting in. Neither Galadriel nor Celeborn showed surprise but the Maia could tell that the Sinda was feeling a bit unnerved. As welcome as the Host had been to the beleaguered Eldar and Atani of Heceldamar, Eönwë knew that the presence of so many Maiar was still unsettling to many.

"And why have we been summoned, lord?" Celeborn asked in careful Quenya.

"I summoned all three of you," Eönwë replied, "for I have a message for you from the Elder King."

That surprised them and the three Eldar sat staring at the Maia with varying degrees of trepidation. The Herald continued.

"The Valar have decreed that when this war is done, those among the Exiles who wish may return to Aman, though only as far as Tol Eressëa, which is now uninhabited. Any of the Sindar or Nandor who wish may also come."

No one spoke. Arafinwë watched his daughter and son-in-law as they stared into one another’s eyes and wondered what thoughts passed through their minds at Eönwë’s news. He, of course, knew of the Valar’s decision in this regard and had some ambivalent feelings about it, but knew that the time had come for forgiveness and reconciliation on both sides.

Finally Galadriel turned to Eönwë and bowed her head. "I thank thee for thy message, lord, we both do."

"Will you speak to your people then?" Eönwë asked.

Celeborn shook his head. "Nay, lord, the timing is not meet. Let us first defeat the Enemy. Afterwards, if there be any of us still living...."

Eönwë nodded. "Then we will hold off making the announcement." He paused for a moment before continuing, his expression turning more grave. "There is one thing though, my children."

"What is that, my lord?" Galadriel asked, her expression becoming unreadable, as if she guessed what might be coming.

"The Valar have decided that you will not be permitted to return with the others."

"What!?" Arafinwë stood in shock and anger. "What do you mean, Eönwë?" he demanded, quite forgetting to whom he spoke. "Has not my daughter suffered enough that the Valar would see her suffer more? Must she return to her family only by way of Mandos then, as will her brothers? Is that what they wish, for her to die?"

Eönwë held up a hand. "Peace, Pityahuan," he said, not unkindly, though there was an undertone of authority that Arafinwë recognized and dared not ignore. "The reasons for the Valar’s decisions are not yours to question."

"What of Maedhros and Maglor?" Galadriel asked. "What of my cousins?"

The Maia sighed. "They, of course, will return, for they must face judgment for their Oath."

"But..."

"They do not yet know this," Eönwë continued, "but they are, for all intents and purposes, under house arrest, though it is hoped they will return voluntarily and seek forgiveness."

"And I’m not allowed to seek forgiveness?" Galadriel asked, her tone a mixture of haughtiness and hurt.

Eonwë gave her a searching look. "And dost thou seek forgiveness indeed, daughter?"

Galadriel looked away and shook her head. "Nay, I do not, not yet."

Eönwë nodded his understanding. Arafinwë sighed, fearing that would be her answer. He had hoped she would humble herself enough to beg, but then, he mused wryly, she wouldn’t have been his daughter had she done that.

"So, I will never be permitted to return?" she asked.

The Herald shook his head. "That is not what I said, daughter of Arafinwë. I said that you would not be permitted to return with the other Exiles at the end of the war. My Masters are not vindictive and there are reasons I think for their decision that have nothing to do with you personally. Perhaps Lord Námo has seen something...." He shrugged, refusing to elaborate.

Celeborn then spoke, looking at Eönwë, yet his words were really for Arafinwë. "I promise you, lord, I will do all in my power to protect my lady wife until such time as she is permitted to rejoin her family in Aman."

Eönwë gave the Sindarin prince an amused look. "Do you indeed, prince of Lestanórë? And by what do you swear?"

For a moment the Sinda hesitated, not sure what was being said here. Then, as if coming to a decision, he rose gracefully and knelt before the Maia. "As I live, my lord, I swear by the One above all Thrones that I will do all I can to protect my beloved until such time as the Valar open their arms to her in love and forgiveness, howsoever long that may be."

Eönwë smiled at the silver-haired Sinda. "Works for me," he said slyly and proceeded to open a blue leather-bound book that simply appeared on his desk, dipping his quill in ink and proceeding to write, humming as he did so.

Celeborn remained kneeling, not sure what to make of it all. Galadriel and Arafinwë exchanged bemused expressions. Finally Eönwë stopped and closed the book, which disappeared as he looked at them with a smile. "Go, my children, and get some rest. This was but the first day of fighting. Tomorrow will come soon enough and we will take up arms again."

For a moment the three Eldar did not move, then Arafinwë stood and the other two followed suit. They all gave the Maia their obeisance and left. For a long moment Eönwë did not stir, then, shaking his head, he called out. "All right, Fionwë, you can come back in."

The other Maia entered the tent and gave his commander a lopsided grin. Eönwë nodded and gestured to one of the camp chairs. "Let’s go over the order of battle for tomorrow. I want to move Arafinwë’s troops further up the Sirion and...."

****

All words are Quenya unless noted otherwise.

Heceldamar: "Land of the Forsaken Elves", the name used by the Loremasters of Aman for Beleriand.

Noldóran: King of the Noldor.

Laurelaiquamirë: Chrysoprase, an apple-green form of chalcedony. It helps to make conscious what was unconscious. It encourages hope and joy and helps clarify problems. It is also used as a shield or protector against negative energy and has more power when carved in the shape of a heart [laurë (gold) + laiqua (green) + mirë (jewel)].

Pityahuan: Little Hound.

Epessë: After-name, a nickname, mostly given as a title of admiration or honor, though not necessarily.

Eärendilioni: The Sons of Eärendil, Elrond and Elros. They were fifteen years old at the start of the War of Wrath.

Eruhin: Child of Eru.

Ellon: (Sindarin) Male elf.

Lestanórë: Doriath.

Note: Samite is a heavy silk fabric often interwoven with gold or silver thread.

Note: Nine years of the Trees is equivalent to 86 years of the Sun. The War of Wrath took forty-two years.

GOLD AND MITHRIL: Cloths of Heaven

SUMMARY: Celeborn draws out his wife’s thoughts on the Herald’s message as only a husband can. A companion piece to GOBLINS: The Herald’s Summons.

WARNING: Rated PG for implied sex between a married couple.

****

Celeborn reached down and pulled Galadriel into the tree, drawing her deeper until they were hidden from all sight. Except perhaps the Maiar, he thought grimly to himself. Galadriel nestled into his arms as he made himself comfortable on the branch, his back to the trunk of the oak. Leaves rustled gently in the night, and Ithil rode high above them, casting an eerie chalk-white glow all around. The sounds of a war camp settling for the night surrounded them: sentries calling out to one another with the changing of the watch, smiths hammering away, repairing swords and shields, voices raised in song accompanied by lute and harp. The prince of Doriath wrapped his arms around his beloved spouse and drank in the smell of her, gently kissing her right ear.

"Tell me how you feel, melethril nîn," he whispered.

For a long moment Galadriel did not answer and then she sighed. "I don’t know how I feel, about any of this."

"The Maia’s announcement surprised you," Celeborn ventured.

"Which announcement?" Galadriel asked, sounding a bit acerbic. "The one about the Valar having forgiven everyone but me, or the one about my dear cousins being allowed to return to Aman, but I will not?"

"Do you want forgiveness, Artanis?" Celeborn asked brutally, using her ataressë deliberately.

She sucked in her breath, readying a retort that never came. Instead she let her breath out slowly. "I... I haven’t decided yet," she said, sounding almost meek.

Celeborn drew her closer to him, his left hand idly rubbing her stomach. "An honest enough answer, I suppose."

Galadriel turned her head to look into her husband’s eyes, keen as lances in the canopied starlight. "Do you want them to forgive me?"

"I would have them forgive you for your sake, not mine," he answered. "I would not lose you so soon."

"You could not lose me, melethron nîn, even if I were offered forgiveness," Galadriel responded with a sigh, "for I weary not of these lands and would like to...."

"Would like to what?" Celeborn’s hand left her stomach and moved up towards her breasts, questing with more purpose.

Instead of answering immediately, she reached around with her right hand to hold his head while offering her lips to him and for a time they did nothing more than taste one another, reveling in the bond that grew deeper between them with every passing year. When she finally released him from her demands, she smiled.

"I would like to explore the lands east of the Ered Luin," she told him, her blue eyes, a deeper blue than her brother Finrod’s, reflecting Ithil’s light, yet shining also with another, older light. It was that light that had first drawn the Sindarin prince to this proud Noldo with her golden locks. She had quite captured his imagination and he was more than willing to admit to himself that he had become rather besotted with her. Thingol had teased him about it and Lúthien had looked at him with disbelief but Melian had merely smiled that mysterious, wondrous smile of hers, kissed him on the forehead and whispered, "Be kind to one another, child."

"I find Beleriand too... constricting," Galadriel continued speaking, "and would see the wide world."

Celeborn gave her a sardonic smile. "First Aman and now Beleriand. Will you eventually find even Arda itself too confining for your ambitions?"

She glared at him but finally the truth of his question impacted her and she had to look away. "I don’t know," she said with a sigh.

"An honest enough answer," he said softly, "though I would not let you get away with it for too long."

"What do you mean?" she demanded, pushing his still questing hand away from her breasts.

The prince sighed and leaned back against the tree, looking up through the canopy of leaves to the stars above. "Ereinion will need us for a time," he said. "He will need our guidance as he reorders whatever survives this war."

"You think he will not take up the Valar’s offer?"

"He is too responsible for that," he said. "He is the High King, the only king of Beleriand left. He is also very young. I do not think he is yet wearied of Ennorath. No, if he survives, he will take up the mantle of rule for those who will not wish to leave."

"And you would have us serve him." It was not a question, though he treated it as one.

"For a time," he answered.

"You could also rule," she ventured somewhat hesitantly. "You are all that is left of Thingol’s family. You could...."

"Nay, light of my heart," he said with a light laugh, placing his hand back on her breasts and gently caressing them. "I am a prince without a princedom. Doriath has fallen and Gil-galad is our king now."

She sighed, allowing him to bring her to arousal, the flame of her desire growing hot. "We lost so much," she said softly, regretfully. "We lost everything."

"Not everything, my love," he whispered in her ear, running his tongue along its tip, eliciting a soft moan of delight from her, "I have neither gold nor mithril, but I am rich beyond measure, for I have you." Then he began singing, the words new-minted for her alone:

          "Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

          Enwrought with golden and mithril light,

          I would spread the cloths under your feet:

          But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

          Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."

She sighed. "Let us both tread softly then." The daughter of Arafinwë and Eärwen turned to look into her husband’s eyes. "Do you know what Melian said to me when I told her about us?"

Celeborn smiled. "‘Be kind to one another, child’," he quoted. Galadriel giggled, her eyes glowing with mischief.

"Why don’t we see how kind we can both be to one another," she suggested with a purr.

Celeborn’s smile deepened as he deftly turned his beloved to face him fully. "Yes," he whispered hungrily and then he claimed her lips with his own.

****

Eönwë and Fionwë looked up at the scream that rent the midnight air. It was not a scream of war, but of love. The two Maiar grinned at one another for a moment before returning to the map and their strategies for the morrow’s battles.

****

Melethril nîn: (Sindarin) My (female) lover.

Melethron nîn: (Sindarin) My (male) lover.

Ataressë: (Quenya) Father-name.

Ereinion: Gil-galad’s Quenya name.

Ennorath: (Sindarin) Middle-earth.

Note on Celeborn’s song: The words, with one slight modification, are taken from W. B. Yeats, ‘Aedh Wishes for the Clothes of Heaven’. The full text is as follows:

          Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

          Enwrought with golden and silver light,

          The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

          Of night and light and the half-light,

          I would spread the cloths under your feet:

          But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

          I have spread my dreams under your feet;

          Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

STING: Blades of Destiny

SUMMARY: Every weapon has a purpose, even when that purpose does not manifest itself until long after its forging.

Elrond knew all about runes of every kind. That day he looked at the swords they had brought from the trolls' lair, and he said: "These are not troll-make. They are old swords, very old swords of the High Elves of the West, my kin. They were made in Gondolin for the Goblin-wars. They must have come from a dragon's hoard or goblin plunder, for dragons and goblins destroyed that city many ages ago. This, Thorin, the runes name Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver in the ancient tongue of Gondolin; it was a famous blade. This, Gandalf, was Glamdring, Foehammer that the king of Gondolin once wore. Keep them well!" — JRR Tolkien, The Hobbit, Chapter III, "A Short Rest"

****

Gilrust checked the blade one more time, giving it a final swipe of the cloth, smiling in satisfaction. Yes, a fine blade indeed, and the king would be quite pleased with it, and with the other. He turned to look at a second sword lying on the bench in its scabbard. Orcrist, Tuor had named it, Orc-cleaver. The Elf-smith nodded in satisfaction. A fitting blade for so puissant a Mortal.

There was the sound of a heavy tread nearing the smithy. Gilrust smiled as he replaced the sword in its scabbard and stood to greet his expected visitors. He bowed as three people entered. "A fair day to you, aranya," he said, "and to you, too, Tuor son of Huor."

Turgon, king of Gondolin, smiled. "A fair day indeed," he boomed, giving them a joyous laugh. "For see, my daughter has been delivered of a son this very morn as Anar broke the bonds of night with her radiance."

Gilrust clapped his hands in delight. "O glorious news indeed, aranya. I rejoice with thee and thine." He turned to Tuor who was standing beside the king, looking pleased, terrified and abashed all at once and the elf-smith laughed, taking the Mortal’s hand and drawing him towards the bench where Orcrist lay.

"Seest thou, O Son of Huor and most belovèd of Idril, here is the blade thou didst desire of me." He lifted the sword and presented it to Tuor with a short bow.

"My thanks, Gilrust," Tuor said with a shy smile as he took the sword and drew it reverently out of its intricately tooled leather scabbard. He examined it with a critical eye, taking note of its clean lines and admiring the runes of power engraved upon it. He turned to Turgon. "Seest thou, Ada, how well Gilrust has done his work. Orcrist will be a fitting heirloom for mine Eärendil, thine heir."

Turgon nodded, his grey eyes bright with merriment. "I see, yonya, and I am well pleased."

"And here, aranya," the Elf-smith said, handing over the other sword, "here is Glamdring. May it serve thee well."

Turgon took the sword and after a quick examination declared himself pleased with it. "My thanks to thee, Gilrust. Thy craftsmanship is as superb as ever."

"What wilt thou do with Gloruilos, then, aranya?" Gilrust asked. "Ever has that sword served thee, so I was amazed when thou didst ask of me another sword."

"Ah, Gloruilos has indeed served me well," Turgon said as he replaced the sword in its sheath. "Yet, it is in my mind to gift Gloruilos unto my son-in-love in thanksgiving for presenting me with mine heir."

Tuor looked at Turgon in surprise. "Truly, Ada," he protested, "I have already a fine sword. There is no need..."

"Sérë, hinya," the king of Gondolin said with a laugh, giving Tuor a hug and a kiss on the brow. "Gloruilos is thine, or if thou would’st, give it unto my daughter for safe-keeping. Perhaps thou and she will gift me with other grandchildren and thou mayest give it to one of them."

Tuor gave Turgon a sly grin. "Idril may well decide to keep thy sword for herself. Thou knowest well how she delights in bright pointy things."

Turgon threw back his head and laughed uproariously; the others joined him for they knew quite well how accomplished a swordswoman the daughter of the king was. Turgon kissed Tuor again, giving him a fond grin. "That will be well."

Gilrust then turned to his third visitor. "And I have not forgotten thee, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower." He went to a side table and picked up a smaller blade, a long dagger in a plain sheath and presented it to the Elf-lord with a bow. "Here is thy new dagger."

The golden-haired Elf-lord exclaimed in delight, his fair countenance beaming. "I thank thee, Gilrust of the Hammer of Wrath," Glorfindel said as he took the proffered blade and gave it a close examination. "It is indeed one of thy finest works."

"It is naught but a dagger, Glorfindel," Tuor said with a laugh. "Would’st thou not prefer a trusty blade of greater length instead?"

Glorfindel merely shook his head and smiled at his Mortal friend. "A blade I have, nildonya, but this dagger is special to me."

"How so?" Turgon asked his trusty Councillor in surprise.

Glorfindel gave his king a grave look. "I have dreamt true of late and this dagger looms large in the foretelling." He glanced down at the dagger, frowning. "I know not what fate is in store for thee, bright blade of mine, save that a perian shall find thee and thou shalt be the saving of many. That I might have some small part to play in that pleases me well."

There was a deep silence amongst them as they all contemplated the Elf-lord’s words, wondering at their import. Then, somewhat hesitantly, Tuor asked, "Uh... Glorfindel... what’s a perian?"

****

All words are Quenya unless otherwise noted.

Aranya: My king

Ada: (Sindarin) Hypocoristic form of Adar: Father.

Yonya: My son.

Sérë, hinya: "Peace, my child".

Nildonya: My friend.

Perian: Halfling, Hobbit.

Gloruilios: (Sindarin) "Gold-(ever)white"; the name I have given Turgon's sword which is described in Unfinished Tales, "Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin", note 31, in which Christopher Tolkien gives us his father’s synopsis of the story beyond where it leaves off. Turgon is described as meeting Tuor carrying a "white and gold sword in a ruel-bone (ivory) sheath".

Note: The House of the Hammer of Wrath, one of the Twelve Houses of Gondolin, was made up primarily of smiths and craftsmen. Its Lord was Rog. [See Book of Lost Tales II, "The Fall of Gondolin" and Unfinished Tales, "Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin"]

MAGIC: The Password

SUMMARY: Thranduil has trouble remembering.

WARNING: Do not eat or drink while reading. Seriously.

MEFA 2008: Second Place: Humor (Elven Lands)

****

"There is no escape from my magic doors for those who are once brought inside." — JRR Tolkien, The Hobbit, Chapter IX, "Barrels Out of Bond"

*****

Unto the Wizard Radagast the Brown of Rhosgobel, from Thranduil, Elvenking of Mirkwood, Greetings:

Would you please send me that password again, I’ve forgotten it. Le hannon.

Thranduil Aran

"Where’s that stupid pigeon?" Thranduil asked as he folded the vellum note and stuck it into a small message tube.

"Here, dear," the Queen said with equanimity, as she handed her husband the bird.

A quick tying of the message tube to the bird’s leg and it was off. Thranduil watched as it circled them twice before heading off in a southwesterly direction. He sighed and turned to his subjects. "Might as well get comfortable folks," he said. "It’s going to be awhile."

The other elves nodded, some of them muttering, but all of them resigned. Thranduil glared at the offensive doors while his queen saw to setting up camp. He could hear his butler speaking to one of his captains.

"I really hate this modern technology," Galion opined. "Secret passwords, bah! Whatever happened to Songs of Power?"

"Magic keys," Captain Ereglos replied, shaking his head. "My adar used to make the most exquisite magic keys, so elegant and subtle, portable too. Now no one wants them. ‘Too old-fashioned’ they say." He grimaced and Galion nodded in agreement.

"I think this whole magic password thing is just a new-fangled fad," the butler said. "Obviously something the Dwarves cooked up."

Thranduil sighed, wishing he’d listened to Mithrandir and simply had the doors made with a deadbolt, but he’d allowed that stupid Radagast to talk him into going for top of the line. "I can remember the fall of Doriath as if it were yesterday," he muttered to himself, though the Queen could hear him as he stood before the doors to the Stronghold that had defeated him. "I can remember every word Elrond spoke the night before the final battle against Sauron, I can even remember my wedding anniversary, but do you think I can remember one stupid little magical password?"

"Don’t fret so, dear," his wife said soothingly. "It’s not that big a deal. Come and play with Legolas while I see to dinner."

Thranduil sighed again and nodded, allowing himself to be led to a small glade on the other side of the causeway where Legolas, an elfling of sixteen, was hanging upside down and swinging on a maple branch. "Ada! Did you remember the password, yet?"

"No, iôn nîn," the king said. "Do not worry, though. Radagast will send me the password and we’ll be able to get into the Stronghold soon."

"Good. I miss Tulcus," the prince said, naming his pet wolf.

"I’m sure he misses you too," Thranduil said, wondering how much damage the little hairball with teeth was doing to their apartments. "Now, why don’t you come down and eat?"

So they all ate and drank and sang songs, told tales and danced through the night while waiting for the pigeon to return. Near dawn they all stopped and looked up as a white bird came winging towards them, landing just at Thranduil’s feet.

"Finally," he said with relief. "Let’s see what the dratted password is." He reached down and took the bird in his hands and removed the message tube. Handing the bird to Galion he opened the tube, pulled out the piece of vellum, and began reading its message:

Unto Thranduil, Elvenking of Mirkwood, from the Wizard Radagast the Brown of Rhosgobel, Greetings:

How many times does this make, my dear Thranduil? Why don’t you put this in a safe place where you can find it?

"Stupid wizard," Thranduil exclaimed to no one in particular, "I did put the password in a safe place! It’s inside the bloody Stronghold!"

"Language, dear," the queen admonished him. "Little elflings have big ears."

Thranduil sighed. "Sorry," he said as he walked across the causeway with everyone following him. They could all see him mouthing words as he studied the Wizard’s missive and they knew he was trying to memorize the password once again. When he was standing before the gates he put his hand on the door and muttered the magic word: Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

Slowly, ponderously, the doors opened. Thranduil stepped back, a grim smile wreathing his fair visage. "We’re in business again, people," he said and everyone cheered.

As they filed past their king into the Stronghold, Thranduil muttered to his Queen. "I really hate this new technology."

The Queen patted him on the arm. "I know dear," she said with a smile. "That’s what you said about flushed toilets."

****

All words are Sindarin.

Aran: King.

Adar: Father.

Iôn nîn: My son.

WAR: A Promise Before Dying

SUMMARY: Some promises take longer to fulfill than others. Gil-galad must wait an entire Age to learn the outcome of one such promise.

WARNING: Rated PG for character death.

MEFA 2008: Second Place: Multi-Age (General)

****

Second Age 3434: On the slopes of Orodruin:

Ereinion, known as Gil-galad, King of Lindon, lay amidst the detritus of war with the bodies of Orcs, Men and Elves surrounding him. He contemplated many things as he lay dying. Seven years they held the siege and it came down to this: that one Man’s action might be the saving of them all... or their doom.

He opened eyelids that seemed weighed down with lead and saw Círdan and Elrond standing over him, tears running down their fair cheeks, protecting their friend and their lord as best they might while the battle still raged about them. He tried to speak, to let them know that he still lived, though for how long was debatable. It was too much effort, however, so he closed his eyes and lay there thinking, wondering.

He had ruled Lindon for an Age and had done what he could for his people. He wondered if history would see him as a success or a failure. He hoped the first, but rather suspected the second. After all, he reflected as he felt his life’s blood seep from his death wound, he was dying, was he not? The ultimate failure for any of the Firstborn, to die. That was properly the lot of Mortals. Such strange creatures they were, even the very best of them, like his friend Elendil. Yet, that very strangeness fascinated him.

He sighed, or rather, his body made a rattling noise. He felt someone kneel beside him and, opening his eyes again, saw sorrow, anger and love etched upon the Peredhel’s countenance. He smiled, or thought he did, as he reached up with his hand to brush the tears from his Herald’s face.

"Pr-promise me, Elrond...." he whispered, barely able to breathe, for his death was upon him.

"What, aran nîn?" Elrond asked, his voice tight with desperation and grief.

"Promise me...you will s-see... the Ring... destroyed," he gasped with his final breath. "Pr-promise me... Isildur... destroy..."

"I will, Gil-galad," Elrond said, weeping all the while. "I promise."

The last High King of the Elves in Middle-earth nodded, satisfied, and closed his eyes. As he felt the severing of his fëa from his hröa, he suddenly had two thoughts: he wondered if his sacrifice had any real meaning and if anyone would remember him. He also realized that his foremost regret in dying was that he would miss seeing the sunrise.

He was walking through a gate of mithril and gold when he realized, somewhat sardonically, that that was actually three thoughts, but then he found himself standing before an intricately carved throne and when he saw who sat there waiting for him all thoughts fled....

****

Third Age 1000: In the Gardens of Lórien in Aman:

Ereinion looked up from his task to see a Maia standing before him, smiling. "Olórin!" he exclaimed with a welcoming grin. "Look what I’ve done." He motioned the Maia closer and Olórin obliged him, placing a loving hand on the ellon’s shoulder as he looked down at the newly Reborn’s handiwork.

It was an illuminated page, the colors bright and gay. He glanced at the text and saw that it was a hymn to Varda popular here in Aman. Upon closer examination though he realized that the illumination had nothing to do with Varda. He gave the Elf a wry look as Ereinion waited for the Maia to speak, his expression anxious.

Olórin studied the illumination for a few more minutes. The figures were, oddly enough, not all elven. Most were actually depictions of Mortals or Peredhil. He recognized Beren with his one hand and Eärendil with the Silmaril. Húrin was there and Tuor. There was Elrond and his brother, Elros Tar-Minyatur, first King of Númenor now drowned, and three others....

"Who are they, child?" he asked, pointing to the three Men grouped together at the bottom of the page facing a tower.

Ereinion looked to where the Maia was pointing and placed a finger on the tallest. "M-my friend, Elendil and... and his sons." He looked back up at the Maia, his expression still uncertain.

Olórin smiled down at him. "Why do you illustrate this hymn with these figures of the Secondborn?"

For a moment Ereinion did not answer and when he did it was in a whisper. "I... I don’t really know. I just...." He shook his head, not really sure how to answer his friend. "D-did I do something wrong?" he asked forlornly. So much was still new to him and he couldn’t always remember things properly.

Olórin continued to smile, patting the ellon on the shoulder. "Nay, child, you’ve done nothing wrong," he said soothingly. "I think you’ve done a wonderful job and I’m very pleased with you." He wondered, with wry amusement, what Lady Varda would think of this particular hymn being illustrated with heroes among the Aftercomers rather than the Firstborn, but decided the Valië would think it appropriate enough. Were they not, after all, Eru’s Children as much as the Eldar and did she not listen to their prayers no less than she listened to the prayers of the Firstborn?

Ereinion smiled gratefully at the Maia.

"Now, I’ve come to tell you good-bye," Olórin said, coming to the point of his visit.

The Elf looked at the Maia in surprise, feeling somewhat panicky. "Good-bye? Why? Where are you going?"

"My lord Manwë is sending me to Middle-earth on a mission," Olórin explained. "I do not know for how long I will be away so I wished to see you before I left."

"Why must you go?" Ereinion asked, feeling suddenly bereft.

Olórin sighed and sat down on the bench beside the former king of Lindon. "Sauron has risen again and...."

"Wait!" the ellon exclaimed in shock as certain memories came to light. "What do you mean ‘risen again’? Was he not defeated? I remember seeing his Ring severed from his finger. Was it not destroyed?"

Olórin looked upon the distraught Reborn with great sorrow. "Nay, child," he said softly, "the Ring was not destroyed. Isildur kept the Ring for himself though it brought him his death. The Ring has gone missing these many centuries, and so Sauron rebuilds his strength and his stronghold. It is for that reason I and others of my Order go to Middle-earth, to succor the hearts and minds of the Free Peoples and teach them not to lose hope."

"But Elrond promised," the Elf said, beginning to weep. "He promised me as... as I lay dying and...."

Olórin took the ellon into his embrace and held him, offering him comfort. "Hush now, child. Elrond did his best but Isildur refused his counsel, nor could he force the Man to destroy the Ring."

"Then it was all for nothing," Ereinion exclaimed forlornly. "I died for nothing."

"Nay, child," Olórin retorted. "No one dies for nothing. Isildur failed and Sauron was not fully defeated, but he was made impotent for a time."

"For a time," the ellon repeated.

Olórin sighed and nodded. "Which is why I and others are going to Middle-earth, for Sauron rises again and we must find a way to defeat him."

"Only with the destruction of the One Ring can he be wholly defeated," Ereinion stated categorically. "There is no other way."

"I have no answers for you, child," the Maia said softly.

For a time neither spoke, each lost in his own thoughts. Then, Ereinion glanced at Olórin shyly. "Will I ever see you again?"

Olórin wrapped an arm around the Elf’s shoulders and gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Yes, child, I promise."

Ereinion shook his head sadly. "Don’t make promises you may not be able to keep," he said. "I shouldn’t have made Elrond promise...."

"Do not concern yourself with that, Ereinion," the Maia said firmly. "Elrond did what he could and there is more than one way to keep a promise."

For a moment they sat together, then Olórin stood, bringing Ereinion with him so he could offer him a proper hug. "I will leave you now," he said with a wistful smile. "Continue your studies, young Ereinion," he added with mock severity. "I expect to hear nothing but glowing reports from your tutors when I return."

Ereinion smiled as Olórin walked away, then he sighed and sat down before the table where he had been working on his illuminations and picked up his brush to add the next layer of gilding to Narsil’s hilt....

****

Third Age 3021: Upon the quays at Avallonë on Tol Eressëa:

Ereinion remained outwardly calm as befitted a former king, standing with others on the quay where the next grey ship would dock, but inside he was hopping about like an elfling too impatient to wait for his elders. He smiled to himself at that image. It hadn’t been that long ago when he was doing just that for all that he had been fully grown — in hröa if not in fëa. He sighed, shifting his stance a bit, straining to see if the ship was in sight yet, but there was nothing but calm blue sea stretching to the horizon. Around him others stood or walked about, mingling with friends and family as they waited for the ship to arrive. Ereinion glanced at the people who stood with him and smiled.

"Remember," he said to the elleth standing next to him, speaking Sindarin, "I get to kill him first."

Celebrían laughed at that and the others with them joined her. "I should never have agreed to arm wrestle with you for the privilege, Gil-galad."

The former king of Lindon merely smirked. Finrod flashed him a smile from where he was standing on Celebrían’s other side. "I do hope you leave something for your cousin to tear into, Nephew, or we’ll never hear the end of it."

"Don’t worry, Uncle," Gil-galad said, "I wouldn’t dream of spoiling Celebrían’s fun that far."

Celebrían stuck her tongue out at him and everyone laughed again. Arafinwë and Eärwen smiled at one another as they listened to the banter between the three younger elves. They had been waiting for this day for so long and now that it had come it seemed more like a dream than anything else. Neither would believe that any of this was real until they actually saw their beloved Artanis stepping off the ship.

"Sails, ho!"

They all looked up as the watch shouted the news and the tension and excitement grew as, first, white sails appeared above the horizon and, then, the grey prow of the ship rose majestically upon the waves. A loud cheer resonated up and down the quays and several people clapped. Ereinion felt himself go still and was like a statue amidst the hustle and bustle of the port as dockworkers ran to secure the ship and the Elves waiting for loved ones moved closer to better see who was aboard.

Finrod gave his nephew a knowing smile and, stepping behind Celebrían so as to reach Ereinion, he placed his hands on the younger ellon’s shoulders. "What troubles you, Nephew?" he whispered in the ellon’s ear.

"He promised me," Gil-galad answered with great vehemence. "I died believing he would fulfill my last request to him, but he...."

"He did what he could, child," Finrod said, turning the ellon around to face him, giving him a sad smile. "Not all promises are meant to be kept and isn’t it enough to know that Sauron has been defeated at last?"

Ereinion looked down, his anger leached from him by his uncle’s words. "Olórin told me before he left that there was more than one way to keep a promise."

"And so there is," Finrod said.

"Yet, how was Sauron defeated?" his nephew asked in exasperation. "The Valar tell us not."

Finrod shrugged. "We will hear the full tale soon enough," he said. Then, he glanced up and turned his nephew around again. "Look! They are disembarking. I shall go greet my sister. Do you see Elrond?"

Gil-galad nodded. "Aye, he stands there beside those two children, but that cannot be so. They are not elflings. What are they?"

Finrod shook his head. "I know not. Why don’t we go see?"

Only then did the former king of Lindon realize that his great-grandparents and his cousin were already standing by the gangplank greeting Galadriel who was now disembarking. Behind her came Elrond with the two strange creatures. Gil-galad gave Finrod a nod and together they joined their family. As they approached, Ereinion saw Elrond’s eyes meet his and the healer’s expression brightened. He bent down to speak to the two walking on either side of him and saw them both smile. Ereinion could see that though they appeared to be children, they definitely were not, for their eyes were too knowing. Then Elrond straightened and, reaching the quay, he went directly to his king, ignoring even his wife, and gave Ereinion a profound bow.

"Aran nîn," the former Herald of Lindon said, "I could not fulfill my oath to you as I promised, but I did what I could." He looked down at the two creatures and Gil-galad noticed for the first time that they wore no shoes and their feet were covered with hair. Then Elrond was speaking again. "My lord, may I present Bilbo Baggins," — here Elrond turned towards the older of the two creatures with a smile — "and Frodo Baggins." He now turned to the younger being, his eyes going even more soft. Then he looked again at his king. "They are Periain and with the help of Isildur’s Heir we were able to defeat Sauron at last."

For a moment Ereinion stared at the three standing before him. The two... Periain gave him shy smiles, both appearing somewhat embarrassed, while Elrond stood there looking uncertain as to how his king would greet him. Finally, Gil-galad gave his former Herald a sly look. "Well, it certainly took you long enough."

The one called Frodo snickered at the dumbfounded expression on Elrond’s face and then the other Perian started laughing. Ereinion took the still disbelieving Elrond into his embrace and hugged him tightly. "I knew you would keep your promise to me somehow, mellon nîn," he whispered. "Thank you."

Then Elrond was being pulled into Celebrían’s embrace even as Ereinion found himself in the arms of one whom he recognized as Olórin in spite of his appearance and for a time the two Ringbearers were forgotten as families and friendships were renewed.

And that suited them just fine.

****

Aran nîn: (Sindarin) My king.

Ellon: (Sindarin) Male Elf.

Hröa: (Quenya): Physical body.

Fëa: (Quenya): Soul, spirit.

Peredhil: (Sindarin) Plural of Peredhel: Half-Elven, a title given to Elrond.

Elleth: (Sindarin): Female Elf.

Periain: (Sindarin): Plural of Perian: Halfling, Hobbit.

Mellon nîn: (Sindarin): My friend.

Note: As usual, I follow Tolkien’s final scheme for Gil-galad’s parentage, making him the son of Orodreth, who was the son of Finrod’s brother Angrod, and therefore Finrod’s great-nephew.

WAR: Gwann nan iHûl

Because I simply couldn't resist.

SUMMARY: If Gone With the Wind had been written by an Elf, with apologies to Margaret Mitchell, Vivien Leigh, Cate Blanchett, and, of course, the Professor.

WARNING THE FIRST: Should be read with a deep Southern accent and I don’t mean South Beleriand either.

WARNING THE SECOND: Eating or drinking while reading this may not be good for your health.

****

Sometime during the First Age…

"Auth! Auth! Auth!" cried Galadriel Finarfiniel in disgust as she sat in Queen Melian’s bower along with the other ladies of the court of Doriath sewing. "I declare it’s all these silly ellyn talk about! Why, even that nice Lord Celeborn goes drearily on about ‘War this and war that and wouldn’t Morgoth’s head look nice above the mantlepiece?’ Ack! It’s enough to make an elleth spit. Well, pui-en-orch, say I! Pui-en-orch on them all! There are more important things to concern oneself than a silly little war!"

"Such as what?" asked Lady Ivorwen, who was a bit put out at Galadriel’s disparaging remarks about the silver-haired prince of Doriath. Ivorwen, of course, hoped to marry said prince someday. That is, if I can ever get the besotted fool away from this flighty Golodh! she thought to herself as she stabbed her finger, muttering a curse word under her breath that had Queen Melian frowning.

"Why, my brother Finrod’s upcoming Winter Solstice Ball to be held in Nargothrond next month, for one," the Noldorin princess remarked, unaware of Ivorwen’s feelings.

"And why is that so important?" asked Lúthien, pretending indifference, but secretly wondering how she might cajole her ada into letting her (finally!) travel outside of Doriath. Honestly, she thought, edair were such bores!

"Well, my dear," Galadriel answered with a smug grin, "everyone who is anyone in Beleriand will be there and I still can’t decide whether I should wear the rose damask or that pretty white taffeta gown my nana packed for me before I left Aman." The golden-haired elleth sighed with the burden of choice weighing heavily upon her.

At that, Melian, Maia Queen of Doriath, looked up from working elf-knots into her embroidery and said with a knowing smile, "But my dear, that simply will not do at all."

"What won’t do?" Galadriel exclaimed in surprise.

"The taffeta, dear, the taffeta," replied Melian with a long-suffering sigh at the fashion-challenged ignorance of youth. "Anyone looking at you can see that white simply is NOT your color!"

****

All words are Sindarin:

Gwann nan iHûl: 'Gone With the Wind'.

Auth: War.

Elleth: Elf-maid.

Ellyn: Plural of ellon: Male elf.

Pui-en-orch: Orc-spit, from the verb puia-, inf. puio- "to spit".

Golodh: Noldo.

Ada: Hypocoristic form of Adar: Father. The plural is edair.

Nana: Hypocoristic form of Naneth: Mother.

RECONCILIATION: Ascent

SUMMARY: Often the hard lessons are the truest, as one Elf finally learns when he is offered redemption.

WARNING: Rated PG-13 for intensity of imagery and subject-matter.

****

"Open your eyes, child," Námo said softly.

It was always the same.

Sometimes he would open his eyes to find himself facing Námo, sometimes he would be facing away, but always they would be standing on the edge of one of Taniquetil’s high snow-clad precipices under a cold and uncaring star-bejeweled sky. Nothing in this ever changed, except minor details of no importance.

Always, whether facing in or out, he would open his eyes to fear, wondering how much longer his punishment would last. Always Námo leaned towards him and whispered, "This is not a punishment, child," then kissed him gently. On the brow. On the lips. On the cheek. It mattered not. Only one thing mattered...

With the kiss, Námo would whisper, "I love you," and then let him go.

And always he screamed as he fell, plummeting through the cloudscape below him until all sight was lost in the darkness.

He never seemed to ever reach the bottom....

"Open your eyes, child."

This time he was facing inward and gazed into Námo’s dark grey eyes. They were lit by an inner glow that spoke of an ancientness he could only begin to guess at. How many times had he stood in the Vala’s embrace waiting to fall? How many times had he heard the words Námo would speak? How many times had he felt Námo’s embrace loosen as he gently pushed him off the edge? He didn’t know. He didn’t care to know. He only knew he had to endure this, over and over again, because....

"This is not a punishment, child," Námo whispered, then kissed him on the lips as if he were kissing a lover. "I love you."

Before the arms let him go, this time he was able to stammer, "I... I’m sorry."

"I know," Námo said with a nod, then let him go.

This time he managed not to scream until he reached the clouds....

The next time — or maybe it was several times later, he was never sure — he managed to stammer, "I... I love you."

"I know," came the reply. It didn’t matter. Námo still opened his arms and let him go. He still fell, but he was weeping as he fell, not screaming. Darkness still took him in the end....

"Open your eyes, child." Not Námo this time. Vairë.

He knew this would happen eventually, though he always seemed to forget it. Everything would be the same, everything except the person holding him, and letting him go. Eventually, he knew now, he would be passed to each of the Valar. One by one they would kiss him... One by one they would tell him they loved him... One by one they would let him go... and he would continue to scream as he plummeted through cloudscapes in hopes of reaching a bottom he never could remember reaching.

He opened his eyes to see Vairë before him.

"I love you," he said quickly, hoping to stave off what he feared most, but the Valië merely shook her head, smiling sadly.

"It doesn’t work that way, child," she said unmoved by his protestations of love. "This is not a punishment."

He cowered in her embrace; wept as she kissed him lightly on the brow. "I love you, child."

Then with a single swift motion, she turned him around and gave him a gentle push into the void. The dark clouds below him came up swiftly and he plunged through them, screaming. Face down or face up, it mattered not. Minor details were unimportant....

"Open your eyes, child." Tulkas this time. For some reason falling into this Vala’s hands frightened him more than anything else. When he finally did open his eyes he saw the Vala smiling at him.

"You have always been too serious for your own good, child," Tulkas told him with a laugh and then to his utter horror he felt the Vala’s fingers searching his body, teasing it so that he started to squeal and then laugh as the Vala discovered his sensitive spots. Tulkas laughed along with him as he writhed in the Vala’s embrace, laughter forced out of him. He shrieked as the intensity of the tickling increased, shrieked like an elfling or like a lover in the throes of ecstasy and then he felt Tulkas lift him up high over his head.

"I love you," the Vala shouted and threw him into space. Shrieks of laughter turned into shrieks of terror. He always wished he had the time to be thoroughly sick....

Tulkas always forced him to laugh, always forced him into the pure abandonment of ecstasy, making him shriek like a virgin on her wedding night. Sometimes the Vala would throw him up into the air as if he were an elfling being tossed by a loving parent. Between his shrieks he would beg the Vala to stop, but Tulkas only laughed the harder.

"Foolish child," he would say. "This is not a punishment." Then he would kiss him on the lips, always the lips, tenderly and sweetly, as if he were indeed the Vala’s lover. Tulkas would then give him one more tickle that would set him shrieking again before tossing him out into the void.

A time came that he heard Tulkas’ voice and found himself writhing in anticipation of the ecstasy to come without even bothering to open his eyes. He moaned and nuzzled the Vala’s neck and whispered, "I love you."

"But not that way," the Vala said with a laugh. "Open your eyes, child," he commanded and there was no choice but to obey. Tulkas turned him around so he was facing out into space. As always the stars shone down in implacable disregard of what was happening to him, jewels shining in the tapestry of night. Below, the snow-covered mountainside glowed palely, while clouds scuttled across its flanks, hiding the lower reaches from his sight.

"A beautiful night," Tulkas said conversationally. "Look! Eärendil sails before us. See the silmaril shining from the mast?"

He looked and saw Vingilot and he shivered, though he did not know why. He looked up at the Vala and began weeping. "I love you... please... I love you."

"I know child," Tulkas whispered, and for the first time Tulkas Astaldo bent down and kissed him on the cheek rather than on the lips. "This is not a punishment, beloved." Then the Vala lifted him up and threw him into the night. The ecstasy of flight, though brief, was worth the terror that followed as he plunged into the darkness below.

He wasn’t sure, but of all the Valar into whose embrace he fell, Tulkas was the one with whom he seemed to spend the longest before being passed on to the next Vala....

"Open your eyes, child."

Aulë.

He was weeping before he could even comply with the Vala’s command. He had been Aulë’s apprentice once. He remembered that, though he remembered little else about himself. He always felt the deepest shame when he found himself in Aulë’s embrace. Aulë never treated him with anything but kindness but that didn’t matter, he was ashamed nonetheless. He only wished he could remember why.

"This is not a punishment, my apprentice-that-was," Aulë would tell him and hold him lovingly as he continued weeping, letting him cry himself out before kissing him and pushing him off the precipice....

He could never decide if it was worse to fall into the hands of the Valar or the Valier. Yavanna... Estë... Nessa... they looked upon him with such compassion but he always felt that they secretly despised him, Varda especially.

"Nay, child," the Queen of Stars said when he finally came to her. "We do not despise you, never have. Once, we pitied you, so lost you were and we wept for you."

"Pitied me?" he whispered, fearful of the answer, but willing to listen if it meant delaying the inevitable, if only for a few brief seconds.

Varda leaned down and stroked his hair and smiled. "Yes, love. You were so pitiful when you first came to us, weeping and trembling in fear. It nearly broke my heart to see you in such straits."

"I-I don’t remember."

"No reason why you should, my pet."

"And now?"

"Now I love you." She kissed him on the brow and smiled tenderly at him.

He still screamed going down... and the time after that... and the time after that... and....

"Open your eyes, child," ordered the Elder King.

For some reason he never seemed to mind falling into Manwë’s embrace, terrifying though it might be. He opened his eyes to find Manwë calmly looking at him.

"I’m sorry," he said. He always said that whenever he found himself with the Elder King. He could not remember what he was supposed to be sorry for, he only knew that he meant it.

Manwë nodded gravely. "I know you are, child."

"It doesn’t change anything, does it?"

"On the contrary. It changes a great many things. You know that I love you, don’t you?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"Do you know why?"

He shook his head. Always the question was asked, but he never knew the answer and the despair he felt at his failing tore through him. He barely felt the Elder King’s kiss or felt himself being pushed off the edge....

"Open your eyes, child."

"I’m sorry."

"I know you are, child."

"I love you."

"Do you know why?"

"No. Forgive me. I don’t... forgive me, please forgive me." He was weeping now and Manwë held him tightly.

"I do forgive you, child. I have always forgiven you, always will." Then the Elder King kissed him on the brow. "I love you."

"I know."

"This is not a punishment, best beloved, believe that."

But it was difficult to do so when you were plummeting down the side of a mountain screaming into darkness....

"It’s all right, you know."

"What’s all right, child?"

He was again in Manwë’s embrace, this time facing out into the star-studded sky. "You can let go of me. I’m not afraid anymore."

"I’m glad to hear that, my love. Very glad."

No, he wasn’t afraid, but lack of fear did not prevent him from screaming towards the end anyway....

"I think I understand now."

"What do you understand?"

"This isn’t a punishment, it never was."

"What was it then?"

He did not answer for the longest time, for in truth he had not even thought that far ahead. It had taken him so long just to get to this point, to see what they had all been telling him.

"A... a lesson?" he asked tentatively.

Manwë smiled warmly and nodded. "As good an answer as any, child, and better than most."

"I love you," he told the Elder King.

"I know," Manwë replied, "and I’m sorry."

He nodded, then began to weep in earnest. "You’re my atar aren’t you? That’s why you love me, isn’t it?"

Manwë held him close. "That’s why we all love you. We are all your atari and amilli, if you could just see that."

He thought about it for awhile. "I forgive you Atar."

"Forgive me for what, child?"

"For what you are about to do to me again."

"Thank you, my son. You don’t know how much your forgiveness means to me."

This time he had nearly reached the bottom before he started screaming....

"Open your eyes, child."

He sighed and complied with the command. This time he was facing inward and Manwë held him close to him. He reached up with one hand and began caressing the Elder King’s face the way a young child will caress a parent’s cheek. Manwë allowed him the time he needed, never speaking, merely rubbing his back gently, lovingly, as a parent will comfort a small child. Finally he reached up and kissed Manwë on the cheek.

"You can let go now. I love you, Atar."

"I know," and the Elder King of Arda kissed his best beloved gently on the brow, then whispered "Namárië," into his ear before releasing him.

One step. That’s all it would take. That’s all that was necessary. Just one step. He looked up at Manwë and smiled. "Namárië," he whispered and without looking, backed off the edge of the precipice.

He was smiling as he fell, for he now realized that he was not falling into despair and darkness. Rather, he was falling into Love, had always been falling into Love. The Valar had only been giving him a gentle push in the right direction.

He was still smiling when the ground rose up to meet him. He never felt the impact....

"Open your eyes, child." Námo again.

He whimpered and tried to move out of the Vala’s embrace, but Námo just drew him in closer. He had lost count the number of times he had fallen into Námo’s arms, for always he would be passed from one Vala to the next, beginning with Námo and ending with Manwë only to be passed to Námo again. He remembered second time that had happened he had collapsed to his knees, pleading to the Vala not to continue.

"Imsorryimsorryimsorry...."

Námo had simply picked him up. "It doesn’t work that way, my best beloved. It never does."

The third time he had simply stood there in dejected resignation of what had to be. Námo had looked upon him with pity, but it didn’t stop him from pushing him off the edge of the precipice.

"Open your eyes, child," Námo said again with quiet insistence.

He sighed, wondering how many more times he would be passed from one Vala to the next. He did not think he could endure it, but knew that he must. He had no other choice. He opened his eyes, and everything changed....

****

"Welcome home, child."

He blinked up at the Lord of Mandos, not sure what was happening, for he found himself lying in Námo’s arms as the Vala sat in an ornately carved chair and they were no longer on the mountain. He shifted his gaze to take in his surroundings and found himself in a garden. The profusion of color and scents was almost overpowering and he cringed somewhat, closing his eyes.

"Where am I?" he said, or tried to. For some reason his throat refused to work properly and what came out sounded garbled. Námo, however, seemed to understand what he was trying to say.

"You are in one of the Gardens of the Reborn," the Vala said. "Here you will stay for a time."

He opened his eyes in surprise. "Reborn?" he managed to whisper.

"Yes, child," Námo said, then divining the confusion in the ellon’s mind, he continued to explain. "You thought you would never be reborn, didn’t you?" The ellon shook his head and Námo nodded. "But all has been renewed and forgiven and now you are here in this garden."

"My family?"

"Soon you will be reunited with your family, all of them," Námo promised with a warm smile, "for now, though, you must learn to live again."

"Live," the ellon sighed and it was such a sweet word. He closed his eyes, feeling suddenly lethargic and soon was drifting back into sleep.

Námo gazed down upon the Firstborn in his arms and smiled gently. "That’s it, child. Sleep and be refreshed. When you waken again, everything will be different... for all of us." He raised the ellon’s head slightly and bent down to kiss his brow. "Welcome home, indeed, Fëanáro," he whispered and Fëanáro smiled in his sleep even as he nestled further into Námo’s embrace.

****

Atari: (Quenya) Plural of atar: Father.

Amilli: (Quenya) Plural of amillë: Mother.

PROPHECY: Changing the Future

SUMMARY: The Lord of Mandos is said to have uttered a Second Prophecy concerning the End of Days, but its interpretation has been hotly debated down through the Ages. On the eve of the departure of the Edain for Númenor, two Men decide to do some ‘creative’ prophesying of their own, but it may be Námo who has the final say.

****

"What are you reading?"

"Something called ‘The Second Prophecy of Mandos’."

"Oh? I didn’t know there was one."

"Hmmm.... not many people do."

"Why’s that?"

"Well look what it says:

"Well, that doesn’t sound too bad."

"Read further."

"‘Thereafter shall Earth be broken and re-made, and the Silmarils shall be recovered out of Air and Earth and Sea; for Eärendil shall descend and surrender that flame which he hath had in keeping. Then Fëanor shall take the Three Jewels and bear them to Yavanna Palurien; and she will break them and with their fire rekindle the Two Trees, and a great light shall come forth. And the Mountains of Valinor shall be leveled, so that the Light shall go out over all the world. In that light the Powers will grow young again, and the Elves awake and all their dead arise, and the purpose of Ilúvatar be fulfilled concerning them. But of Men in that day the prophecy of Mandos doth not speak, and no Man it names, save Túrin only, and to him a place is given among the People of the Valar.’

"So what does that mean?"

"It means that while the Elves get to survive the End, Men don’t seem to fare as well, or at least there’s nothing known about our fate."

"That doesn’t seem fair."

"Whoever said life, especially for us Secondborn, was fair?"

"So what do you think we should do about it?"

"Come again?"

"Who’s to say this here prophecy is even the real thing? Could be something those Elves made up to make themselves look even more special than they already are."

"Hmmm.... you do have a point."

"Well?"

"Well, this is Lady Galadriel’s copy. She said I could make my own to take with us to Númenor."

"So, when you’re writing out the prophecy, just change the last bit to make it look good for us Mortals. Why should the Elves get all the glory?"

"So how should we word it?"

"Let’s see... how about we drop the final two sentences and replace it with... um.... something like: ‘Yet of old the Valar declared to the Elves of Valinor that Men shall join in the Second Music of the Ainur; whereas Ilúvatar has not revealed what he purposes for the Elves after the World’s end, and Melkor has not discovered it.’"

"I like it. Has a nice ring to it, especially the bit about Melkor."

"Just don’t tell Elros about the change in the wording. You know how he dotes on the Firstborn for all that he’s chosen to become Mortal."

"Tell me about it. Last week he actually wanted me to make a copy of his brother’s book on Herbal Medicines to take with us. He said Mortals could not light a candle next to the Elves when it came to the healing arts."

"You have to wonder why he even bothered to become a Mortal then."

"Maybe he heard about this Second Prophecy and wants to make sure he ends up singing in the choir."

Their laughter was long and loud.

****

"You knew they would do it, so why are you so upset?"

Námo gave Manwë a jaundiced look as the two of them stood on a balcony in Ilmarin overlooking the Pelóri. "Knowing something as a possible future is one thing, but to see them blatantly alter one of my prophecies...." He shook his head, his expression darkening. "Nothing good will come of it, mark my words."

"Perhaps," the Elder King said smoothly, "but ultimately, the fate of us all lies in Atar’s hands, so it matters little what these Children believe or do not believe."

"I know," Námo agreed with a scowl. "It’s just that I spent a lot of time crafting that prophecy. It’s one of my best, you know."

Manwë nodded amiably. "A work of art to be sure. Well, it will be interesting to see just who has the last laugh."

"Ah, that gives me an idea," Námo said with a wicked gleam in his eyes as he took his leave of the Elder King.

"Where are you going?" Manwë asked in surprise.

Námo gave him an innocent look that did not fool the Elder King. "Why, wouldn’t you know it? I’ve just been granted a Third Vision... and this particular prophecy I’m not sharing with anyone." He bowed to Manwë and left.

The Elder King of Arda merely shook his head and smiled as Námo’s laughter rang throughout Ilmarin, echoing even unto the borders of the Timeless Halls, where, unbeknown to anyone, Atar sat by a fountain smiling at the antics of His Children as he idly fashioned a Fourth Prophecy.

****

NOTE: The quotation of the Second Prophecy of Mandos is from The Shaping of Middle-earth, HoME vol. 4, with some modifications of wording to reflect later concepts of the Valar by Tolkien. The replacement text is taken directly from The Silmarillion, The Quenta Silmarillion: Chapter 1, "Of the Beginning of Days".

BIRTHDAY: Meeting Irmo

SUMMARY: Nienna and Námo receive a surpirse gift from Atar. A Tale of the Timeless Halls when the Valar were young... real young.

WARNING: Pure fluff.

Note: The characters use the second person familiar form of address in this story, a form that we have lost in modern English.

****

"Námo, Nienna, come here, My Children."

Námo looked up from his contemplation of the flowers, roses, he thought Atar had called them when He had shown them to Námo for the first time, and smiled. Atar was calling him and he felt very pleased at that. He looked about for his sister. Nienna was older than he and he never wandered too far from her, feeling safe in her presence. There were many strange and wondrous things in the Timeless Halls and Námo was not sure about some of them. He spied his older sister some distance away and without thinking about it, thought himself practically on top of her.

"Námo!" Nienna said in exasperation, pushing him off her. "Watch where you are going."

"Sorry, Nienna," Námo said though he didn’t sound too sorry at the moment. "Atar called me."

"Called us, you mean," Nienna said, her normal indigo aura shifting slightly towards blue with amusement at the excitement she sensed in her little brother. She had been in the Timeless Halls for some time before Atar had presented her with her brother.

"He is very young," Atar had told her as He introduced Námo to her. "Dost thou think thou couldst take care of him for Me?"

Nienna had felt very grown up at that, almost as old as her friend Yavanna, who was much older than she in their Atar’s Thought. "Yes, Atar," she had said fervently. "I thank thee."

"Nay, Child," Atar had said gently with a smile. "It is I who thank thee."

She had watched over her little brother, mindful of her Atar’s trust in her, and Námo had returned her attention with much love. She had been somewhat serious in her youth but Námo had a rather strange sense of humor that kept her just off-balanced enough that she found herself becoming less grave and was even known to laugh now and then at her brother’s antics. She was not to know that every time she laughed Atar smiled and nodded His head, well pleased with both His Children.

"Come," she said to Námo, "we must not keep Atar waiting." With that she took hold of her brother and together they thought themselves in Atar’s Presence, immediately finding themselves surrounded by Love. Nienna sighed with pleasure while Námo squirmed and nearly squealed with delight at the sight of their Atar.

"Atar, Atar," he exclaimed with excitement, "I like the roses, Atar. They are pretty."

Atar smiled warmly at this little one, so new to the Timeless Halls and gathered him and his older (but not that much older, whatever she might think) sister into His embrace. "I am so glad thou dost, my best beloved," He murmured. "I created them just for thee."

"Thou didst?" Námo responded in awe, stunned that Atar would create something so beautiful just for him. "Ju-just for me?"

"Just for thee," Atar reiterated. "Now which is thy favorite color?"

Námo thought about it for a moment. "I like them all, Atar," he said quietly. "Do... do I have to pick a favorite?" he asked, fearful that he might displease his Atar and he didn’t want to do that.

Atar smiled at Námo and hugged him closer, sending thoughts of Love and Well-being to this little one. "Nay, best beloved," He said, "thou dost not have to choose. I am well pleased that thou likest my little gift and that all the colors please thee."

Námo smiled and settled further into Atar’s embrace, content. Atar turned His attention to His so serious daughter. "And thou, Daughter," He asked with a hint of amusement in His voice, "hast thou also enjoyed my gift to thee?"

"Gift, Atar?" Nienna asked in puzzlement. "Wh-what gift?"

"Why, thy little brother, of course," Atar replied.

"He is a gift?" Nienna asked, feeling a little confused.

"Yes, Child," Atar responded gently, "he is. Hath he not proved a wondrous surprise to thee, Daughter? Hath his laughter and sense of play not lightened thine own spirit and taught thee to laugh more?"

"Th-that is a gift?" Nienna wasn’t sure she really understood her Atar and suddenly she felt terribly young, almost as young as Námo.

"The ability to lighten another’s spirit is indeed a gift," Atar said gravely. "I gave Námo to thee for that very purpose, for I sensed thou wert becoming too serious and I feared thou wouldst lose the joy I gave thee at thy birthing."

Nienna started weeping then and Atar could sense the shock of it running through Námo, for the little one had never seen anyone weep before. "I am so-sorry, Atar," Nienna said dejectedly. "I did not mean to...."

"Hush now, Daughter," Atar crooned, gathering Nienna further into His embrace. "I am not angry with thee. Thou hast been a most obedient daughter in thy care of thy little brother and I am well pleased with thee."

Nienna stilled her weeping, comforted by her Atar’s words. Atar, meantime, turned His attention to Námo. "Be not upset, Child," He said soothingly. "Thy sister is well, as art thou."

Námo felt a wave of ecstasy gently engulf him, sending him into a paroxysm of joy that knew no bounds. For an eternal moment he floated in his Atar’s embrace content simply to Be with no thought of anything except how much his Atar loved him. Slowly, he came back to himself and smiled at Atar, Who smiled back.

"Now, I have a surprise for both of ye," Atar said.

"What, Atar?" Námo asked excitedly, wondering if it would be as interesting as the roses.

"Look ye, My Children," Atar commanded them, gesturing.

They looked and slowly, almost hesitantly, someone emerged out of the Void. Námo watched with interest, never having seen an Emergence before. The one coming forth emitted an aura that was a somewhat warmer blue than Nienna’s indigo. It was, in fact, a blue that shaded into green and Námo liked the interplay of the hues. His own aura was a pure steady violet, he knew, and didn’t think it was half as interesting. He sighed a little and Atar smiled down at him.

"Thou'rt quite beautiful, Child," He murmured, "and I think thy color is most interesting, else I would never have created it. It is a very soothing shade and I think thou'lt appreciate it more when thou'st grown into it somewhat."

"Who is it, Atar?" Nienna asked then, studying the Newborn.

"This is your new brother," Atar said with a smile.

"New brother?" Námo asked hesitantly, not sure if he liked the idea of no longer being the littlest.

"An-another gift, Atar?" Nienna asked almost at the same time, wondering if she was being punished or something.

Atar smiled at both his Children, though for different reasons. He decided to address Nienna’s concerns first. "Yes, Child. He is another gift, but not for thee alone. This is a gift thou shalt share with Námo." He then turned to Námo. "Yes, best beloved, this is thy new brother, and thou and thy sister must care for him and love him just as I care for and love ye both. Dost thou think thou canst do this for Me, Námo? Canst thou be a big brother even as Nienna has been thy big sister, teaching thee what thou must know?"

Námo thought about it for a moment, staring at his new brother, who was gazing about somewhat hesitantly, not quite sure what was happening or where he was. He exhibited the same confusion that Námo remembered feeling himself when he first Emerged. He remembered how grateful he had felt when Nienna had approached him and told him she was his big sister and would take care of him. With that thought he made his decision. Glancing at Atar for approval and receiving a nod of encouragement, he slid out of Atar’s embrace and went to stand before his little brother, whose bright aura had dimmed somewhat with uncertainty.

"Hello, what is thy name?" Námo asked, remembering how Nienna had done this with him not too long ago.

"Ir...irmo," the newest member of Atar’s family whispered.

Námo smiled. "That is a good name. I am thine older brother, Námo."

"Br-brother?" Irmo asked.

Námo awkwardly took this littlest one in his embrace. "Yes. Atar hath made me thine older brother to love and care for thee. Art thou not glad Atar gave thee to me?"

Irmo’s aura brightened at the feeling of belonging and he smiled. "Yes. I... I thank thee," he whispered.

"Thou'rt welcome," Námo replied. "Wouldst thou like to meet our older sister, too?"

"I... I have an older sister?" Irmo was amazed that Atar would be so generous to him and he almost started to weep, but Nienna came then and took him into her embrace.

"Hello, Irmo," she said gently. "I am thy sister, Nienna, and I love thee very much."

"As do I," Námo chimed.

"As do I," Atar echoed with a smile and gestured for all three of them to come to him. He took Irmo into his embrace first. "Welcome, best beloved," he said, giving His newest Child a kiss. "Welcome to thy new family."

Irmo started to weep indeed, overcome with joy and some deeper emotion he did not yet understand. Atar then welcomed the two older siblings into His embrace. At the sense of love and belonging that engulfed them, Námo and Nienna also began to weep. Atar softly sang a lullaby then and soon all three of His Children were asleep in His embrace, the youngest snuggled between the two older ones. That is how Melkor, Manwë, Varda, Aulë, Yavanna, Ulmo and Oromë found them when Atar summoned them from their play to meet their newest brother and they all rejoiced that their family had grown once again.

WANDERING: Found

SUMMARY: Compelled by a need he does not understand, an Elf leaves his companions to sojourn alone, little guessing at the import of his wanderings. Takes place in the First Age of Middle-earth.

****

He decided suddenly to leave his cousins to their hunting.

"Whither goest thou?" Maglor asked him in surprise.

Maedhros merely grunted, well used to his fey moods.

"I know not," he replied with a shrug. "Peradventure I shall wander south and east toward the mountains." Why he said that he could not say, for, until the words were spoken, he had had no inkling of his intended route.

And so he went. He took the Dwarf-road towards the shining mountains of the Ered Lindon, rising a darker blue against the azure sky, far in the distance. Eventually he crossed the Gelion at Sarn Athrad, and, turning south over the upper streams of the Ascar, he entered into northern Ossiriand.

He did not know where he was going, for in truth, he had no goal, only a burning need to be... somewhere. He slept under the stars and drank from the clear streams, eating berries, nuts and roots. Once or twice he met with a Nando or three. They exchanged news.

"There are rumors of strange creatures coming over the mountains," one of the Green-elves told him. "Some say they are yrch, but no one knows for certain."

The Noldo shrugged. "Perchance I shall see for myself," he said and on he went, heading towards the foothills of the mountains below the springs of Thalos. It was early evening, just after sunset, and the stars were beginning to blaze brightly across the heavens. He had been traveling all day and was searching for a place in which to rest himself and his horse when he espied the light of campfires in the distance. Leaving his steed to fend for itself, he made his way silently towards the light, his sword drawn in readiness. As he drew near he also heard singing and wondered, for no orch ever sang and the Nandor did not light fires in the night.

Then he saw them — strange creatures indeed! They were definitely not yrch but neither were they Elves, for they were not beautiful. They were shorter than the Noldor, shorter even than the Sindar or Nandor, though taller than Dwarves, yet some of the men sported beards that were almost as full as those of the Naugrim. Their clothing was rustic and their speech incomprehensible, though some of their words sounded oddly Eldarin to his ears. He gazed at them in wonder and suddenly he knew!

These were the Atani! These were the Secondborn of whom Morgoth had spoken and about whom the Valar had remained silent. These were the Supplanters, the ones whom it was said Ilúvatar created to take the place of the Eldar in Middle-earth. He well remembered the words of Melkor whispered in the streets of Tirion and half-believed even by him:

"The Elder King holds ye captive, not wishing for ye to grow mighty with your own kingdoms in Middle-earth. Indeed, Ilúvatar Himself hath decreed it so, for he will bring forth Men to supplant ye. They will be weaker than ye and short-lived, and thus the Powers will have greater sway over them. They mean to defraud ye of Ilúvatar’s inheritance for the Eldar."

He gazed upon the Atani as they sat around the fire, wanting to hate them, for here were the Usurpers, the Threateners of all he had fought for, all that he had gained these last three hundred coranári, just as Melkor had warned them. And yet....

He saw a young mother nursing her babe as a young man looked upon them both with an expression of mingled love and awe. He wondered at the sight of some whose hair was grey or white, their features wizened, yet they were treated reverently and with obvious love by those who appeared in the bloom of health and vigor. He watched them laugh and sing and dance in obvious joy and thanksgiving. He smiled at the children playing and looked fondly upon one girl-child cradling a rag doll as lovingly as the young mother cradled her nursing child.

He watched them through the night and in the process his hate abated. For the first time Finrod Felagund fell in love, truly fell in love with the ‘other’. He rejoiced in his heart for these Children of Ilúvatar, for so he recognized them to be, and he was glad.

Slowly, as the night deepened, the fires died and the creatures... nay, the people, fell asleep, leaving no watch. He waited for a time before slipping silently into the encampment until he reached the central campfire. There was a rudely fashioned harp which one of them had played with crude talent lying beside the fire. Finrod picked it up and, sitting on a log which had been used earlier as a seat by the harper, he began to play and sing. As he did so he began to understand the restlessness of his own heart that had sent him wandering far from his home until it had finally come to rest here among the other Eruhíni....

****

Manwë dismissed the Eagle who had brought him the news with a nod of thanks before turning to gaze at the others from where he stood upon a balcony overlooking the Pelóri. "He’s found them," he said, stepping back inside the throne room.

Námo was the first to stir, giving the Elder King a grave nod. "As it was foreseen."

Varda spoke next. "This is one pebble in the still waters whose ripples will echo down the Ages until even we cannot see the end."

"Yet all is as Atar wills," Námo replied. "The Children have found one another at last. Only good can ultimately come from this."

To that none could disagree. Manwë nodded, taking his seat once again. "Let us turn to other matters while we await the unfolding of this particular part of the drama. I believe Námo was explaining the order in which he plans to release the Reborn...."

****

Yrch: (Sindarin) Plural of orch: orc.

Naugrim (Sindarin) Dwarves, literally "the Stunted People".

Atani: (Quenya) Plural of Atan: Human (literally, ‘the Second’); in Sindarin the word would be rendered Edain, the singular of which is Adan.

Coranári: (Quenya): Plural of coranar: sun-round, i.e., a solar year.

Eruhíni: (Quenya) Children of Eru, Elves and Men.

Notes: The events described in this tale take place in the year 305 of the First Age. Much of the description of Finrod’s route and his first meeting with Men is taken directly from The Silmarillion, Chapter XVII, "Of the Coming of Men into the West".

The Ered Lindon (Mountains of the Land of Music) were also called the Ered Luin (Blue Mountains).

Melkor’s speech which Finrod is remembering is based on a description of his words which he spoke to the Noldor as recorded in The Silmarillion, Chapter VII, "Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor".

COURAGE: Impressions

SUMMARY: They had nothing in common, except for one thing: they both loved her.

****

Finrod looked up from the documents he was perusing to stare at his seneschal in surprise. "Alone? He came alone?"

Guilin nodded, his expression carefully neutral so that not even Finrod, who knew the ellon better than most, could tell what his thoughts were. "He specifically asked that you not greet him formally before your throne... at least not yet."

The King of Nargothrond sighed, staring ruefully at the pile of papers he had hoped to get through that day and nodded. He looked back up at Guilin. "See that he has everything he needs for his refreshment and tell him I will see him in an hour’s time. You may bring him to the library."

The seneschal bowed and exited Finrod’s study. The son of Arafinwë stared at his desk where the documents stared back at him with cool accusation and shook his head. "Celeborn," he said out loud as he rose from his chair, "this had better be good."

****

Celeborn paced nervously before the fireplace, ignoring the finely crafted woodwork and stonework of the library with its many shelves of books and scrolls, its richly woven rugs and crystal chandeliers. It was the envy of all the Elven realms, but the Prince of Doriath saw none of it. Galadriel and Melian had both suggested, with varying degrees of subtlety, that he bring his very best court garb to this meeting. Lúthien, on the other hand, had not been subtle at all:

"If you intend to impress Cousin Finrod with your sartorial splendour, you’ll need to dress like one of the Golodh," she told him with a wicked gleam in her eyes. Galadriel had glowered and Melian had rolled her eyes at her daughter’s lack of tact but in the end he decided his second-best court garb would do. Now that he was here, though, he wondered if he had made a mistake as he nervously fingered his tunic. He sighed and ran a mental inventory of his appearance.

His shirt was of fine white lawn with white-on-white embroidery at the cuffs, placket and hem which was visible just below his knee-length purple-grey slubbed wool tunic. It had full sleeves with the cuffs trimmed in grey squirrel fur. The rounded neck and the hem were trimmed with a band of dark purple silk embroidered with an intricate silver-thread knotwork design interspersed with river pearls and amethysts. A finely tooled black leather belt cinched his waist. It had two silver clasps in the shape of niphredil, the emblem of Elu Thingol’s house. Underneath the tunic he wore finely woven wool breeches dyed grey and tucked into black leather mid-calf house boots. Over this ensemble he wore an unlined sleeveless open robe of white lamb’s wool, its bottom hem brushing the tops of his boots. A simple thin circlet of gold, a symbol of his princely rank, graced his silver hair and the silver beads, black opals, river pearls and moonstones that were entwined in his warrior braids sparkled in the light of the crystal chandeliers that lit the library.

He sighed again, but really, why should he have worn his very best tunic, which was stiff with embroidery and somewhat uncomfortable to wear anyway? It wasn’t as if this meeting were between a sovereign lord of one kingdom and the ambassador of another, which was why he had requested that Finrod not greet him formally before his throne. This was a family matter, not something for public consumption... or at least not yet.

The sound of a door opening made him look up from his ruminations and he saw Finrod enter and despaired — he had indeed made an error in judgment in the selection of his garb. The King of Nargothrond was — resplendent was the only word that came to mind.

Finrod wore an ankle-length blue-green tunic of heavy brocaded silk with a scalloped diaper pattern. His emblem of harp and torch was intricately embroidered on the chest. The tunic was slit along the sides to the hips showing the lining of dark blue samite shot with gold and silver thread underneath. The sleeves were long and slit from wrist to shoulder and also lined with the dark blue samite. Beryl-inset mithril buttons closed the sleeves at the elbows, allowing the sleeves of the asphodel-yellow figured silk shirt that he wore underneath to show. The shirt was gathered at the wrists and collar with dark teal green ribbons and when Finrod moved, Celeborn could see through the side slits where the hem of the shirt was embroidered with green ivy leaves. An ankle-length sleeveless open robe of the same dark blue samite completed the ensemble. It was lined with a very pale ivory-yellow figured silk. Where the two fabrics met there was a line of embroidered green ivy leaves. Its collar was wide and trimmed with mink. His waist was cinched with a belt of flower-shaped mithril links, the center of each flower inset with either beryl, ruby or sapphire. It was simply buckled with a gold-washed mithril clasp on which was etched his emblem of harp and torch. Breeches of finely woven linen dyed dark blue were tucked into ankle-high house boots made from the same brocaded material as the tunic.

His golden head was graced with an intricately wrought silver crown and his own warrior braids were entwined with gold beads, beryls, diamonds and carnelians. He wore the Nauglamir around his neck and a ring shaped like twin serpents whose eyes were emeralds. Their heads met beneath a crown of golden flowers that the one upheld and the other devoured. Celeborn knew that the ring came originally from Valinor, as had the gems encrusted upon the gold carcanet of the Nauglamir, but such knowledge did not impress him now.

All that impressed him now was the fact that even if he had brought his most elaborate court garb it would still have paled against the splendour of the Golodh’s attire. He had a feeling that Finrod would not be impressed by him at all.

****

Finrod saw Celeborn straighten as he entered the library and noticed, but could not interpret, the flicker of despair that flashed through the Sinda’s eyes before he assumed a more neutral expression. He recognized the prince’s garb as being his second best and sighed inwardly with relief. He had had a virtual battle of wills with his own valet who kept insisting the king wear his very best court garb.

"After all, my lord," Belamdir had stated with a decided sniff, "it is important to show these Sindar their place. Prince of Doriath he may be, but Lord Celeborn is still Moriquendo."

Finrod had kept his expression mild, but his tone was silk over steel. "Prince of Doriath he is indeed, but more importantly, he is my kinsman through my beloved amillë. I do not need to impress Celeborn or anyone else for that matter." Finrod had sighed then, ruefully admitting to himself that Belamdir’s attitude was probably closer to the mark of how Finrod sometimes felt about Celeborn than he knew, for the king often found his distant cousin a mystery. The Sindarin prince was so unassuming and diffident that Finrod sometimes made the same mistake his Fëanorëan cousins did in dismissing him out of hand. Yet, Thingol used him as his ambassador to the other Elven realms and Finrod respected Thingol too much to ignore the implications of his choice.

"My second-best court garb will do just fine," he had said to his valet after a moment’s pause.

Belamdir had had the grace to blush at Finrod’s reprimand and, after giving his liege a bow, he had gone to find the preferred garb. In the end though, Finrod thought with wry humor as he made his way across the room to greet his guest, he had had to settle for wearing his third-best court garb as the second-best was still with the laundresses being cleaned.

"Greetings, Cousin," Finrod said with a smile as he held out his right hand to grasp Celeborn with a warrior’s clasp before bestowing a kinsman’s kiss on his brow. "What dost thou here? I was surprised to learn that thou camest alone. Is there aught amiss in mine Uncle’s fair realm?"

Celeborn returned Finrod’s greeting with his own kiss and shook his head. "Nay, all is well," he replied, then hesitated, finding himself unable to meet Finrod’s curious gaze and cursing himself for his nervousness. He was older than Finrod for the love of the Belain! Yet, here he was practically stammering before his cousin as if he were an elfling of thirty.

Finrod took his hand and gave him an encouraging smile. "Come, let us sit and be comfortable." He motioned to the two chairs before the fireplace and Celeborn sank gratefully into one while Finrod went to a sideboard and poured them both some wine into crystal goblets, handing one to Celeborn before sitting.

"Now, tell me how fares mine Uncle and my kin," the King of Nargothrond said once he was settled. "How fares my dear sister?" He took a sip of wine, surreptitiously watching Celeborn over the rim of his goblet. The Prince of Doriath seemed unusually nervous and his pale features were even more so. Finrod wanted very much to shake the Sinda and demand he speak immediately, but decided to let Celeborn take what time he needed. He had obviously come for a purpose, though it appeared not to be a dire one, for which Finrod was grateful.

"Elu Thingol does well and the realm flourishes," Celeborn answered readily enough, glad to be given a reprieve before broaching the purpose of his visit. "Galadriel is..."

"Who?" Finrod interrupted with a frown. He was sure he had never met any elleth in Thingol and Melian’s court by that name.

Celeborn grimaced slightly and silently castigated himself for not being more careful with his words. "I meant, Artanis," he said apologetically, giving Finrod a shy look. "‘Galadriel’ is what I call her."

Finrod raised an amused eyebrow. "Indeed. And doth my sister approve?"

Now Celeborn smiled more openly, his eyes brightening with mirth. "She slapped me the first time I called her that."

Now Finrod laughed. "I can just imagine," he exclaimed, "and so naturally, she decided to adopt the name for herself, didn’t she?"

Celeborn was unsuccessful in hiding his surprise at his kinsman’s astute observation. "Thou knowest thy sister well, Cousin."

Finrod nodded. "As well as any, and better than most, I think. She often defieth description and conventions. I know she was somewhat a trial to our parents." He smiled ruefully and Celeborn nodded, forbearing to speak further, not wishing to cause additional sorrow to Finrod. He had noticed that even Galadriel’s demeanor darkened whenever she mentioned either of her parents and knew that, at least for these two children of Arafinwë and Eärwen, their separation had been fraught with pain and guilt. "And I suspect that it is my sister that bringest thee to Nargothrond," Finrod added shrewdly before taking another sip of wine.

Celeborn did not respond immediately, trying to keep his emotions under control. He was not sure how Finrod would react to his request but realized that he could not back out now. He would not disappoint Galadriel — or himself — by taking a coward’s way out and hedging. He took a deep breath, placed his goblet on the table that lay between them, then went down to one knee before the surprised King of Nargothrond. In careful Quenya, the Prince of Doriath spoke his request:

"Lenémë metelyaldo merinyë verya nésalyanna," he said all in one breath, staring at Finrod’s embroidered tunic as he spoke, not daring to see the look of dismay or disapproval on his cousin’s face.

Finrod wasn’t sure what shocked him more, the fact that Celeborn had gone to his knees like a common supplicant before his king or the fact that he spoke in Quenya, a language forbidden to be spoken inside Melian’s Girdle. He could only imagine that Artanis had secretly taught him these words. Did they think he would be more impressed by that then if Celeborn had simply asked for her hand speaking Sindarin? But none of that mattered to him. Instead he was more impressed by Celeborn’s courage and courtesy in coming to him in the first place, for well he knew the customs of the Sindar. Celeborn and Artanis... er... no... Galadriel would have been within their rights to merely consummate their love for one another and then tell the family after the fact. He suspected that both his sister and Melian had convinced Celeborn that following Noldorin custom in this case would be best and perhaps serve a greater purpose.

He reached down and lifted Celeborn to his feet, rising as well. He stared deeply into the Sinda’s eyes and noted with silent approval that Celeborn did not flinch from his gaze, for well he knew that the light of the Trees shining from them was oft times disconcerting to many Sindar. But then, Finrod thought, here is one who has lived under the tutelage of Elu Thingol and his queen, Melian. There was more to this unassuming Sinda than met the eye and Finrod vowed then and there never to take this particular Sinda for granted again.

Celeborn, for his part, remained still, refusing to look away from Finrod’s intense gaze with its eldrich light, however much he wished to do otherwise. He stood there waiting for Finrod to reject his suit. Not that it made much difference under Sindarin law if Finrod approved or disapproved but even Celeborn was aware how far the acceptance of his union with the sister of one of the Noldorin kings would go if Finrod welcomed the union.

The King of Nargothrond suddenly leaned over and gave him a kiss, not on the brow as was customary among distant kin, but on the lips, as between brothers. Celeborn’s surprise must have shown, for the king smiled. "Didst thou really think I would be so foolish as to deny my sister anything, muindor nîn? Welcome to the family."

Celeborn felt his knees go weak and then he straightened and smiled, returning Finrod’s kiss with one of his own. Finrod smiled and stepped back. "I ordered a welcoming feast for thee and I think it would be appropriate to make the announcement then. When do ye plan to wed?"

"Galadriel and Melian say no earlier than the Avorn Anor e-Laer," Celeborn replied, "for they have much to do, or so they said." He gave Finrod a shrug and wry glance.

Finrod nodded. "That is only four months away. Truly, it is barely enough time." He laughed lightly at Celeborn’s look of disbelief. "Well, we should go, but there is one thing more that we must do ere we depart for the feast."

Celeborn frowned slightly, wondering what else needed doing, even as Finrod grinned at him with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

****

Celeborn stood beside Finrod at the foot of the dais where was the High Table, fingering with wonder the dark blue robe that now graced his body. Never had he worn anything so beautiful, the texture so fine and smooth and delightful to the touch. He had blinked in surprise when Finrod had doffed the robe, insisting that he put it on.

"It is a custom among the Noldor to bestow gifts of clothing upon a guest if the host wishes all to understand that the guest stands high in the host’s esteem, and any insult to the guest is an insult to the host, even when the guest-host relationship no longer exists. That I gift you with a robe from my own wardrobe will speak volumes to the Noldor amongst my people, though I doubt the Sindar will understand or, if they do, they will not be too impressed." This last had been said with a wry grin and Celeborn had found himself laughing even as he allowed Finrod to help him into the robe.

Now they both stood before the assembled lords and ladies of Nargothrond and it did not escape Celeborn’s notice that not a few eyebrows were raised among Finrod’s Noldorin subjects. The Sindar amongst them merely looked upon the Sindarin Prince of Doriath with respectful curiosity and approval. Finrod gave him a sideways glance and then addressed his court.

"It gives me great pleasure to announce unto ye this night that his Highness, Celeborn, Prince of Doriath, hath come to Nargothrond to ask of me the hand of my beloved sister, Artanis, who hath, so I have learned, adopted the name ‘Galadriel’...." He paused to allow the murmur of surprise that rippled across the great hall to die down, "and I have given them my blessing. The wedding shall be held at the Avorn Anor e-Laer." He then took Celeborn’s hand in his and led him to the High Table, seating him on his left. This surprised even Celeborn, never mind the rest of the populace, for by so doing, Finrod was subtly (or not so subtly) informing his people that Celeborn of Doriath was now family and was to be treated as such by all.

"But Unca’ Finda, I always sit there!"

Celeborn looked around to find a rather put out elleth not much older than twenty-five standing next to him pouting. She had the typically dark brown hair of the Noldor, though there were golden highlights that harkened to her Vanyarin heritage. She wore a lovely frock of dark blue and a crown of early irises in her hair. Her features bore a close enough resemblance to Finrod that Celeborn suspected he was gazing upon one of the king’s kin, perhaps a niece.

Finrod smiled down at the elfling. "Not tonight, Finduilas. Tonight thou mayest sup with thine adar and naneth."

"But I am thy chatelaine, Unca’ Finda," she protested, unconsciously twisting one of her braids. "Thou didst say so. I should sit next to thee." Tears of childish frustration welled in her eyes.

Celeborn saw Finrod frown and rather than be the cause of a family scene, the Prince of Doriath rose gracefully from his chair to face the elleth, who stepped back in some consternation. Celeborn gave the elleth a proper bow, then knelt before her, eliciting an ‘O’ of surprise from the child. He reached out and gently took one of her hands, aware that the eyes of all in the hall were upon him.

"It would do me great honor if thou wouldst share my trencher, my lady, for art thou and I not family?" He reached over and pulled her head down so that he might kiss her gently on the lips, then he rose and led her to the chair next to his. "Sit thee here, my lady, and perhaps thou and I can exchange tales about thine uncle." He smiled at Finrod and gave him a wink. "I am sure thou hast many amusing tales to tell on him."

Finduilas giggled and her eyes brightened with childish glee at the thought that this rather forbidding looking Sinda would want to listen to her tell stories on her Unca’ Finda. In her glee she did not notice the amused and indulgent looks the two ellyn shared.

"Like I said," Finrod whispered to Celeborn as they took their own seats, "welcome to the family."

Celeborn merely laughed, then turned to Finduilas and listened with grave attention as the child began telling him her first tale.

****

Golodh: (Sindarin) Noldo.

Moriquendo: (Quenya) (Male) Dark Elf, the name the Noldor gave to the elves of Beleriand to stress that these elves had not lived in the Light of the Two Trees. While technically true, it was seen as an insult by the Beleriandic elves, implying that they were in league with Morgoth.

Amillë: (Quenya) Mother.

Belain: (Sindarin) Plural of Balan: Vala.

Lenémë meleltyaldo merinyë verya nésalyanna: (Quenya) ‘With leave of thy majesty I wish to marry thy sister’; verya- (intransitive) ‘to be joined to’, thus the spouse-to-be is mentioned in the allative.

Muindor nîn: (Sindarin) My brother.

Avorn Anor e-Laer: (Sindarin) Summer Solstice, literally, ‘The Staying of the Sun of Summer’. The word ‘solstice’ literally means ‘sun-standing’ for it appears as if the sun’s apparent movement northward stops at that point before it begins its southern journey towards the winter solstice.

Adar: (Sindarin): Father.

Naneth: (Sindarin) Mother.

Note: The description of Finrod’s ring is taken directly from the Silmarillion as is the description of the Nauglamir and the fact that his crown is silver.

DISGUISE: Emissaries

SUMMARY: As Darkness rises once again in Middle-earth, the Valar discuss a mission for some of their People to undertake.

MEFA 2008: Third Place: Humor (Valar & Maiar)

****

For once the Valar were all gathered together in the throne room in Ilmarin. Even Ulmo had agreed to attend. They were alone, for not even their most trusted Maiar were in attendance. Manwë had called them after his Eagles had reported a Shadow beginning to fall upon Eryn Lasgalen and several of the Valar opined that Sauron was perhaps attempting to regain a foothold in Middle-earth.

"Or one of his lieutenants," Tulkas growled when he heard Manwë’s news. "I suspect it is only a matter of time before the Nazgûl rise again."

"Unfortunately," Manwë agreed. "Much sorrow could have been avoided if Isildur had not claimed the Ring."

"Neither here nor there," Námo said coldly. "I do not think Isildur was ever meant to destroy the Ring. I think Atar had something else in mind from the very beginning, a part of the Third Theme we never heard."

"Why do you say that?" Ulmo asked with a frown. "Have you seen something...."

Námo shook his head. "I have not, but I spoke with Isildur briefly before I sent him on his way and he told me he had been plagued by dreams for several nights before the final battle."

"What sort of dreams?" Irmo asked in curiosity.

Námo gave his younger brother a wry look. "Let me guess. You never sent them."

Irmo shook his head. "I did not."

Estë gave her spouse a look of surprise. "Well, if you didn’t send the dreams, then who... oh."

Námo nodded, his smile grimly amused. "Exactly. Isildur was not too clear about them and much of what he described made no sense, even to me, but one thing stood out: in every dream he saw three small figures trudging across the plateau of Gorgoroth towards Orodruin and one of them bore around his neck the One Ring."

"Who were they, did he know?" Varda asked, looking as intrigued as the others by Námo’s words.

Námo shook his head. "Nay, he did not, only he was sure they were neither Men nor Elves nor Dwarves or even Orcs."

They all sat in silence for a time, digesting this bit of information and coming to no conclusions. "That makes no sense," Oromë finally said. "Surely these creatures had to belong to one of the sentient races of Middle-earth."

"As I said, much of what Isildur described made little sense, but clearly he somehow knew that it was not his task to destroy the Ring when it did come to him."

"And now it appears that Sauron is rising once again to plague the Children," Manwë said, his tone sad.

"So what will we do about it?" Yavanna asked. "That is, after all, why you summoned us, is it not?"

"Indeed," Manwë replied. "I have in mind to send some of our People to Middle-earth to help succor the Children in the coming crisis."

"Who?" Aulë asked.

"In what manner?" his spouse enquired almost at the same time.

"Their numbers will have to be few," Varda explained, "and they will not be sent to lord it over the Children but to encourage and teach them to work together against a common foe. Already, Elves and Men are drifting apart and there is even discord between Men so that bonds of kinship and fellowship are loosening and unraveling to their detriment."

"I have in mind to create a new Order among the Maiar," Manwë said. "These will go to Middle-earth as our emissaries."

"Surely not in their own forms," exclaimed Tulkas. "It won’t do to have them walking amongst the Children as they are, else Men especially will become intimidated."

"That is why we think they should go in disguise," Varda replied with a smile.

That idea intrigued them all. "Disguised as what?" Námo asked with an amused look.

"Let us first decide who we will send and then go from there," Manwë suggested and to that they all agreed. For a time there was much debate, some of it heated, as to who would be the most appropriate and many names were offered until finally four were selected: Curumo and Aiwendil from the People of Aulë and Yavanna and from the People of Nienna, Pallando, who, when informed of his selection, asked that his friend Alatar of the People of Oromë and Nessa be allowed to accompany him and the Valar acquiesced to the Maia’s request.

During the debate, Námo remained aloof and neither agreed nor disagreed with the choices that were made. Yet he was uneasy in his mind about three of them. He glanced at Curumo, Aulë’s servant. There was a haughtiness to this particular Maia that reminded him too much of Aulendil who had styled himself ‘Mairon’ but had eventually become Sauron. Pallando and Alatar appeared competent, but the Vala detected a weakness of resolve in them that might prevent them from remaining true to their mission should they become enamored of power. Aiwendil only seemed to be a proper choice, yet the antagonism between him and Curumo did not go unnoticed by the Lord of Mandos and he feared that could spell trouble. He sent a private thought to Manwë, voicing his concerns and was pleased when Manwë did not dismiss them out of hand but accepted them and admitted that he too had certain reservations. Then Námo made one small suggestion and Manwë smiled.

"I think we should send one more," the Elder King said suddenly, taking the rest of them by surprise.

"Who do you have in mind?" Varda asked.

"Olórin," Manwë replied, looking pointedly at Námo.

"He has been serving me for some time," Námo said with a faint smile, "when he is not with Nienna. He has learnt much from us both and I think he will be ideal." He watched Curumo’s expression darken while Pallando and Alatar looked on with disinterest. Olórin was not one with whom they interacted much so they did not know him well. Aiwendil, however, actually looked relieved and Námo hid a smile. Of the four, he was the youngest in Atar’s Thought, and the least sure of himself, yet there was a gentleness about him that warmed Námo. That the Maia was a friend of Olórin’s was obvious from his reaction.

Olórin, in the meantime, was summoned and informed of the mission, which he accepted with humility and delight. "I am thy servant in all things, my lord," the Maia said to Manwë with a bow.

"So now that we have decided who to send," Vairë said, "it still remains for us to decide how they should be sent." She looked at Manwë and Varda. "You mentioned something about going in disguise."

The Elder King and the Queen of Stars nodded. "To send them as they are will defeat the purpose of their mission," Manwë said.

"I have worn this shape for so long, my lord," Curumo interjected somewhat petulantly, "I doubt me that I could easily exchange it for another."

Námo’s eyes narrowed at Curumo’s words, but Olórin merely chuckled. "Come now, my friend, you spend most of your time unclothed. You’re merely out of practice." With that the Maia’s form began to shift until standing before them was an ellon of thirty summers, obviously one of the Noldor by his coloring. Before anyone could comment, the Elf-child was replaced in rapid succession by a Dwarf, a king of Men and a horse, of all things, before Olorin returned to his original form. "There, you see," he said with a twinkle in his eyes, "it’s not that hard. I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it before long."

Curumo sneered at his fellow Maia. "Well, since you’re the expert in shape-shifting, perhaps our Masters should let you decide on our disguises, though I refuse to go as a Dwarf."

Aulë frowned at his servant at that but said nothing. Námo smiled. "I think that’s an excellent suggestion."

The other Valar agreed and Manwë bade Olórin to choose their disguises. For a long moment the Maia stared at nothing in particular as he stood in deep thought. Finally, he looked up at the Elder King and gave him a bow. "With thy permission, sire," he said, "I think something like this might be appropriate." Slowly, he began to change his form. He kept the shape of the Children, but he appeared more like one of the Secondborn. His hair lengthened and became grey as did the beard that sprouted from his cheeks. His face became lined as if he were suddenly old and his raiment mutated from the white tunic and grey surcoat of his office into humble grey robes. He, in fact, became quite ugly in features when likened to his former beauty and all watched in amazement at the transformation.

"And why should any of us demean ourselves to look like that?" Curumo demanded with a contemptuous sniff. "Why can we not appear as one of the Firstborn, who are at least beautiful to look upon, though their beauty barely compares with our own."

Olórin shrugged. "The Firstborn would accept us I think whatever our guise, for there are still some amongst them who remembered us from former times and would welcome us howsoever we appeared. That cannot be said of the younger Children. They would look upon us and either fear us or worship us and that is not our goal. Nay, if we appear humble and more like elderly Men we will be more respected. Men especially revere the elderly amongst them for the wisdom they have achieved."

"I doubt if any Secondborn has achieved any amount of wisdom, seeing how short their lives are," Alatar said somewhat disdainfully.

"Then perhaps you should spend some time in my Halls, Alatar," Námo offered coldly, "and listen to the wisdom of those who have suffered death in all its agonies before you make such unthinking statements concerning any of Atar’s Children."

The Maia visibly paled and gave the Lord of Mandos his obeisance and apology, which Námo accepted without speaking further. Manwë raised an eyebrow at Námo but otherwise did not reprimand the younger Vala. "I think Olórin’s suggestion has merit. Yes, I think incarnating as elderly looking Men will work."

"One other suggestion if I may, my lord," Olórin said.

"Say on, Olórin," Manwë commanded.

"I think it behooves us to become fully incarnate, and allow ourselves to suffer pains of hunger, and thirst, fear and fatigue, just as the Children do."

"Why should we do that?" Aiwendil asked, not in belligerence, but in actual curiosity.

"How can we truly understand them and help them and win their trust if we do not suffer with them, both in joy and sorrow?" Olórin answered.

"In other words," Námo said gravely, "you wish to suffer the possibility of bodily death."

"It seems only fair that we take the same risks as they do simply by being born as Incarnates," Olórin replied with a shrug.

Curumo looked appalled at the idea, while Pallando and Alatar seemed uneasy. Aiwendil merely looked thoughtful, then gave his friend a brief sunny grin. "Sounds rather exciting when you put it that way."

Olórin laughed and gave Aiwendil a hug. "Just don’t go falling out of trees and breaking your neck."

The Valar smiled at that and Manwë nodded. "Then it is decided. Choose what guise you will so long as you appear as elderly Men."

"As you will be truly incarnate, though," Námo interjected, "your hröar should age but slowly as do those of the Firstborn and like the Firstborn you should suffer no illness, but fatigue you will know and hunger and thirst. Doubt and fear will be your companions and your memories of Aman will be clouded. Much of your innate powers will be curtailed that you be not tempted to use them."

The Maiar nodded their understanding, though, again, Námo noticed Curumo grimacing at the thought of no longer having the range of powers he presently enjoyed. One by one they made the transformation. Aiwendil adopted brown robes and a dark green cloak, befitting one who was a servant of Yavanna. Pallando’s robes were a deep blue for some reason, but did not look out of character. True to form, his friend Alatar copied him, though he adopted a blue that was several shades lighter. Finally, Curumo made the transformation and Námo frowned at the pristine white robes but did not otherwise comment. Of the five, Curumo still looked too regal and haughty but there was nothing any of them could or would do about it.

Manwë merely nodded as each made his transformation and when all five stood before him in their various guises he stepped down from his throne and handed each of them a staff as symbols of their office, naming Curumo as the head of their Order which he called the Istari, a word that Men would render as ‘Wizards’ in their various tongues.

"Ulmo has made arrangements for your transportation to Middle-earth," the Elder King told them. "Remember your oaths to us, my sons, and may Atar watch over you."

One by one, beginning with Curumo, they all received the blessings of the Valar before filing out. Olórin was the last and when it came Námo’s turn to give him a blessing he smiled at his former servant, his eyes bright with merriment. "I wonder what Curumo would have said if you had decided on the horse."

Olórin burst out laughing, then bowed to the Lord of Mandos, giving him a wink. "Actually, my lord, I was almost ready to go with the Dwarf, instead."

Laughter followed the Maia out of the throne room as the humblest and wisest of the Istari joined his fellow Wizards to begin their journey to Middle-earth.

****

Ellon: Male elf.

Note: According to Tolkien, Sauron’s original name was Mairon ‘the Admirable’. [Parma Eldalamberon 17, s.v. SAWA-]

WOUNDS: Invisible Scars

SUMMARY: Some wounds run deeper than others, as Arafinwë discovers when he speaks to his son, Findaráto, shortly after his son's release from Mandos.

****

Arafinwë knocked on the door of his son’s apartments and, receiving no reply, cautiously opened it. He hated to intrude on his recently returned child’s privacy but Findaráto was supposed to have been at breakfast twenty minutes ago and his parents were naturally worried. He could have just sent one of the ubiquitous servants to check on the Reborn prince, Arafinwë reflected as he made his way through the sitting room towards the bedroom, but beyond all hope one of his children, whom he had lost to madness and rebellion, had been returned to him and he was loath to allow others the pleasure of looking after him.

The door to the bedroom was slightly ajar. "Findaráto," Arafinwë called softly from the doorway, "it’s Atto."

Again there was no reply and he opened the door the rest of the way, and gasped in dismay. Findaráto stood unclothed, his nightshirt crumpled carelessly on the floor by his feet, staring intently into his floor length mirror, jabbing and pushing at various parts of his anatomy, muttering all the while. Arafinwë strained to hear what his son was saying and paled as the words reached him, a frisson of sick fear intermixed with awe and sorrow running deep through his fëa:

"This is where Sauron’s werewolf bit me," the once King of Nargothrond said softly to himself, almost dispassionately, "and here is where that stupid orc came out of nowhere and speared me during the Dagor Bragollach." He twisted his torso to better see his back. "And I think that’s where Angrod accidently shot me with an arrow when he thought I was an Easterling." He frowned at that as if unsure of the memory or in displeasure at the thought of his own brother shooting him even if by accident.

"Findaráto," Arafinwë said then, calling attention to his presence, unable to bear hearing more.

The recently returned Reborn Noldo looked up in surprise, having been too intent on his self-examination to realize he had an audience. "Atto! Where are they?" he asked, his voice pleading.

Arafinwë stepped into the room and came to stand before his son, brushing a loving hand through the ellon’s golden locks. So like his amillë, he thought, even as he asked his own questions. "Where are what, yonya? Why are you not dressed? You should have been at breakfast a half an hour ago."

Findaráto shook his head, not interested in breaking his fast just then. "My scars, Atto. Where did they go?"

"Go? They didn’t go anywhere, yonya. They are still there on... on your corpse."

"Corpse?" Findaráto’s expression was one of confusion and then cleared a little as he looked straight into his atar’s eyes and nodded. "They buried me on my own island. Beren and Lúthien, I mean. I... I stayed and watched them do it be-before Lord Námo called me to... to stand trial." By now tears were streaming down his face and Arafinwë took his son into his embrace and held him, rocking him gently. "It hurt, Atto," Findaráto added amidst his tears. "It hurt so much."

"Dying?" Arafinwë asked in horror, but Findaráto shook his head.

"My Judgment," he whispered, clinging to Arafinwë ever more tightly.

"Oh, yonya," the Noldóran said with a sigh, his own tears beginning to fall. "I am so sorry... for everything."

Findaráto pulled back from his atar’s embrace, brushing a hand across his face and sniffling. "I wish I had my scars back."

"Whatever for?" Arafinwë demanded in shock. He could not imagine anyone wanting to be marred with wounds such as he feared his child had suffered. His son had been returned to him whole and beautiful and that was all that mattered to him.

Findaráto gave Arafinwë a rueful smile. "At least if I had my scars I’d know that my life... and death meant something. Now..." he shook his head, turning to stare into the mirror. "Now I have nothing to show for either my life... or my death."

For a moment Arafinwë was at a loss as to what to say to that, then he gently wrapped his arms around Findaráto’s chest and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. "You have your memories, or will when they come back to you fully," he suggested. "They will have to be enough. The Valar graced you with a new hröa, a sign that you have been given a second chance at Life. Do not waste it mourning for the scars of your old life."

"But how can I know who I am without them?" Findaráto asked plaintively. "It’s almost as if nothing happened, as if I never left, never carved out a kingdom for myself, never renounced my crown for an oath, never... never died protecting a friend."

Arafinwë sighed, unsure how to answer his son. He closed his eyes and just allowed his presence, his love, to flow from him into Findaráto, hoping that the ellon would recognize and accept his gift. He felt Findaráto relax somewhat in his embrace and opened his eyes to stare into the same mirror.

"But you did do all those things, hinya," he finally replied. "All that and more. The fact that you can no longer see the scars that defined your previous existence does not mean they are still not there. They’re just invisible."

"Invisible," Findaráto echoed musingly, as if the thought had never occurred to him. He ran his hands over his unmarred hröa, stopping here or there where memory told him a particular scar should be, muttering to himself again, naming the wound that he had received and the manner in which it had been gotten. Arafinwë never moved. Indeed, he barely breathed as he listened in fascinated horror to the litany of his son’s existence boiled down to the scars gotten in a lifetime of battle and violent death. Finally, Findaráto stopped, his hands gone still as he continued staring into the mirror. Then, to Arafinwë’s surprise, his son smiled.

"You know, Atto," he said without bothering to remove his gaze from the mirror, "I just thought of something."

"What is that?"

"Now that I have a hröa again, just think of all the new scars I can accumulate."

"Your ammë would not approve," Arafinwë retorted, And neither would I, he thought to himself.

"Oh," his son said with a sigh, his smile deflating somewhat. "Well, I guess I’d better get dressed then." He started to pull himself away from Arafinwë, reaching for his breeches, but his atar turned him around and held him by the shoulders.

"I would not mention this to your ammë," he said in a tone he hoped Findaráto remembered from before and was pleased to see his son’s eyes widen in understanding.

"No, Atto," he whispered. "Some things Ammë doesn’t need to know."

"That is well, hinya," Arafinwë said, giving his son a kiss on his brow, then he gave him a smile. "Now, get dressed and come to breakfast, and afterwards... afterwards we will sit in the lower garden and talk and I will tell you about the scars I got when I fought in the War of Wrath."

Findaráto’s eyes widened even more, then he nodded and began grabbing for his clothes, dressing in record time as Arafinwë looked on with amusement. When he was done he turned to his atar. "Does Ammë know about your scars, Atto?"

"Only the ones that are visible," came the surprising answer. Father and son stared deep into one another’s eyes and there was an understanding between them that had not existed before.

Findaráto smiled. "Then I am honored that you are willing to share them with me."

"As I was honored that you shared your own scars with me. Perhaps between us we can both find final healing from all our wounds."

"I’d like that, Atto," Findaráto said fervently. "I’d like that very much."

"Come, we shouldn’t keep your ammë waiting any longer than necessary."

With that father and son, Noldóran and former King of Nargothrond, walked side-by-side, quietly comparing notes on the scars of their lives.

****

All words are Quenya unless otherwise noted.

Atto: hypocoristic form of Atar: Father.

Dagor Bragollach: (Sindarin) Battle of Sudden Flame, which occurred in 455 of the First Age. Finrod died in 468.

Amillë: Mother. The hypocoristic form is ammë.

Yonya: My son.

Hröa: Body.

Ellon: (Sindarin) Male elf.

Hinya: My child.

Noldóran: Arafinwë’s title as King of the Noldor.

APPOINTED: A Secret Voice

SUMMARY: Ulmo learns from Eru his true purpose in Eä. Takes place in the Timeless Halls.

****

Ulmo was standing in the midst of the watermeads of the Timeless Halls enjoying the garden around him. He was always happiest near water and fascinated by the never-ending ebb and flow of its courses. The yellow and white waterlilies with their dark green pads floated nearby and he drank in their beauty and sighed with contentment.

"It pleaseth thee, my Child, these watermeads which I have created for thy pleasance?"

Ulmo turned to see Atar there, smiling warmly at this Child of His Thought, and his aura brighten from its deep purple-blue hues to something closer to bluish-green. "Oh yes, Atar!" he exclaimed as he approached the One, receiving a warm embrace and a kiss. "They speak to me and I could never have imagined such beauty."

"What do they say to thee, Ulmo?" Atar asked indulgently.

Ulmo had to still himself and think for a moment. "I am not sure, Atar," he said hesitantly. "For some reason they seem to speak of...breaches and cracks through which the waters might flow." He paused for a moment before continuing. "It is almost as if... as if the waters revel in seeking ways around obstacles and barriers. Why is that, Atar, and why do I... I joy in their seeking and finding such ways to escape the boundaries which thou hast set?"

"Ah, that is what I have come to speak to thee about, my Child," Atar said gently. "Come, let us walk through these gardens together."

Ulmo eagerly followed his Atar as they wandered through the gardens, admiring this flower and that tree, but otherwise speaking not until they reached a certain place where a great grey wall blocked the way and against which the waters lapped.

"Seest thou, Ulmo," Atar said, pointing to the wall, "how this wall is a barrier to the water, preventing it from reaching the lower gardens?"

Ulmo nodded. "The water cannot flow whither it willeth but must be contained within its proper sphere."

"Thou’rt correct," Atar said with a smile, "but seest thou." He pointed towards one region of the wall and Ulmo saw a hairline crack in the otherwise impenetrable granite and looked at his Atar in wonder.

Atar merely nodded and indicated that Ulmo should cross over to the other side where he saw a thin trickle of water flowing through the crack. Only here, in this one little corner was the beauty of the wall marred. Ulmo gave the One a quizzical look. "Why hast thou allowed this imperfection to exist, Atar? What purpose doth it serve to weaken this wall which hinders the water from overflowing and drowning the gardens below us?"

"It serves as a lesson for thee, my Child," Atar replied with an amused smile at Ulmo’s confusion. "Seest thou how this wall shapeth and defineth the garden above?" the One asked and Ulmo nodded. "This wall is somewhat like the wall of Doom which none can breach," Atar continued, "for it is part of the Themes which I propounded for the creation of Eä, but behold! even against Doom can one prevail if one knoweth the key."

"What is the key, Atar?" Ulmo asked, still feeling confused.

The One looked at the Child of His Thought with great tenderness. "Thou’rt the key, Ulmo. Thou’rt the means by which Doom may be circumvented."

"I... I am the water?" Ulmo enquired.

"Nay, my Child, thou’rt the crack in the wall which allows for opposition to what must be."

"But if I oppose thee...."

"Not so, Ulmo," Atar countered. "Thou canst not oppose my Will in this, for it is for this reason that I have made thee. Thou’rt my secret voice against the tides of Fate, the chink in the armor of Destiny. There will be times, my son, when thy brethren will take a course not good for ye whilst ye dwell in Eä, though I shall hinder them not in their choices. Yet, I would have thee be my... loyal opposition, ensuring that my Will be done in Eä."

Ulmo thought about this for a while. "I do not wish to go against my brother Manwë, for we love one another dearly, and I would not wish to lose that love."

"Nor shalt thou," Atar assured him. "Thy brother is far wiser than thou knowest, Ulmo. He will see thy opposition for what it is... my voice when all other voices are drowned out by fear or anger or mistrust. Thou shalt be a light where darkness hath been decreed."

Ulmo sighed, not sure that he truly understood what his Atar was saying. "I would not have made thee thus if I did not believe thou couldst carry out my Will in this, Ulmo." There was something in Atar’s tone, a kind of pleading and even sadness, which Ulmo had never heard before and he stared at the One in wonder.

"If... if thou thinkest I can do this, Atar," he whispered, "then... then I will be thy secret voice, the breach in the walls of Doom and Fate that governeth us all."

The One smiled and embraced His Child, giving him a kiss that sent Ulmo into paroxysms of joy that he had pleased his Atar. "I thank thee, my Child," Atar finally said.

"But, I still do not understand how I should do what thou wishest for me to do, Atar," Ulmo protested.

Atar smiled and pointed to the watermeads. "Listen to the water, Child. Listen with all thy heart and soul. Let the water show thee the way."

Ulmo nodded and moved out of his Atar’s embrace to once again immerse himself in the water, reveling in its music. He followed its courses with his mind and marveled at its persistence to seek a way past the wall which was an adamant testament to the inexorability of Atar’s Will in all things. Then, he allowed himself to flow with the water towards the hairline crack in the wall, fitting himself within the fissure, seeing how the water had found this one weakness in the granitic solidity and had exploited it.

As he followed the course of the fault out the other side, he came to the realization that he was the flaw. He was in fact Atar’s secret weapon against the implacability of his brethren’s own Wills when they would make decisions out of fear or anger rather than out of the love which flowed from Atar into them all. It would not be an easy task and he sensed that it would be a lonely, perhaps even a thankless, undertaking that would set him apart from his brethren. He sorrowed at that, for he truly loved Manwë and joyed in their making music together.

"Thou shalt always have that, Child," Atar said to him. "Do not fear the loss of Manwë’s love, for it can never happen. And if it be a lonely road thou travelest, knowest thou that thou shalt never travel it alone, for I shall always be with thee."

Ulmo made his way back to where the One stood. "With thee beside me Atar, I have no fear," he said fervently. "I will be thy secret voice, Atar, thy chink in the wall of Doom and Destiny. I will be thy Light in the Darkness. I love thee, Atar."

"And I love thee, my Child, now and forever." The One took Ulmo into his embrace once again and kissed him and then together they wandered through the pleasance, enjoying the gardens and speaking of many things, including walls and the breaching of them.

****

Pleasance: from the 14^th century: 1. a feeling of pleasure, delight or joy; 2. a secluded garden or promenade, usually part of an estate. Atar uses this word with both meanings in mind.

from Unfinished Tales, ‘Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin’:

"But behold!" said [Ulmo], "in the armour of Fate (as the Children of Earth name it) there is ever a rift, and in the walls of Doom a breach, until the full-making, which ye call the End. So it shall be while I endure, a secret voice that gainsayeth, and a light where darkness was decreed. Therefore, though in the days of this darkness I seem to oppose the will of my brethren, the Lords of the West, that is my part among them, to which I was appointed ere the making of the World...."

FAULT: Pointing Fingers

SUMMARY: The Fellowship reflect on the question of blame while recovering in Lothlórien.

****

"It’s my fault, you know," Pippin said to no one in particular as they sat on thick cushions around a low table in the pavilion that had been provided for them by the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien.

Aragorn gave the youngest member of their Fellowship a wry grin. "Most likely, but would you care to be more specific so we know which punishment to administer? I would hate to punish you for the wrong crime."

Gimli snorted into his beard and Legolas hid a smile. Boromir continued sharpening his sword, with no indication that he even heard the conversation around him. The other three Hobbits glared at Aragorn and Pippin with equal disgust.

"What are you blathering on about, Pip?" Merry demanded with a roll of his eyes. "Did you do something that will get us thrown out of Lórien before we’ve even had dinner?"

Sam had a horrified look on his face as he glanced at Pippin, whose expression was quite glum. "Not before dinner!" he exclaimed. "I ain’t had no dessert yet!"

That caused Frodo to laugh and Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli were secretly pleased to hear such a joyful sound coming from the Ringbearer. They’d been in Lórien for nearly three weeks and this was the first time Frodo had shown any emotion other than sadness and grief.

"Oh, Sam!" Frodo cried, falling on his back in paroxysms of laughter. "The Valar forbid we ever get kicked out of Lórien before we’ve had dessert. We would never be able to show our faces in the Shire again for the shame of it."

That set Merry and Sam off and even Pippin, in spite of his mood, was seen to snicker wickedly at his cousin’s words. Aragorn shared amused looks with Legolas and Gimli, though he frowned slightly when he noticed Boromir was not paying much attention to his companions. Then his attention was directed back towards Pippin. Something was bothering the tweenager. The Chieftain of the Dúnedain had a fairly good idea what it might be, but knew that Pippin needed to speak of it for himself.

"So, what are we to blame you for this time, young Peregrin Took?" Aragorn asked in a jocular tone as the laughter died down.

To the surprise of all, the tweenager burst into tears. "I killed him!" he wailed and would have risen and run off if Merry hadn’t grabbed his arm and pulled him down, wrapping himself around his younger cousin, hugging and rocking him in an attempt to comfort him.

"Killed who?" Frodo asked, looking perplexed. "Who did you kill, Cousin?"

"G-g-gandalf!" Pippin stammered between his sobs. "I k-killed him. It’s m-my fault he’s dead." He hid his face in the crook of Merry’s arm as the others all went still.

For a long uncomfortable moment there was silence, save for Pippin’s sobbing. None could look each other in the eyes. Finally, Aragorn cleared his throat. "Actually, if we’re going to blame anyone for this, my vote is Isildur."

Everyone looked up at the Ranger with varying degrees of surprise. "Isildur!" Frodo exclaimed. "Why would you blame him for Gandalf’s death?"

Aragorn shrugged, looking sad. "If he hadn’t succumbed to the lure of the Ring...."

"Nay, mellon nîn," Legolas interjected with his mellifluous voice. "Isildur is not to blame. He was but a victim of Sauron’s evil. I think if I were to lay the blame on anyone it would have to be the Dwarves."

"What!" Gimli shouted, jumping up in anger. "We had nothing to do with it."

Legolas gave the Dwarf a cool look. "Your ancestors accepted Rings of Power. If they had not done so they would not have been corrupted into digging further and further into the bowels of the Earth for more mithril. The Dwarves of Moria are to blame for Mithrandir dying."

"And I suppose you Elves were lily-white in innocence," Gimli sneered. "Who was it who made the rings in the first place, hmmm?"

"That Celebramble person," Sam answered for Legolas, looking rather pleased at himself for remembering something about the Elves.

Frodo, Aragorn, Legolas and even Gimli stared at the Hobbit in surprise and then when they happened to catch each other’s eyes, they all started laughing, much to the confusion of the other three Hobbits. Boromir, as usual, did not respond, seemingly more intent on cleaning his gear than joining in on the conversation.

"I think you meant Celebrimbor, Sam," Legolas finally said, looking on the Hobbit, now turning scarlet, with great fondness. He had had few dealings with Mortals before joining the Fellowship and found the Hobbits both amusing and perplexing. He had a feeling that if he survived the coming war he would have many long ages in which to contemplate the wondrous mystery of these Halfling Children. Whether they came from Hiril Ivon or from Eru Himself, it mattered little to the Elf; they were a delight and he thanked the Valar for having had the opportunity to know them better.

"Oh," Sam muttered, not looking at anyone. "Sorry."

"Do not apologize, Samwise," Legolas replied gently. "I am pleased that you even know something of Celebrimbor. Few Mortals bother with what they call ‘ancient history’."

"Mister Bilbo told me tales," Sam said in an apologetic tone. "I always wanted to hear tales about Elves."

"Hmph," Gimli muttered as he retook his seat. "Waste of time."

"Well, that’s neither here nor there, Gimli," Frodo said, speaking rather cooly to the Dwarf. "Why do you think Celebrimbor is to blame for Gandalf’s death?"

"He made the bloody rings, didn’t he, lad?" Gimli retorted, though much of his anger at Legolas’ insult was leached from his voice. Samwise Gamgee had the habit (unintentional to be sure, Gimli thought) of diffusing sticky situations with his guileless candor and ‘plain Hobbit sense’ as the gardener liked to put it. "If it weren’t for the rings...."

"None of us would be sitting here in Lórien trying to lay blame for the death of one who should never have died," Frodo interjected.

"Well, I still say it’s my fault," Pippin exclaimed. "If I hadn’t been so stupid as to drop that stone down the well...."

"Now Pip," Merry said soothingly, "you couldn’t have known and really I think just about anything could have set the goblins after us. Anything could have alerted them to our presence. Maybe they already knew about us and it was just coincidence that you dropped the stone and then they attacked."

Pippin looked at Merry doubtfully. "Do you really think so?"

"Anything is possible, young Peregrin," Aragorn answered for Merry. "I do not believe in coincidence, but many factors could have contributed to our being attacked when we were, not just your foolishness."

Pippin reddened at that but did not protest Aragorn’s words. "So we have Mr. Peregrin, Lord Isildur, the Dwarves and the Elves to blame for ol’ Gandalf dying," Sam said, ticking off each contestant with a finger. "Anyone else we can blame?"

"The Valar. I think I would blame the Valar."

Everyone stared at Frodo in shock. The Hobbit’s words had been spoken in a whisper and he would not look at anyone. Aragorn noted with sadness how Frodo absently held a hand near his chest where the Ring was hidden underneath his shirt.

"Why the Valar?" Merry asked for all of them.

For a moment, it did not look as if Frodo would respond. His gaze was distant and his expression was blank. Finally, though, he stirred himself from his reverie and gave Merry a glance. "They should have done something with Sauron. They should never have believed him when he said he wanted to reform. He should have been thrust into the Void along with his master." The tone was harsh and bitter.

Legolas moved from where he’d been sitting to kneel before Frodo. "Nay, Little One," he said with a gentle smile. "Do not think that. For better or for worse, Sauron is our responsibility. From what my adar has told me, Sauron debased himself before Eönwë but when he learned he would have to return to Aman to face the judgment of the Valar, he fled. Eönwë had not the authority to pursue him. All that has happened since has been not as the Valar decreed but as we ourselves willed through ignorance, fear, greed, or just plain arrogance. The Valar are not to blame."

"We could always blame Eru," Sam said suddenly, his eyes lit with mischief. Legolas glanced at the Hobbit in shock.

"Blame Eru! How can you say such a thing?" the Elf demanded. Everyone stared at Sam in consternation. Even Boromir stopped fiddling with his hauberk long enough to give Sam a surprised glare.

Sam started to blush, looking embarrassed. "Well... he st-started it, didn’t he, creatin’ Middle-earth and all?" he stammered. "So of course he’s to blame. That’s just plain Hobbit sense to me." The last was said with a sniff as he tried to look down his nose at the Elf, who, even while kneeling, was still taller than any of the Hobbits.

"He does have a point," Merry said reasonably. "If Eru hadn’t gotten it in his head to create Middle-earth, none of this would have happened."

"Including us!" Frodo said with a light chuckle at the absurdity of his cousin’s statement and the others smiled and nodded in agreement.

Pippin, however, brightened in mood. "Well, I think Sam’s right. We can blame Eru and then I’m off the hook." This last was said with such smugness it made everyone laugh, even Boromir.

"Nay, Little One," the heir to the Steward’s throne in Gondor said, "None of those whom you have all pointed fingers at are truly to blame for Mithrandir’s death."

Aragorn gave the Gondorian a shrewd look. "Who, then, do you blame, Boromir?"

Boromir stared steadily into Aragorn’s eyes. "The Balrog," he responded softly. "I blame the Balrog, for regardless of who started what, be it Eru or the Valar or Sauron himself, ultimately it was the Balrog who killed Gandalf, not Pippin and his stone, not Gimli’s people and their lust for mithril, not the Elves with their desire to create and hold onto beauty at all costs, not even your ancestor, Aragorn. They may have all contributed to that moment on the bridge in Khazad-dûm, but it was the Balrog who pulled Mithrandir off the bridge and to his doom." He paused, looking down at the hauberk lying in his lap, then looked back up at the others, his expression fierce. "I only pray to the Valar that before he died, Mithrandir was able to slay the Balrog as well."

"Ecthelion of the Fountain... Glorfindel of the Golden Flower... Mithrandir of the Ithryn," Legolas murmured. "If he did, mellon nìn, then he died in good company."

"Aye, that he did," Gimli averred, his expression sorrowful.

"Valar valuvar," whispered Aragorn, then translated his words into Westron for the benefit of the Hobbits and Gimli: "The will of the Valar be done."

"So we can’t blame Eru for it?" Pippin asked imploringly.

"Nay, we cannot," Boromir answered with a smile. "He gets blamed for most everything else, I think he’ll be relieved to know he doesn’t have to get blamed for this."

This was said with such studied facetiousness that they all broke out laughing. At Sam’s half-jesting suggestion they were soon making a list of all the absurd things they could think of to blame their Creator for, from Pippin’s unruly hair to Aragorn’s many names. The laughter was long and loud, ringing throughout Lórien.

High in the mallorn where their talan lay, Galadriel and Celeborn stopped their discussion long enough to listen to the faint echo of laughter coming from their guests and smiled at one another. Healing had begun, healing that was necessary before the Fellowship could continue the Quest with hope rather than with despair.

"I think they are ready to leave," Celeborn ventured to his spouse.

Galadriel nodded, her expression serene. "Soon, but not yet."

Celeborn gave his lady a searching look, then nodded. "Soon, then." They went back to their discussion of the defense of their land while their guests continued to laugh and joke far into the night.

****

Hiril Ivon: (Sindarin) Lady Yavanna.

FAULT: The Doctor Is In

A birthday mathom from me for all my friends. Enjoy!

SUMMARY: Námo gets a little help in handling some of his more obstreperous charges.

WARNING: No food or drink should be permitted anywhere near the computer while reading this.

MEFA 2008: Second Place: Humor (Valar & Maiar)

****

Námo, Lord of Mandos, stood unseen by the other inhabitants of the room, watching the proceedings with interest. He had been a little leery about this, but Atar thought it might help, so he had agreed. Now, however, he wondered if maybe even Atar’s optimism might not be a bit misplaced.

"Ammë always loved you best!"

That was Morifinwë, otherwise known to his kin and to history as Caranthir, screaming at Nelyafinwë, otherwise known as Maedhros. Caranthir, Námo mused, shaking his head, was the surly one, the harshest of all the sons of Fëanor, and the quickest to anger. He wasn’t above manipulating and lying and cheating and... well, to tell the truth, they were all like that to one degree or another.

The object of Caranthir’s vituperation snarled at him. "And you’re a sniveling little whiner."

"Herr Maitimo," came the guttural voice of the facilitator, sounding more like a Dwarf than a Human. "We do not call each other names here, remember? And your hand, Mein Herr, let’s not forget your hand."

Maedhros stared at the stump where his right hand should be, which he had been shaking at Caranthir as if making a fist — a rather phantom fist. Even here in Mandos his fëa couldn’t seem to remember his right hand. Lord Námo assured him, however, that if he were ever re-embodied — fat chance of that ever happening! — he would be given his right hand back. "Ah, sorry. I forgot." He whipped his right arm behind him, suddenly feeling ashamed for some reason.

Doctor Sigmund Freud turned his all-knowing eyes on Caranthir. "And why do you think, Herr Morifinwë, that your... er... ammë loved your brother best?"

Caranthir stared at the Mortal in disbelief. "Are you jesting? Because he was born first, that’s why!"

"It’s not as if I actually planned it!" Maedhros screamed back, suddenly wanting very much to strangle his stupid little git of a brother. Hah! He had no respect for any of them. Whiners and losers all of them. Except mayhap Macalaurë, he amended to himself. Macalaurë was the best and noblest of them all. He had no trouble admitting that to himself, though he would die several times over before he told anyone, including the stupid Human who was moderating this fiasco. Honestly, what was Lord Námo trying to do, torture them? As if listening to his brothers whine for all eternity wasn’t torture enough.

"Well, I didn’t plan to be born last, but I was," Amras complained. "Atto even named me Telefinwë to underscore the point."

Maedhros couldn’t help smirk. "Actually Ammë told Atto that you and Amrod were absolutely the last. She threatened to pull a Míriel on him if he touched her one more time."

The twins exhibited identical expressions of horror and shock. Then, in a flash, they were on their eldest brother. "You take that back! You take that back, Nelli!" the youngest son of Fëanor screamed.

"It’s not our fault Ammë wouldn’t let Atto near her after we were born," his twin yelled at the same time.

"No wonder Atto was always in a bad mood," Curufinwë, also called Curufin, said with a laugh. "Now we know who to blame."

Turcafinwë, known to history as Celegorm, smirked while egging his twin brothers on. Caranthir started after the Human, suddenly tired of the miserable Mortal telling him how he loved his Ammë and hated his Atto, when it was clear as a Silmaril to anyone with half a brain that it was the other way around.

Maedhros was hard-pressed to defend himself with only one hand, but he was doing a damn good job, having had lots of practice over the nearly six hundred years in Middle-earth of putting up with his younger siblings.

"Boys! Boys! Stop this at once!" Sigmund Freud admonished them, even as he dodged Caranthir’s attempt to grab him.

Suddenly, several Maiar appeared, casually pulling the unruly Children off one another. Two of them were holding onto the twins, while three had to wrestle Maedhros into submission. Caranthir found himself hanging in midair, a Maia holding him by the scruff of his neck and shaking him. Others simply stood before Celegorm and Curufin with looks that said quite clearly, "Go ahead. Make our millennium."

Maedhros pulled himself just far enough out of the Maiar’s hold to get to his feet, his expression livid. "And another thing — DON’T CALL ME NELLI!"

"I think that will be all for the day," the good doctor declared and with a nod of his head indicated to the Maiar that they were free to return their charges to their cells. No sleeping chambers for these fëar; they had all refused Judgment and Námo obliged them by locking them up. "In the same wing of Mandos in which I once threw Melkor," he’d told them with some pique. None of them, except perhaps the twins, had faltered at that, but even they, in the end had decided they weren’t going to face Judgment until their Atar did and Námo knew that wouldn’t happen for a very long time.

The Maiar all bowed to the Human, which rankled the Elves, since no one ever bowed to them, not anymore, and then simply disappeared with their charges. Námo stepped forward then, making his presence known and Sigmund Freud gave the Vala his obeisance.

"That ended well," Námo couldn’t help saying with a sarcastic smirk.

"Ah! But Mein Herr Námo, it ended very well indeed. We are making progress!"

Námo stared at the Human in amazement. "You call that progress?"

"Natürlich!" the former Austrian Father of Psychoanalysis exclaimed, rubbing his hands together in glee. "It is the first time the twins have spoken since we started these little sessions."

Námo gave him a dubious smile. "If you say so, Sigmund. But don’t you want to continue on to the Presence? You know you cannot remain within the Circles of Arda forever."

"Ach! How can I leave now, Mein Herr?" Sigmund Freud replied, shaking his head in dismay. "Diesen Armen Elben, they need me. It amazes me that such a dysfunctional family ever survived long enough to get themselves killed the way they did. I would have thought they would all end up killing each other, instead."

Námo gave him a mirthless chuckle. "There were times when my brother Irmo and I laid bets on who would be the first to commit fratricide. Luckily for them, it never happened. Their Oaths were terrible enough without making it worse."

"Yes, yes, the Oath," Sigmund said with a sad shake of his head. "A terrible thing indeed."

Deciding to change the subject, Námo smiled at the Human and put his arm around his shoulders, gesturing for him to follow the Vala out. They walked down a dimly lit corridor towards the area of Mandos reserved for Mortals. "Well, Sigmund. I’ve had my doubts as to the efficacy of these sessions, but Atar insists, and so I allow them, for all the good they do."

Sigmund cast a knowing glance at the Vala walking beside him. "I notice, Mein Herr, that you always speak of your Atar, but never your Mutter. May I ask why?"

Námo stopped and gave the Human a surprised look. "But I have no mother!"

"Ah, very interesting, Mein Herr," Sigmund replied with a gleam in his eyes. "Perhaps we should discuss this further. When did you first decide that you had no Mutter, hmmm?"......

****

Cast of Elvish Characters: (*) indicates the person still lives, all others are dead. Besides their Sindarin names, I give their various Quenya names — father-name (with translation), mother-name and nickname, respectively.

Maedhros: Nelyafinwë "Third Finwë": Maitimo: Nelyo

*Maglor: Canafinwë "Commanding Finwë": Macalaurë: Cáno

Celegorm: Turcafinwë: "Strong Finwë": Tyelcormo: Turco

Caranthir: Morifinwë "Dark Finwë": Carnisitir: Moryo

Curufin: Curufinwë "Crafty Finwë": Atarincë: Curvo

Amrod: Pityafinwë "Little Finwë": Ambarto: Pityo

Amras: Telefinwë "Last Finwë": Ambarussa: Telvo

****

Ammë: (Quenya) Hyporcoristic form of Amillë: Mother.

Atto: (Quenya) Hyporcoristic form of Atar: Father.

Mein Herr: (German) My lord.

Natürlich: (German) Naturally.

Diesen Armen Elben: (German) These poor Elves.

Mutter: (German) Mother.

BRIDGE: Pá Valaraucar ar Námier

SUMMARY: Námo and Olórin discuss a certain event involving the Maia. A companion piece to DISGUISE: Emissaries. Movieverse.

MEFA 2008: Third Place: Other Beings (General)

****

Gandalf opened his eyes, looking up at a stone-carved ceiling, wondering why the walls of Moria had shrunk. Memory was slow in returning and he lay there trying to understand what had happened. The last thing he clearly remembered was standing on a bridge and....

"Frodo!" he yelled in alarm as he sat up.

"Is doing well enough at the moment."

The Wizard turned his head in surprise, recognizing the voice. "M-my Lord Námo?"

Námo, Lord of Mandos, sat upon an intricately carved throne, with an amused expression on his face. "Welcome back, Olórin," he said.

"How did I get here?" the Wizard asked in confusion, finally recognizing this as one of the sleeping chambers of the Mardi Envinyanto. He swung his feet off the couch he’d been lying on and noticed that he no longer wore the hröa he had assumed for so long in Middle-earth. Instead he seemed to have resumed the shape he had normally used as a Maia when incarnating for the sake of the Children in Aman.

Námo raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

Gandalf — no, he was Olórin now — cringed slightly at the tone of the Vala’s voice. "I have to go back," was all he could think to say. "Frodo needs me."

Námo said nothing at first, merely staring at the returned Maia, shaking his head. "They all want to go back," he said with a sigh, more to himself than to Olórin, who wasn’t listening.

Olórin was, in fact, looking for a door but did not see one. He frowned, for there was always a door without a handle, symbolic of the portal back to Life which was closed to the fëar of the Dead. But he wasn’t dead. He was a Maia and could not die as the Children did. Could he?

"I have to go back," he reiterated, "Frodo needs me."

"Indeed," Námo responded rather sharply. "In what way does he need you, Olórin? You are dead. The Living do not need the Dead for anything."

"You don’t understand, Lord," Olórin said almost pleadingly, ignoring the Vala’s words. "The Quest will fail without...."

"Without you?" Námo interrupted somewhat acerbically. "Rather an arrogant assumption on your part, isn’t it, Olórin? And here I was just saying to Vairë how humble you have been through all of this."

Now the Maia truly cringed at Námo’s words. "I have to go back," was all he could think to say. He shook his head, as if to clear it, for he was still feeling unsettled and confused. His only real thought was seeing the expression of horror and disbelief on Frodo’s face just before.... No, he would not think about that, could not think about it. There was too much pain and a deep sense of loss and... and...

"Failure."

Olórin looked up at the Vala still sitting on his throne watching him so dispassionately.

"That’s the word you’re looking for, isn’t it... failure?"

Olórin could only nod and when Námo said nothing to contradict him he felt despair. He had failed, miserably failed in his mission. There was no question about that, yet, if he went back, there was still a chance....

"A chance for you to redeem yourself."

Olórin looked up at Námo whose own expression was unreadable. It might have been carved from stone for all the emotion it showed. Not even the Vala’s amaranthine eyes gave anything away.

"Why am I here?" he finally asked, almost afraid to hear the answer. He had a sick feeling that something terrible was about to happen, more terrible than the pain he’d felt battling his fallen brother.

"Why do you think you are here, Olórin?" Námo answered with a question of his own. "You died. What do you think is going to happen?"

Olórin stared at the Lord of Mandos in disbelief, shaking his head. "No, that’s not possible... I’m not... I’m a Maia... Maiar aren’t Judged." As he spoke those words he tried to think himself away. There was a place deep in the Pelóri, he recalled, a mountain vale surrounded by impossibly sheer cliffs where a waterfall fell into a tarn so deep the water appeared black. No Mirroanwë could ever reach it. It was ‘his place’, where he went whenever he needed silence and solace and space to speak to Atar. Imladris with its many waterfalls had come closest of all the places he had ever visited in Endórë to this particular vale. He wished himself there, but nothing happened and he couldn’t understand it.

Námo’s expression softened somewhat, becoming more compassionate. He sighed. "You will not leave here, my son, until Judgment has been rendered."

"But I’m a Maia, Lord," Olórin said, almost pleadingly, beginning to panic, though he could not have said why. "We cannot be Judged. Only the dead can be Judged and...."

"Olórin."

"...I’m not really dead, because Maiar cannot die like the Children so...."

"Olórin!"

The Maia stuttered to a halt at Námo’s tone, gazing tearfully at the Vala. Námo, for his part, merely stared at the panicking Maia. "What part of ‘You’re dead’ don’t you understand?"

"But...."

"Do you recall the conversation we had when the Istari were formed?" Námo cut in. "Do you remember the words you spoke?"

Olórin hesitated in confusion, not sure what the Vala meant. Námo merely nodded, as if he expected this reaction from the Maia. "Let me remind you then," he said. Suddenly, it was as if a door he didn’t even know was there opened in Olórin’s mind and he was back in the throne room of the Valar in Ilmarin, over two thousand years ago and saw himself speaking....

****

"I think it behooves us to become fully incarnate, and allow ourselves to suffer pains of hunger, and thirst, fear and fatigue, just as the Children do."

"Why should we do that?" Aiwendil asked while the other Istari, Curumo especially, looked less than pleased with the idea.

"How can we truly understand them and help them and win their trust if we do not suffer with them, both in joy and sorrow?" Olórin answered.

"In other words," Námo said gravely, "you wish to suffer the possibility of bodily death."

"It seems only fair that we take the same risks as they do simply by being born as Incarnates," Olórin replied with a shrug.

"As you will be truly incarnate, though," Námo intoned, "your hröar should age but slowly as do those of the Firstborn and like the Firstborn you should suffer no illness, but fatigue you will know and hunger and thirst. Doubt and fear will be your companions...."

****

"Did you think that we did not take you at your word, my son?" Námo asked, as the memory faded and Olórin found himself facing the Lord of Mandos once again. "You wished to live as the Incarnates do, in anticipation of death. Even the Eldar still living in Endórë know that every time they take up arms against Sauron or his minions there is a good chance that they will not survive the encounter. Death is always a possibility for them, if not a certainty, as it is with Mortals. Did you think you were merely play-acting at being Incarnate?"

Olórin shook his head. "I’ve suffered hunger and thirst, fatigue and bodily hurts, fear and doubt... and... and death." He sighed then, looking lost and forlorn. "I died," he whispered, seeing in his mind’s eyes his final moments as he lay in the snows of Celebdil, feeling his life flow out of him along with his blood. "I died."

"Yes, Olórin, you did," Námo responded with deep sympathy. "And now comes the moment of truth."

Olórin gave him a sad, quizzical look. "Surely, Lord, you will not make me relive my entire existence from the moment of my Emergence?"

Námo smiled and shook his head. "Nay, child, I will not. We will concern ourselves only with one thing in particular while you were in Endórë."

"What is that, Lord?" the Maia asked, mentally reviewing his life as an Incarnate, wondering what part of that life was being called into question.

Námo gave the Maia a hard stare. "Whatever possessed you to turn your back on your fallen brother?"

Of all the questions he had been anticipating, that was not one of them. For the longest moment he could only stare at Námo dumbfounded, unsure just how to answer the Vala of Doom. "Er... well... um...." He forced himself not to squirm, as if he were young Peregrin facing his older cousins for doing something.... stupid.

"Yes?" Námo enquired with studied patience and Olórin had the distinct feeling the Vala was enjoying seeing his former servant in such an uncomfortable state.

Olórin sighed, closing his eyes, admitting defeat. "I was... stupid," he admitted quietly.

"Indeed." Námo’s tone gave no hint of approval or disapproval.

"And... and I was arrogant," he added barely above a whisper.

"Do you know why you were arrogant?"

Olórin opened his eyes, his expression quizzical, not sure what Námo meant, and shook his head. Why had he been so arrogant? What had he been trying to prove and to whom?

"You knew he was there, did you not?" Námo enquired, the coldness of his voice like a death knell. "You knew your brother was there, waiting, biding his time. You met him before in the depths of Time Before Time and fought against him, forcing him to flee from the field of battle and when you encountered him again, there in Khazad-dûm, what were you thinking, what thoughts ran through your head as you invoked the Flame Imperishable?"

Olórin stood in contemplation of the Vala’s questions, trying to come up with an answer that didn’t sound... stupid or self-important.

"I wasn’t thinking," he finally admitted. "I was... acting the mighty istar who alone could stand between my fallen brother and my... my friends."

"Who had no need to be impressed by anything you did," Námo stated categorically. "You already had their love, and if not that, then certainly their respect."

"What should I have done, Lord?" Olórin demanded hotly. "Allowed that obscenity to take the One Ring? I told Aragorn that swords were of no use there. Who else was equipped to take on one of Melkor’s monsters, if not I?"

"I never said you shouldn’t have, my son," Námo replied calmly. "I said you should never have turned your back on him. That one arrogant act could easily have caused, indeed could still cause, the Quest to fail."

Olórin pondered the Vala’s words for several long moments, replaying the scene on the bridge in his mind from every possible angle. He had indeed been stupid. He should never have turned his back until he was absolutely sure there was no threat. Instead, he had allowed his own arrogance to get the better of him and the result was....

"So if I am dead, what then?" Olórin asked humbly. "Do I return to my duties as one of Lord Manwë’s People or am I condemned to spend my time here in Mandos?"

"Neither," Námo answered as he rose from his throne to approach the Maia. "Atar wants you to go back."

"Excuse me?"

Now Námo’s smile was genuine at the confusion on Olórin’s face. "Back, as in back to Endórë," he responded, placing a hand on the Maia’s shoulder. "Your task is not yet finished, Olórin. There is still much that you need to do to ensure that what we have set in motion comes to fruition as it was meant to."

"What you have set into motion?"

Námo nodded. "You said it yourself to young Frodo: Bilbo was meant to find the Ring and therefore Frodo was also meant to have it as well. When you return you will find that some events have been put into motion that you cannot prevent or alter, but there will be others, however, that will need your subtle touch to assure that all goes as Atar wills."

"I have no hröa," Olórin protested.

"All taken care of," Námo assured him. "Come, we will go to Lórien to consult with my brother. You do not realize it yet, but you need some time to recover from your ordeal. Rest and find refreshment and then when you are ready we will send you back."

"Thank you," Olórin said humbly and with heartfelt gratitude. Then he sighed as another memory that had been niggling at him as he had been speaking to Námo finally came to the fore. "Curumo has betrayed us," he said sadly.

Námo gave him a sympathetic look. "We know, which is why when you return to Endórë you will be the White, not Curumo. You will be the head of the Heren Istarion."

Olórin started in surprise at that. "Me! But why, Lord?"

Námo gave him a most wicked grin. "Why? Because you’ve been promoted, Olórin," the Vala replied with a laugh, "and I cannot think of a more suitable punishment for your folly."

Olórin gave the Lord of Mandos a jaundiced look, though his eyes twinkled with veiled merriment. "I think, my Lord, that Prince Findaráto has been corrupting you while I’ve been away."

"But only in a good way," Námo countered and then the two of them were laughing as they faded from Mandos for Lórien and what would follow.

****

All words and phrases are Quenya.

Pá Valaraucar ar Námier: Concerning Balrogs and Judgments.

Mardi Envinyanto: Halls of Renewing/Halls of Healing.

Hröa: Body.

Fëar: Plural of Fëa: Soul, spirit.

Mirroanwë: Incarnate, i.e. Elves and Mortals.

Endórë: Middle-earth.

Istar: Wizard.

Heren Istarion: Order of Wizards.

SECRET and SILENT: The Oathkeeper

SUMMARY: Keeping the oaths of others is not easy. Eönwë must make a difficult decision concerning one such oath.

****

Aman, Year of the Two Trees 1400:

Eönwë, Herald of Manwë and Oathkeeper to the Valar, stepped into the windowless room and walked unerringly in the dark towards the ambo where a large blue leather-bound tome sat. A chest-high candleholder topped with a fat white candle stood beside the ambo. With a simple gesture, a flame appeared, giving the room some illumination. He stared at the tapestry that graced the wall before him. It was the only other furnishing in an otherwise bare room.

He remembered when the events depicted in the storied web took place. It had been the very first time he had acted in his official office as Oathkeeper. It had been both exhilarating and frightening — exhilarating, because he was just becoming aware of the true purpose for which Atar had created him; frightening for the same reason.

He sighed, and glanced idly at the tome before him, running a finger lightly across its embossed cover. Impressed into the leather was a seal: within a double ring was the Flame Imperishable and within the ring were the words: Aistainë nántë i himyar vandantar, an óravuvantë námientassë.

How many Children were saved by this simple thing: to abide by and honor one’s oaths to others and especially to Atar? A small smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. The Book of Oaths, in fact, was not necessary, but it served a purpose as a visual reminder to the Children of his office. He had to admit to himself that he rather enjoyed pulling it out of thin air and, with all the studied calm of a clerk noting someone’s misdeeds before the High King’s court, proceed to record whatever oath had been uttered. He also enjoyed pretending he needed to look a particular oath up, slowly perusing the pages while the person sweated before him.

None of that was necessary. He had perfect recall and every oath ever uttered was indelibly imprinted upon his memory. It was fun nonetheless. There were times though.....

He sighed again, shaking his head. Unfortunately for him, the Children were not the only ones whose oaths he recorded. He stepped around the ambo and walked towards the tapestry, mentally sending a thought ahead to unlock the door which was its true nature. Only one other person knew of this hidden chamber....

****

*Thou dost hold the oaths of all my Children, Eönwë,* Atar said to him shortly after Lord Námo had accepted the oaths of Lady Vairë's Máyar until she could be rescued from Melkor’s clutches. *And I do mean all.*

*Even those of my brethren?* he asked fearfully, not sure he really wanted such an awesome responsibility.

*Yes, child. Not only thy brethren among the Máyar but among the Ayanumuz as well... and among those who have fallen to Melkor’s blandishments.*

Now Eönwë blanched. *No, Atar, please!* he protested. The thought of remembering the oaths of his masters as well as those of the Enemy... no, he couldn’t do that. How could he and remain sane?

*Hush now, child,* Atar admonished him gently. *If I did not think thou wert not strong enough to bear such a burden I would not have given unto thee this gift.*

*Gift! You call this a gift?* Now Eönwë was becoming angry. *A curse, rather.*

*Nay, child,* Atar replied with grave serenity. *It is a gift, one that will prove useful in the future. For now, merely accept it.*

*Yes, Atar,* he responded meekly, for what true choice did he have, other than to rebel against Atar and join with Melkor and he would never do that.

Eons later, as the Children would measure time, while Ilmarin was being constructed, Eönwë had requested this room built to certain specifications. Lord Manwë had granted the request and asked no questions, for which his Herald was eternally grateful. He then went to Lady Vairë and asked that she make the tapestry showing her lord accepting the oaths of her People, to which she readily agreed, though she looked at him askance when he made one small additional request concerning it. Once the room was finished, only he had the key to unlock the door. Only he knew about the second chamber, a chamber not of this dimension but imbedded within the very fabric of the tapestry itself. Even Vairë did not know of it; she only wove in the key that unlocked the door to the dimension....

****

He stepped into the tapestry itself and found himself in another room that was almost a mirror image of the other, save that there were two ambos and two Books. A single candleholder stood between them. There was nothing else in this room, not even another tapestry. When he needed to leave, he would simply think himself out, automatically locking the door behind him.

Walking up to the ambos and mentally lighting the candle, he stared at the two tomes. One was bound in white leather, the other in black. Like the tome in the other room, both had the embossed seal of the Flame Imperishable within a double ring. He remembered when Atar had instructed him on how to construct this particular room and why....

****

*This chamber is not to be mentioned to anyone,* Atar told him the first time he had tried the key leading into this other dimension.

"Not even to Lord Manwë?" he asked aloud, feeling somewhat disturbed. To hide something from his liege lord, to perhaps even to have to lie to him about it....

*Nay, child,* Atar rejoined gently. *I require thee not to dissemble before my vice-gerent. Yet, there are things not of his purview and he is wise enough to recognize this and will ask thee no questions. He knows, for I have told him, that thine office is a sacred trust between me and thee.*

"Why this chamber, Atar? Why should not all three Books be held in the outer chamber?"

*The outer chamber is for the sake of the Mirroanwi, but this chamber is for those who once dwelt in the Timeless Halls and their fate is different from those of my other Children. Any of the Ayanumuz, especially Lord Námo or Lord Manwë, may call upon thee to reveal an oath uttered by one of the Mirroanwi, but no one, not even my vice-gerent, shall have the authority to see the contents of these two Books. For this reason, only thou shalt have access to this chamber. It must forever remain a secret between me and thee....*

****

He glanced at the white-leather Book, a finger tracing the double ring as he idly read what was embossed on the front, for the words were not the same as those imprinted on the blue Book: Qui nályë voronda pitya engwinen, lil nauva antaina elyen.

Yes, he had been faithful, or had tried to be, in all things pertaining to his sacred office, but it had not always been easy. He glanced at the black Book. He hated this book with all his being. He hated that it existed, but more, he hated that he had to deal with it at all. Again, the words imprinted within the double ring were different and they were the only thing about this Book that pleased him: Mana hlussaina i-óressë nauva ramaina i-mallessen.

He reluctantly opened the tome and stared at the first page and wished he could just walk away. He wished he could just forget. "His words are lies," he whispered fiercely and with great anger. "His oaths are false."

*Yes, they are.*

"Yet Lord Manwë believes them."

*Yes, he doth.*

"And I cannot tell him the truth."

*No, thou canst not.*

"I have never questioned my need to keep silent about the oaths which I record, Atar, until now. Lord Manwë deserves to know the truth about Melkor."

*Perhaps, but that truth will not come from thee, child. That is not in thy purview.*

"But, Atar, he will destroy us with his lies," Eönwë objected. "Already there is unrest among the Noldor who listen to his honeyed speech, never suspecting the poison hidden behind his every smile."

*That may be true as well, Eönwë, but again I say unto thee, that is not thy purview. Thy task is to record the oaths uttered by all, nothing more.*

Eönwë shook his head. They had had this same discussion more than once, and it always ended the same way — with him acquiescing to Atar’s wishes little though he liked it. He sighed and took a quill out of the air and began writing in the book, his fëa cringing with every false word he recorded, wishing someone else could take this awful burden from him. With every word he wrote of Melkor’s lies, he felt soiled and unclean.

*Never that, child,* Atar said gently, sending a wave of pure Love as Eönwë shut the Book with some relief, closing his eyes and reveling in the feeling of being cleansed of the psychic filth that always seemed to cling to his fëa whenever he had to record anything in the black Book. *Remember, Eönwë, I chose thee for a very special reason. However painful or unpalatable thy task, know that I am always beside thee, supporting thee. A day will come when thou shalt stand before all in my Name and read the accounts and I assure thee, in that time there will be a reckoning and a vindication of thine office.*

"Thank you, Atar," the Maia said with simple sincerity. He felt the smile that seemed to follow Atar’s words.

*Thou art a good and faithful child, Eönwë, in whom I am well pleased, therefore I think I will give thee a gift.*

"A-a gift?"

*Yes. In Tirion there are elflings at play, pretending to be fierce warriors. One of them is named Laurefindil and he is about to utter an oath of loyalty to one of Ñolofinwë’s sons, one that all of them will speak, but only his wilt thou record, for only his will be spoken with utter sincerity, young as he is.*

Eönwë felt himself smiling. He always enjoyed recording the simple heart-felt oaths of elflings, for they were spoken in unselfconscious fervor and it gave him much joy to record them. And he had to admit, even after two hundred and sixty-seven years of the Trees, seeing the elflings at play was a joy and a wonder to him. To have the chance to record this one’s oath was indeed a gift and a blessing. "That I will do gladly, Atar," he replied, blowing out the candle and thinking himself out of the hidden chamber. In the outer chamber he blew out that candle and headed for the door.

*Don’t forget the Book.*

Eönwë stopped and laughed. In his excitement to record little Laurefindil’s oath he had completely forgotten his prop. Not that the elfling or any of the other Children would see it, but any Maia or Vala in the vicinity would recognize that the Herald of Manwë was about his proper duties as Oathkeeper and offer him their respects. He took the Book up and, humming a cheerful tune, exited the Chamber of Oaths with a smile.

****

Námo looked up from the tome he was perusing in the scriptorium of Ilmarin and saw Eönwë walk past, clutching the blue Book and humming to himself. He had seen the same Maia walk by earlier on his way to the Chamber of Oaths, his demeanor grave and heartrendingly sad. He nodded to himself as the Maia continued on his way, unaware of Námo’s scrutiny.

*He recorded it then,* Námo bespoke to Atar.

*Yes, he did.*

Námo sighed and had anyone seen him then they would have quailed at the absolute coldness of his expression. There would have been no doubt that they were in the presence of the Doomsman of Arda.

*A heavy burden,* was his only comment.

*No less heavy than thine own, my son, and one which he beareth with as much grace as dost thou.*

*And Melkor?*

*Child,* came the soft admonishment, *dost thou need ask? Hast thou not yet learned that I tell no one’s story but their own?*

Now Námo’s mouth quirked into a small smile. *Oh, I know, Atar. You cannot blame an Ayanuz for trying, though.*

Laughter trickled into Eä from the Timeless Halls as Námo returned to his perusal of his own Book of Prophecies, unconsciously humming the same tune as Eönwë had.

****

All words and phrases are Quenya unless otherwise noted.

Aistainë nántë i himyar vandantar, an óravuvantë námientassë: ‘Blessed are they who abide by their oaths, for they shall have mercy in their Judgment’.

Máyar: An older form of Maiar.

Ayanumuz: (Valarin) Plural of Ayanuz: a Vala or Valië.

Mirroanwi: Incarnates, i.e. Elves and Mortals.

Qui nályë voronda pitya engwinen, lil nauva antaina elyen: ‘If thou art faithful with small matters, more will be given thee’.

Mana hlussaina i-óressë nauva ramaina i-mallessen: ‘What is whispered in the inner most heart will be shouted in the streets’.

Ñolofinwë: The Quenya form of Fingolfin. The son in question is Turucáno, who would be known in later history as Turgon.

Author’s Notes:

1. The scene depicted in the tapestry is in reference to my story Wars of the Valar, Chapter 9 "Rescue Run".

2. Vice-gerent: an actual word used by Tolkien to describe Manwë’s role in Arda. It has a meaning similar to ‘vice-regent’, i.e. a person appointed by a ruler or head of state to act as an administrative deputy.

3. 267 years of the Trees is equivalent to almost 2,558 solar years.

4. In the Year 1400 of the Two Trees, Melkor was released from Mandos after three ages (300 years of the Trees or 2,874 solar years) as promised by Manwë:

‘Beyond the gates of Valmar Melkor abased himself at the feet of Manwë and sued for pardon, vowing that if he might be made the least of the free people of Valinor he would aid the Valar in all their works....And Nienna aided his prayers; but Mandos was silent.

‘Then Manwë granted him pardon.... and it seemed to Manwë that the evil of Melkor had been cured. For Manwë was free from evil and could not comprehend it.... and he saw not to the depths of Melkor’s heart, and did not perceive that all love had departed from him forever.’ — The Silmarillion, Chapter 6, "Of Fëanor and the Unchaining of Melkor"

NIGHT and FOREST: A Glimpse of Beauty

SUMMARY: Lost in darkness and beset by unimaginable horrors, one of the Edain finds beauty in the most unexpected place.

MEFA 2008: Honorable Mention: First Age and Prior (General)

****

He killed the last of the horrors as the sun was setting, falling upon his knees some paces away, using the snow to wash the grime and grume from his sword and body, though what he really wanted was some way to scrub the filth clinging to his soul. The horrors he had witnessed, the evil he had endured had begun to wear him down.

He remembered when he had first dared the sheer cliffs of the Ered Gorgoroth, abandoning at last his adar’s tomb beside Tarn Aeluin after four years of hunting and being hunted by Sauron’s orcs. He must have been a little mad at the time, for no sane man would have ventured down those sheer precipices into the cursed valley of Nan Dungortheb where neither Man nor Elf dared walk.

The first time he beheld one of the loathsome monsters which roamed this dread valley he had stuffed the tattered hem of his cloak into his mouth to keep from screaming aloud. He had felt his very soul shrivel at the sight and fear became his constant companion. Later, when he felt it safe enough, he became violently ill and thereafter wandered aimlessly, his mind bereft of reason. Only the fact that another equally noisome monster had attacked him forced him to regain some measure of himself enough to fight the monster off. Thereafter he steeled himself against what he was forced to see and experience, knowing that to do otherwise was to die.

Not that he wasn’t already dead, anyway, he thought to himself with a grim smile on his ravaged visage. He had had little to eat in this hellish place and he dared not drink from any stream that meandered through the dark woods. Instead, he gathered snow into a metal cup whenever it fell. It was little enough but it was all he had.

He had lost track of how long he had been wandering through this shadowed valley where the sorcery of Sauron and the power of Melian vied with one another. He recalled seeing the grey-green smudge on the horizon that marked Doriath when he was traversing the mountains and it seemed that the memory of those trees was as a lodestone, drawing him ever closer to sanctuary, if he could only find his way out of this deathtrap he had allowed himself to enter.

Yet, in truth, what choice did he really have, he reflected as he sheathed his now cleaned sword and went in search of a place to hole up for the night. Experience had taught him that even in the trees death stalked the unwary, but it was still safer than the forest floor. He had no intention of sleeping anyway. Sleep meant dreams and his dreams were full of darkness and horror no less terrifying than what stalked him in the flesh during the day.

No, he had had no choice. Sauron had placed a bounty on his head that rivaled even that placed on Fingon. That drew a mirthless smile to the Adan’s face. I bet that didn’t go over well with Fingon when he found out, he thought with a silent chuckle. He shook his head. It mattered not. The orcs had run from him but even so Dorthonion had proven too dangerous even for him, and now he was here in this trackless forest. His one true regret was having to abandon Tarn Aeluin and his adar’s grave. He absently fingered the ring which now graced his hand, a ring which had once belonged to his adar. It was more than an heirloom; it was a symbol of a sacred trust and an oath. Perhaps one day he would be able to redeem that oath from the one who had given it.

One day....

The winter had been especially harsh but now as he made his way further south it had slowly made way for spring, reluctant and false though it might be. He sensed that he was near the borders of Doriath but could not be entirely sure.

Ah... that tree will do, he decided and in minutes he was safely ensconced in the crook of an old pine, his sword drawn as he waited for night to flee and dawn to come.

****

Two days later, around noon, he came into a small glade and stopped, looking around in confusion. There was something familiar about this place but he couldn’t....

It was the sight of the rock that gave him his first clue. It was a boulder really, taller than he, standing like a sentinel near the center of the glade. He walked around it and when he saw the fracture running along one side he was convinced: he’d been walking in circles all morning!

He looked about him, trying to remember from which direction he had originally come into the clearing and which way he had left it. There. That was the direction he had gone. Well, he would try a different way and see what would happen. He had the uncanny sense that he was nearer to Doriath than he suspected. Melian’s power might be leading him astray.

He shrugged and set off, this time marking his trail as he went. It was an hour before sunset when he entered the glade again and now his anger knew no bounds.

"I will not be denied!" he screamed into the encroaching night and the sound of his voice actually frightened him, for he could not remember the last time he had spoken. "Do you hear me? I WILL NOT BE DENIED!"

With that, he set off again, heedless of his direction, heedless of the fact that night was nigh and the dangers would increase tenfold. He did not care. He was dead so it mattered not. All that mattered was that he would not die in this haunted and cursed place. If he must die at all it would be on Thingol’s doorstep. Why he felt that was so important he did not know, for what did the King of Doriath even know of one such as he? He only knew that he wished to die under a clean sky and upon clean earth. He was nearly weeping with the need of it as he stumbled into yet another clearing.

He looked around in what little light remained in the early spring night and realized this was not the same glade. There was no standing stone, only meadow grass and the sweet scent of pine and beech and now he wept for real, falling to his face and smelling the rich loam unstained by any evil. As his tears abated, he fell asleep, unheeding of any danger. It was the first time he had truly slept in months.

****

Spring gave way to summer as he wandered the woods, never sure where he was or where he was going. He only knew that he was no longer in Dungortheb, though the memory of his time there clung to him as insistently as the unseen webs of Ungoliant’s get had clung to whatever had been foolish enough to fall into them. His sleep was often disturbed by nightmares too horrific for his waking mind to remember. He recalled staring into a still pool at one point and not recognizing himself, so grey and bent with sorrow and privation was he. He had aged until he looked more like his adar.

In spite of the beauty of the forest surrounding him, he could not see it or appreciate it. He grew somewhat stronger in body but his soul had shriveled like fruit withering on the vine before an early frost. He also felt cold. He dared not light any fire, but that had nothing to do with it. The spring nights were mild. No, it was a cold that came from some other source, a cold that sapped his spirit. He feared he would never feel warm again. He had ceased looking upward at the stars glittering brightly in the velvet night. Their beauty no longer enthralled him as it once had while lying under the alder trees of Tarn Aeluin with his adar beside him telling him tales of the stars and the one who had created them.

He heard the sound of running water and made his way towards it, coming upon a river. It was not just a streamlet, as he had encountered elsewhere in the forest, but an actual river flowing swiftly into the gloaming. He bent to take a sip from the clear water, reveling in its freshness and then paused as he lifted his head.

The moon had risen behind him and cast its silvery glow over all. Just past where he had stopped to drink there was a bend where a stand of beeches came down to the river. He was not sure but he thought he had seen something beyond the trees. Moving silently he made his way to the beeches and slid soundlessly through the undergrowth until he found himself looking upon another forest glade. He sat there in astonishment and disbelief.

She was beautiful...no, that wasn’t right... she was Beauty personified. Her dark tresses flowed over a gown that was as blue as the unclouded heavens. Her form was lithe and where her feet touched the ground as she danced flowers sprang up. A light shone from her that had nothing to do with either moonlight or starlight yet had the qualities of both.

She was exquisite.

And as he beheld the daughter of Thingol and Melian dancing in a forest glade under moonlight, for the first time in over four years, Beren son of Barahir smiled.

****

Adar: (Sindarin) Father.

SILENT: iDhîn i-Gelaidh

SUMMARY: Some time before the rising of Ithil a terrible wrong was committed under the dark of the stars and the song of the trees of a certain Wood fell silent for the shock of it. Now, however, it is time for the trees to find healing and Amroth of Lothlórien has gathered some powerful allies to help him. This story is referenced in my tale Elladan and Elrohir’s Not So Excellent Adventure, Chapter VIII, "Coda".

****

"I think we will need help in this, Lord Amroth," Celeborn of Doriath and Lindon told the King of Lothlórien as they sat in Amroth’s study atop one of the taller mellyrn. The two of them were sipping white wine and enjoying the early Spring evening.

"Whom do you suggest accompany us?" Amroth asked the silver-haired ellon.

"Thranduil," Celeborn answered without hesitation.

Amroth gave him a considering look and slowly nodded. "Thranduil would be a good choice, assuming he will come."

"He will if you ask him," Celeborn answered with a faint smile, taking an appreciative sip of the wine.

Amroth smiled knowingly. "If I ask, not you." Celeborn shrugged and Amroth nodded again. "It won’t hurt to ask. I will send a courier to him tomorrow."

"What do you think should be done?" the silver-haired Elf-lord asked him. "I barely had enough power to overcome that one tree that had trapped my grandson. There is an entire woods full of such trees."

"I know," Amroth conceded, "but we’ve ignored the situation too long and that nearly proved fatal for young Elrohir."

"I wish we knew what happened," Celeborn said with a sigh, his expression sad.

"As do I, but unless the trees themselves tell us we will probably never know for sure."

"The Galadhrim tell no tales? Surely there were Elves living here at the time."

"Indeed there were, but the Silvan Elves of Lorinand did not mingle with the Evair who haunted the mountains. No word ever came to us as to what happened."

"Let us hope that we can finally bring healing to the Eryn Dîn. Too long has it been silent. It is time to give it a new name."

To that Amroth had no objections.

****

It was mid-Lothron when Thranduil arrived with a small retinue. He gave Amroth a respectful bow in greeting and the two exchanged the kiss of friendship between two rulers. He barely gave Celeborn a nod. Celeborn did not take offense, knowing full well what Thranduil was about.

"I’ve been thinking about how we might go about rescuing the Woods," Thranduil said without preamble as the three Elf-lords made their way towards the mallorn where Amroth’s study was located.

"What do you have in mind?" Celeborn asked.

"I spoke with some of my own Silvan subjects," the King of Eryn Galen iDhaer said as they made their way through Lothlórien. "Some of the older ones recall that there was a battle not far from here between Evair and Yrch before ever Ithil rose."

Amroth nodded. "Yes. Some of the Enemy’s Yrch were harrassing the Elves of Rhovanion. I remember my adar telling me about a battle raging between the Anduin and the eaves of Eryn Galen iDhaer."

"What does that have to do with the Eryn Dîn?" Celeborn asked.

"Just this." Thranduil stopped his climb to the study to stare intently at the other two Elves. "Apparently not all of the Yrch were destroyed in that battle. It was rumored but never proved that some managed to escape over the river to hide in the Hithaeglir."

There was silence between the three ellyn as they thought of the ramifications of that. It was Amroth who finally spoke, his eyes full of pain. "I think we can guess where the Yrch hid first before they moved into the mountains."

The other two nodded as they continued the climb.

****

It was decided to go to the Woods on the day of Midsummer. "We will need the greatest amount of light available to us to do what we must to succor those trees," Celeborn stated.

So it was that a month after Thranduil arrived in Lothlórien, the three Elf-lords set out alone towards the Misty Mountains and the Eryn Dîn. Thranduil appeared to be relieved that the Lady Galadriel would not be accompanying them. It had been an uncomfortable time for him, having to deal with the Noldorin wife of his kinsman. Celeborn he tolerated, though Thranduil was of the opinion that Thingol’s nephew had perhaps become too Noldorin in his outlook. Celeborn, for his part, accepted Thranduil’s animosity towards his wife as the price he must pay for loving her. Thranduil was not the only Sinda to object to the union; but as a king his people tended to follow his lead and so neither Celeborn nor Galadriel were ever fully welcomed in the Great Greenwood.

Celeborn decided against telling Thranduil that it was Galadriel who had told him that she would not accompany them to Eryn Dîn. "None of you need the distraction," she had said with a faint smile on her lips and Celeborn had no choice but to agree with her. He would have welcomed Galadriel’s presence, for his lady had much power. Amroth would have accepted her, recognizing her worth, but Thranduil’s feelings, wrongheaded though they were, had to be considered.

They rode at a leisurely pace, for the Woods were not far. They intended to reach it by noon. "We can make for the place where Elrohir was injured," Celeborn suggested. "It’s as good a place to start as any."

The other two agreed and by noon they were in the glade where only the previous year Elves had camped and Celeborn remembered how the nearby trees had been shocked with wonder at the presence of the Elves in their midst. Now there was a sense of desolation and... resignation.

"These trees are in deep pain," Thranduil stated quietly as he wandered about the glade. "I hope we are not too late to save them."

"Some, I fear, will be lost," Amroth replied, "but I hope to save as many as possible."

Celeborn pointed upriver. "When I was here last I sensed that the center of the pain that has these Woods enthralled is closer to the waterfalls."

"Let us go then," Amroth said and the three set off for the heart of the darkness.

****

"Here," Celeborn said, pointing to a particular spot in the woods. "This is where the deepest betrayal happened."

The other two nodded, well aware of what the Woods told them. Without another word the three formed a triangle with their palms up but not quite touching. There was silence between them and only the sound of the waterfalls could be heard. No birds sang in these trees, nor were there any animals about, not even the ubiquitous squirrels. This Wood was devoid of any life save its own and there was a sense, not of hatred, but of extreme indifference to the presence of the Elves. That indifference was, for the Firstborn, more terrifying than any overt hatred on the part of the trees for anything that walked on two legs.

The three ellyn’s heartbeats slowed and their breathing became synchronized as they stood there with their eyes half-closed. Then, without preamble, Amroth began to Sing:

     Gûr nîn aníra allen, mell nîn,

     Gûr nîn aníra allen liro.

     Leithio rûth lîn, garo rîn en-glass erui.

     Drego, morn! Gwann’ am mell nîn an-uir.

Then Thranduil picked up the Song:

     No bell, mell nîn, a garo estel.

     Naeg lîn dhrega nan i-dhaw a haur dôl.

     No bell, mell nîn, a liro an glass.

     Pân mae allen, hi a han-uir.

Celeborn took up the final verse:

     Liro, mell nîn, liro!

     Arad dôl a le bain sui Anor.

     Ned le gûr nîn ista en-glass veleg.

     Liro, mell nîn, a no gelir an-uir!

As the Elves sang, the Song deepened and the Light of their Beings brightened almost to incandescence as Power flowed from them and into the Woods. The whole Woods seemed to listen intently and when Celeborn sang the final note, it soughed through the branches like a summer breeze. For a long moment the Elves remained still, waiting. There was an air of expectancy and the trees nearby seemed almost willing to open themselves up again, but their pain was too great and they turned away from the Song that echoed all around them.

The three Elf-lords opened their eyes and sighed almost as one. "I was sure that would work," Thranduil said with a scowl. "I was sure that all they needed was encouragement and welcome. Perhaps it has simply been too long."

"Or perhaps we are approaching this the wrong way," Celeborn offered.

The other two stared at the Sindarin prince. "Say on, Celeborn," Amroth commanded. "Tell us your thoughts."

"What if these Woods are not looking for our welcome but for our apology?"

"Apology?" Thranduil echoed. "Apology for what?"

Celeborn did not answer immediately. Instead he closed his eyes and listened with his entire being. Finally he spoke, his eyes still closed. "Here is where the deepest betrayal occurred," he said almost to himself, "yet the betrayal was not on the part of the trees."

The other two ellyn closed their eyes to better listen to the heartbeat of the trees and to discern whatever message they were willing to impart. "The Evair," Thranduiil said at last. "They betrayed these Woods to the Yrch."

"And since then the trees have refused all communion with those whom they consider to be Gwerth," Amroth mused.

"So what do we do?" Thranduil asked. "We are not kin to the Betrayers."

"The trees do not know this," Celeborn said in a reasonable tone.

Amroth nodded. "Let us search out the oldest of the trees and offer them our apologies on behalf of those who should never have betrayed their oaths to protect these Woods against all comers."

The other two ellyn agreed and they separated, each searching for one of the older trees. Celeborn came upon a hoary elm whose branches drooped in despair. He gently laid a palm to the trunk. "Forgive us, mellon nîn," he whispered. "We regret what was done to you. In their fear the Gwerth abandoned their oaths and failed in their trust. Forgive us and let us be friends once more. I, Celeborn, Prince of the House of Elu Thingol of Doriath, swear this oath to you: Never again need you fear betrayal. The Belain are my witnesses and may they forsake me for all the ages of Arda if I renege upon my word."

Dimly, Celeborn was aware of Amroth and Thranduil nearby. The King of Lothlórien was speaking to an ancient oak, while Thranduil made his apologies to a tall pine. These seemed to the Elves to be the oldest of the trees. There was a long moment of silence while the three Elves waited to see what would happen.

And then...

"What was that?" Celeborn exclaimed. The other two shook their heads, unsure what they had heard. Then, birdsong pierced the skies as swallows suddenly appeared as from nowhere and came to rest in the upper branches of the elm to which Celeborn had spoken. The Elf-lords stared at one another in amazement as they listened to the music of the birds and then Celeborn smiled. "I think these Woods now have a new name."

Amroth and Thranduil nodded. "Taur Tuilinn," Amroth said with a nod. "It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?"

The other two Elves nodded and for a long while the three of them stood in the midst of a Woods long silent and listened with joy as the trees around them sang a song of welcome for the first time in nearly five thousand years.

****

All words and phrases are Sindarin.

iDhîn i-Gelaidh: The Silence of Trees.

Mellyrn: Plural of mallorn, the golden tree of Lothlórien.

Lorinand: An older form of Lórien.

Evair: Plural of Avar: Recusant, one who refused to join in the Great March; equivalent to the Quenya term Avari.

Ellon: Male Elf; the plural is ellyn.

Eryn Dîn: Silent Woods.

Lothron: May.

Eryn Galen iDhaer: Greenwood the Great. It will be another 834 years before a shadow falls on this forest and its name is changed to Mirkwood.

Yrch: Plural of Orch: Orc.

Hithaeglir: Misty Mountains.

Gwerth: Plural of Gwarth: Betrayer.

Belain: Valar.

Taur Tuilinn: Forest of Swallows.

****

Translation of the Song of the Three Elf-lords:

     My heart wishes for thee, my beloved,

     My heart wishes for thee to sing.

     Release thine anger, have remembrance of Joy alone.

     Flee, darkness! Depart from my beloved forever.

     Be strong, my beloved, and have hope.

     Your pain flees with the night and morning comes.

     Be strong, my beloved, and sing for Joy.

     All is well with thee, now and forever.

     Sing, my beloved, sing!

     Day comes and thou art beautiful like the Sun.

     In you my heart knows great joy.

     Sing, my beloved, and be forever glad!

QUARREL: Confronting Námo

SUMMARY: Thranduil has issues with Lord Námo. A sequel of sorts to my ‘Legolas in Mandos’ tale told in two parts: Playing Chess With Lord Námo and Ab ’Urth. This one is for Ces because she asked.

WARNING: The usual warning about eating and drinking while reading applies.

****

So, there I was, quietly enjoying the festivities with my beloved. It was the Eruhantalë, one of the few times we Valar bother to intermingle with the Eldar and join them in giving thanks to Atar for the fruits of the land and for our existence. It is generally a joyous occasion and I look forward to it every year. It’s the one time of the year when I can stop being the Lord of Mandos, though most of the Eldar still don’t see me as anything but, even when I’m not wearing black. Today, for instance, I was wearing a tunic of deep blue crushed velvet.

Anyway, I was just about to dig into a Tol Eressëan crab cake (they know how to do them right) when my beloved bespoke me.

*Don’t look now, love, but there’s trouble heading your way.* Her tone was one of amusement rather than distress.

I looked up and nearly choked on the piece of crab in my mouth. Damn! Why did he have to choose today of all days for this confrontation? Oh, I knew it was coming. From the moment Thranduil stepped off the grey ship onto the quay of Avallonë I knew this day would come. Typical of the Elf that he waited ten years before seeking me out.

Thranduil, late of Eryn Lasgalen, was indeed a force to be reckoned with, and he came towards me with a determined look in his eyes that definitely spelled trouble. Well, if it was trouble he was looking for, trouble he would get. I put up with Glorfindel in my Halls for a millennium, I could easily deal with this particular ellon for five minutes. I kept the smile of amusement off my face when I noticed young Legolas reluctantly trailing behind his atar, looking for all the world as if he would rather be dead... again.

"I would speak with you, Lord Námo," Thranduil said as he neared and all conversations around us stopped.

"Thranduil," was all I said in acknowledgment, deciding to let the ellon make the first move in our little game, for game it was and we both knew it.

"You have a lot of nerve, Vala, keeping my son from me."

Well, that was quick and to the point. I handed my plate of food to Vairë who smiled at me. That smile got me every time and I had the feeling that after the festivities we would be doing some celebrating of our own. I turned back to the still fuming Elf.

"In what way did I keep your son from you, Thranduil? He seems to be standing right next to you."

"You summoned him to Mandos!" Thranduil exclaimed angrily.

"And so?" I replied with all the imperious arrogance I could muster. "He died, Oropherion, so of course I summoned him."

"What business did you have killing him in the first place?"

"Ada, please...." Legolas tried to say, but his atar waved him off.

"Well?"

I gave Legolas a sympathetic look. He was clearly embarrassed by his atar’s histrionics. I gave Thranduil my most intimidating stare. Naturally, he didn’t take the hint. I vaguely wondered if the ellon wasn’t somehow related to Fëanáro, he was that obstinate.

*Actually, I think Fëanáro could take lessons from this one,* Manwë bespoke me and I had to laugh, though none of the Elves heard me.

"I didn’t kill him, Child," I explained and smiled inwardly as Thranduil started at the term. "I leave the manner of your deaths to you. Legolas was quite capable of getting himself killed, in a rather spectacularly messy way as I recall, without my help."

Now poor Legolas cringed and looked as if he wished the earth would open up and swallow him. Thranduil gave his son a puzzled look. "You never did say just how you died?"

Legolas looked up and gave his atar stare for stare. "Nor will I speak of it here, Adar. I still do not know how you even learned about it, for I never mentioned it to you."

Thranduil smirked. I really wanted to smack him upside his head but began counting backwards from a thousand to keep from indulging myself.

*That’s it, dear, keep your temper,* Vairë said soothingly. *You don’t want to scare Thranduil into your Halls, do you?*

*Atar forbid!* came a reply from Maranwë, my Chief Maia. I could almost see him smiling. *Glorfindel was bad enough, but if Thranduil shows up in Mandos, lord, I’m changing allegiance.*

*If Thranduil shows up in my Halls, I’m moving out myself,* I quipped and there was laughter from my fellow Valar.

"One of your people sent me a report of all that happened," Thranduil said to his son.

"You mean one of your spies," Legolas interjected with a scowl.

Thranduil shrugged, not denying the accusation. "The only thing he failed to do was to explain just how you died," was all he said.

Well, that put a different light on the subject. I decided to enter into the fray again.

"Regardless, Thranduil, I do not see what quarrel you have with me. Legolas lives, thanks to Elessar. What’s your complaint against me then?"

"If you knew you were going to release my son from your... care, why did you keep him in Mandos at all? Why go through the charade...."

"It was no charade, Oropherion," I stated coldly, "though truly I would have sent your son back sooner had he but kept his mouth shut."

"What do you mean?" the king asked, clearly puzzled by my words.

I smiled and made sure it wasn’t a pleasant one. Legolas actually turned an interesting shade of green. Thranduil glared at his son. "What does he mean?"

Legolas just shook his head, clearly unable or unwilling to answer, knowing how stupid he would look if he explained. I decided to relieve him of the burden by answering Thranduil myself.

"He accused me of not being terrifying enough. In fact, he seemed to think your interrogations were more frightening than my own." I gave him my warmest smile, which was not all that warm. "I decided to prove him wrong." I turned to Legolas, still looking green around the gills. "And I did prove you wrong, didn’t I, Child?"

Legolas swallowed nervously and nodded. I gave Thranduil my own smirk.

"You see. If you want to blame anyone, blame your own son. If he’d kept his mouth shut I would have sent him back without him undergoing Judgment, but as he didn’t, it took a Mortal to reclaim him from me. You should be grateful, Thranduil, that Legolas had such a staunch friend who actually challenged me to a duel for your son’s life."

"Hmph," was the king’s only reply, clearly not willing to concede the point.

I sighed inwardly, wishing I could just give him the Wrath-of-Mandos treatment, but knowing full well that doing so would probably be counterproductive. I might scare half the population of Eldamar into my Halls and then I would be up to my eyeballs with paperwork for the next millennium trying to sort them all out.

*Never mind having to find rooms for them all,* Irmo said with a snicker. I sent him my best glare but he just laughed all the harder.

"Ada, please," Legolas pleaded. "It is well. I do not blame Lord Námo for my own stupidity. Let it go. You’re ruining the festivities."

Thranduil turned to his son, a look of grief on his face. "I nearly lost you," he whispered. "I watched my own adar die and so many of our people over the long years of retreat from Sauron. The thought of nearly losing you as well...." he shook his head. "I couldn’t have borne it. I would have died of grief."

Legolas took his atar into his embrace. "Oh, Ada, I’m so sorry. But I’m alive and well and there is no reason to grieve for what did not happen."

"But it did happen," Thranduil protested. "Don’t you see? You died, if only for a short time. You died and I wasn’t there...." He started weeping softly and now I understood what his true motive was in confronting me.

"Thranduil," I said as gently as I could. He turned to look at me. "Death comes unexpectedly, when it comes at all. There is no way to predict it or the manner in which it will occur. Your son is a warrior, as are you. You know the risk that is taken by any who carry a sword or a bow into battle. Through a series of unfortunate circumstances Legolas died. Yet, he lives again because of the love of one Man who would not give him up to me without a fight. Elessar fought valiantly for your son’s soul and you should be rejoicing in that rather than haranguing me about it."

That seemed to deflate the Elf a bit and he actually nodded. Then he glared at me again, his tears gone. "All well and good, but I’m still not satisfied with the explanations. I want to know how Legolas died, and I want to know here and now."

I sighed and gave Legolas a glance. The poor ellon was ready to faint. I turned back to Thranduil and did the only thing I could think of... I lied. "Your son died as a warrior, Thranduil, protecting his comrades from the enemy."

Well that wasn’t strictly a lie I decided, for Legolas had been doing just that when his little accident occurred. It wasn’t the ellon’s fault that when he actually did die his ‘enemy’ was a tree limb and not the flying monster wreaking havoc with Elessar’s army.

"Now, why don’t you go and enjoy the rest of the festival with your family?" I suggested, clearly done with this little confrontation. There was a Tol Eressëan crab cake with my name on it and this silly Elf was keeping me from it.

*Not silly,* Vairë admonished me. *Just a concerned atar.*

*He waited ten years for this,* I rejoined. *Had he come to me immediately....*

*That he waited this long to speak with you is a point in his favor,* Manwë interjected. *It shows that he has learned restraint, something Oropher never learned until it was too late for him.*

I nodded, feeling more sympathetic towards the Sinda. "Your son lives, Thranduil, and your own adar has been returned to you. Rejoice in that and let there be peace between us. Legolas does not blame me for what happened and neither should you."

Thranduil just nodded without speaking and I figured the conversation was finally over when Legolas gave me a nervous look, swallowing visibly. "Is there something you wish to ask me, Thranduilion?"

"I... I was just wondering, lord... If Aragorn had lost the game... would he really have died as well?"

Thranduil’s eyebrows went up at his son’s question and I could see he was as interested in the answer as was Legolas. For a long moment I just gazed upon father and son and then I smiled. "Why, Legolas, that would be telling, wouldn’t it?" No way was I going to admit that the game had been rigged from the beginning. That was my little secret.

*Can’t be a secret if we all know about it,* came Varda’s amused words.

*You don’t count,* I retorted, mentally sticking out my tongue at her. My fellow Valar just laughed. Ignoring the surprised looks on the two ellyn’s faces and deciding the conversation was truly done and over with, I turned to my beloved Vairë, giving her a smile and a wink as I retrieved my plate and bit into the crab cake I’d been enjoying before being so rudely interrupted.

Hmmm.... yes. Those Tol Eressëans really knew how to do them right.

****

Eruhantalë: Thanksgiving to Eru.

MARCHES: Crossing the Ice

SUMMARY: During the crossing of the Helcaraxë, two Elves find they have more in common than they first thought when death threatens them both. This is an expansion of a memory that my OC Thandir has in my tale Stirrings of Shadow, Chapter 35. This one is for Beruthiel's Cat, for all her help and support.

NOTE ON NAMES: As they have not reached Beleriand yet, the Noldor still use their Quenya names. I list them and the Sindarin names they ultimately chose for themselves (or were given by others) here for easy reference:

Arafinwë: Finarfin.

Calamandil: Thandir. He will ultimately adapt his amilessë or mother-name, Turmaher ‘Shield Lord’ into Sindarin. Calamandil means "Lover of the Light of Aman". Amandilion: ‘son of Amandil’, Thandir’s father.

Elenwë: Turgon’s wife and mother of Idril. As she never made it to Beleriand, her name was never Sindarinized.

Ezelmiril: Calemmiriel. For those paying attention, she is Netilmirë's daughter and Sador’s grandmother, mentioned in Elf, Interrupted: Book One: Glorfindel Redux.

Fëanáro: Fëanor.

Findaráto: Finrod.

Laurefindil: Glorfindel.

Laurendil: Glorendil.

Maitimo: Maedhros.

Ñolofinwë: Fingolfin.

Turucáno: Turgon.

****

Calamandil never thought he could be so cold or hate the color white so much. He had lost count of how long they had been trudging through the frozen wastes of the Helcaraxë. He had ceased to look up into the star-strewn sky and the wavering lights that some claimed were Maiar acting as sentinels, making sure none turned back now that they had made an irrevocable choice to defy the Valar. His heart was sore and grieving for all those whom they had lost along the way. His closest friend, Laurendil, had almost died when one of the ice floes had broken apart. It was only by chance that he happened to be near enough to haul Laurendil out of the icy waters before the ellon had slipped into oblivion. As it was, they had lost Lady Elenwë and three others to the same accident.

He stole a glance at his friend, trudging along beside him. Laurendil still looked shaken and there was an expression of dull apathy in his eyes that did not bode well. He put an arm around the ellon’s shoulders and gave him a hug. "We will make it, meldonya," he whispered. "We will make it and Fëanáro will rue his treachery."

Laurendil merely nodded but said nothing. Calamandil did not know what else to do for his friend, so he merely kept his arm around the ellon’s shoulders and gave him his support. The two continued marching along in the silence of Oiolómë, as some were calling the darkness that surrounded them. How he longed for the Light of the Two Trees and grieved again for their loss.

****

It had amazed the Elves that any kind of life existed in this frozen hell through which they were marching, yet, it was there if they knew where to look. The creatures were strange and wondrous. There were the altarassi, for instance, with their oddly flattened antlers. They had not been dangerous, except when stampeding in a herd. They had proved good to eat and many of the Elves now wore clothes made from their pelts, but these creatures had been left far behind and now they had to scrounge for food. There was always fish, of course, but that got monotonous after awhile. Lichen and moss were also available, but again, neither was very palatable.

Two creatures they found that seemed to thrive in this wasteland — the lossemorco and the tóarwandamunda. Both were dangerous, though for different reasons. The lossemorcor blended so well into the landscape with their snow-white fur that more than one hunting group had found themselves surprised by them and, tragically, some were mauled to death before they even knew what had happened. Luckily, these creatures tended to be solitary or ranged in groups of no more than two or three, usually a mother with her cubs.

The tóarwandamundar, on the other hand, were not hard to miss at all. The smallest one any had seen easily towered over the tallest Elves by a factor of three. These were wooly creatures with long snouts and evil looking tusks, hence their name. It usually took a dozen or so hunters working together to bring down just one of the creatures. The tóarwandamundar were highly prized, not only for the amount of meat they provided, but also for the wooly pelt, which were warmer than the pelts of either the lossemorcor or the altarassi, for, the further from Aman they went, the more incessant and pervasive the cold which they were now feeling.

Teams of hunters were sent out whenever Prince Ñolofinwë ordered an encampment to allow them to rest and recuperate, especially the ellith and the few elflings who were with them. The teams ranged from two to six hunters and each ellon was expected to help in the hunting on a rotating basis. Even the princes of the House of Finwë were not exempt from this duty. Prince Findaráto, for instance, had proven exceptionally skillful in the hunt.

So it was that at their next encampment it fell to Calamandil to join in the hunt, though he was reluctant to leave Laurendil, who normally would have accompanied him, but as the ellon had not yet recovered from his near drowning, he was excused.

"Fear not, Calamandil," one of the ellith in charge of their part of the camp told him. "We will watch over thy friend. He will be well with us."

Calamandil gave Ezelmiril a grateful look. "I thank thee, meldenya. Carityë quildë órenya."

The elleth merely nodded before tucking another blanket around Laurendil who was sleeping. Calamandil bent down and stroked Laurendil’s hair. "Sleep, meldonya, and recover. I will return soon," he whispered, then headed to where the other hunters were gathering to be paired off.

Pairings were determined arbitrarily and Calamandil rarely paired up with the same group of hunters twice, so it was something of a rude shock to find that he’d been assigned to go with Lord Laurefindil this time around. He was the scion of a noble Noldorin family close to the House of Finwë. His atar and Calamandil’s atar were rivals in the Noldóran’s government and their animosity had spilled over to affect their families, so Calamandil viewed Laurefindil as, if not an enemy, then definitely an unfriend.

"I have no quarrel with thee, Amandilion," Laurefindil told him when Calamandil objected to the pairing. "What quarrel our atari might have is their affair. I would think staying alive would take precedence over some petty dispute."

"It was not petty," Calamandil insisted angrily, though in truth he had only the vaguest idea what the original quarrel was about.

Laurefindel raised a supercilious eyebrow. "Let us go," was his only comment and Calamandil was forced to grab his spear and bow and follow him.

****

Calamandil scowled into the dark, wondering what he had done to deserve being saddled with Laurefindil, as arrogant an ellon as there ever was. Takes after his atar, he thought sourly, little suspecting that the object of his disapproval was thinking much the same thing about him. The two were trekking across a snow field, mercifully away from the ice fields that seemed to make up the bulk of their path towards Heceldamar. Where they were walking appeared to be firmer ground, though in this land of incessant white, that could be deceiving.

"The scouts said they found lossemorco tracks in this direction," Laurefindil said, pointing to the northeast, "but I do not see anything."

"That is because thou art looking too far ahead," Calamandil sneered and pointed closer to their feet where there were faint signs that at least one lossemorco had gone that way.

Laurefindil just scowled, refusing to take the bait. "Well, let us see where they lead. No way to tell how many are in this group."

Calamandil shrugged. "We have never come across more than three or four at a time and usually it is a mother with cubs."

"Let us hope it is just a lone male then," Laurefindil said with a grim smile. "The females with cubs are more dangerous."

Calamandil chuckled. "Rather like our own." The other ellon laughed at that; the two of them in full agreement about that subject at least.

Towards the northeast the land rose somewhat and there were tussocks of lichen clinging precariously to a rock here and there. Above them the sky glowed with a reddish light shading towards the blue. The two hunters ignored it; their senses of wonder long since crushed by the exigencies of pure survival. The tracks were becoming more defined and the two Elves sensed they were coming nearer to their prey and went forward with more caution. They crouched behind a low hill of frozen snow and peered over the drift when they heard high squeaking grunts coming from the other side.

"Pityalossemorcor," Laurefindil whispered. Calamandil nodded. Below them were two cubs playfully wrestling with one another. The two ellyn watched for a bit, grimly amused by the cubs’ antics. "I wonder where... Calamandil! Look out!" Laurefindil screamed, shoving the other ellon out of the way of the cubs’ mother which had risen out of nowhere in full rage at the threat to her offspring.

Calamandil had only a confused impression of something huge with teeth and claws swooping down upon him and then he heard a yell and the slick sound of a spear finding its mark. The lossemorco gave a growling grunt that sounded to Calamandil as if the creature were somewhat surprised and then a heavy weight fell on him. There were squeals from the two cubs and then the twang of arrows.

Silence followed.

Calamandil struggled to get the carcass off him but his arms were pinned underneath the body and he could barely move or breathe. The shaft of the spear used to kill the lossemorco had missed him by only a hand’s span as the body fell atop him. The force of the fall had driven the spear nearly through the carcass. Before Calamandil thought he would suffocate from the pressure that had driven his breath from him, there was a shifting of the body and he was finally free, looking up at the worried face of Laurefindil.

"Art thou injured?" the ellon asked, automatically checking Calamandil for wounds. It turned out that all the blood on him belonged to the lossemorco.

"Only my pride," Calamandil muttered as he allowed Laurefindil to help him up. He started to take a step and felt his right ankle twist and gave an involuntary yelp. Laurefindil caught him just in time to prevent him from falling on his face. "And my ankle," he added with a grimace.

"Sittest thou and let me see," Laurefindil said and without giving Calamandil much choice, practically pushed him back onto the ground. Calamandil leaned back against the snow drift and let Laurefindil examine the ankle. "It appeareth unbroken but it looketh rather swollen," he said after a cursory examination. "Thinkest thou canst walk on it if I help?"

"What about the lossemorcor? Prince Ñolofinwë would skin us alive if we abandoned the fresh meat."

Laurefindil nodded, giving the other ellon a tight smile. "Not to mention our respective lords."

Calamandil snorted. "I doubt me that Prince Findaráto knoweth I even exist."

Laurefindil gave him a puzzled look. "Why sayest thou so? Thinkest thou that Findaráto is so careless of his people?"

Calamandil shrugged uncomfortably. "I am the youngest son of an official in the Noldóran’s government. Prince Findaráto would have no occasion to know who I am, for I had not yet been presented to Finwë’s Court."

"Perhaps," Laurefindil conceded, "but that is not to say that he doth not know who thou’rt now."

Calamandil pondered those words for a while as Laurefindil went about the bloody task of skinning the three carcasses and preparing the meat to be transported back to the encampment. "We will wrap the meat in the skins and tie them with the ’morco’s guts," Laurefindil said as he worked, more for something to break the silence between them than because he thought Calamandil was unaware of the usual procedure for transporting fresh meat across the wastefields of the Helcaraxë. Calamandil merely grunted, trying to ease the throbbing of his ankle by packing snow inside his boot and then covering the boot itself with more snow and ice. He dared not remove the boot because of the swelling.

Glancing about him, he frowned. For long periods of time the heavens would remain clear, the stars shining cold and bright above them, indifferent to their plight, but once in a while clouds would roll across the skies and that usually spelled trouble. Far to the west he thought he saw such clouds banking and pointed. "That doth not look good."

Laurefindil glanced up from his messy work and nodded. "Nay, it doth not, but I cannot work any faster than I am." The last sounded almost like an accusation to Calamandil, who scowled.

"I did not purposely set out to injure myself. Why dost thou not bring one of the cubs and I will dress it. I do not need to stand for that."

Laurefindil cast him a dark look and shook his head. "Thou would’st be better employed in digging us a shelter into this drift. I fear me that we will not make it back to the encampment until it bloweth over."

"Thinkest thou so?" Calamandil asked, giving the skies a worried look.

"I would be safe rather than sorry," came the reply and Calamandil nodded.

"Help me up a bit then. I can work better if I am on my knees."

Laurefindil stopped his grisly work, wiping his hands in the snow before helping Calamandil to his knees. The ellon winced slightly as he moved his right foot and he had to hold it out at an awkward angle to minimize the pain from the pressure that was now being placed upon it. He nodded his thanks, using his hands and a knife to scoop out a rough cave. Laurefindil watched him for a moment before returning to his previous task.

"I do not think I will be able to get all the meat off in time," he said, his movements economical, honed from long practice.

"Bring the cubs over here and I will work on them as soon as I have this shelter made," Calamandil suggested. "It will only be big enough for the two of us to sit side-by-side. We should use the carcasses as wind breaks. I do not want to be buried in snow."

"Good idea," Laurefindil acknowledged. He broke off what he was doing and slipped around the drift while Calamandil continued digging. He did not think he would have time to do much more than make an indentation into the drift in which they could huddle. Laurefindil returned shortly, dragging one of the cubs towards him, then he went and got the other one. All this time the clouds from the west were piling up at the horizon and moving slowly but inexorably towards them. Calamandil dug faster.

"Here, let me help," Laurefindil said, kneeling next to the other ellon and using both hands to dig. Calamandil decided it wasn’t worth arguing about and merely nodded.

"Let us hope this coming storm doth not last too long," he said and Laurefindil nodded. The last time a storm had engulfed the Exiles it had lasted far longer than any had anticipated. Not everyone had survived it.

With Laurefindil helping him, they were able to construct a bigger shelter than Calamandil had originally planned, so eventually it was large enough for them to recline as well as sit up as needed. As soon as their cave was nearly completed Laurefindil went back to saving what he could of the lossemorco meat, working furiously to get as much of it as he could, piling the bloody slabs onto the pelt.

"Forget the rest, Laurefindil," Calamandil called out, "we’re running out of time." He pointed in the direction of the storm. Typically, it was upon them sooner than they had thought it would be.

"Just this last bit and I’ll be done," Laurefindil cried back, raising his voice above the howling of the wind as the storm swept darkly across the snowfield, blanking out the starlight and the glowing sheets of color above them.

"Laurefindil!" Calamandil screamed when the other ellon disappeared from sight as the storm raged down upon them. He cursed mightily at the stubbornness of the golden-haired ellon and wondered again just what he had done to deserve being saddled with him.

He was blinded by the snow swirling madly about him, but he had been looking directly at the other Elf when the storm hit, so he started crawling in what he hoped was the right direction. He wondered though how he would find his way back to their makeshift shelter. The snow would fill in any tracks he would make almost as quickly as they were made. He paused to think it out and then scrambled back to the shelter where their russacks were and fished out a length of hísilia. Tying one end around the stiffened foreleg of one of the cubs, he tied the other end around his waist. For good measure he grabbed the length that was in Laurefindil’s pack and hung it around his neck. Then he began crawling in what he hoped was the right direction.

Damn fool! he thought as he waded through the piles of snow gathering around him. Must be that Vanyarin blood in him. He is as flighty as they come and he is going to get us both killed. His thoughts roiled around that idea as he struggled on, trying to ignore the pain in his ankle. After what seemed like an eternity but was probably slightly shorter than that, he literally ran into Laurefindil who, it seemed had had enough sense to dump the meat and throw the pelt over him to give him as much protection as possible. Calamandil’s first indication that he had found the ellon was a squawk of surprise as he apparently crawled over Laurefindil’s hidden body.

"Art thou trying to kill me?" Laurefindil screamed at him as he flung back the pelt to confront Calamandil.

"Nay, I figure this storm can do my work for me," Calamandil snarled back. "Dost thou wish for me to rescue thee or should I go back to the shelter without thee?"

"I do not need rescuing!" Laurefindil protested, "but this meat doth. Help me load it back on the pelt."

"Forget the meat!" Calamandil screamed back. "It is not worth our lives."

"I am not going back to Prince Ñolofinwë empty-handed!" Laurefindil insisted and began piling the meat back onto the pelt while the storm raged. Already huge drifts were piling about them.

Calamandil sighed but did as he was bid. He recognized the expression on Laurefindil’s face. Stubborn ellon! Definitely that Vanyarin blood! was all he could think as he helped Laurefindil with the now frozen slabs of meat. It was difficult as they could barely see their hands in front of them but in short order they were wrapping the pelt around the meat as best they could with some of the hísilia, for there was no way to find the carcass now and use its guts for rope as Laurefindil had originally intended.

"We will put the pelt between us," Laurefindil told him. "Wrap this end of the hísilia around you and I will push."

"If thou lettest go..." Calamandil began to warn him.

"I will not," Laurefindil assured him. "Go thou."

Calamandil nodded and turned towards the shelter, using the hísilia to guide them back. It was slow going and he could feel the cold seeping inside him and felt his energy flag, but he refused to stop, knowing to do so would spell death for them both. At last he found himself nose to paw with the cub corpse and breathed a sigh of relief. Laurefindil scrambled over the pelt and helped Calamandil drag it closer to the entrance which had been protected enough by the other carcasses that it wasn’t completely blocked.

As they scrambled to get under shelter, Calamandil stifled a gasp as pain lanced up his leg with the jostling he and Laurefindil were doing trying to get into comfortable positions in an extremely uncomfortable situation. "Thou should’st just have left the damn meat!" he growled at his companion.

"We need that meat!" Laurefindil snarled back. "Our provisions are dangerously low."

"And if I had not found thee, thou would’st be dead along with the lossemorcor."

"That would’st have pleased thee, neh?" Laurefindil responded, and Calamandil could almost ‘hear’ the smile in his voice, for it was too dark for them to see one another inside their shelter.

Calamandil felt himself go cold with something that had nothing to do with their surroundings. Instead of answering he asked, "Why didst thou join the Rebellion? Did thine atar give his permission for thee to leave?"

"Did thine?" Laurefindil retorted.

"Nay, he did not," Calamandil replied in a low voice full of regret.

"Yet thou didst leave nonetheless."

"Aye, I did," Calamandil said with a sigh.

They sat there in dark silence as the storm continued around them, its own voice strident and full of unrelenting fury. Calamandil shifted his position slightly to ease the cramping that was beginning in his right foot and felt himself sweating in an effort not to cry out. Laurefindil must have surmised his predicament, though, for Calamandil suddenly felt his hands on his shoulders pushing him to lie flat. "Here, let me see if I can help ease the pain," the golden-haired ellon said, sounding almost gentle.

Calamandil leaned back while Laurefindil shifted his own position so that his head was closer to Calamandil’s feet. The ellon thought Laurefindil would remove his boot but instead he felt his fingers begin to massage his calf, using a slow circular motion that sent shivers of pleasure up his spine and he let out an involuntary sigh of relief, feeling himself relax and begin to drift, only to feel Laurefindil shake him.

"Nay, do not sleep yet, meldonya. That way lies death and I do not think thou’rt ready to face Lord Námo just yet."

Calamandil shivered. "Nay, I am not."

"Here, sittest thou up and movest thou all the way back away from the entrance. It will be warmer there."

"I wish we could build a fire," Calamandil said as he complied to Laurefindil’s suggestion.

"As do I," came the reply. Then, Calamandil felt Laurefindil shifting his position as well, but moving away from rather than towards him.

"Where dost thou go?" he demanded.

"Not far," Laurefindil answered. "We cannot have a fire but we need something to keep us warm. Our clothes are too soaked in blood and snow. Even from here I can feel thee shivering."

Calamandil didn’t argue, for indeed he was shivering and couldn’t seem to stop. "What dost thou plan to do?"

"Wait and see," came the irritating reply and then he was gone and Calamandil was left alone in the dark. It was not for long, though it seemed that way to the ellon. Soon he heard the sound of something being dragged into the cave accompanied by a few choice expletives that actually made Calamandil chuckle.

"Doth thine ammë know thou speakest so?" he couldn’t help ask and was rewarded with another string of imprecations that set him laughing.

"Here," Laurefindil said as he came to sit next to Calamandil, "this should keep us warm."

Calamandil felt something soft and, oddly enough, smelling of starlight being wrapped around him and Laurefindil. Almost at once he began to feel warmer. "What is this?" he asked, though he knew the answer.

"It is the lossemorco pelt," Laurefindil said with studied patience as if speaking to a particularly stupid elfling.

"I know that," Calamandil retorted with some exasperation, though he was actually more amused than annoyed. "I meant, I thought the meat was important."

"It is," Laurefindil answered. "I have used my own cloak to cover it. It will do well where it is for now and we should be able to find it easily enough once this storm passes."

There was silence between them after that for some time as each was lost in his own thoughts. Calamandil’s ankle was not throbbing quite as much and he was beginning to feel warm again with the pelt over them and the heat from their hröar as they huddled close together. Too warm. He could feel himself drifting off to sleep and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that was dangerous but it was too much effort on his part to do anything about it.

"Wakest thou!" Laurefindil demanded, giving him a rude shake. "Thou canst not sleep, for that way lies death and I will not drag thy sorry carcass back to the encampment but leave thee for the tóarwandamundar to feast upon."

Calamandil opened his eyes and muttered something vile. Laurefindil laughed. "Now whose ammë would be shocked?" he enquired as he shifted his position slightly to give Calamandil more room to maneuver himself into a sitting position again, for, to his embarrassment, he discovered that he had actually lain his head upon the other ellon’s lap.

"I cannot stay awake," he explained. "All I wish is to sleep."

"I know," Laurefindil said. "I wish to as well. Therefore, let us promise one another to be the other’s guard and keep each other awake."

"How?"

"Tell me about thyself," came the reply. "Why didst thou join in this madness?"

Calamandil pondered the question for a moment before answering. "Mine atar... he often spoke of the Great Migration and the wide lands across which he traveled. He made it sound... exciting."

He felt rather than saw Laurefindil nod. "They all made it sound like it was a grand adventure," the golden-haired ellon said. "Once, I asked mine atar if he regretted making the journey to Aman and if he would not rather return to Endórë."

"What did he say?"

"He told me never to speak such nonsense again. He said that I should be grateful that I lived in the Peace of the Valar and not scrounging for existence in some nameless wilderness." He gave a rueful chuckle, then asked a question of his own. "Thine atar remaineth in Aman, doth he not?"

"Aye, he and ammë both."

"What words did he speak to thee at thy leaving?"

Calamandil grimaced and, when he answered, his tone was bitter. "‘Thou’rt no son of mine if thou would’st abandon all that we have striven to create here in Aman. Go thou if thou must and mayest thou find thy death more easily than King Finwë’."

"He actually said that?" Laurefindil asked, the shock in his voice evident.

Calamandil nodded, quite forgetting that the other ellon could not see the gesture, but his silence was answer enough. After a while, Calamandil stirred, shifting his legs a bit to ease them. "What about thine atar?" he asked.

At first Laurefindil said nothing and Calamandil thought perhaps the ellon would not answer at all. He was about to say something to break the uneasy silence that had fallen between them when Laurefindil began speaking in a low, emotionless voice. "He followeth Fëanáro."

Calamandil felt a frisson of shock run through his fëa, shock and confusion. "But... I thought he did not wish to leave Aman?"

"Ironic, is it not?" Laurefindil replied with a strangled sob as if he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. "He castigated me for asking about Endórë and here he doth follow after Fëanáro as if he were... were one of the Valar!"

"What about your ammë?" Calamandil whispered.

Laurefindil gave a snort. "Begged us both to stay and when we refused she decided to join us. Atar was furious and blamed me for her decision."

"But... she doth not travel with us," Calamandil stated, trying to remember if he ever saw Laurefindil’s amillë during their journey. "Did she turn back with Prince Arafinwë?"

"Nay, she did not. At first she stayed with me after I joined Prince Turucáno’s troop. Atar had gone on ahead, I think in Maitamo’s train." Laurefindil paused for the longest time. "When we finally caught up with him... in Alqualondë... Ammë tried to stop him from killing one of the Teleri and..." he stopped, as if gathering his courage to speak his next words. "He never saw her... I do not think he ever realized what he did...."

Calamandil found he suddenly could not breathe as Laurefindil ran out of words and began quietly sobbing. He did not know what to do save to put an arm around the ellon’s shoulders and offer him awkward comfort. As Laurefindil’s sobs quieted, Calamandil said the first thing that came to mind. "I think we have all gone a little insane."

He felt Laurefindil nod. Then, the ellon straightened somewhat. "Listen!" he demanded.

"What?" Calamandil asked in confusion. "I hear nothing."

"For there be naught to hear, neh?" Laurefindil replied, moving towards the entrance of their shelter.

Calamandil now understood: the storm had stopped. Silence reigned all around them. He could feel Laurefindil pushing snow to either side of him as he attempted to clear the way out. Soon he was gone and Calamandil moved towards the entrance, taking care with his ankle. Crawling outside he found the skies clear again, the stars as implacable in their uncaring brilliance as ever though the shimmering lights were gone. Laurefindil was busy uncovering the two cub carcasses and his cloak with the meat.

"Bring the pelt," he ordered. "Let us get this meat together and get us hence. I wish to be back at the encampment as quickly as possible."

"Thinkest thou they have sent out search parties for us?"

Laurefindil shrugged. "Not during the storm, though they may well be looking for us now that it hath passed. Perhaps we shall meet them along the way."

Calamandil nodded, then went back into the cave to gather the pelt and their other supplies. While Laurefindil finished with the meat he tried to stand and see how well he could walk. It was painful and he would be slow but he could do it. Laurefindil noticed him testing his balance and nodded with approval.

"Canst thou pull this pelt while I handle the cubs?" he asked and Calamandil nodded, taking the end of the hísilia and tying it around his waist.

"I can manage if we go slow and if I can use thee as a support."

"Let us go then," Laurefindil said. He had yoked the two cubs with the hísilia around their necks and was tying the ends around his waist. Then he offered his arm to Calamandil and together they began trekking back towards the encampment. It was tediously slow, not only because of the weight they were dragging but because the storm had dumped huge drifts of snow that they were forced to either go around or climb.

"We are almost there," Laurefindil said at one point after they had climbed down one of the larger drifts and were taking a short break to catch their breaths. "I recognize those tussocks." He pointed to a clump of rocks and lichen. "We passed them on our way out."

Calamandil nodded but did not speak, deciding to save his energy for the trek. They started off again but stopped almost immediately when a strange vibration came to them through their feet. They glanced around worriedly, trying to make sense of what they were feeling. Then —

"Valar!" Calamandil screamed, the oath involuntarily ripped out of him, as he pointed to the northwest.

Laurefindil began to curse roundly, for coming straight towards them was a maddened tóarwandamunda. They could see spear shafts sticking from its flanks and there were small figures running behind it. Calamandil began frantically to untie the rope around him, his fingers fumbling with cold and fear. Now they could hear the creature bellowing, it’s path straight for them. Laurefindil finally pulled out one of his knives and slashed through the hísilia with a single cut, then he grabbed Calamandil by the shoulder. "Run!" he yelled and together they broke away from the abandoned meat, heedless of their direction, just needing to escape from the tusked death bearing down upon them. The ground shook with the passing of the tóarwandamunda as it neared them and to their horror, large cracks in the ground suddenly appeared before them and around them, revealing the fact that they had run upon a field of ice.

"Back!" Laurefindil screamed, already pushing Calamandil in another direction. "We need to go back."

But it was too late. Calamandil’s ankle chose to give out entirely and the ellon collapsed to his knees with a yelp of pain just as the monster came upon them. The cracks widened with the added weight of the behemoth and before either ellon could react it plunged through the ice taking Calamandil with it.

"No!"

Calamandil had only a confused impression of seeing Laurefindil reach out to him as he sank into the cold dark waters, his blood instantly freezing and his breath gone. He thought he heard someone call his name in a loud, commanding voice — a summons he found nearly impossible to ignore — and then he felt something grab one of his wrists and there was motion upwards towards a light.

I am dead, he thought to himself, feeling curiously unafraid, even uninterested, as if it were happening to someone else, and idly wondering if Lord Námo would be particularly harsh with him. His upward motion stopped and he felt pressure on his chest and dimly heard voices but could not put sense to sound. Then, there was a feeling of nausea followed by a rush of sickness as he started heaving. His consciousness began to clear and he could now understand some of what was being spoken around him even as unseen hands were removing his wet clothing and wrapping him in several cloaks.

"...chasing it for some time..."

"...ran right into the storm and out again...."

"...lost the lossemorco meat..."

That last one was Laurefindil’s voice and for some reason Calamandil felt oddly pleased that he had been able to identify it.

"Well the tóarwandamunda meat should more than make up for it."

Calamandil opened his eyes at the sound of that voice, recognizing it as he had recognized Laurefindil’s, and found himself staring into the concerned face of Prince Findaráto kneeling beside him and rubbing one of his hands. The oldest son of Prince Arafinwë gave him a smile.

"We thought we had lost thee, young Calamandil," the prince said warmly. "Glad I am that thou’rt still with us."

"I... I th-thank thee, lord," Calamandil stuttered, amazed that the prince actually knew his name.

Findaráto just nodded. "I would have hated to see such a brave ellon as thee die. Our people would be the poorer for thy loss." Then the prince stood up, giving him and Laurefindil a brilliant smile. "Rest now, vórima núronya. We will see thee returned unto the encampment in style."

Then he left them to supervise the reclamation of the tóarwandamunda from the ice. Calamandil stared up at Laurefindil, whose golden hair achingly reminded him of the light of Laurelin. "Thou didst save me," was all he could think to say.

Laurefindil merely smiled. "Just returning the favor." Then he gave him a strange, unreadable look. "Art thou mine enemy?" he asked unexpectedly.

For a long moment Calamandil could only stare at the ellon in shock and then he gathered himself up and, looking about, he saw where his frozen clothes had been abandoned. He gestured towards them and Laurefindil seemed to know instinctively what he wanted. The ellon reached across and drew forth a short knife from its sheath and handed it to Calamandil hilt first. Calamandil, his strength gone with that one effort, sank back down into the warmth of the cloaks, turning the knife so its blue-steel blade pointed towards his heart.

"If thou seest an enemy before thee, lord, let him be slain." He paused for a moment, licking his lips before continuing. "Yet if in thy heart thou seest a friend, let this knife be witness to our pledge of amity."

For a long moment neither moved. Then, Laurefindil reached down and grasped the hilt of the knife, raising it just far enough to slice the palm of his right hand, before turning the knife and offering it hilt first to Calamandil. Without breaking eye contact, the ellon grabbed the knife and sliced his own right hand. Then they were clasping each other’s hand, their hot blood mingling before it had time to freeze.

"Let the Valar be our witnesses that in the mingling of our blood I see naught but a friend before me," Laurefindil said.

Calamandil gasped in surprise. "Thou darest to invoke the Valar after what we have done in defying them?"

Laurefindil laughed lightly and bent down as if to impart a secret. "I like to live dangerously," he whispered, giving him a wink.

At first, Calamandil wasn’t sure he had heard correctly, and then he threw back his head in laughter at the absurdity of the statement. "As do I," he replied, and whether his words were meant to seal their oath or were in response to Laurefindil’s confession, neither could say, and in the end, it hardly mattered.

When Prince Findaráto came to check on them again some minutes later it was to find them still hand-clasped in friendship. Arafinwë’s son nodded in approval, glad to see that, Exiles and cursed though they were, some things in their lives were changing for the better.

****

Helcaraxë: Grinding Ice.

Meldonya: My (male) friend.

Meldenya: My (female) friend.

Ellon: Male Elf. The plural is ellyn.

Elleth: Female Elf. The plural is ellith.

Oiolómë: Evernight; cf. Oiolossë ‘Everwhite, Eversnow-white’, a name for Taniquetil, and Oiolairë ‘Eversummer’, the name of a tree.

Altarassë: Caribou or Reindeer, literally, ‘great deer’. The plural is altarassi.

Lossemorco: Polar bear, literally ‘snow-bear’ or ‘snow-white bear’. The plural is lossemorcor.

Pityalossemorcor: Little snow-bears, i.e. cubs.

Tóarwandumunda: Wooly Mammoth, literally, ‘long-mouth (creature) with wool’ [tó ‘wool’ + arwa ‘having, with’ + andamunda ‘long-mouth creature, i.e. an elephant’]. The plural is tóarwandamundar.

Carityë quildë órenya: ‘Thou dost calm my heart’.

Atari: Plural of Atar: Father.

Heceldamar: Land of Forsaken Elves, the name used by the loremasters of Aman for Beleriand.

Hísilia: Elvish rope; equivalent to the Sindarin hithlain.

Ammë: Hypocoristic form of Amillë: Mother.

Hröar: Plural of Hröa: Body.

Endórë: Middle-earth.

Fëa: Spirit, soul.

Vórima núronya: My faithful servant.

SMOKE: One Night at the Laughing Vala

SUMMARY: A bet among the Valar has some serious consequences for three of them. My thanks to Beruthiel’s Cat for some of the best lines in this. The story wouldn’t be half as funny if not for her input.

RATING: PG-13 for language and adult situations dealing with over-indulgence of alcohol and its consequences.

WARNING: Humor abounds... you know the drill.

****

Aman, Second Age c.1200:

Olórin was giving the Valar his report on the mood of the Elves with the departure of Glorfindel for Endórë. They were gathered in one of the larger audience chambers in Manwë and Varda’s mansion in Valmar listening to the Maia give them his findings.

"I wandered the streets of Tirion and Avallonë," Olórin told them, "speaking to various Elves and asking them what they thought of Lord Glorfindel being allowed to return to Endórë."

"What did you learn?" Manwë asked.

"Those of Tirion I think were more... upset by your decision than those of Tol Eressëa."

"Reborn or Once-born?" Námo asked.

"Ah... a most interesting thing, my lord," Olórin said with a slight bow to the Lord of Mandos. "Most of the resentment seemed to come from the Once-born and primarily from the Noldor in Tirion. The people of Tol Eressëa, I think, accept that they are here and no longer there."

"Well, we will have to deal with the resentment," Manwë said. "We’ve come too far in bringing harmony once more among the Children to allow it to fester into open rebellion again."

They all nodded.

"These Children are rather good at becoming troublesome without half trying," Tulkas said with a sigh.

"Unpredictable to say the least," Námo stated with a grim smile.

"How do you stand to mingle with the Children as one of them, Olórin?" Tulkas asked, more in curiosity than anything, for he had little to do with the Elves.

"Even I never bothered to do that," Oromë said before Olórin could answer. "I remained a Vala among them from the beginning."

"I find that taking their forms and characteristics allows me to understand them better," Olórin replied in an equable tone. "They are admirable Beings and there is much to learn from them."

"I cannot imagine what," Tulkas insisted, "though I admit I have had little contact with them except for the odd princeling or two." He laughed then and the other Valar smiled.

"Do you actually become as one of them or do you just pretend?" Námo asked. He had never thought about it himself and realized he knew less about this particular Maia than he liked.

"Sometimes I will become wholly elven," Olórin conceded. "I find that it helps me to understand why they do the things they do."

"Seems a waste of time to me," Oromë said with a frown.

"Does it take much practice... being like them I mean?" Varda suddenly asked.

Olórin bowed to her. "In the beginning I fear I made dreadful mistakes but I found in time it became easier, though I still have to be careful."

"Hmph... how hard can it be?" Tulkas asked.

"If you think you can pass as Elves...."

Everyone turned to Irmo with various expressions ranging from puzzled to amused. Námo eyed his younger brother with a slight grin. "Is that a challenge I hear, little brother?"

Irmo smiled back and gave them an elegant shrug. "If you like."

"What would the challenge be, though?" Oromë asked, looking intrigued.

"That at least one of us cannot do a better job of passing him- or herself off as an Elf than Olórin."

"Well, if Olórin can do it..." Námo said somewhat dismissively, though only Vairë knew he was putting on an act.

Olórin actually looked offended and not a little hurt. "If thou thinkest it easy, my lord, I would see thee try," he said between gritted teeth.

"As would I," came the surprising statement from Manwë.

Námo then stood and gave the Elder King a bow. "Then I accept the challenge."

"As do I," Tulkas said almost immediately, rising as well.

"And I," Oromë echoed as he also stood.

"Then here are the parameters of the bet," Manwë said. "You will become as elven as you are able and will not be able to use your usual powers as Valar. You will remain in elven form for one night. I think that will be long enough." He gave Irmo and Olórin enquiring glances. Both of them nodded their agreement with the Elder King’s decision.

"What is the wager then?" Námo asked.

"If you can maintain your elven forms without mishap for one night," Irmo replied, "then... the rest of us have to do the same, but if any of you fail, all three of you have to remain in elven form until you get it right."

"Or until we’re able to repair the damage," Manwë added with a small smile.

Everyone laughed at that.

"Olórin will accompany you, though he will remain unclad," Varda said. "As the one with the most experience, he will act as judge and will not interfere with anything that happens."

The three Valar nodded and bowed again to Manwë, each indicating agreement to the terms. Then Námo turned to Olórin. "So, what exactly do we do?" he asked, sounding suddenly unsure and hesitant.

Olórin, to his credit, did not smile, though he was laughing on the inside. "Let me show you, my lords...."

****

The crowds in the streets of Eldamas were thinning as evening descended upon Aman. Three Elves made their way along, heading towards a certain square where they could hear singing. Warm light spilled out of windows and laughter rang out through the encroaching night as they found themselves standing before the Laughing Vala Inn.

"Now remember," one of the Elves said, "I am Nambaurato."

The one on his right nodded. "And I am Ornendil." Then he looked pointedly at the Elf on Nambaurato’s other side. "And you are Telemnar."

"I still think Telumehtar a better name," the one calling himself Telemnar said with a scowl.

Nambarauto shook his head. "Too obvious."

"And Ornendil isn’t?" Telemnar retorted with a snort.

The one calling himself Ornendil shrugged. "It’s a common enough name. No one will notice."

"But everyone will notice you if you go around calling yourself Telumehtar," Nambaurato said with a frown.

"Fine, then," Telemnar said with ill grace. "Let’s just go in and have some ale. It’s not all that bad, really."

Now Nambaurato flashed his friend a smile. "And you would know, wouldn’t you?"

Telemnar laughed, the sound of it rivaling the laughter coming from inside the inn. Both of the other Elves winced. "I do hope that laugh doesn’t give us away," Ornendil whispered to Nambaurato, who only nodded as the three entered the crowded tavern.

The Laughing Vala was in full swing that evening. Carnifindo was quite pleased with the turn-out. Everyone was talking about the recent departure of Lord Glorfindel for Endórë, for never had the Valar allowed any of the Reborn to return to the Thither Shores. Even the Elves of Tol Eressëa only sailed as far as Elenna. Yet, Lord Glorfindel had been chosen by the Elder King himself as his emissary to the Elves still remaining in the Mortal lands. It was a veritable nine-day wonder and there were as many opinions about it as there were Elves in Eldamas.

The innkeeper automatically looked to the door as it opened to admit three strangers. They were all tall, even by elvish standards, but not remarkably so. The one in the middle had dark hair that looked almost black in the dim light, a color that was rare among the Elves. His eyes were a dark grey and he wore his hair in those oddly bejeweled front braids popular among the Tol Eressëans. This one must have come from Endórë, then, he surmised.

The ellon on his right had hair a few shades closer to true auburn while the one on his left was clearly a Vanya. Carnifindo wondered briefly what a Vanya was doing with two Noldor, one of whom must be a Returnee, or... could it be? Could this be one of the Reborn?

Few of them had yet been seen in Eldamas, except for the high-born Prince of the Noldor and his three otornor. Well, it hardly mattered, Carnifindo decided as he made his way to the three Elves. A Reborn’s coin was as good as anyone else’s as far as he was concerned.

"Good evening, my lords," the innkeeper said with a bow. "Are you in need of rooms?"

The one in the middle shook his head and smiled. Carnifindo decided it was a nice smile and felt unaccountably comforted, though he could not say why. "Nay, sir, we do not. What we are in need of is good food and drink. We were told the Laughing Vala was the place to come for both."

Carnifindo could not help but preen a bit. It was true. He and his wife, Isilmë, had striven hard to provide delicious meals and plenty of good ale, wine and cider to their patrons, as well as comfortable and affordable rooms, and prided themselves on the success the inn had had over the years. "There is a table free in the corner," he pointed towards a spot that was near the stairs leading to the rooms above. "That is, if you do not mind the inconvenience."

"It will do, thank you," the auburn-haired ellon said. His smile was almost as brilliant as the one the first ellon had given him and with a similar effect. The ellon steered his two companions to the empty table. Carnifindo signaled to Eärmirë to serve their newest patrons and the young Telerin elleth made her way to the table.

"What would be your pleasure, sirs?" she asked correctly.

"Whatever is the dish of the day and your best ale," Nambaurato said and the other two nodded.

Eärmirë nodded in turn. "That would be venison pie with frumenty or we have a nice leg of mutton done to a nice turn."

The three ellyn seemed to exchange some sort of silent communication and the dark-haired one answered for them. "We’ll have the pie."

Eärmirë smiled. "A very good choice, sir, I will bring your drinks. The pies will be out shortly." With that, she left them to themselves.

Nambaurato gave a sigh of relief. "Well, so far so good," he whispered, though the two sitting on either side of him heard him and nodded.

"It’s not so bad," Telemnar opined, looking about with interest. "I’ve only been here once and I made sure there were no other Elves except for the innkeeper and his family." He gave them a wicked smile. "I didn’t want to scare away the other patrons before he even opened the inn."

"His expression was priceless," Ornendil replied with a grin.

Eärmirë returned then with three large tankards of the inn’s best brew. They were each taking an appreciative sip when she returned again with their venison pies and frumenty, along with a basket of flat bread for dipping. Yet, none of the three actually bothered to eat at first. They were in fact too busy enjoying the sensations they were experiencing with the taste of the ale, its nutty flavor and clear-water malt delighting their senses more than they had anticipated.

"This is quite good," Ornendil said with a smack of his lips.

Nambaurato cast him an amused look. "Listen to the expert."

"Oh, I’ve had a pint or two in my time," Ornendil said with a sniff.

"Just remember what Olórin said," Nambaurato warned them. "The hröar of the Children are less capable of metabolizing alcohol than we Valar. So let us imbibe in moderation."

Telemnar gave a snort of disbelief at that. "You may drink in moderation if you wish, brother. I think I’ll order another pint." Indeed, in the short amount of time they had been sitting there, Telemnar’s tankard had emptied.

"We should try this food since we did order it," Nambaurato said, frowning.

"We will, we will," Ornendil said with a wave of his hand, "but first I agree with Tul... er.. Telemnar. It’s time for another pint." He waved his hand with more purpose and caught Eärmirë’s eye.

She came to them, looking a bit concerned. "Is aught amiss, my lords?" she asked properly.

"Nay, nay, my dear," Ornendil flashed her a bright smile. "We wish merely to order another pint of this excellent ale to go with our meal."

Eärmirë nodded, taking the two empty tankards and giving Nambaurato a meaningful glance. He shook his head. "I will hang on to this one for awhile," was all he said and she went away to fill the order.

"Spoilsport," Telemnar muttered.

Nambaurato just shook his head and took a bite of his pie, feeling his eyes nearly pop out of their sockets as the most delicious sensation hit his palate. Then he tore off a piece of the bread and dipped it into the frumenty and nearly squealed with delight. Never had he tasted anything so delicious before. His companions looked on in amusement as he practically wolfed down the pie. He had to school himself to slow down when Eärmirë returned.

"Are you going to eat that?" he asked Ornendil, pointing to the ellon’s pie, as soon as Eärmirë had left them to their own devices again. Ornendil’s only response was to shove his trencher over to his friend while he drank deeply of his ale.

For a while the three ellyn sat in companionable silence, each enjoying the sensations of food or drink. Neither Ornendil nor Telemnar felt the need for food though the latter did try the frumenty. Nambaurato finished off Ornendil’s plate and was attacking Telemnar’s as if he hadn’t eaten in a yén. In the meantime the other two ordered a third round and encouraged their gluttonous friend to catch up, and he obliged by drinking his second tankard in nearly three gulps. He blinked a bit and reeled slightly as the ale hit his system, for not even the food he had consumed was enough to offset the rush that he felt as the alcohol coursed through his hröa.

"Easy now, little brother," Ornendil admonished gently, taking hold of Nambaurato’s arm. "Slow down. Remember, we need to maintain these shapes for the entire night and it’s still early yet."

Nambaurato nodded and took a deep centering breath. It was then that he began to pay attention to the conversations around him, which he had ignored in his feeding frenzy. Taking a hunk of bread and dipping it into the frumenty, he sat back and listened with interest to the conversation at the next table over where four Noldor were seated, clearly upset about something. It took him a moment to realize that Glorfindel and the Valar were the topic of conversation.

"...findel. Good riddance I say," one of the ellyn spouted, quaffing his tankard.

"He was an embarrassment, that’s for sure," one of his companions offered with a nod. "And the way the Valar practically tripped over themselves to pay him homage. Disgusting!"

"Lord Námo was the worst of them," the first ellon stated, giving an exaggerated shiver. "Why anyone would want to befriend him is beyond me."

"Well there’s no accounting for taste," a third ellon said with a grin, "and let’s face it, Lord Glorfindel’s taste in friends left much to be desired."

"Hah!" agreed the first Elf and then they all raised their tankards and toasted one another before downing their ales.

All this while, the three Elves at the other table sat there in stunned silence. Once, Nambaurato made to stand, his expression dark with fury, but his friends held him down. Telemnar pushed his own nearly full tankard in front of Nambaurato who took it without seeing it and downed half its contents in a single gulp while the other two just watched him with tipsy amusement.

Ornendil leaned over and whispered in Nambaurato’s ear. "Would’st thou like me to kill him for thee so thou canst have the pleasure of judging him?"

Telemnar actually giggled at that and both Nambaurato and Ornendil glared at him. Nambaurato turned back to Ornendil. "Why can’t I have the pleasure of killin’ and judgin’ him at the shame time. I could hold court ri’ here for everyone to shee... I mean, see." He blinked a couple of times, as if to clear his vision of something.

"Drink your drink," Telemnar ordered with a snort, signaling to Eärmirë to let her know they were ready for another round. She raised a delicate eyebrow but went to fill the order, stopping long enough to warn Carnifindo that there might be trouble brewing in the back corner. The innkeeper nodded his understanding but otherwise did not forbid the refills. As long as these three got drunk quietly it was all one to him.

Meanwhile, the ellyn at the next table over were completely oblivious to who was listening in on their conversation. Olórin bristled on behalf of both Lord Námo and Glorfindel at the slurs being hurled their way, but did nothing except keep a wary eye on his three charges. He frowned. Lord Námo was obviously drunk even if the Lord of Mandos didn’t realize it yet. Lord Oromë wasn’t too far behind him, though he seemed to be able to handle it better. Lord Tulkas though.... that Vala had gone suddenly quiet, too quiet for Olórin’s peace of mind, and he was wondering what it might portend when he realized he was no longer alone.

He looked around to find both Eönwë and Manveru there along with Maranwë, Roimendil and Ramandor — Lord Námo’s, Lord Oromë’s and Lord Tulkas’ chief Maiar, respectively. He gave them a quizzical look. "What is this?"

Maranwë grinned. "Lord Manwë felt it would be prudent if we... um... kept an eye on our respective lords."

Olórin snorted. "Lord Manwë or three Valier whose names I will not mention?" The others laughed good-naturedly. Olórin then turned to the other two Maiar. "And why are you two here? Does my Lord Manwë think me incapable of watching over these three?"

Manveru shook his head. "I was sent because the Elder King decided that he does not trust the mood of the Children given recent events and wishes to ensure that these three do not do anything to get themselves, or others, killed."

Maranwë snickered. "I wonder who would have to judge my lord if he ended up in his own Halls?"

Roimendil actually laughed. "I can see it now," he said, his aura turning violet with wicked amusement. "Lord Námo ends up having to judge himself."

Now they were all laughing. "But if he thinks I’m going to take over the establishment while he’s... er... sleeping," Maranwë retorted, "my lord is in for a rude awakening." That set them all laughing again.

Olórin turned to Eönwë once they calmed down a bit. "So are you here on Lord Manwë’s orders as well?"

The Herald of Manwë shook his head, bringing out his Book and a quill pen as he did so. "I’m here for entirely different reasons." He then seemed to ignore his fellow Maiar as he looked pointedly at the four ellyn sitting at the table next to the three Valar and the other Maiar respectfully fell silent, knowing that it would not do to interrupt this particular Maia performing his office.

"Oh, oh."

Olórin, whose attention had momentarily wandered as he listened to two ellith sitting near the fireplace singing a ballad about the creation of the Two Trees, turned his attention back when he heard Maranwë’s gasp.

"What is it?"

For an answer, Námo’s chief Maia only pointed. Olórin groaned, shaking his head in disbelief. "Melkor take them all," he muttered, ignoring the look of amusement Eönwë gave him, as the Oathkeeper made a note for an entry in an entirely different Book than the one he was writing in now.

Working on their fourth round of the heady ale, the three Valar were fast getting into a dark mood as the conversation at the next table continued. None of them cared for the remarks being made, especially Námo, whose shape was beginning to waver as drunkenness and fury made it hard for him to remember to maintain his disguise.

"... skin off our noses if the Valar want to sleep with the Reborn," the fourth ellon, who had remained silent up till then, was saying with a sneer. "They’re welcome to it...though I imagine they have to fight off their Maiar servants for the privilege." The other three ellyn laughed along with him and their laughter held no humor.

Five of the six Maiar were stunned into immobility at the Elf’s words. The sixth, Eönwë, never stopped to think, but suddenly the Book was gone and in his hands he held his sword. He was actually taking a swing at the hapless and unsupecting Elf when Manveru came out of his shock long enough to grab Eönwë’s arm.

"No! Are you insane?"

It was however, the wrong thing to do. The Maia’s sword was already in its downward swing and grabbing it as he did, Manveru merely deflected the sword so it cut through the rope holding up a tapestry hanging on the wall above the table. The tapestry ended up covering two of the ellyn who yelled in surprise, just as Tulkas was rising, having heard more than enough. The two ellyn under the tapestry also rose in an attempt to remove the enfolding cloth, but in their eagerness (and drunken state) to extricate themselves they only succeeded in tripping over each other... right into Tulkas, who ended up being knocked into Námo, who went flying back, hitting his head on the wood floor.

"Ouch! Hey! What’s Varda doing here?" he asked as stars began to dance in front of his eyes.

Meanwhile Oromë jumped up and grabbed the two ellyn still under the tapestry and began shaking them in fury, while their two friends looked on in horror. Tulkas gave a roar of anger tinged with disgust as he got to his feet and grabbed the two Elves Oromë was shaking right out of the other Vala’s hands.

"These two are mine," Tulkas snarled at Oromë. "Go find your own toys to play with."

"Hey! Leave our friends alone!" shouted one of the other Elves who had been making crude remarks about the Valar and Reborn.

"Stop them!" Olórin shouted to the other Maiar, though it was debatable just who he thought should be stopped.

Eönwë meanwhile was snarling at Manveru. "You idiot! I almost had the orc-sucking bugger!"

"And what would that have proved?" Manveru shouted back. "Now put that sword away and... oh for the love of Atar!"

The two Maiar looked to see Tulkas and Oromë fighting over the tapestry-entangled ellyn as if they were two elflings fighting over their favorite toys, while the other two Elves were attempting to beat on them but with little effect. Námo, in the mean time, had decided he was more interested in food than in fighting and had crawled along the floor until he was beneath the other table where he reached up to snatch at the bowl of frumenty the other ellyn had been enjoying and, not bothering with the bread, just dipped his hand into the gooey mess and began licking his fingers in obvious delight.

By this time the other patrons, and the innkeeper, were well aware of what was going on in the corner. There was cheering and jeering among the crowd while Carnifindo and his barkeep, Silmerossë, started to wade in to break up the fight before it got any worse. Except, for some reason, no one seemed able to approach the corner in question, for, unknown to the Elves, three of the invisible Maiar were blocking everyone’s way, if not their view.

Of Olórin there was no sign.

"All right, break it up now," Carnifindo demanded, still trying to reach the fighters, but to no avail, "or out you go and I won’t be having any of you back inside for at least a yén or three."

Things might have calmed down at that point but for an unfortunate accident — Námo started singing:

          "‘... And what, prithee, dost thou with this?’

          He asked the fruit-seller and she did reply,

          ‘Why, my lord, let me but show thee,

          for a turnip hath many a purpose

          besides the spicing of pie...’"

Manveru and Eönwë looked at each other in horror. "He’s singing verse thirty-one," the Herald of Manwë said unnecessarily.

"And off-key, too," Manveru retorted with a wince as Námo hit a particularly wrong note, causing several nearby Elves to clap their hands over their ears in pain.

Even as the Lord of Mandos made his merry if drunken way through the second stanza, he started to stretch out his legs, only to trip the Elf beating uselessly on Tulkas, causing the ellon to fall against a table and bringing everything down around him, including a candle that had graced its center. The glass lamp shattered into several shards and the candle, still lit, rolled to the edge of the tapestry which by now had fallen to the floor. Immediately, it burst into alcohol-soaked flames. People started shouting again, but now for entirely different reasons as other objects caught on fire. Panic ensued and there was a mad rush for the door.

"My inn!" Carnifindo screamed in horror and dismay as smoke began to fill the room.

Eönwë took command at that point, all anger at the stupid ellyn gone. "Get our lords out of here," he commanded Manveru, pointing to Tulkas and Oromë, "then see about putting this fire out. You three," he pointed to the three remaining Maiar, "make sure everyone is safely away. Roimendil, check upstairs."

Everyone did as they were bid. Manveru grabbed Tulkas and Oromë and simply thought them outside without even bothering to incarnate. When the fire broke out the two Valar had dropped their ‘toys’ and just stood there in a confused stupor as Elves ran hither and yon trying to escape the growing flames which were eagerly eating anything burnable. Now they were outside in the courtyard with no memory of having moved.

Eönwë, meanwhile, clad himself and stooped down to pick up a still singing Námo."Time to go, my lord," the Maia said through gritted teeth.

"‘...so she shoved the...Eönwë whash ya doin’... hic... here?"

"Saving your worthless butt, my lord," the Maia said with a straight face, wondering how far he could go.

Námo merely smiled. "Thash nice." The Vala looked around as Eönwë led him outside. "Where did ev’one go?" he asked in hurt confusion.

As far away from your singing as they can get, the Maia thought irrelevantly, but out loud he said, "We decided to move the party outside, my lord." By now he was more amused than anything. "The stars are particularly bright tonight."

"I know," Námo replied with a grin. "Varda wash here earlier."

They found themselves out in the courtyard with the others. The other Maiar had clad themselves and were attempting to put out the flames but they were not having much luck.

"We need more water," Maranwë called out.

"I’ll get it," Manveru answered and then they watched as he began to concentrate. Suddenly the skies seemed to open up as sheets of water fell out of nowhere onto the inn’s roof and kept pouring out of the sky until not only was the fire put out but everyone there was soaked to the skin and half the street was flooded.

"Where did all that water come from?" Eönwë demanded as he propped Námo up against a wall.

Manveru gave the Herald a cool stare. "The nearest large body of water," he answered.

"Lord Ulmo’s lake?" Ramandor asked in disbelief. "You stole the water from Lord Ulmo’s lake?"

"Like I had a choice?" Manveru snapped back.

Before anyone else could respond the entire square was lit with flashing lights as several Valar and Maiar appeared among them, led by none other than the Elder King himself with Olórin by his side. Every Elf there was on their knees. The five Maiar gave Manwë their obeisance. Even Oromë and Tulkas were not so drunk that they did not realize just how terribly wrong everything had gone and also bowed low to their liege, looking suitably chastened. Only Námo seemed oblivious to the seriousness of the situation.

"Hey! Manwë’s here!" he exclaimed to no one in particular. "Now the party can really begin. And where did tha’ frumenty get to?" At which point he very neatly slid down the wall into a puddle and promptly fell asleep.

****

They were back in Manwë and Varda’s mansion in Valmar. Three very bedraggled Valar still in elven forms stood in the center of the audience chamber while their fellow Valar sat in a semi-circle facing them. Vairë, Nessa and Vána were looking particularly displeased.

"My husband does not know what doom is until I get him home," Vairë muttered to no one in particular as she glared at Námo. "In fact, I think I will be constructing a new loom just for this."

The other two Valier nodded. "We’ll help," Nessa said with a grim smile.

"Nahar was most displeased to have to be fetched to bring Oromë home," Vána told them. "I made Oromë ride backwards," she shook her head, looking now more amused than angry. "He was so besotted, he kept falling forward so his face was in Nahar’s tail... kept complaining about the view." The other Valar snickered at that.

The six Maiar who had also been at the inn were there as well, with Maranwë, Roimendil and Ramandor propping up their respective lords. Of the three, Oromë looked the worst for wear, with a definite green cast about him. Tulkas appeared the least affected while Námo just kept yawning.

Manwë stared at them, his expression unreadable. Finally, he turned to Eönwë. "How much damage was done to the inn?"

"The damage was minor, my lord, but between the fire and the... um... water, the Laughing Vala will not be able to open for some time. Repairs will need to be made."

Manwë nodded, then turned to Manveru, who was looking rather sheepish. "Lord Ulmo was most upset to find half his lake missing."

Ulmo nodded where he sat on Manwë’s left but said nothing, his expression dark and stormy. Manveru actually cringed. "I am sorry, lords," he said, addressing both Valar, "but the circumstances..."

Manwë raised a hand to silence the Maia. "I have decided that while you and your brethren were not the cause of the disaster, nevertheless, you did not help matters. Lord Ulmo has therefore asked to be allowed to administer your... punishment."

Now all six Maiar cringed as Ulmo actually smiled. "I want my lake refilled," was all he said, then he gestured and six copper pails appeared on the floor before them. "You may use these to gather the snow off the Pelóri with which to fill the lake."

The Maiar stared at the pails in dismay. They were rather small pails. It would take a long time to refill the lake.

"As for you three," Manwë said, turning his attention to the three Valar. "You will be spending your time repairing the inn. Until the repairs are finished you will remain in elven form."

"I take it we lost the bet," Námo said, his words somewhat slurred as he yawned again, practically sleeping standing up.

Manwë merely stared at the Vala with an inscrutable expression. "You might say that," was his only response.

"Too bad," Oromë said faintly and then he turned a particularly sick shade of green and sank to the floor, heaving into one of the pails still sitting on the floor before them.

"That is so disgusting," Yavanna commented primly.

"Oh Atar I think I want to die," Oromë gasped between heaves.

Námo woke up at those words and cast his fellow Vala a dirty look. "If you do, I’ll make sure you never leave Mandos again. Melkor’s cell has been empty all these millennia... it’s looking rather lonely."

Tulkas giggled at that, while Námo gave another huge yawn and sank bonelessly to the floor next to the still heaving Oromë. Manwë just sighed, wondering to himself if Melkor wouldn’t mind some company in the Void.

****

One month later....

Námo hammered in the final nail, stepping back to eye his work, nodding in satisfaction. The last month had been the best and the worst time for him — the best, for he had begun to appreciate what it truly meant to be an Incarnate; the worst for the same reason. He sighed and looked over at Tulkas who was putting on a finishing polish to the last of the tables he had been constructing under Vánandur’s critical eye. All in all, the last month had not been as terrible as they had thought it might be. The stares from the Children had been rather disconcerting at first when Manwë had paraded the three Valar before the people of Eldamas and announced their punishment.

"In the meantime," the Elder King had told them all, "Carnifindo and his people will lack for nothing during the rebuilding of the inn. We Valar hold ourselves partly responsible for what happened and therefore we will see to the well-being of all those affected by the accident."

During their ‘indenture’, the two Valar insisted they be addressed by all by their elven names. Carnifindo tried to protest. "But we know who you are, lords," he said. "It would be rather difficult to forget ourselves that far."

"Try," was all Námo said and the Elves complied as best they could.

As it was, after the first few days, when Námo and Tulkas did not appear to be any stranger than the next Elf, they were left alone to get on with their work and people soon forgot they were even addressing two of the Valar. Oromë, however, was not with them, and no amount of begging got them answers as to what had happened to him.

"I believe Lady Vána asked the Elder King’s permission to administer her own brand of punishment upon her lord," was all Maranwë would tell them and they were forced to be content with that.

There were exceptions to the rule of having to remain in elven form at all times. Námo, in particular, would leave work occasionally to deal with those aspects of being the Lord of Mandos that could not be handled by his own People, but always he returned once those duties were done.

Now, the inn was ready to be reopened and this time tomorrow Námo would be able to cast off his elven form for good and become a Vala again. He was looking forward to that and knew Tulkas was as well.

"What do you think?" he asked and Tulkas looked up from his polishing to give the inn a critical eye.

"It’ll do," he grunted, returning to his polishing. The whole month, Tulkas never laughed. In fact, he never so much as smiled.

"I think I should rename the inn ‘The Frowning Vala’," Carnifindo muttered to his friend Vánandur at one point as they eyed the gloomy looking ellon fitting the pieces of wood together to form a table. Vánandur only smiled, knowing the innkeeper was not serious.

"Hey! You finished!"

Everyone turned around to see Ornendil standing there, smiling.

"Where have you been?" Námo asked, his eyes narrowing. "How did you get out of the punishment?"

"I didn’t, not really," Oromë answered, his expression becoming sheepish. "Vána decided I needed a good long run to work off my drunk."

"Oh?" Námo asked, quirking an eyebrow up in surprise. "Where did you go?"

"She made me run around the rings of Ashkadphelun," Oromë replied, using the Valarin word for the planet.

"For the whole month?" Tulkas demanded in disbelief.

Oromë shook his head. "That was just the beginning. After I did that a few thousand times, she made me run up and down Dáhanigwishtelgun a few hundred times."

The other two Valar and the two Elves who were there stared at Oromë with various degrees of surprise (Námo and Tulkas) and confusion (Carnifindo and Vánandur).

"Still wouldn’t take you a whole month, though," Námo said skeptically.

Oromë sighed. "It didn’t. It only took up... hmm... I think ten days altogether."

"So where have you been the rest of the time?" Carnifindo asked curiously. He had become used to addressing the two Valar who had worked under his supervision with the ease of speaking to any Elf and so addressed Oromë with the same degree of familiarity.

Oromë turned red, which was an interesting phenomenon in and of itself. "You know how Lord Ulmo decided our Maiar attendants should re-fill his lake?"

"Using very small copper pails," Námo said with a nod. "So Lord Ulmo gave you a pail and had you help them?"

Oromë shook his head. "Not exactly." He whipped something out from nowhere and held it up. In his hand was a copper spoon meant to fit the hands of a two-year-old elfling. "Do you know how long it took me to fill just one pail?" he asked them in disgust.

For a moment they stared at the Vala as the implications of what he had just said hit them. Then, low at first but steadily growing louder, Tulkas started laughing. Soon they were all joining him.

That night the Laughing Vala re-opened for business. The returning patrons were surprised to see Lords Námo, Oromë, and Tulkas there, still in their elven forms, acting as servers, though they quickly got into the spirit of things. Interestingly enough, there was no sign then or ever of the four ellyn who had started everything with their remarks about a certain Balrog-slayer and the Valar.

****

All words are Quenya unless otherwise noted.

Hröar: Plural of hröa: the body of an Incarnate.

Elenna: ‘Starwards’, a name of Númenor.

Otornor: Sworn brother.

Eärmirë: ‘Jewel of the Sea’.

Yén: Elvish century equal to 144 solar years.

Ramandor: ‘Shouter’.

Silmerossë: ‘Silver-mist’; a name for Telperion.

Ashkadphelun: (Valarin) Saturn, literally ‘Ring Dwelling’. The Elves would know the planet better as Lumbar.

Dáhanigwishtelgun: (Valarin) The name the Valar gave to what we know as Olympus Mons on Mars. They eventually gave the same name to the mountain the Elves know as Taniquetil.

Note: The names chosen by the Valar for their Elven personae are attested:

Nambaurato: ‘Hammerer of copper’; Quenya form of Damrod.

Ornendil: ‘Tree-friend’; taken from Appendix A.

Telemnar: ‘Silver-flame’; taken from Appendix A.

Telumehtar: ‘Swordsman of Heaven’; Orion.

SKIRTS: Fashion-sense

SUMMARY: Two Valar discuss the latest in fashion.

WARNING: You know the drill.

****

Late in the Seventh Age:

What is that?

It’s called a kilt.

Looks like a skirt.

No, no. Not the same thing. Neri wear it.

Neri!? You mean Mortal men? I don’t recall seeing any ellyn wearing that.

Hmm...

Who are these paragons of fashion anyway?

Call themselves Scots.

Scots?

Yes. If you squint... they’re distantly related to the Rohirrim and the Men of Dale.

No Rider worthy of his spear would be caught dead in one of these. They’d look bloody ridiculous!

Oh, I don’t know... I can see someone like Thengel or Éomer getting away with it.

Manwë, why are you giving this to me?

Come now, Námo. I just thought you might want to try something a bit more... er... modern.

Says he who thought houppelandes were silly looking.

Not the same thing. Now, are you going to try it on?

No. You think it’s so great, you wear it.

Fine, fine.... There! What do you think?

Excuse me while I think myself to the next galaxy over before I start laughing.

Hey! It’s not that bad. Varda thought I looked rather dashing.

Varda wears stars in her hair. She’s not exactly the right person to ask about these things.

Better than those togas and more colorful.

Please! Don’t remind me... an entire nation running around in bedsheets. I still have nightmares.

So you’re not going to even try it on?

Look at the color combination! Are these people color-blind?

Well, I admit it’s a bit garish...

Manwë, there’s nothing wrong with what I wear.

You’re always wearing black.

Am not.

Are too.

Am not.

Are too.

Well every time I turn around you’re always in blue!

But blue is a pretty color. Everyone likes blue... black on the other hand...

Nothing wrong with black... besides I am supposed to be somewhat sinister looking. Do you think anyone is going to take me seriously as the Doomsman of Arda wearing that! The only doom I’ll be spouting will be my own.

Fine... here, what about this pattern? They call it the Black Watch.

They name their kilts?

No, the patterns. They call them tartans. Ask Vairë. I’m sure she’s up on her fabric arts.

If I find out she put you up to this...

Are you going to try it on or not?

No!

Coward.

Oh, all right.... Here, let me have that.... So. What do you think?

Excuse me while I go find a quasar to hide in before I start laughing.

****

Neri: Plural of Nér: An adult male of any sentient species.

Ellyn: Plural of Ellon: A male Elf.

Note: A houppelande, worn in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, was the common dress for both sexes. It was a robe or long tunic, belted or with a fitted bodice, usually having full trailing sleeves and often trimmed or lined with fur.

ERRAND: Tarrying

SUMMARY: Ulmo is working under a deadline and Tuor doesn’t make it easy for him.

WARNING: Humor abounds.

NOTE: The description of Tuor’s journey, which begins twenty-three years after the Dagor Nirnaeth Arnediad or Battle of Unnumbered Tears, is taken directly from Unfinished Tales. Dialogue from it is in italics.

****

‘And at this time most of all Ulmo gave heed to the fates of the House of Hador, for in his deep counsels he purposed that they should play great part in his design for the succour of the Exiles....’ [from Unfinished Tales, ‘Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin’]

****

"He’s not moving." Ulmo said with a frown.

"Who?" Námo asked.

The Lord of Waters sighed as he sat beside a small pool in the pleasaunce which graced the inner courtyard of his mansion in Valmar, staring into its placid waters. "Tuor son of Huor," Ulmo answered.

"Hmm?" Námo enquired, not really paying attention. His brother’s water garden was quite delightful and he was idly thinking of having some of his Maiar build one for himself. He was sure Vairë would enjoy it as well. The Lord of Mandos stretched his long form, taking his ease. His Halls had been quiet of late, though he was still sorting out the fëar from the Nirnaeth. Fingon, especially had proven difficult, cursing both Maedhros and Gothmog, usually in the same breath, and it was all he could do to get the Elf calmed down enough to put him to sleep. Námo had the feeling it would be awhile before the former High King of the Noldor was ready to face the judgment of the Valar without going into a tirade.

"Tuor," Ulmo repeated, practically grinding his teeth in frustration. "You know, the father of Eärendil."

Námo smiled. "Eärendil isn’t due to be born for some years yet."

"He won’t be born at all if this stupid Secondborn doesn’t get off his duff and move."

Námo laughed. "Where is he?"

"Sitting beside his cave and playing his harp."

"Hmm.... let me see." Námo adjusted his position so he could look into the pool. No fish swam in the limpid water, no water lily floated upon its surface. It was clear and reflected nothing, not even the clouds scudding overhead. It was, in fact, a window that looked out upon the Outer Lands and Ulmo used it to keep abreast of the doings of Elves and Mortals when he was in residence in Valmar. Looking into it Námo saw a wintry scene in which a golden-haired Man sat before the entrance of a cave playing his harp and singing. His voice, while not as beautiful as one of the Firstborn, was nonetheless clear and lovely to hear. He sang a song in the language of the Sindar and it was obviously one to uplift the hearts of its hearers.

"Why not send him a sign?" Námo suggested, pointing to the small well that stood outside the cave.

"Hmm.... perhaps I will," Ulmo said and dipping a finger into the pool he swirled the water for a moment or two before withdrawing it. Watching, Námo saw the water in the well begin to boil and froth until it was overflowing, forming a rill that ran merrily westward. Almost at once the young Man leaped up and, heedless of everything, began running after it.

"Well, at least he’s on his way," Námo said with a smile.

"Let’s hope he keeps running and does not stop until he reaches Vinyamar," Ulmo retorted, though his eyes were merry with amusement.

"Oh, I hope not," Námo said with a straight face. "He’s likely to fall dead of exhaustion before he gets halfway across the plains of Dor-lómin and we really do need him alive long enough to sire Eärendil after all."

Ulmo couldn’t help but laugh. He glanced back into the pool and his laughter turned into a scowl. "Now what is he doing?"

Námo took a look and refrained from stating the obvious, knowing his brother wouldn’t appreciate it. The lad was standing before an arch of rock under which a mighty stream flowed to be lost in darkness.

"So my hope has cheated me!" they heard the Man exclaim. "The sign in the hills has led me only to dark end in the midst of the land of my enemies."

"Rather melodramatic, isn’t he?" Námo stated with a grin.

"Comes from living alone, I imagine," Ulmo retorted, "though the House of Hador has ever been given to fits of drama every now and then."

Námo chuckled, well aware of the truth of Ulmo’s words. He had had his own run-ins with various members of that particular clan. Gundor had been especially vocal about the manner of his death during the Dagor Bragollach to the point where even his father was ready to, as he told the Lord of Mandos, "kill him all over again just to shut him up".

"What do you plan to do now?" he asked, becoming more interested in Ulmo’s attempt to get Tuor on the right road. The lad did not know how glorious his destiny was, though if he didn’t stop whining he was unlikely to fulfill it. There was little time left, for Melkor was on the move again.

"Watch and learn, Little Brother," Ulmo replied with a smug smile.

Námo returned his attention to the pool and saw that the young Man was still sitting beside the arch looking thoroughly miserable. It was dawn now and as Anar lit the waters he saw two figures wade out of the stream and climb the carved steps to where Tuor awaited them. He gave Ulmo an enquiring look.

"Gelmir and Arminas, both of the People of Angrod, though since the Dagor Bragollach they’ve been living with Círdan on Balar," the Lord of Waters explained. "I am sending them on to Nargothrond to warn Orodreth that his doom is at hand if he does not shut tight the gates of his kingdom."

"Ah... yes," Námo said with a sigh. "Young Túrin will have much to say to that."

"Orodreth is weak, I know," Ulmo averred, "and easily swayed by lesser counsels, but there is naught else that I can do."

"We do what we can and leave the rest in Atar’s hands."

Ulmo nodded and glanced again at the pool, giving a nod of satisfaction. Námo looked as well and saw Tuor speaking to the Elves.

"...tell me if you can where lies the Annon-in-Gelydh. For I have sought it long, ever since Annael my foster-father of the Sindar spoke of it to me."

They saw the Elves laugh, and Arminas said, "Your search is ended; for we have ourselves just passed that Gate. There it stands before you!" Both Elves were pointing to the arch into which the water flowed. "Come now!" Arminas continued. "Through darkness you shall come to the light."

"Well that should set him on his journey again," Ulmo said with a sigh.

"He’s very young," Námo said indulgently.

"Not that young," Ulmo retorted. "One does not endure what he has endured and remain young."

"Perhaps not, but I sense an innocence about him that speaks of a child-like approach to things. That might make your task all the harder."

Ulmo just grunted as the two Valar continued to watch the Elves take their leave of the Mortal.

"... your House has the favour of the Lord of Waters," the one called Gelmir was saying, "and if his counsels lead you to Turgon, then surely shall you come to him, withersoever you turn. Follow now the road to which the water has brought you from the hills, and fear not! You shall not walk long in darkness. Farewell! And think not that our meeting was by chance; for the Dweller in the Deep moves many things in this land still. Anar caluva tielyanna!"

"Wise Child," Ulmo said with a nod.

"Indeed," was Námo’s only reply as the two Elves headed northeast towards their doom, while young Tuor braved the darkness of the tunnel, finally coming out and making his way through a deep cleft. They saw him sit in the evening and pluck on his harp, singing, and observed with amusement his wonder at the sound of the echoes his song and harping was making.

"He should not tarry there long," Ulmo said with a frown. "The tide is due to come in in the morning. If he does not climb further up he’ll drown."

"He’ll need another sign," Námo suggested.

"I’m fast running out of them," protested Ulmo and the Lord of Mandos laughed at the harried expression on his fellow Vala. "Well, perhaps this will do the trick."

He put a finger into the water and gave it a swirl before removing it. When the water cleared again Námo saw three white gulls beating their way down the ravine, passing over Tuor’s head. The son of Huor jumped up and began to climb the cliff, intent on following the great birds beloved of the Teleri until he stood on the top. Ulmo leaned over and blew gently upon the still waters of the pool and Námo saw Tuor’s hair flutter in the sudden wind that rose out of the West. The Mortal breathed deep and they heard him exclaim, "This uplifts the heart like the drinking of cool wine!"

"Poetic, isn’t he?" Námo said with a wide grin.

Ulmo returned his grin with one of his own. "Comes from living alone, I imagine," he quipped and they both laughed.

"Speaking of which...." Námo said.

The Lord of Waters nodded, knowing what his brother wished and a moment later Salmar, his Chief Maia, approached with a tray of refreshments, casting a quick glance into the pool as he laid a cut crystal goblet of miruvórë on the table next to his lord. "Ah... I see he has finally reached the Sea," he said, handing another goblet to Lord Námo. "A bit late isn’t he, Lord? I would have thought him in Vinyamar by now."

"The Child is a bit slow-footed," Námo answered before Ulmo, giving Salmar a wink.

"You mean slow-witted," Ulmo retorted with a grunt. "How many more signs do I need to.... Oh for the love of Atar!"

"What now?" Námo asked, rolling his eyes. Salmar hid a smile and with a bow made a graceful exit.

"Look what he’s doing!" Ulmo nearly shouted with disgust.

Námo leaned over the pool as he took a sip of his wine, nearly spitting it out, trying not to laugh. They could see the Mortal rushing about chasing a host of butterflies and laughing before collapsing upon the greening earth and sighing in contentment as he gazed upon the ever-changing Sea.

"He looks as if he’s enjoying himself," Námo commented, refusing to catch Ulmo’s eye.

"He’s supposed to be making his way to Vinyamar!" Ulmo snarled. "I swear this child of Men is going to be the death of me!"

The Lord of Mandos nearly fell out of his chair laughing. "It is summer after all, brother. He has had a long road and deserves a rest."

"Rest, yes, but I wasn’t expecting him to take up residence in Nevrast."

"He’s enamoured of the Sea, I think," Námo offered. "He is the first of the Atani to ever come to it. I fear the Sea-longing will be strong in this one to the end of his days."

"Can’t be helped, I’m afraid," Ulmo sighed. "Well, one more sign is all I’m giving him. This better work or I’m going to personally hand him over to you."

"Oh no, brother," Námo said with a wicked gleam in his eyes. "This one is all yours."

"Humph," was Ulmo’s only reply as he dipped a finger a third time into the pool and gave it a swirl. Now Námo saw seven great white trumpet swans wend their way southward, but as they came over Tuor they wheeled and flew down, landing in the water. He could see the Mortal’s amazement and delight, knowing that the youngster was greatly fond of swans, for the swan was the token of the folk of Annael, Tuor’s foster-father among the Sindar. The Man rose to greet the swans, but they merely hissed at him and drove him from the shore before rising again to once more make their way southward.

"Here now comes another sign that I have tarried too long!" they heard him cry aloud.

"You think?" Ulmo said with a sarcastic growl and Námo laughed, taking another sip of his wine. He realized he was enjoying himself more than he thought he would. When Ulmo had suggested this visit after a particularly difficult judgment of one of the Noldor, he had been reluctant to accept his brother Vala’s offer, but now he was glad he had.

Tuor continued following the swans until he came at last to Mount Taras beneath which was the abandoned city of Vinyamar, the oldest of all the works which the Noldor built in Beleriand. The two Valar observed the Man as he stood before Turgon’s great throne, marvelling at the shield, hauberk, helm and long sword in its sheath hanging on the wall behind it. The hauberk shone as if it were untarnished silver, the sunlight streaming through the western windows gilding it with sparks of gold. The shield was of a shape unfamiliar to the Man, for it was long and tapered. Námo smiled at the lad’s expression, for Tuor could not know that in more ancient days, the shields of the Noldor had been of a different design than what they used now. He saw Tuor smile in delight when he noticed the swan’s wing emblem that was wrought on the blue-painted shield.

The young Man lifted the shield off the wall, speaking in a ringing voice. "By this token I will take these arms unto myself, and upon myself whatsoever doom they bear."

"Now we’re getting somewhere," Ulmo said with a sigh of relief as Tuor dressed himself in the hauberk and girded the sword around his waist. They saw him step outside and the seven swans that had landed there bent their long necks in homage to one who was destined to be the father of Kings, each one plucking out a feather to lay at his feet. Tuor took the gift of feathers and placed them as a plume in his helm.

The young Man walked towards the sea-strand, drawn there by Ulmo’s will. The Lord of Waters gave the Lord of Mandos a wry grin. "Now to finally set him on his errand. He has tarried so long that the road I had planned for him is no longer viable. He will have to take another, harder way, though this time I think I’ll supply him with a more reliable guide than birds."

Námo smiled, lifting his goblet in salute. "I’ll be here when you get back."

Ulmo nodded and started to think himself away when he stopped and gave Námo a wicked smile. "Would you like to help spur the child on his way?"

"What do you have in mind?" Námo asked, intrigued.

Ulmo told him and the Lord of Mandos started laughing. "That’s right, blame me." Ulmo merely smirked as he faded away. Námo then bent over the pool to see what he could do to help his brother Vala. Ah... there... he called to Salmar who appeared immediately.

"My lord?" the Maia said.

"Salmar, find Ossë," Námo said. "Tell him from me that he may take the mariners on that ship now making its way towards Endórë, for they were doomed to come to my Halls the moment Turgon sent them into the West, but he is to spare Voronwë son of Aranwë. Tell him his lord has need of the Elf."

The Maia bowed and set off to follow the Vala’s orders while Námo continued to watch the drama unfold before him. A sea-storm was brewing out of the West, courtesy of Ossë. It was quickening now and the sky was darkening with its threat. Tuor, he noticed, never moved from the strand where he stood. A great wave rose far off and rolled towards him, a mist of shadow lying upon it. Námo had to admit Ulmo knew how to make an entrance as the Lord of Waters rose out of the wave, standing dark against the storm in majesty and dread.

Ulmo wore a crown of silver, from which his long sea-green hair fell down. He cast back the grey mantle that hung about him like a mist, revealing a gleaming coat, close-fitted as if made of great fish-scales, looking much like mail. Around this he wore a kirtle of deep green that flashed and flickered with sea-fire as he strode slowly towards the land, though he did not step foot upon it. Tuor bowed, at first in reverence to Ulmo, but then the light of the Vala’s eyes and the sound of his deep voice brought fear upon the Mortal and he cast himself upon the sand, not daring to look up.

"Arise, Tuor, son of Huor!" said Ulmo. "Fear not my wrath, though long have I called to thee unheard; and setting out at last thou hast tarried on thy journey hither. In the Spring thou shouldst have stood here; but now a fell winter cometh soon from the land of the Enemy. Haste thou must learn, and the pleasant road that I designed for thee must be changed. For my counsels have been scorned, and a great evil creeps upon the Valley of Sirion, and already a host of foes is come between thee and thy goal."

"What then is my goal, Lord?" asked Tuor.

Námo watched his brother Vala tell the Mortal of his mission, throwing him a part of his mantle as a cloak, for with winter nigh again and Melkor’s minions abroad, Tuor would need to pass under shadow through peril.

"Thus thou shall walk under my shadow," he heard Ulmo say. "But tarry no more; for in the lands of Anar and in the fires of Melkor it will not endure. Wilt thou take up my errand?"

"I will, Lord," said Tuor.

Námo listened with half an ear to Ulmo speaking to Tuor of the Darkening and the Exile of the Noldor, the Doom of Mandos and the Hiding of Valinor, all the while keeping an eye on the encroaching storm. Ossë, it seemed, was being a little too enthusiastic. Námo frowned and thought himself to where Ulmo’s Maia swept the Elven ship to and fro, tossing it from one wave to the next, tormenting the mariners who still clung to their only hope of safety, a hope that was doomed for all but one.

"Ossë, enough!" Námo shouted above the shrieking of the storm. "I would not have thee tormenting these Children."

The Maia of the Seas turned a petulant look upon the Vala. "Thou’rt not my lord," he said, scowling.

"Do not dispute me in this, child," Námo said in tones that were absolutely frigid. "Thou wouldst not enjoy the consequences. These Children are mine. Torment them no longer."

"They should be punished for their insolence," Ossë said with a withering look.

Námo’s expression darkened. "Remember’st thou that Melkor’s cell in Mandos stands empty." He paused and the smile he gave Ossë set the Maia quailing. "It need not remain thus."

The Maia sighed and with a negligent and, to Námo’s eyes, spiteful move, he tipped the ship so all but Voronwë were swept overboard, their screams lost in the raging hurricane. Námo swept the fëar of the lost mariners into his embrace, automatically consoling them even as Maranwë and several of his fellow Maiar appeared to take charge, gently cradling the quiescent fëar before returning to Mandos. Námo turned his attention back to Ossë.

"Bringest thou Voronwë safely unto the shore, Ossë." He looked towards Vinyamar, noticing that Ulmo was still speaking to Tuor, though it sounded as if their conversation was drawing to a close.

"... is not for thy valour only that I send thee," he heard the Vala say, "but to bring into the world a hope beyond thy sight, and a light that shall pierce the darkness."

The storm had now reached the shore and Tuor looked in danger of being drowned and swept away. "Go now," Ulmo commanded the Mortal, "lest the Sea devour thee! For Ossë obeys the will of Mandos, and he is wroth, being a servant of the Doom."

Námo couldn’t help smiling at that bit of sophistry. Ulmo definitely knew how to frighten the Child into not lingering. He pretended not to see Ossë stick out his tongue at him.

"... I will send one to thee out of the wrath of Ossë, and thus shalt thou be guided: yea, the last mariner of the last ship that shall seek into the West until the rising of the Star. Go now back to the land!"

Then there was a noise of thunder, and lightning flared over the sea; and Ulmo stood among the waves as a tower of silver flickering with darting flames.

"I go, Lord!" Tuor cried. "Yet now my heart yearneth rather to the Sea."

Námo rolled his eyes. Oh for the love of Atar!

"He’s rather dim-witted, isn’t he?" Ossë stated with a sneer.

The Lord of Mandos gave the Maia a withering look. "Mind thyself, Ossë. Thy lord shall hear of thine insolence towards me." The Maia gave him a dismayed look.

Meanwhile, Ulmo was lifting the Ulumúri, blowing upon it a single great note, louder than the roaring of the hurricane around them. As the note ended, thunder rolled across the seascape, and lightning rent asunder the heavens. Námo saw that Ulmo was gone and decided it was time to make his own exit, though he waited long enough to assure himself that Tuor had safely reached the top of the terraces and that Voronwë had come ashore with the sea-wrack still alive as Ossë’s wild waves broke against the walls of Vinyamar.

Returning to Valmar Námo found Ulmo calmly sitting by the pool sipping his wine. "Nice show," he said as he took his own seat. He noticed that in his absence, the ever efficient Salmar had refilled his goblet. "That last bit was quite entertaining."

"I’m glad you think so, though I will have to give Ossë a talking to. He was too violent."

"Hmm... I had to reprimand him for his mistreatment of the mariners. There was no reason for his spite. Their deaths were frightening enough for them without compounding their fear."

Ulmo nodded. "Well, I sent him off to Uinen in a sulk. She’ll give him a piece of her mind and he’ll be on his best behaviour for a bit." He took another sip of wine. "Thank you, by the way, for allowing me to take your name in vain."

Námo laughed. "It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened."

Ulmo gave him a considering look. "Does that bother you?"

"What?"

"The Children look upon you with the same level of hate as they reserve for our Fallen Brother."

Námo shook his head. "Nay. Melkor they abhor and for good reason; me, they simply fear, though some have good reason to do so. The rest..." he shrugged and gave his brother Vala a wry grin. "Like they say, it comes with the territory."

"I’m sorry."

Now Námo gave him a surprised look. "Whatever for? I am as Atar made me. What the Children think of it is of no concern to me. My only concern is what Atar thinks of me."

"Well, thank you anyway. I...."

He was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Manwë, standing there looking grave. The other two Valar bowed their heads in greeting. "Is there something wrong, Manwë?" Ulmo asked.

Manwë gave the Lord of Waters a scowl. "Would you care to tell me, my brother, why three sea gulls and seven swans are giving me grief?"

Both Ulmo and Námo stared at the Elder King in confusion. "Excuse me?" Ulmo enquired.

"Something about you waylaying them for the sake of some Mortal?" Manwë said, arching an eyebrow.

The other two Valar shared a look and started laughing. "Pull up a seat, my brother," Ulmo said finally, "and I’ll tell you all about it." Salmar appeared just then, offering the Elder King a goblet of miruvórë which Manwë accepted with a smile. Námo tuned Ulmo out, stealing a glance into the pool and was pleased to see Tuor and Voronwë speaking. He saw the Mortal set upon the wall his spear, upon which his name was written in the Elven-runes of the North. Námo had to smile at the gesture. Clearly the Child wished any who might pass through the ancient city to know that he had been there.

As he watched Elf and Mortal make their way out of Vinyamar, heading northeast towards Gondolin, it occurred to the Lord of Mandos that perhaps Tuor’s tarrying had had a purpose to it, unknown to them all. Had the Mortal been as swift of foot as Ulmo had planned he and Voronwë would never have met and with sudden insight Námo understood that Someone Else had taken a hand in delaying Tuor long enough for a doomed ship of the Eldar to find its way back from forbidden waters.

He looked up to see Manwë laughing at something Ulmo was telling him about Tuor and Námo smiled, wondering if he would share his insight with his brother. Perhaps, perhaps not. Ulmo thought himself the chink in the armour of Fate, but he apparently was forgetting Who was the original armourer. No, on second thought, he would keep this one to himself.

After all, were they not all in Atar’s hands?

****

Words are Quenya unless otherwise noted: 

Fëar: Plural of Fëa: Soul, Spirit.

Dagor Bragollach: (Sindarin) Battle of Sudden Flame.

Annon-in-Gelydh: (Sindarin) The Gate of the Noldor, the entrance to a subterranean watercourse in the western hills of Dor-lómin, leading to Cirith Ninniach or the Rainbow Cleft, which brings one to the Great Sea.

Anar caluva tielyanna!: ‘The sun shall shine upon your path!’

Atani: Men, the equivalent of the Sindarin Edain.

Ulumúri: The great horns of Ulmo.

WICKED: Maiar Games

SUMMARY: When the Maiar seek relaxation they don’t fool around.

WARNING: Humor in some places, angst in others.

****

‘It is an attested fact that the Maiar are more numerous than the Valar and in fact their numbers are unknown. Indeed, few of the Eldar of Aman have any converse with them or know their names. It is therefore not surprising to note that when asked, the average Elda on the streets of Tirion or Vanyamar or even those of Tol Eressëa cannot tell you what the Maiar do for fun or even if they have any....’

     from The Secret Lives of the Maiar by Pengolodh of Gondolin and Tol Eressëa

****

"So when do you get off?" Manveru asked Eönwë.

"In three hours our lord will release me," the Herald of the Valar answered. "Ingwë is in conference with him at the moment and it looks to be a long meeting." He flashed a wide smile at his fellow Maia. "The High King is not happy with the news that the Valar have forgiven the Exiles and are allowing them to return, though only as far as Tol Eressëa."

Manveru lifted an eyebrow at that. "That island has been deserted for ages."

"Which makes it an ideal place for the Returnees. They will not be allowed on the mainland initially. Our lord thinks that a time of... isolation might be best. The Elves of Beleriand are admirable Children but they have a darkness within them that is foreign to Aman. It will take time for that darkness to be purged."

"Yes, well that’s all very well," Manveru said with a huff, "but where will we go now when we want to play?"

Eönwë gave him an amused look. "Who says we still can’t play there?"

Manveru’s eyes widened with the implication of that one question and he started laughing. "Maybe we can have fun with the Returnees."

"Just so long as they are unharmed in the process."

The two Maiar turned to see Lord Námo striding towards them, an unreadable expression on his face. They gave him their obeisance. "My lord, we would never dream of...." Manveru started to say but Námo stayed him with a gesture.

"I am sure you would not but remember that these Children are war-weary and their fëar have been beaten down from constant fighting and seeing their homeland obliterated. They are very fragile at this point, so whatever you have in mind, do not forget this."

"You do not forbid it, lord?" Eönwë asked.

Námo smiled. "No, nor will any of the Valar. In truth, these Children are in need of some... harmless fun, though they know it not. Be careful with them. They are very precious to us."

The two Maiar bowed as Námo continued on his way to join Manwë in his discussion with Ingwë. Manveru turned to Eönwë. "So who do you think we can get to join us?"

****

Gilithil, late of Nargothrond, was convinced he was being followed, but every time he turned around to look back along the beach he had been walking there was nothing, just sand, rock, and ocean. Yet, he felt something, a presence he could not define. He had not survived the Nirnaeth, the sack of Nargothrond and the War of Wrath and not know when he was being followed. He turned around, determined to ignore the feeling and gave a sigh almost of relief when he saw his friend, Damrod, come towards him. He waved and nearly ran to greet him.

"Mellon nîn!" Damrod cried with a laugh as Gilithil hugged him. "What is this? You act as if you have not seen me for ages instead of only since breaking fast together."

Gilithil continued to hold his friend in his embrace and whispered urgently in the ellon’s ear. "I am being followed."

Damrod’s demeanor sobered and warrior instincts honed by centuries of interminable warfare took over. "Where?"

Gilithil pointed back the way he had come. "That rock."

Damrod wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. "What?"

"The rock," Gilithil insisted with a hiss. "It’s been following me."

Damrod gave his friend a cool stare. "Rocks do not move."

"You think I don’t know that?" Gilithil fairly shouted in frustration. "But I tell you that rock has been following me since I’ve been walking on this beach."

Damrod went over to the rock in question. It appeared to be an ordinary rock. It was perhaps three hands high and nearly as wide, grey and unprepossessing. "It’s a rock, Gilithil," he said. "I admit it’s rather strange to see a single rock that size on a beach but it’s just a rock. Next thing you’re going to tell me is that it sings as well."

Roimendil turned to Tiutalion. Both Maiar were unclad. "Tell me he didn’t say that."

"Fine. I won’t. Who gets to do the honors?"

Roimendil merely grinned and gestured at Tiutalion who crouched down beside the rock they had been moving through the sand and began singing in a low gravelly voice a hymn to Aulë in Sindarin:

     "A Ola, Cevendan, thavron Ardhon,

     Ceredir e-mîr, ah e-gynd...."

Gilithil and Damrod had similar looks of horror on their fair faces and without another word they started running as quickly as they could away from the rock, while Tiutalion and Romendil laughed themselves silly, though neither Elf heard them.

****

Ingil, Olórin and Lisselindë watched with fascination three elflings, not much older than twenty-five or thirty, make their way into the woods near their settlement. Bronweg, Nimbrethil and Handir stepped easily between the trees, though there was an air of wariness about them and the Maiar were appalled that even here on Tol Eressëa these little ones felt the need to go armed. Bronweg, the oldest, carried a sword while the other two sported bows and quivers of arrows. All three looked to be competent in their use and that saddened the Maiar even more.

Nimbrethil, who appeared to be the youngest, stared around her, looking troubled. "Are you sure there are no yrch in these woods, Bron?" she asked in a whisper.

"Nana says not and Ada agrees," the older ellon stated with perhaps more confidence than he felt.

"Ada seemed very upset earlier," Handir stated with a frown.

Bronweg nodded, looking suddenly angry. "I overheard Ada telling Nana that some people from the mainland came and said that we were only here on sufferance by the Belain."

"What does ‘sufferance’ mean?" Nimbrethil asked, looking confused.

"It means the Belain can make us leave any time they want to."

The elleth stopped in dismay and tears began to form in her green eyes. "B-but why?" she wailed. "I’ve been good, I promise. I d-don’t want t-to leave, Bron. I... I like it here. Th-there are n-no yrch."

Bronweg gathered his little sister into his arms and tried to comfort her but did not know what to say. Watching unclad the three Maiar frowned, clearly displeased by the turn of events.

"We need to tell Lord Manwë," Ingil said.

"If he does not already know," Olórin retorted.

"What about the elflings?" Lisselindë asked. "The jest we thought to play on them would be too terrible given what Bronweg has told them. What can we do to brighten their mood and assure them that they are in no danger of being forced from their new home?"

They thought about it for a moment and then Olórin grinned. "I think I have an idea."

Suddenly he was no longer there but in his place was a beautiful white fawn that made its way through the trees where the children were still standing, the ellyn trying to comfort their sister.

"’Brethil, look!" Handir whispered as he saw the fawn come towards them, his expression one of awe and delight.

The elleth turned around and gasped, her tears momentarily forgotten. All three elflings stood stock still, barely breathing, afraid that any sudden movement would startle the fawn and send it fleeing. The fawn stepped carefully towards them, then stopped before turning and heading deeper into the woods. The children moaned in dismay but when the fawn stopped again and looked back they gave one another wondering looks.

"Do you think it means for us to follow it?" Nimbrethil whispered.

Bronweg shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

With that the three elflings started towards the fawn who seemed to wait long enough to assure itself that they were indeed following, then it turned and leapt gracefully into the underbrush, being careful to always be in the children’s sight. Deeper and deeper they went until the children were unsure if they could find their way back to the settlement but they no longer cared. After about an hour they made their way through a stand of large ash trees to find themselves in a glade where a waterfall flowed over a small escarpment into a deep pool. Of the fawn there was no sign yet the elflings were too enthralled by the sight of the glade and the waterfall with its many rainbows to worry about it.

Suddenly there was a shimmering of lights and the three Maiar stood before the children who cowered and looked ready to flee. Lisselindë held up her hand. "Peace, my children," she said warmly. "Fear not, for we mean you no harm. Do you like our little hideaway?"

The three elflings nodded almost as one and Lisselindë laughed. "Then let us dance and sing and be merry, for you are welcome here now and always." Even as she spoke the other two Maiar began to sing a song about joy and good fellowship while Lisselindë spread her hands, inviting the children to take them. Soon all of them were dancing in a circle, the children laughing, their weapons lying forgotten on the grass beside the pool.

****

Manveru and Erunáro watched the elleth as she led the ellon towards a particularly large chestnut tree. The ellon, clearly a Noldo by his looks, was blindfolded and the elleth, her coloring a pleasing blend of Sinda and Nando, was giggling. "Almost there, melethron nîn," she said.

"I hope so," the ellon said with a laugh. "This is not what I meant when I said I wanted to spend some time alone with you."

The elleth giggled again as she led him to the tree and removed the blindfold. The ellon blinked, trying to focus. "What do you think?" she asked, sounding almost anxious.

The ellon gazed up into its spreading branches and then down at the elleth beside him. "It’s a tree."

She slapped him on the arm in mock dismay. "Of course it’s a tree. I meant, what do you think about building a talan in it?"

The ellon smiled fondly at the elleth and bent down to give her a kiss. "You and your talans. Wouldn’t you rather just have a nice house instead?"

"You Noldor have no soul," the elleth countered with a sniff.

"Which is why you married me," the ellon retorted with a laugh, putting his arm around her shoulder and giving her a hug which ended up with the two of them kissing.

"Ow!"

"What is it, Barafinnel?" the elleth asked in confusion.

"That tree just hit me!" Barafinnel exclaimed, rubbing his hand on his head. At his feet was a rather large chestnut.

The elleth looked at her husband skeptically. "I’m sure it did not do it on purpose. The chestnut merely fell and you were in its way."

"Well, let’s stand over here then and pick up where we left off," the ellon said with a sly grin and the elleth complied.

Soon they were lost in each other’s embrace.

"OW!!"

"Now what?"

"Merilin, I swear this tree hates me. Look!"

Now there were two large chestnuts at the ellon’s feet. Merilin sighed. "I’m sure it was just a coincidence."

"Well, why didn’t one of them hit you instead?" Barafinnel nearly snarled.

Merilin smirked. "Perhaps it likes me more."

The ellon grabbed the elleth and moved purposely away from the tree until they were standing under a nearby maple. He maneuvered their position so she was leaning against its trunk and he had his hands on either side of her, blocking her escape. He leered at her. "Now, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?"

Merilin giggled and then she was eagerly kissing him and for a time there was only the sound of their heavy breathing.

"Argh!" Barafinnel almost screamed as he arched in pain. Merilin stared at him in shock as he collapsed to his knees in front of her, nearly a dozen chestnuts on the ground around them.

"Are you well, beloved?" Merilin asked, kneeling so as to wrap her arms around her husband.

"Do I look well?" Barafinnel whimpered. "Now do you believe me when I say that tree hates me?"

"Well, perhaps you should apologize to it," Merilin replied in a reasonable tone.

Barafinnel looked up at his wife in disbelief. "Apologize to a tree? I haven’t done anything to it to apologize for."

"Well, you did say you didn’t like it."

"I never did! I said I preferred living in a house."

"Well, I’m sure the tree took it as an insult which is why it’s throwing its chestnuts at you," Merilin retorted, sounding cross. "Now stop whining and go apologize. I like that tree and I want to make our home in it."

Barafinnel groaned as he stood up, his hands rubbing his back where the chestnuts had hit him. "This is ridiculous," he muttered, glaring at the chestnuts lying in the grass at his feet.

"Ridiculous or not, you’re going to apologize to that poor tree right now," Merilin said in a no-nonsense tone.

"Poor tree! What about poor me?"

"Oh really! You ellyn are such babies. How did you manage to win the war with all that whining?"

Barafinnel grimaced, knowing he had been bested by both his wife and a tree. Shaking his head, he made his way back to the chestnut and glared at it for a moment before tentatively putting his hand on its trunk, feeling himself redden in embarrassment and glad that none of his fellow warriors could see him. "Goheno nîn. I did not mean to insult you. I think you are a very fine chestnut tree, one of the finest I’ve ever seen."

He remained standing there, feeling every kind of fool, when a single chestnut dropped, not on him, but next to him.

"There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?" Merilin asked with a smug grin. "You see, the tree likes you now."

"If you say so, love," the ellon said with a sigh.

"Now, why don’t we show the tree how much we like it by climbing into it."

"Huh?"

Merilin was already halfway up the tree before Barafinnel could even register the fact. She turned to look down at him, her expression almost feral. "I think we should celebrate our new-found friendship with this tree, don’t you?"

Barafinnel’s eyes widened as he caught the drift of his wife’s meaning and in seconds he was sitting beside her on a wide branch and the two of them began to lose themselves in each other’s embrace.

"Time to go," Manveru said with a smile as he watched the two Elves become increasingly aroused.

"I think he learned his lesson, don’t you?" his brother in the Thought of Ilúvatar said with a laugh as the two of them jumped down from the high branch they had been roosting on.

"Never insult a tree, especially when there are two Maiar sitting in it," Manveru quipped, joining his brother in laughter.

Neither Elf heard them, but the tree trembled slightly as if laughing as well.

****

Hithwen led her brother towards the chair she had set out earlier which sat under a spreading oak. Brandir followed her meekly, his expression blank, his eyes seeing nothing of the beauty around him. "Now, you just sit here," Hithwen said as she maneuvered him into the chair, wrapping a warm blanket around him, "and enjoy the day. I’ll be nearby."

The ellon gave no indication that he even heard her and she sighed, worry lines marring her lovely brow. She bent down and kissed her brother on the cheek, then walked away to start the day’s chores. Brandir just sat there, looking at nothing.

Eönwë and Maranwë gave each other concerned looks. "He is obviously in need of help," Maranwë said.

Eönwë nodded. "I wonder that Lord Irmo does not have him in Lórien where he can be properly tended to."

"Perhaps he is unaware of the many ellyn who are like Brandir, their hröar unharmed but their fëar shattered," Maranwë ventured.

The Herald of Manwë gave his fellow Maia a skeptical look. "I do not think anything goes unnoticed by any of the Valar within their own realm. No, I am sure Lord Irmo is quite aware of the plight of some of these warriors who saw too much evil in that last war." He sighed. "Atar knows I did."

"Is there anything we can do, though?" Maranwë asked. "I was too busy helping my lord tend to the fëar of the dead during that time to think about anything else."

Eönwë nodded. "You had a most important task."

"I think I would have preferred following you to Beleriand," the other Maia said ruefully.

"No, you would not. Trust me on that, my friend." Eönwë’s demeanor was sober.

"So, what can we do for this poor Child now?" Maranwë asked, willing to change the subject. He had felt bad not joining his friend in the War of Wrath but he knew his lord had needed him more than ever during that time. So many fëar marred by the terror of the War... he shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the images his memories had brought to the fore.

Eönwë stared compassionately at the ellon sitting there with his blank expression, his silvery-grey warrior braids lying limp and lusterless. "He needs to see there is beauty still in the world," he said. "Beauty and laughter and joy."

"Then let us show him," Maranwë stated. He looked about him, and smiled. There was another oak tree nearby and in fact Brandir was staring right at it. "I have never worked with the Reborn, even in the Gardens outside Mandos," he said to Eönwë, "but I have spoken with those of my brethren who do and they have told me some of the stories about how they act and all."

"What do you have in mind?" Eönwë asked.

Maranwë did not answer but lightly jumped up and grabbed a thick branch and swung his legs over so that he was hanging upside down facing the ellon. Slowly, so as not to startle the Elf too much he allowed himself to incarnate, swinging from the branch and humming a ditty popular among the children in Vanyamar. Eönwë had to admire his friend’s sense of play. When the ditty was finished, he started making funny faces at the Elf, who never seemed to notice the Maia.

The Herald shook his head. "I don’t think it’s working," he said and Maranwë reluctantly agreed, swinging himself down from the tree and walking over to where Eönwë stood unclad next to Brandir. He knelt before the ellon, reaching up to stroke his hair.

"What are we to do for you, meldonya?" he said sadly. "It grieves us that you are so lost. Will you not return to us and embrace joy again?" He looked up at Eönwë who had incarnated in the meantime. "Do you know his story?"

Eönwë shook his head. "Though I am sure it is similar to the ones I do know. There was so much evil unleashed at the end. Melkor’s last efforts were ones of extreme desperation. It amazes me that some of these Children did not simply flee their hröar altogether."

"So what do we do?" Maranwë inquired with a sigh.

Eönwë joined Maranwë in stroking Brandir’s hair, looking sadly at the ellon who appeared not to have noticed them at all. He glanced at his friend and fellow Maia. "Kidnap him?"

"Excuse me?"

"Take him to Lord Irmo."

"Rather extreme measures."

"Bring Lord Irmo here?"

"That might work better, assuming he would consent to come." Maranwë sighed. "I suppose I could speak with my own lord and ask him to intercede in Brandir’s behalf to his brother."

The two Maiar were silent for a time, each gently continuing to stroke Brandir’s hair, just letting him know that he was not alone.

"Oh!"

They turned to see Hithwen standing there, a tray of food and drink in her hands, her face a mixture of awe and fear. Maranwë smiled at her and addressed her in Sindarin. "Fear not, Child. I am Maranwë of the People of Bannoth and this is Eönwë of the People of Manweg. We were passing by and saw your brother and stopped to greet him."

Hithwen still looked stricken. "B-bannoth? You mean to take my brother to...."

"No, Child," Maranwë sought to reassure her. "We were truly just passing through on business of our own."

"Indeed, Child," Eönwë added. "We were just discussing informing my Lord Glurim of the need to bring people like your brother to Lórien that they might receive proper treatment and healing for their wounds."

"Brandir is not wounded, lord," Hithwen said. "He is just...."

"Lost. Yes, I know," Eönwë supplied. "His fae is in need of healing, Hithwen. It was this that my brother and I were discussing." He gave her an appraising look. "Is that tray for your brother?"

"What? Oh, yes," she said, reddening somewhat. "It is his luncheon."

"Then we will leave you now," Eönwë said with a slight bow of his head and Maranwë copied him. Both made to leave but stopped in surprise.

All this while, as they were talking to Hithwen, the two Maiar had continued stroking Brandir’s hair, and while the ellon still did not seem to see them or know that they were even there, a small smile now graced his lips.

"Oh!" Hithwen exclaimed, putting the tray down on a small table next to the chair to go to her brother. "He’s never done that before."

"Then he is not as lost as you thought, Child," Maranwë said gently, pleased that in this small way he and Eönwë had been able to reach the poor ellon.

Hithwen looked up with tears in her eyes, a sense of hope lurking behind the wet lashes. "Le hannon, hîr nîn, for both of us."

The two Maiar gave her another bow and walked away, fading into the fabric of the environment, much to Hithwen’s astonishment.

"Not exactly how I had planned to spend my free time," Maranwë said as they continued on their way, "though I do not regret it."

"Nor me," Eönwë said. "Come. Let us go see my lord Irmo and speak to him about Brandir and others like him. If he agrees to allow such broken souls admittance into Lórien I will consider this little holiday well-spent."

"Let us even so."

Together the two friends thought themselves away, knowing that they would soon return.

****

"There haven’t been any... um... incidents?" Manwë asked Námo.

The Lord of Mandos shook his head. "None to speak of. On the whole I think this little experiment of allowing our People to interact with the Children on Tol Eressëa in this manner has worked for the better."

"The Exiled Noldor are as much in need of... re-education as the Sindar and Nandor who have never met us," Varda commented.

They all nodded.

"Eönwë and Maranwë are outside even now waiting to speak to me about bringing some of these Children to Lórien for healing," Irmo said.

"Then, by all means, let us hear what they have to say," Manwë said. "Now that Melkor has been banished for a time, the healing of Arda can perhaps finally begin."

To that there was no objection and all turned their attention to the two Maiar who were making their way before the Valar in behalf of one of Atar’s Children.

****

All words and phrases are Sindarin unless otherwise noted.

A Ola, Cevendan, thavron Ardhon, / Ceredir e-mîr, ah e-gynd....: "O Aulë, Earthsmith, builder of Arda, / Maker of jewels and of rocks...."

Melethron nîn: My (male) lover.

Talan: Wooden platform in a tree, also called a flet.

Goheno nîn: ‘Forgive me’, with the person forgiven as object.

Hröar: (Quenya) Plural of hröa: Physical body.

Fëar: (Quenya) Plural of fëa: Soul, spirit. The Sindarin form is fae. 

Meldonya: (Quenya) My (male) friend.

Bannoth: Sindarin form of Námo.

Manweg: Sindarin form of Manwë.

Glurim: Sindarin form of Irmo.

Le hannon, hîr nîn: ‘Thank you, my lords’. In the context of the scene, she is addressing them both.

HOLLOW: Founding Nargothrond

SUMMARY: Finrod consults Elu Thingol for advice about a dream he has had and the King of Doriath makes a suggestion that will change the course of history in Beleriand.

****

Finrod fidgeted as he waited to see Elu Thingol. He was not sure why he felt so nervous. It was not the first time he had sought an audience with the Teler King of Doriath, but this time it was different. How, he could not say, only that it was. Artanis had urged him to speak to their great-uncle, for she had discerned the sense of unquiet that he had kept hidden from all, though he suspected that Melian was aware of it.

He was pacing in the small antechamber to Elu’s study when he heard a door opening behind him. Turning, he felt his pulse race as it always did when he found himself before Elu and Melian’s daughter. Lúthien had an inner quality about her that unnerved him and a dark beauty that enthralled him, yet they were good friends and loving cousins. Whenever he was with her he sensed a deeper destiny than being the beloved daughter of the King and Queen of Doriath, yet he could never quite pin it down, only knowing that her road was bound to be dark yet bright at the same time. He did not understand it and did not try.

She smiled at him as she closed the door behind her. "You look nervous, Cousin," she said in a teasing voice. "Surely you do not fear my ada?"

Finrod chuckled. "Nay, Cousin, I do not, but I feel nervous all the same."

She walked over to him and brushed imaginary dust from his blue-grey tunic cut in the Doriathrin style. Finrod (and Artanis) made it a point to follow Sindarin fashion when residing in Doriath, eschewing the brighter colors and satiny smooth cloths of the Noldor for the muted shades and textured fabrics of their Telerin kin. Lúthien gave him a brief kiss on the cheek and another smile. "You are very dear to us, you know, Finrod, more than Ada let’s on, you and Artanis both."

"Thank you, Cousin," Finrod said with a sigh. "I sometimes think Artanis and I are permitted in Doriath for kinship’s sake and nothing more."

"Nay, my beloved child, you are here for the love we bear for you both."

The two cousins turned to see Elu Thingol standing there. He was tall and regal in a robe of deep burgundy edged in vair. A circlet of white gold etched with leaves graced his silver hair, braided in the Sindarin fashion with gemstones and beads that glittered in the lamplight. His eyes were a deep blue, the blue of a mountain tarn, full of depth yet their surface reflected a light that reminded Finrod of the Two Trees, which only made sense, for Elu had been one of the three ambassadors who had gone to Aman with Oromë. Finrod sometimes wondered if his great-uncle ever regretted never returning to Aman and beholding the Two Trees again, but when he watched him with his Queen and saw the love the two bore for one another, he thought perhaps any regret was tempered with contentment.

Elu Thingol gestured for Finrod to come closer and the younger elf obliged, allowing the King to embrace him and offer him a kinsman’s kiss. "Now, I understand you wish to speak with me, iôn nîn."

Finrod nodded but otherwise did not speak. Elu glanced at his daughter. "Will you excuse us, Daughter?"

Lúthien smiled. "Of course, Ada. I was on my way to find Artanis. We are going hawking in Neldoreth."

"That is well," Elu said, "but take Beleg with you. I do not want you traveling alone."

"Celeborn rides with us," Lúthien replied, " and Mallor will come as escort as well."

"Good. All the better. Now, best be off, child. You do not wish to keep Artanis waiting. I know she has been fretting to leave Menegroth for awhile."

She gave them both a brief curtsey and went on her way while Elu gestured for Finrod to precede him into the study. It was a warm room, with a deep fireplace where a fire burned brightly. The walls were mostly shelves holding scrolls and books. A large desk took up the center of the room but there were a couple of chairs in front of the fireplace and that is where Elu led Finrod. In short order they were both sitting before the grate with goblets of mulled wine in their hands.

"You are troubled," Elu said without preamble.

Finrod sighed. "Does it show that much? Lúthien...."

"My daughter has her naneth’s gift of insight," Elu explained, casting a wry grin at the younger ellon. "Not always a comfortable thing to have. I can never keep anything from either one of them. It was nearly impossible to find a good hiding place for Lúthien’s begetting day gifts when she was an elfling. She is better than my hounds at sniffing things out."

Finrod chuckled and took a sip of wine before trying to put into words the restlessness he had been feeling of late. "This past summer my cousin, Turgon, left Nevrast and came to me at Tol Sirion. Both of us were weary of mountains and so we traveled southward, skirting the Forests of Brethil to the west and so making our way to the Crossings of Teiglin until we had journeyed further south even to the Aelin-uial. We reached there one evening and set up camp where the higher ground meets the meres." Elu nodded, knowing the land well. Finrod continued, his expression troubled. "That night a heavy sleep came upon me and... and I dreamt."

Elu’s own expression became unreadable as the elven King went still in a way Finrod had never seen anyone do. "Of what did you dream?" he asked softly.

Finrod shrugged. "I cannot say for sure, only that when I awoke I felt an unease fill my heart and a sense of doom enter my fëa. I wish to find a place similar to Menegroth where I can take my people and dwell in safety. I do not trust this Leaguer. Morgoth will not stay behind the walls of Angband forever and when that day comes I wish to have a refuge to those who need it."

Elu nodded. "The Enemy is ever restless, and this silence from the north troubles me as well." He sat for a moment, deep in thought, and then nodding to himself, he rose, gesturing for Finrod to join him. "Come. There is something I wish to show you."

Finrod put down his goblet and followed the king out of the study and down the crystal-lit hall. He had not been in Menegroth long enough to know the layout well and in minutes he was hopelessly turned around, but Elu never faltered and as they traversed from one hall to another the Teler began to speak in soft tones. "There is a place, southwest of here, that might suit. Ah... here we are." He gestured Finrod into a small room where shelves were stacked with scrolls, all neatly labeled. Elu took a moment to find a particular scroll and removing it from the pile brought it over to a long worktable and spread it out. Finrod stared with interest at a rather intricately drawn map of western Beleriand. Elu placed a delicate finger on a spot.

"Doriath," he said, then drew the finger down at an angle to the left until he came to a river and a long chain of steep looking hills. "The river Narog. It runs swiftly and has forged a deep gorge through these hills. Somewhere along the gorge are deep caverns that might suit your need. And here." He pointed further west. "This is the Taur-en-Faroth, the High Faroth we call it. It is a wooded highland that should suit your purposes for building materials."

Finrod gazed at the map, a look of doubt on his fair face. "It’s a bit distant from the Leaguer."

"All the better for its purpose as you have divined it," Elu pointed out. "Also, few know of this region, for it is sparsely populated by any of my people and the Nandor have not come this far west."

Finrod nodded. "Perhaps I will take a look."

Elu smiled at the younger ellon, the youngest of all the princes of the Noldor, yet Elu could sense a greatness of spirit in him that far surpassed those of the other invaders. "I will give you some guides."

****

They spent a fortnight making their way across the fair plains of the Taleth Dirnen, skirting Amon Rûdh along its southern flank, and heading deeper into the chain of hills that marked the boundary between northern Beleriand and its sheer mountains and dim forests from the southern reaches which flattened out into flowering meads as one reached the Sea. Finrod had accepted the two guides given him by Elu — Bronweg and Celepharn. They were somewhat taciturn in nature and disparaging of the Noldor but knew their business. Finrod managed to impress them with his humility and willingness to turn his hand to whatever task needed doing, from erecting shelters to gutting the game they caught for their meals. With them came two of Finrod’s personal guard, Thandir and Glorendil. The two Noldor soon won over the two Sindar and Finrod joked that he was feeling left out.

"In that case, my lord," Glorendil said with a wicked smile, "feel free to peel the potatoes for our stew tonight. We wouldn’t want it to be said that we neglected thee in any way."

The two Sindarin guides snickered at that but Finrod merely smiled and held out his hand for the peeler. After that, the five of them became good friends.

Eventually they made their way into the steep hills where Narog came through them in a deep gorge, flowing over rapids though there were no falls. On the western bank they could see the highlands of the Faroth rising above them, the woods dense with oak and elm, with a scattering of maple, birch, and dark firs, which pleased Finrod. The guides led them to the west side of the gorge where the short and foaming stream, which they called the Ringwil, tumbled headlong into the Narog from the highlands.

"There, lord," Bronweg said, pointing to a slit in the side of the cliff. "There is where the caverns begin."

"Let us then make torches and see what there is to be seen," Finrod commanded and in short order they were following the Noldorin prince into the cavern. They had to bend over and enter one at a time, for the slit was low and narrow. "This would have to be widened," Finrod commented to no one in particular as he made his way in.

Then they found themselves in a large cavern and not even the light of their torches could penetrate the darkness that surrounded them. The two Sindar remained at the entrance, their task finished, allowing the three Noldor to wander as they pleased.

"Well, lord, what thinkest thou?" Thandir asked somewhat doubtfully, speaking in a whisper that nonetheless echoed eerily through the hollow of the cavern.

For a long moment Finrod did not speak, merely raising his torch to see as much of the cave as he could. It was dank with the smell of the river outside and the walls were dull and grey and covered with sickly looking moss that gave off a faint light. In short, the place was not Menegroth with its many pillared halls of stone lit by glowing lamps that reflected the gems scattered about. Yet, when Finrod finally turned to his two companions and smiled, they could see his eyes shining brightly with more than just reflected torchlight. "I think we are home."

****

Vair: Squirrel fur. It is a blue-grey color and is one of the furs used in (human) heraldry.

Ada: (Sindarin) Hypocoristic form of Adar: Father.

Naneth: (Sindarin) Mother.

Fëa: (Eldarin) Soul, spirit.

Notes:

1. The description of the location of Nargothrond is taken from the Silmarillion, as is Finrod and Elu Thingol's discussion.

2. Glorendil is the Sindarin form of the Quenya Laurendil.

MONSTER: Bed-Slayer

SUMMARY: Elladan and Elrohir are in need of a champion and only Glorfindel will do. Unfortunately for all concerned, the former Lord of the House of the Golden Flower is nowhere to be found.

NOTE: At age eight, the twins are the equivalent of three-year-olds in Human terms.

****

"Glorfi! We want Glorfi!"

Elrond and Celebrían ran from their bedrooms to where their twin sons slept and entered the room to find two tear-streaked faces staring up at them, little arms reaching out for comfort. Elrond automatically picked up Elladan while Celebrían cuddled Elrohir.

"What is it, iôn nîn?" Elrond crooned as he rocked his firstborn son in his arms. "What has you and your brother so upset?"

"W-w-we want Gl-glorfi," the ellon stuttered between his tears.

"But Glorfindel is not here, Elladan," his adar said, which apparently was the wrong thing to say for immediately both twins began wailing. Elrohir even pounded his baby fists at his naneth, who held him tightly through his tantrum.

"Glorfi!" the elfling yelled at the top of his lungs. "Glorfi! Want Glorfi!" Elladan joined his brother in his tirade, letting his own displeasure be known to his parents and everyone else in Imladris.

"Why do you want Glorfindel?" Celebrían yelled over her sons’ screams.

"Glorfi protects us from monsters," Elladan answered, cowering into his adar’s arms and letting Elrond soothe him. Elrohir was doing the same with their naneth.

"And where are these monsters?" Elrond asked.

"Un-under the beds," whispered Elrohir, the child’s tone one of true fear.

"Perhaps Ada can take a look and make sure they’re not there," Celebrían suggested but neither twin was pleased with that idea.

"No, Nana, Glorfi has to look," Elrohir protested. "Glorfi kills monsters, not Ada."

Celebrían gave her husband a wry look and when she spoke it was in Quenya, a language the twins had not yet mastered. "How does it feel to be upstaged by the Captain of your guards in the eyes of your sons?"

Elrond snorted, a rueful look on his face. "I am afraid Glorfindel has had too much influence over them of late."

"They adore him," Celebrían offered gently, "but they love you."

Elrond did not respond to that but settled Elladan more firmly in his lap to better speak to him. "You know Glorfindel is on patrol, do you not, iôn nîn?"

Two dark-haired ellyn nodded almost as one. "He will not be back for some days. Are you sure you wouldn’t want Ada to check under the beds for you? Ada used to slay monsters too, a long time ago."

Two pairs of grey eyes stared at him in disbelief and there was a tandem shaking of small heads. "No. Glorfi slays monsters," Elladan said with childish logic as he cuddled closer into Elrond’s arms. "Ada makes booboos go away."

"Well you can’t fault him on that bit of logic," Celebrían said with a smile, still speaking in Quenya. "They only see you in the healing wing, but Glorfindel is the one with the sword."

Elrond gave a soft sigh, cradling his firstborn and planting a kiss on the little one’s brow. Elrohir, he noticed, was already half-asleep again, a little fist held tight to his mouth. He gave his beloved a quizzical look. "I wonder though what has brought this on. Glorfindel has been away on patrols before and they’ve never acted like this. What could have set them off?"

Celebrían gave a delicate shrug. "Perhaps Erestor was telling them a story earlier, or they overheard some of the warriors speaking of their battles with the yrch."

"Should we take them back to our rooms for the night?" Elrond suggested somewhat doubtfully. "I know you are trying to wean them away from that, but they are obviously terrified of something and I hesitate to leave them alone. They might wake up again in fright."

"I suppose it wouldn’t hurt just this once," Celebrían said. "I just hope it doesn’t become a habit every time your Captain is away."

"Násië!" Elrond muttered fervently.

****

"GLORFI!!!!"

Elrond groaned as he disentangled himself from Celebrían’s embrace, while she merely gave him a wry grin.

"This is the third night in a row," the Lord of Imladris muttered as he rose from their bed and hunted for a robe to throw over him, not even bothering with slippers as he made his way to the door.

Celebrían sat up, her silver hair in disarray, and shook her head. "Remember dear, they’re only eight."

Elrond turned to her in surprise. "Do you think I would show my anger towards them for this? When I was their age, Elros and I often woke screaming from nightmares about our naneth. Maglor would hold us both and sing to us until we fell asleep again. He never admonished us or told us we were too old for such nonsense. I think he felt some guilt that he and Maedhros were the cause of our night terrors."

Celebrían’s expression softened as it always did whenever her husband mentioned anything about his brother or their lives as children growing up with Maglor. She knew he still had a great deal of love for the silmaril-haunted son of Fëanor. "Go to your sons, Elrond," was all she said. "They have need of you."

****

"How long before Glorfindel returns?" Elrond asked Erestor on the fifth day as he and his Chief Councillor sat in Elrond’s library going over the day’s schedule.

Erestor noticed that Elrond looked unusually pale and tired. Celebrían wasn’t much better, though both tried to hide it. The citizens of Imladris were well aware of the nightly terrors that beset the small heirs of their lord and lady and it distressed them, and puzzled them. During the day the twins seemed unaffected by whatever frightened them at night. Even at bedtime they appeared unconcerned, eagerly demanding a story and drinks of water before settling down to sleep. Yet, every night for the last week, one or the other had woken screaming, setting off his twin. The Chief Councillor of Imladris worried for the health of his lord and his family.

"If he kept to the schedule and encountered no unusual problems," Erestor answered, "he should be back by tomorrow night around the time of the evening meal."

"Well, he cannot be back soon enough," Elrond retorted. "Celebrían and I have taken turns remaining in the twins’ room in the hope that having an adult presence would stem the nightmares, but it hasn’t worked."

"Can you do nothing for them?" Erestor asked.

"We tried giving them a mild sleeping draught," Elrond told him, "but even that did not work and I would not increase the dosage for fear of them becoming addicted. They are very young and their bodies would be unable to metabolize the medicine correctly."

"Have you learned what sets them off?" Erestor asked.

Elrond shook his head. "No. All we know is that I am incapable of looking under their beds to see if there are any monsters to be slain. Only Glorfi is capable of doing so."

Erestor hid a smile at his lord’s acerbic tone. "They see you as a healer not as a warrior. They are too young to be able to extrapolate beyond that. Everyone has his or her set role and yours obviously is not that of monster slayer."

"I know and truly I do not mind but we just do not understand why they are doing this now. Glorfindel has gone on patrol before and they’ve never gotten upset, nor do they seem to have any apprehension about going to bed. It is almost as if they do not remember being frightened the night before."

"Perhaps they do not," Erestor ventured. "Their minds seem not to hold to such memories, which may be a blessing."

"For them, if not for their parents," Elrond said with a wry grin and Erestor chuckled. "Well, if it’s just one more night, I suppose we can survive but I’m very tempted to demote Glorfindel to full-time nanny and leave the guarding of Imladris to someone else."

Now Erestor laughed outright and Elrond joined him, his humor restored somewhat.

****

Glorfindel, however, did not return at the time specified and Elrond’s mood darkened towards wrath as Elrohir started screaming for ‘Glorfi’. "I’m going to slay him myself," he muttered as he stomped towards the twins’ room only to find his way blocked by Erestor and two ellith.

"Let us handle them tonight, my lord," Erestor said. "You and Lady Celebrían need your rest."

Elrond looked upon his Councillor with gratitude. "If they won’t calm down call us."

"Of course, my lord," Erestor said, though he had no intention of doing anything of the sort.

Elrond gave them a nod and returned to his bedroom. Celebrían was in the process of donning a nightrobe when he entered and looked at him in surprise. "Erestor is taking care of them tonight," was all he said as he slipped out of his own robe, "along with Mirwen and Rían."

"I do hope Glorfindel returns soon," his wife said as she climbed into bed, allowing Elrond to cradle her. She felt him nuzzling the curve of her neck and gave a small purr of pleasure as she relaxed further into his embrace. Elrond didn’t bother to say anything and in a few minutes both were beyond the need for words.

****

"How long did it take you to calm them down?" Elrond asked Erestor the next morning, noticing the attempt on Erestor’s part to hide a yawn.

"I think it was nearly dawn before we all succumbed to exhaustion," Erestor replied. "I left Rían muttering something about being glad she never had children."

Elrond smiled. "It’s not that bad usually. I just wish I understood why they are doing what they are doing. It makes no sense."

"To you, but to them...."

"If Glorfindel does not return soon...." He left the threat unspoken.

"He’ll be here, my lord," Erestor said soothingly. "I have never known him to be more than a day or two later than originally planned. He knows how much you depend on him."

"I never suspected that I would depend on him to help keep the night terrors from my sons, though," Elrond responded ruefully.

To that Erestor had no answer and wisely remained silent.

****

That night it seemed half of Imladris was up trying to calm the twins to no avail. Every warrior in the House looked under the beds, declaring that there were no monsters to be seen but the twins refused to believe them. Several ellith attempted to soothe them with lullabies and one or two even tried bribing them with sweets. Celebrían was none too pleased with that.

"We’re trying to calm them down, not make them any more active than they already are," she said in exasperation, clearly at the end of her rope.

It was then that the sound of horses’ hooves clip-clopping on the flagstones outside alerted everyone that the patrol had returned. Elrond turned to Erestor. "Get Glorfindel up here now," he snarled and Erestor fairly ran to do his lord’s bidding.

It seemed an eternity but in actuality it was only ten minutes before the golden-haired Captain of Imladris strode into the twins’ bedroom still in riding gear. He gave Elrond his obeisance. "My lord sent for me?"

"No, I did not," Elrond snapped, pointing at the twins who had miraculously stopped crying as soon as their hero entered the room, "but they have been screaming for you every night for the past week."

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow and stared at the twins, though his expression was unusually soft for one who had died slaying a balrog. He went to one knee before them where Mirwen and Rían held them in their laps. "What is this, my little warriors? Why the tears?"

"We want Glorfi," Elrohir said with a hiccup and his twin nodded.

Elrond and Celebrían exchanged mystified looks and Celebrían knelt beside the Noldo. "But Glorfindel is right here, my loves."

Both twins shook their heads. "No, Nana, not Glorfindel, Glorfi!" Elladan nearly yelled.

At the confused looks on the other adults’ faces, Glorfindel started laughing as he stood up. "I’ll be right back."

Without further explanation he left the room but returned in a short while holding a stuffed toy rabbit that oddly enough held a small sword in one of its paws as if it were guarding something... or someone. As soon as he entered the room both twins beamed. "GLORFI!!!" they shouted and with an affectionate smile Glorfindel handed them the toy.

Elrond stared in disbelief at his sons, both cuddling the stuffed toy at the same time. "That’s Glorfi? All week long they’ve been screaming for a toy?"

Glorfindel looked at his lord and gave him a sympathetic smile. "Just before I set off on patrol, they came to me and insisted I take Glorfi with me to keep me safe. I think it would have been better if he had stayed here instead."

"I never noticed the toy was missing," Celebrían said ruefully.

"I didn’t even know it existed," Elrond countered, looking even more rueful.

"I think Lord Celeborn gave it to them when he was last here. Told them they would have to share."

"I never noticed," Elrond said, looking even more chagrined, wondering what sort of father he was making that he did not even know his own sons’ toys.

Glorfindel stood and put his hands on Elrond’s shoulders. "Do not be dismayed, mellon nîn. I was unaware of its existence myself until the twins handed it to me, saying they wanted to make sure I was well protected against monsters."

Elrond couldn’t help casting his friend and the protector of his House a wry grin. "And were you?"

Glorfindel laughed. "Oh yes, but I think from now on we best leave ‘Glorfi’ here to guard your sons instead." He turned to look at the twins and chuckled. The other adults followed his gaze and there were amused looks all around. Cuddled together on one bed, Elladan and Elrohir were fast asleep with the stuffed toy nestled between them, contented smiles on their little faces.

Peace had come to Imladris at last.

****

All words are Sindarin unless otherwise noted.

Iôn nîn: My son.

Ada: Hypocoristic form of Adar: Father.

Nana: Hypocoristic form of Naneth: Mother.

Yrch: Plural of orch: orc.

Násië!: (Quenya) ‘Amen!’

Mellon nîn: My friend.

COURTEOUS: Lack of Manners

SUMMARY: Círdan visits Doriath and finds things not to his liking.

****

Círdan stroked his beard, his eyes narrowing, as he observed the comings and goings in Menegroth. He had arrived, it seemed, at a time of confusion and upset, for Thingol’s seneschal barely acknowledged his existence, distractedly asking him to wait with his entourage in one of the lesser antechambers.

"Their Majesties are busy," was the ellon’s curt reply to the Shipwright’s enquiries.

"Busy, hmph!" Círdan muttered to himself, casting a wry glance at his second, Galdor, who merely raised an eyebrow but otherwise did not offer any comment.

Círdan sat back and waited. There was no attempt to provide him or his people with a chance to freshen up first, nor was there any offer of refreshments. Galdor started to fidget and Círdan hid a smile behind his beard at the youngster’s twitchiness.

"Relax, Galdor," he said mildly. "All will come as it must. Patience is a virtue when dealing with Elu Thingol."

"I have never been to Doriath," Galdor said, straightening. "Is it always this... hectic?" He gave his lord a disapproving look.

Círdan chuckled. "Not to my knowledge, though admittedly, this is only the second time I’ve bothered to travel east since I first came to Beleriand. I much prefer Eglarest and the Falas."

"Why have we come, then, lord?" Galdor asked, frowning. "You never did say." He tried to keep the reproach from his voice, though he was not sure how successful he was.

The Shipwright gave his young companion a stern look. "Nor will I say now. It is for Thingol to hear and no other."

Galdor paled at the reprimand and bowed. "Forgive me, lord. I did not intend to presume...."

"Nay, child," Círdan said, waving a hand in dismissal and giving the ellon a brief though sincere smile. "It is I who ask for your forgiveness. I fear I am not best pleased at...."

He was interrupted by the door opening and Thingol’s seneschal was bowing. "If it pleases you, my lord, their Majesties send their regrets and will not be able to see you at this time. I...."

Círdan, however, had had enough. He stood, his robe of state shimmering in shades of blue, green and purple under the glow of the lamps, glaring at the hapless ellon who took a step or two back in confusion. "It does not please me at all. Bah! Come, Galdor. I will see Thingol now."

He deliberately strode past the speechless seneschal with Galdor and their guards right behind him. The seneschal ran after them. "My lord, please! I beg of you, this is not a good...."

Círdan stopped, allowing the ellon to reach him. "It will never be a good time as far as your king is concerned," he told him. "I will not be put off any longer. Too much is at stake." With that, he turned and approached the doors to the throne room where two guards attempted to forestall him, but he merely pushed them aside as if they were no more than elflings.

Flinging open the doors, Círdan strode in, his eyes bright with anger held on a tight leash. "The courtesy of your halls is lacking of late, Elu," he said, ignoring the gasps from courtiers and the frown from Thingol. Melian, he took time to notice, had a small smile on her fair face, though her eyes were dark with worry. Both stood as Círdan approached, though Thingol rose somewhat reluctantly. "Am I some Nandorin flunky that you can so easily ignore me or dismiss me out of hand?"

Elu Thingol glared back, his silvery hair held back by a crown of wrought silver, his robes in various shades of white. Círdan wondered at that, for white was generally the color of mourning among the Teleri. "My courtesy is mine own, Círdan of the Falathrim," the king of Doriath replied with a scowl. "You do well to remember in whose realm you tread."

"And you do well to remember to whom you speak," Círdan retorted, coming to stand before the throne dais. He gave Melian a brief but respectful bow which she acknowledged with a gracious nod; Thingol, he ignored. "My lady, I rejoice in seeing you again."

"And I you, mellon nîn," said the Queen of Doriath, "though these be sorrowful times."

"Indeed," Círdan said with a nod. "There have been rumors abounding...."

"And you decided to see if they were true?" Thingol demanded, glaring down at his unwelcome guest.

Melian placed a hand on her husband’s arm. "Peace, hervenn nîn. Lord Círdan is not our enemy."

"Yet."

The absolute silence that followed that one word was deafening. Galdor unconsciously went for his sword, only realizing at the last moment what he was doing. It wouldn’t have done much good anyway, for the hilt was tied with peace-strings and removing them would have been a breach of protocol. Círdan gave the younger elf a wry smile before turning his attention back to Thingol. The King of Doriath was still in a dark mood and seemed to be the only one not affected by his own words. Melian looked upon her lord and husband with an expression of disbelief bordering on disgust.

"Take care, Elu," Cîrdan said softly, his voice like steel in silk, "lest Morgoth’s taint find you."

"Too late for that, my lord."

Círdan looked around to see Celeborn striding towards them with Galadriel beside him. The prince of Doriath was nearly as tall as his uncle, his silvery hair bound loosely with a leather cord. He was dressed as if for hunting and one of the great war bows was slung on his back. Galadriel, he saw was similarly dressed, which surprised him not, for Celeborn’s lady was known far and wide for her martial prowess, though here inside the Girdle of Melian she had had little need to practice it. She carried a smaller bow, one of Noldorin make, yet no less deadly than the ones favored by the Sindar.

"What do you mean, son?" Círdan asked as Celeborn and Galadriel both gave him their obeisance.

Celeborn’s fair face darkened into a scowl as he gave his uncle a glance. "Only that doom has found us. Mine uncle foolishly...."

"Farn!" Thingol exclaimed. "I will not be spoken of in this manner within mine own realm."

Celeborn, however, was not so easily cowed and he turned on his kinsman. "You were a fool, Uncle! Everyone but you could see how much Lúthien loved him, mortal though he be. You thought yourself so clever, sending him to fetch you a silmaril as a brideprice, knowing he would most likely die in the attempt. You murdered him, Elu, and your daughter as well."

Thingol’s expression was one of pure fury as he unsheathed his sword, Aranrúth. "You dare...."

"Farn!" Círdan shouted, taking two steps to place himself between uncle and nephew. "Cease this unseemly behavior." Then, without giving anyone a chance to protest, he grabbed the sword from Thingol’s hand and threw it at Galdor, who caught it lightly. "The king’s sword... and his honor is yours to guard, Galdor," he said, casting a glance around the court, daring anyone to object. Galdor bowed to his lord and stood at attention, placing the sword before him. Círdan then turned back to Melian with a sigh. "I think this conversation should be moved to a more private venue."

"I agree," Melian said with a nod and turned to the seneschal. "Dismiss the court, Ragnor. Come, we will retire to our private apartments." She took her husband’s arm and he allowed himself to be led. Círdan followed, along with Celeborn and Galadriel, who left their bows and quivers resting against the thrones.

When they reached the royal couple’s private chambers, Celeborn went to a sideboard and poured out some wine for all of them. All this time Thingol said no word, his expression set in stone. Círdan accepted the goblet of wine from the king’s nephew with a smile and took an appreciative sip before speaking.

"Honestly, Elu, young Ereinion is better behaved and he’s an elfling in truth. What has come over you, mellon nîn? And why these mourning clothes?"

Thingol looked up from the goblet he’d been staring into and the depths of pain in his eyes was almost too much for any of them to bear. "My daughter is dead," he said tonelessly.

"You do not know that, sire," Galadriel said. She turned to Círdan to explain. "Lúthien disappeared some weeks ago."

"Disappeared, you say?" Círdan exclaimed. "How?"

"She ran away, after mine uncle had her imprisoned," Celeborn answered, casting a sneer at Thingol, who was ignoring everyone.

The Shipwright narrowed his eyes. "I think someone should explain... from the beginning."

For a long moment there was silence and then Melian sighed and began speaking, telling of the arrival of the mortal, Beren son of Barahir, and what followed after. Círdan did not interrupt, though he was sorely tempted to. Instead, he closed his eyes and thought of the day Lord Ulmo had appeared to him as he was wandering along a beach singing a song about the Sea. It had been an interesting conversation, to say the least....

****

"Thou’rt missing thy friends who went with Olwë, art thou not, child?" the Lord of Waters asked him when he appeared, standing in the surf.

Círdan could not deny it. While he had been willing to remain in Beleriand even after Lord Ulmo had returned to summon the Teleri under Lord Olwë to Aman, he had been sorely grieved at the parting nonetheless and wondered that he had so willingly given up any chance of seeing Aman to take up the lordship of the Falathrim.

"Do not grieve so, my son," Ulmo said gently. "One day thou wilt come to Aman and be reunited with thy kin, but for now, I have for thee a charge."

"What is that, lord?" Círdan asked.

"My fellow Valar are unhappy that many of the Eldar have lingered overlong in Beleriand," Ulmo stated, "yet they understand that there is a reason for this, one that need not concern thee at this time. Suffice to say that neither they nor I will willingly abandon thee or those of your kin who still seek after Elwë. Therefore, we have chosen thee to be our representative here in Beleriand, to hear the words which from time to time I will utter to thee which thou mayest pass on to thy kin for their benefit and solace."

Círdan gave the Vala an uncertain look. "I am the least of my people, lord. If Elwë is ever found again, he will hold my allegiance."

"Nay, child. Thou’rt Lord of the Falathrim and they will accept no other. Elwë will indeed be found and when he is he will accept that thou’rt his equal, for didst thou not awaken under the stars of Cuiviénen as did he?"

Círdan sighed, still unsure but willing to obey. He gave the Vala a low bow. "I am thy servant in all things, lord. Let it be done as thou hast said...."

****

Círdan’s musings were interrupted by Melian telling him of Lúthien’s imprisonment and subsequent escape and wondered how anyone who had seen the Light of the fabled Two Trees, had spoken to the Powers themselves and had espoused a Maia no less could be so utterly stupid. He gave the King of Doriath a sour look.

"I see that Fëanor’s Oath and the Doom of Mandos has found its way past even your lady’s enchantments, Elu. Your nephew is correct. You acted very foolishly. Beren is of a lordly people...."

"He is a mortal, baseborn and ignorant of beauty...."

"He fell in love with Lúthien," Celeborn said in a droll tone. "I hardly think he could be that ignorant."

"Nor is he baseborn," Galadriel added. "He is the son of Barahir of the house of Bëor whom my brother befriended. Do you think that Finrod would consort with any who were not honorable and noble of spirit?"

"The Aftercomers are not to be despised, Elu," Círdan said, "and even I have heard of the deeds of Barahir and his son. The fact that Beren was able to penetrate the Girdle which none, not even elves, have ever done before should have told you something. I deem he might be most worthy of your daughter’s love."

"It matters not," Thingol said darkly. "He is dead or soon will be. I sent him on a fool’s errand...."

"He is not dead," Círdan said baldly. "He lives still, as does your daughter, or so the rumors say, but there are others who did not fare as well." He glanced sorrowfully at Galadriel, who paled at his words.

"My brother," she whispered.

"I am sorry, my dear," Círdan said gently.

"A shadow has darkened my heart these last few days," she said, staring at nothing in particular. "I could not fathom its meaning, but now...." She fell weeping quietly into Celeborn’s arms.

"Finrod died defending Beren in the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth," Círdan explained, "or so word has come from those who have since escaped from that prison." He gave Thingol and Melian a hard stare. "It seems that Lúthien had a hand in destroying Minas Tirith and setting free its captives. They have been making their way southward towards Nargothrond. I came upon one such hapless ellon who told me the news."

"What brought you here?" Melian asked, her expression unreadable. She refused to look at her husband, who simply sat there, his own expression cold and distant.

"Rumors of wolves," Círdan answered. "Sauron has unleashed his pack. I wished to consult with you and Elu about defenses. This may be the first sortie and if Morgoth is planning to launch an offensive...."

Melian and Celeborn both nodded. Thingol, however, gave him a sour look. "My lady’s Girdle will keep Morgoth out. Look to your own defenses, Círdan of the Falathrim, or if you will, go to the Noldor upstarts who ever seek for glory in battle."

"Do you think that your lady, Maia though she be, has the power to withstand a Vala, any Vala?" Círdan asked, casting a look of disgust at Thingol. "Morgoth has not troubled himself with you only because those same Noldorin upstarts, as you call them, have been keeping him busy. And now the best and the brightest of them is dead, thanks to you."

Thingol stood in shock. "You dare!? I had no hand in killing Felagund."

"Did you not?" Círdan countered, also standing. "Bah! I will not quarrel with you, Elu Thingol. I came here in good faith as one lord to another, but I see my errand was for naught. I will return to my people and leave you to your griefs... and your doom."

He gave Melian a bow, then turned to Galadriel, who had ceased weeping though she still remained in Celeborn’s arms, seeking solace from his love and concern. "My dear," he said, leaning down to give her a kiss, "words cannot express the sorrow I feel for you. Your brother was a good king and a puissant warrior. He died as he lived, in service to others. Take comfort that he now rests in peace within the halls of Mandos. Someday, perhaps, you and he will meet again."

Galadriel shook her head. "The Valar forsook us and we are outcasts. Now I alone am left of the House of Finwë born in Aman. In me alone resides the memory of the Light of the Two Trees."

"But you are not alone," Celeborn said quietly. "You have me."

"And me," Melian said, coming to stand before them. "For as long as I reside here, you will always have me."

Círdan nodded in approval. "I will leave you then. I will not return, but if ever you have need of me...."

"Thank you, mellon nín," Melian said with a smile.

Círdan bowed to them all before leaving, taking a moment to look one last time upon the King of Doriath, who had shrunk into himself, ignoring everyone, sitting in his white robes. Looking at him, Círdan had a terrible thought that it was his own death Thingol was mourning. He shook his head, trying to clear the image from his mind as he made his way back to the throne room where he found Galdor still standing at attention.

"Put the sword down, Galdor," he said as he passed the ellon. "I’ve seen enough. It’s time we were home."

Galdor laid the sword on Thingol’s throne and silently followed his lord out of Menegroth, no wiser as to Círdan’s purpose in coming to Doriath than before.

****

All words are Sindarin.

Mellon nîn: My friend.

Hervenn nîn: My husband.

Farn!: Enough!.

Aranrúth: ‘King’s Ire’. Elu Thingol’s sword which survived the ruin of Doriath and became an heirloom of the Kings of Númenor.

PASS: Cleft of Light

SUMMARY: Even in the bliss of Aman, not all is well with the Eldar.

****

"There is something amiss with the Children," Irmo said, addressing his fellow Valar as they met in Manwë and Varda’s mansion in Valmar.

"Amiss?" Varda asked in disbelief. "In what way? Do they not thrive under the Light of the Trees? We have given them fair dwellings amidst the radiant gardens of Valinor. How can there be anything amiss?"

"And yet there is," Irmo replied. "Estë and I have begun to detect a listlessness among them and a sense of pining, though for what, we are not sure."

"Perhaps we should ask the Children themselves if there is aught amiss with them," Námo suggested and they all nodded.

"Let us summon Ingwë and Finwë, then," Manwë said and with a word to Eonwë the two kings were called before the Valar.

Ingwë and Finwë were a study in contrast. Whereas Ingwë was bright and golden with his fair hair and deep blue eyes, Finwë was dark, his locks a shade that was almost black but his eyes were a brilliant grey-blue. Both were tall, though not as tall as any of the Maiar, yet they were lordly in bearing and the Valar treated them with respect, more as equals than as vassals.

"I thank ye both for coming," Manwë said to them as the two Elves gave him their obeisance. "Lord Irmo and Lady Estë have brought to our attention that all may not be well with ye and your people."

The two kings exchanged glances before Ingwë answered. "Is it that obvious, lord? We did not wish for thee to think us ungrateful...."

Manwë raised his hand to still the Elf’s words. "If there is aught amiss, Ingwë, it behooves thee to speak of it. We want only your happiness."

"We miss the stars," Finwë whispered, almost as if he feared the Valar’s reaction to his words.

"Excuse me?" Manwë asked, though he was well aware of what the Noldóran had said.

Finwë cast a concerned look at Ingwë who nodded encouragingly. The ellon swallowed nervously before replying. "The stars, lord. We miss...."

"Dost thou wish to return to the lands whence thou hast come?" Manwë interrupted, frowning slightly. He truly loved these bright and inquisitive Children and it would have grieved him — grieved all of them — if they were to leave Aman.

Both Elves looked stricken. "Nay, lord," Ingwë protested, going to one knee. Finwë followed suit. "Aman is our home and we rejoice that ye have consented to allow us to live amongst ye, but....."

"But ye miss the stars," Varda completed the thought for him. Both kings nodded, their expressions one of dismay.

"Then the stars ye shall have," Aulë declared as he stood.

"What do you propose, brother?" Ulmo asked.

Aulë answered, "The pass by which the Children entered Aman winds along a region of the Pelóri that is lower than the mountains on either side of it. It would be easy enough to open the pass completely, carve out a cleft that will permit the light of Varda’s stars to be seen here in Aman."

"Easy enough to do, perhaps," Námo commented, stroking his chin in contemplation, "but still a lot of work. It will take time to accomplish even if we employ every available Maia to the project."

"And what do we do with all the rubble?" Oromë asked.

"Some of it can be used in my smithy," Aulë ventured, "but certainly not all."

"Perhaps we can use it to create some islands so that Tol Eressëa will no longer be the only one," suggested Yavanna.

Námo, however, shook his head, his expression going dark. "Nay. The time for building islands is not yet, though it may come sooner than we might wish."

Ingwë and Finwë stared at the Lord of Mandos with much awe and trepidation, not sure how to react to Námo’s words. The other Valar appeared to take them in stride, for no one disputed them.

"So islands are out," Manwë said contemplatively. "Well, we will work out the logistics later. In the meantime, are we agreed that this cleft should be created so as to give back to the Children the stars?"

"And at the same time allow easier access between the three kindreds," Varda added, casting a brilliant smile upon the two Elves, both of whom nodded eagerly, for they regretted that Olwë and his people had elected to remain on Tol Eressëa.

Manwë nodded in agreement, well aware of how Finwë especially missed his friend Olwë. He turned to the Lord of Waters. "What sayest thou, my brother Ulmo?" he asked formally.

Ulmo stood and gave Manwë a brief nod. "I say thee yea," he answered before retaking his seat.

"And thou, Nienna?" Manwë asked next.

Nienna stood and gave Manwë a brief nod as well. "I also say thee yea," she said before sitting again.

One by one, each of the other Valar stood and cast their vote. Námo was the last to stand and he did not speak immediately but regarded the two Elves with grave eyes. Neither could meet his gaze.

"Morimando?" the Elder King asked.

Námo raised his eyes to Manwë. "Túna," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"Some of the rubble from the excavation can be used to create an artificial hill upon which the Children might build their own city. The hill will be called Túna." Námo cast a glance at the two Elves and smiled, which actually alarmed them. "What the city might be called we can leave to the Children to decide."

"Ah, I see," Manwë said with a slight smile at the disconcerted expressions on the two kings’ faces. "Then it is unanimous. We will open up the pass in the Pelóri so the Children may once again walk under the stars."

The two elves bowed deeply to Manwë. "We thank thee, lord," Ingwë said, speaking for both of them. "Thy forbearance to our whim...."

"It is neither a forbearance on our part nor a whim on yours, Ingwë," Manwë interrupted with a benign smile. "We do this because we love thee and thy people and we always will."

The two Elves nodded, though the Valar still detected a sense of uncertainty as to their sincerity but they knew that deeds speak louder than words and in time the Children would see that the Valar truly had only their best interests in mind.

"So what are we to call this cleft once it is formed?" Oromë asked musingly.

"Ingwë’s Folly?" Námo replied, giving the Elves a wink. They both started at the levity while the Valar all laughed.

"We’ll figure that out later as well," Manwë said as he stood, the other Valar following him. "Come. Let us summon the Maiar and begin."

****

Noldóran: (Quenya) King of the Noldor.

Ellon: (Eldarin) Male Elf.

Morimando: (Quenya) Dark Mandos. Námo’s title when he sits in Judgment.

SIGNAL: Wires Crossed

SUMMARY: Sometimes even the Valar have difficulty getting through.

WARNING: Humor alert. Please be kind to your computers and refrain from eating and drinking while reading.

****

Sometime in the Seventh Age:

"Anything?" Námo asked Manwë as he entered the throne room of the Valar in Ilmarin.

The Elder King shook his head in frustration. "I’ve been trying all morning to get through to him, but haven’t had any luck yet."

Námo gritted his teeth. "What could possibly be happening that would take his attention so thoroughly? Even at the height of the War of Wrath we had no difficulty contacting him."

"It’s this situation going on in Middle-earth now I deem," Manwë said as he rose from his throne to walk out onto the balcony; Námo joined him. "My eagles have been coming to me constantly with updates on what is happening there. I suspect he is too busy at his end to deal with us."

"So what are we supposed to do? What am I supposed to do?" the Lord of Mandos exclaimed. "Never have I had these many Mortals descend on me all at once. I cannot keep up!"

Manwë gave the younger Vala a wry smile. "An exaggeration, surely. It cannot be that bad, can it?"

Námo gave Manwë a jaundiced look. "Always when combatants on both sides of a conflict found themselves in my Halls where I was able to... er... clarify a few things for them" — Manwë snickered at that; Námo ignored him — "they have realized how foolish they have been and have reconciled with one another before continuing beyond the Circles of Arda, but this time! I had one idiot demanding to know why his enemy wouldn’t stay dead no matter how many times he strangled him."

"What did you tell him?" Manwë asked, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Nothing!" Námo replied. "I just pointed to a sign Maranwë made in desperation that reads ‘YOU ARE ALL DEAD!!! DEAL WITH IT!!!’ In six Human languages, including Latin, no less!"

"Latin!? Why Latin? That language hasn’t been spoken among the Mortals for millennia."

Námo shrugged. "When I asked, he said he liked the way it looked."

"So what did you do with the Mortals then?" Manwë asked, deciding not to comment on the idiosyncrasies of Námo’s Chief Maia.

Námo gave Manwë a feral grin. "I threw them both into an empty cell and left them happily trying to kill one another all over again. But if that wasn’t enough," he continued, "I caught one of the captains trying to recruit a couple of my Maiar to his cause!"

The Elder King couldn’t help but start laughing. "What did you do?"

"Nothing! Ancalequirindë was there and gave me a wink while she happily explained to the stupid git why his plan to take over Mandos wouldn’t work and then went on to offer her own ideas of the best way to do so!" He threw up his hands in defeat. "And on top of that, I’m running out of boats."

"Hmm... that is serious, but I think you can manage."

"I’m seriously considering asking Aulë to build me a 747," Námo retorted.

Manwë gave him a wry grin. "Somehow the image of a 747 taking the Mortals out of the Circles of Arda instead of the swan boats you’ve used from the very beginning just doesn’t do it for me. There’s no romance to it."

Námo’s face took on a dreamy expression. "If we remove all the seats I can really cram them in. No first class seating for any of them and I’ll have the Maiar who were assigned to guard Melkor’s cell act as stewards." His expression became almost cheerful at that thought.

"Ouch! That’s too cruel even for you."

Námo sighed and nodded, looking deflated. "I’ve had to section off a part of the Halls of Healing for all those Mortals who have died from non-war-related causes. I don’t want them getting hurt."

"Understandable."

"And I’ve had to pull a number of my People from their usual duties, including those from the Halls of the Elves and the Gardens of the Reborn, to handle the overload, which is why Ancalequirindë was there instead of in the kitchen where she belongs." The Lord of Mandos scowled. "Many of them have never had to deal with Mortal fëar before and they have no idea how to cope with their idiocies."

Manwë nodded. "A terrible situation, to be sure," he said with a straight face. "Well, shall we try again?"

Námo nodded as they went back into the throne room. They took their respective seats and Manwë composed himself, sending his thoughts through the emptiness of Eä unto the very walls of the Timeless Halls. Námo waited as patiently as possible, schooling himself to stillness, even resorting to counting backwards from one billion. He had reached eight hundred million and twenty-two when Manwë stirred.

"Well?" Námo asked.

Manwë shook his head. "I still get the same message: ‘The party you are trying to reach is not in ósanwë range. Please try again later.’"

Námo groaned, his face in his hands. "Why doesn’t Atar have ‘call forwarding’?"

Manwë snorted in derision. "For the same reason we don’t."

Námo looked up and gave his fellow Vala a feral grin. "Telemarketers."

BEGGAR: ‘Anno ammen sír...’

SUMMARY: Elu Thingol arrives in Mandos.

****

Námo, Lord of Mandos, sat patiently upon his stone-carved throne, waiting for Elu Thingol, once King of Doriath, to awaken. He held his chin in his left hand as he watched the Sinda slowly come to. Given the nature of the ellon’s death and the reason behind it, Námo had decided to place the king’s fëa into a healing sleep before Elu even had time to register the fact that he was dead. Now the erstwhile king was awakening and Námo was curious to see what his reaction would be.

He did not have to wait long.

Elu found himself staring up at a ceiling that did not look too dissimilar to the ceilings of Menegroth, but there was a subtle ‘wrongness’ to it that he could not quite define. "Melian," he called, and was appalled at how weak his voice sounded.

He shook his head and started to rise, stopping as he realized that he was not alone. He blinked stupidly, trying to give a name to the face of the one gazing at him in silent regard. Searching far back into memory he dimly recalled the first time he met the Belain — all of them. He had been awestruck at the Light of the Two Trees and the shining Beings before whom he, Ingwë and Finwë had been brought. Each of the Belain had introduced him- or herself, beginning with Hîr Manweg and ending with....

"No!" he exclaimed, climbing to his feet, swaying slightly.

"Easy now," Námo said solicitously, putting a hand out to steady the ellon and giving him a slight smile. "Welcome to Mandos, Elu."

Elu stared at the Vala seated before him, his gaze calm yet penetrating. "H-hîr Bannoth," he stuttered.

"The same," Námo said, "though in truth that is merely the name of my... kingdom. I am known here as Hîr Námo, but you may call me what you wish."

Elu shook his head, still trying to come to terms with what was happening. He found his legs would not support him and he sat heavily on the edge of the couch from which he had just risen. Then memory of his final moments of Life flashed before him.

"Melian!" he cried. "What happened...."

"Peace, Elu," Námo said. "Melyanna is well. She returned recently to Aman and walks again under the eaves of Lórien, though she no longer dances." He gave the Sinda a sympathetic look. "Perhaps some day you and she will meet again."

Elu stared at Námo in confusion. "Returned? Why did she return? Who... who rules Doriath now?" The thought of his people ruled by another’s hand brought anguish to his heart that was almost too painful to bear.

"No one," Námo said.

"What!?" Elu cried, springing up. "What meanest thou?" he demanded angrily, purposely using the familiar form of address as if speaking to one of his subordinates. "Speak plainly, Balan, for my patience with thee is growing thin."

Silence stretched between them for an eternal moment before Námo spoke. "Sit down, Elu," he said quietly but with great authority. The elf found himself obeying. "And mind your manners. You are no longer in your court and I am not one of your subjects. In point of fact, you are now one of mine."

Elu continued sitting in silence, refusing to offer an apology. Was he not a king, the first and, quite frankly as far as he was concerned, the only king of Beleriand? He refused to acknowledge even to himself the legitimacy of the kingdoms carved by the Lechenn invaders, though perhaps he could accept his great-nephew’s kingship. Finrod had been... special and less haughty than his uncles and the Fëanorionnath. Still....

"What about Celeborn?" he asked with less belligerence. "Surely he should be ruling...."

"No one rules in Doriath," Námo said, "for Doriath is no more."

Elu could only stare at the Vala in disbelief. "How can that be? The Girdle...."

"When your wife deserted Doriath, her enchantments failed, leaving it unprotected from invasion."

Now Elu grew angry again. "How dare you claim Melian deserted her people... our people!" he said, standing to face the Vala. "She would never...."

"But she did," Námo said calmly. "She did not even stay long enough to see your grandson, Dior, take your scepter and crown."

The ellon blinked. "Dior? He became king?"

Námo nodded. "For a little while," he answered.

"Wh-what happened?" Elu asked, sitting down again, his anger fled and replaced by a gnawing fear.

Námo sighed. He had been dreading this part. Elu had grown haughty over the years and over-confident in the efficacy of his wife’s powers. Yet, Doriath’s eventual fall had to be laid at Elu’s feet and no other. His arrogance towards Beren had opened the way for Fëanáro’s Oath to corrupt Elu’s heart and ultimately doom his kingdom.

"Celegorm and Curufin happened," he finally said and allowed Elu time to make the necessary connection.

"The... the Nauglamír," Elu whispered, closing his eyes.

"Yes. After your... death," — Elu flinched slightly at that — "Beren and the elves of Tol Galen intercepted the Dwarves and destroyed them, recovering the Nauglamír, which Beren claimed for himself. Unfortunately, the presence of the Silmaril hastened his and Lúthien’s death."

Elu cringed even more, his expression one of deep sorrow for the daughter he would never see again.

"Thereafter," Námo continued, "the Nauglamír was sent back to Doriath, but Celegorm learned of this and demanded that the Silmaril be returned to him. Naturally, Dior refused and so a time came when the Fëanorionnath fell upon your kingdom and destroyed it."

"Dior....?" Elu asked in rising horror.

Námo shook his head. "He sleeps now in my Halls along with his wife and sons. Elwing alone escaped, as did Celeborn and Galadriel."

Elu could only sit there in shock, speaking as if to himself. "We were to rule for all the ages of Arda she told me... for all the ages...."

"Doriath onen aran," Námo said coldly, "ardh uireb sa ú-onen."

Elu looked up at those words and Námo could see tears running down the king’s cheeks. "It was my fault, wasn’t it? I’m responsible for... for destroying my kingdom... my people."

"No, Elu," Námo said gently. "You are not. Celegorm, Curufin and Caranthir were, though they failed to recover the Silmaril. In fact, they died. You, however are responsible for letting your own arrogance get in the way of your wisdom when it came to Beren. That was pure foolishness on your part, and it eventually cost you your life."

Elu sighed and nodded, recognizing the truth of Námo’s words. "Yes, I was indeed foolish," he admitted.

"Finally," Námo said almost to himself.

Elu raised an eyebrow at that, then nodded again. "So, what happens now, lord?" he asked in a more contrite voice.

Námo stood, looming over the king. "Now, Elu Thingol, thy Judgment is at hand," he intoned gravely as he touched Elu’s brow with a forefinger.

And so it was.

When it was done and Elu Thingol was once again asleep, drifting slowly towards forgetfulness, Námo looked up at Morinehtar, the Maia whom Námo had appointed to guard Elu’s sleep. "Now to let Melyanna know," he said. Morinehtar bowed to his lord even as Námo faded from view.

****

All words and phrases are Sindarin.

‘Anno ammen sír...’:‘Give to us today...’. Taken from Tolkien’s translation of the Lord’s Prayer into Sindarin. See Vinyar Tengwar 44/21-22.

Belain: Valar. The singular is Balan.

Hîr: Lord.

Manweg: Manwë.

Bannoth: Námo/Mandos.

Lechenn: Plural of Lachenn: A Sindarin name for the Noldor. Literally, ‘flame-eyed ones’.

Doriath onen aran, ardh uireb sa ú-onen: ‘Doriath was given a king — an eternal reign it was not given’. This is adapted from a line from a Sumerian poem known as the Ur Lamentation: ‘Ur was granted kingship — an eternal reign it was not granted’.

VOICES: Shibboleths

SUMMARY: Sometimes even the most trivial matter can have major repercussions.

****

Aman, Valian Year 4685:

"I don’t care what thou sayest, Atar," Fëanáro exclaimed to Finwë. "Changing the pronunciation of ammë’s name is an affront to her memory and to me."

"It is not an affront Fëanáro," Indis interjected into the argument between father and son. She was cradling her firstborn, a daugther whom they had named Findis. "It is merely the way it is. Most of the Noldor now use ‘s’ where they once used ‘þ’."

"Thou didst use it when thou didst walk among the flowers of thy brother’s gardens," Fëanáro said, almost accusingly. "Why dost thou not continue to use it even now?"

"But I no longer walk in Ingwë’s gardens, hina, but in thine atar’s." Indis explained in a reasonable tone, giving her husband a fond smile which he reciprocated. "I have joined the people of the Noldor and I will speak as they do. That is not a belittlement of thine ammë, but a symbol of my love for thine atar and his people, including thee."

The eldest son of Finwë ignored that last statement. "All the loremasters find the change deplorable," he said sullenly. "We fear that the damage this merging will do in confusing stems and their derivatives that have been distinct in sound and sense has not yet been sufficiently considered." He turned to Finwë, giving him a pleading look. "Atar, as Noldóran, it is thy duty to instruct the people in the proper way of things, including the proper use of our language. Why dost thou persist in perpetuating this error?"

Finwë gave his son a sympathetic look. "Is it indeed an error, yonya, or merely the natural evolution of our language? I remember well how Quenya was spoken among us at Cuiviénen and I tell thee that the language thou speakest today is not the language spoken among us in the dawning of our existence."

"Yet we have always kept the sounds separate from one another," Fëanáro protested.

"Have we?" Finwë asked. "Even between the three kindreds there are differences in how we say certain words and yet we are still intelligible to one another. What harm is there truly in this one small change?"

To that Fëanáro had no real answer save one: "If that be thy resolve, then I will no longer be called yondo Finwëo but yondo Þerindëo." He purposely stressed the first sound of his ammë’s name. "Thou hast been led astray, Atar. But I and my sons are thine heirs by right and the elder house." He gave Indis and the infant a hateful glare. "Let thou sa-si with thy new wife then if thou canst speak no better." With that he stormed out of the palace, never looking back.

****

Aman, Valian Year 4900:

"The strife between Fëanáro and the other Noldor over this change from ‘þ’ to ‘s’ is getting out of hand," Aulë commented to his fellow Valar as they were taking their ease in one of Námo and Vairë’s gardens in Valmar. It was a terraced garden which overlooked the Ezellohar and the Máhanaxar further on. It was a favorite place for the Valar to congregate and watch the mingling of the Lights without disturbing the Children, who tended to be somewhat intimidated when confronted with more than one of the Valar or their Maiar servants at any one time. At the moment they were enjoying the antics of a group of elflings, all under twenty, playing catch-me around the Trees or rolling down the Mound, their tunics and dresses grass-stained, much to the dismay of their minders.

"Oh?" Manwë asked.

Aulë nodded. "I learned from one of my Maiar that Nelyafinwë and Ñolofinwë got into a fight over how the latter was apparently, and I quote, ‘too stupid to know how to speak correctly’."

"Ah...." the Elder King said in a noncommittal tone. "They’re both a bit old for that sort of thing, aren’t they?"

Aulë shrugged. "At least they had the sense not to do it in my smithy," he said with a gleam in his eyes, "or they would both be spending the next twenty years cleaning out the blast furnaces and the ovens before I ever let them resume working on their projects."

The other Valar smiled, knowing how much Aulë cared for the Noldorin princes and enjoyed teaching them his craft.

"It’s a pity, though," Oromë opined, "for Finwion...."

"You know he refers to himself as Þerindion," Námo interrupted with a sly grin.

Oromë snorted. "Whatever he chooses to call himself, he is correct in his arguments, just not in his delivery. He’s made this almost a personal grudge."

"He has decided that the use of ‘s’ over ‘þ’ is not only a belittlement of the memory of his amillë but a diminishment of himself in the eyes of his people."

Aulë snorted. "I overheard him the other day muttering how it was all a ‘plot’ against him and that we are the ones behind it, fearing his growing powers."

"That’s absurd," Varda said with a grimace. "Of all the arrogant...."

"I noticed that Arafinwë still uses ‘þ’ and has brought up his children in its use," Manwë said, seeking to stem his beloved’s tirade.

"Arafinwë loves the Vanyar for Indis’ sake and the Teleri for Eärwen’s," Námo replied with a nod. "He is moved by Fëanáro neither one way or the other but does as he wishes. I am more concerned about his daughter’s attitude toward her uncle."

"Artanis?" Vairë asked, looking puzzled. "Why are you so concerned with her?"

"She despises Fëanáro," Námo answered.

His spouse gave an elegant shrug. "Many despise Finwë’s eldest son."

"Yet there is something about these two that is different," Námo insisted, his expression musing. "Something happened between them that...." He shook his head, as if clearing it of some dark thought. "At any rate, I deem Artanis uses ‘s’ out of spite to Fëanáro and not because she thinks the use of it is correct. I fear there is actual hatred between uncle and niece and that cannot bode well for the future bliss of Aman."

Manwë nodded. "It is becoming a point of contention for sure. What of the other children?"

"Findaráto will use ‘þ’ while with his family," Aulë offered, "but I notice he slips into using ‘s’ once he is with his friends or speaking with any of the Valar or Maiar."

"I have to admit that when the Noldor first began addressing me as ‘Súlimo’," Manwë said with a smile, "I was taken aback, thinking that perhaps they were suffering some speech impediment."

The others chuckled.

"Their loremasters are correct that such a change can lead to confusion of meaning at times," Aulë said.

"Like the time Nessa asked me where Tulkas was," Oromë said, "and I said, ‘Sacëaryë Manwë’ and she thought I was saying ‘Þacëaryë Manwë." He gave his sister a wink while the others laughed.

Nessa shook her head at the memory. "All I could think was: ‘Pulling him where?’"

That set them laughing even harder and Nessa joined them.

"Still," Námo said once they calmed down, his expression becoming more somber, "I fear the division among the Noldor will only worsen as the pronunciation of words becomes not just a matter of linguistic debate but the dividing line between those who support Fëanáro in his leadership of the Noldor after Finwë and those who mayhap will declare their loyalties rather to Ñolofinwë. Nothing good can come of any of this."

Manwë nodded. "A situation that bears keeping an eye on."

To that they all agreed. For a while after there was companionable silence between them as they continued to enjoy the sight of the elflings at play. Finally, though, Vairë turned to Tulkas with a sly grin. "So just where were you pulling Manwë anyway?" she asked, being careful to use ‘þ’ instead of ‘s’.

"I wasn’t!" Tulkas protested in mock dismay while the others laughed. "I was just looking for him. Honest!"

"A likely story," Námo said with a dismissive sniff. "Now where do you suppose Tulkas was pulling our elder brother, hmmm?" he asked the others, giving them a wink.

They then spent the next several minutes coming up with one absurd possibility after another, much to Tulkas and Manwë’s embarrassment, as the Light of the Trees yet shone upon Aman and the Peace of the Valar continued to hold.

****

All words are Quenya.

Atar: Father.

Ammë: Hypocoristic form of Amillë: Mother.

Hina: Child.

Noldóran: King of the Noldor.

Yonya: My son.

Yondo Finwëo/Þerindëo: Son of Finwë/Serindë (Míriel).

Nelyafinwë: Maedhros.

Ñolofinwë: Fingolfin.

Súlimo: One of Manwë’s titles, originally Þúlimo.

Sacëaryë Manwë: Depending on which verb one is using, this can either mean, "He is seeking (saca-) Manwë" or "He is pulling (þaca-) Manwë".

Author’s Notes:

þ: This letter was known as ‘thorn’ in Old English and is represented in modern English by ‘th’. This was a distinct sound from ð 'eth'which is the th-sound heard in the word ‘with’. According to Tolkien, early in their history after reaching Aman, the Noldor began substituting ‘s’ for ‘þ’ and this led to a division among them that had ramifications beyond the linguistic:

Shibboleth: ‘A peculiarity of pronunciation that distinguishes a class of people or set of persons.’ In this case the use of ‘s’ for ‘þ’ became the way by which the Noldor distinguished between those who did not support Fëanor and those who did.

NOTION: Bibelot

SUMMARY: In one Elf’s library lies a most unlikely treasure, one that will be the catalyst for an equally unlikely friendship.

****

"Here."

Gil-galad reached up and pulled a small object from one of the higher shelves in the royal library of Lindon.

He blew on it, raising a miniature dust cloud that had them all coughing. "A little dusty," the king said with a grin.

"A little," Glorfindel said, waving a hand before his face. "How long has it been sitting there, anyway?"

"Hmm... probably since Lindon was founded," Gil-galad said as he handed the object to Glorfindel, who stared at it as it lay in his hands.

It was a book, but quite small, fitting easily in Glorfindel’s palm. Its leather cover had once been dyed a deep green, but now it was faded to a shade that reminded Glorfindel of old copper. The clasp was gold with two inlaid garnets. A design of leaves in gold leaf that was mostly missing graced the front of the book but there was nothing else to indicate what its contents might be.

"Go ahead. Open it," Elrond said. He was standing beside the golden-haired Noldo, an expectant look upon his face.

Glorfindel glanced at the younger elf — No. Peredhel, he reminded himself — still not sure how to relate to this grandson of Turgon. He had been in Lindon for less than a year and he was no closer to understanding Elrond Eärendilion than when he first stepped upon the quay at Mithlond to find his ‘charge’ waiting for him.

"Do you know what’s in here?" he asked, but Elrond shook his head.

"I didn’t even know it existed," the Peredhel said somewhat wistfully, casting a glance at his king, who stood there looking unrepentant.

"I deemed the time was not right, Elrond," Gil-galad said simply. "I was waiting for the right moment."

"Or the right person," Glorfindel retorted, giving the king a knowing look.

"Perhaps," Gil-galad said diffidently, giving them a shrug.

"Well?" Elrond demanded, not even hiding his impatience. "Are you going to open it or not?"

Glorfindel gave the peredhel an amused look and thrust the book at him. "Why don’t you open it?"

Elrond shook his head, actually taking a step back. "No. Gil-galad gave it to you. It is for you to open it."

There it was again. Glorfindel sighed inwardly, wondering how to get past the barrier that Elrond kept between them. No matter how often Glorfindel tried to befriend the younger ellon, there was always an aloofness in Elrond’s manner that prevented it. He cast a glance at Gil-galad who stood there impassively, neither encouraging nor forbidding anything. He had brought them here for a purpose and his part in it ended the moment he handed the miniature book to Glorfindel.

The newest member of Gil-galad’s court nodded and looked at the clasp. "This is locked. Is there a key?" He looked up at Gil-galad and the king fished a small gold key from an inner pocket of his robe, handing it to Glorfindel with a smile. The ellon gave the son of Orodreth an amused look as he shoved the key into the lock and turned it. With an audible snick the clasp opened. Removing the key and handing it to a surprised Elrond, he gingerly opened the book, well aware of its age and the brittleness of its pages.

He gazed at the neat lettering, unfaded even after all this time. It took him a bit to change mental gears and to be able to read the words written in the style and dialect of Western Sindarin as it had been spoken when Finrod was still king of Nargothrond. The Sindarin of Gondolin had been somewhat different in form though not so different from other dialects of Sindarin. Still, the words were somewhat stilted and old-fashioned seeming and it took a few minutes to decipher them. He marveled at the beautiful illuminations that graced some of the pages, and found himself flipping through the book to admire them. So enthralled was he by their exquisite beauty and attention to detail that he quite forgot that there were others in the room with him.

He went back to the first page to re-read the text and found himself blinking as he realized just what was written there. He glanced up at Gil-galad with a question in his eyes. The king merely nodded, well aware of what the ellon was asking. Returning to the book, Glorfindel continued reading, his eyes wide, his heart rate becoming rapid with shock.

"Glorfindel?" Elrond asked in concern, placing a hand on the ellon’s arm. "What’s wrong, mellon nîn?"

The former Balrog-slayer looked up in surprise. It was the first time Elrond had ever used that endearment with him. He thrust the book at the peredhel. "Read this," he demanded and such was the authority with which he spoke that Elrond automatically took the book and began reading.

For a long moment there was only silence between the three ellyn and then as the import of the words he was reading impinged upon Elrond’s mind he gasped, nearly dropping the book in shock. Glorfindel neatly caught the bibelot, giving the younger ellon a sympathetic smile.

"You truly did not know about this?" he asked gently.

Elrond just shook his head, staring at the book in Glorfindel’s hand.

Glorfindel then turned to Gil-galad. "But you knew what was written in here." It was not a question.

"I knew," Gil-galad said simply, giving Elrond a sympathetic look. "I knew because I was there when Eärendil gave it to Círdan for safekeeping until his sons were old enough to read it."

"But why give it to Glorfindel?" Elrond demanded, his voice harsh with barely contained anguish and confusion. "Why did you keep this from me, from both of us?"

"Both....?" Glorfindel gave Gil-galad an enquiring glance, not sure what Elrond was talking about.

"He means his brother, Elros," Gil-galad replied, never taking his eyes off Elrond, his expression impassive and unapologetic.

Glorfindel cringed mentally. To lose one’s twin to death when one was an elf was bad enough, he imagined, but to lose one’s other half to mortality without the hope of ever seeing one another again... that was nearly unimaginable.

"When Elros chose to be counted among the Edain," the king continued, speaking to Elrond, "I deemed it would be... unfair to you both to show either of you this book. Círdan agreed with me and told me a day would come when another would come into your life, Elrond, and then it would be time to share the contents of the book with you both. I have done so. What you do with it is your affair."

With that, the High King of the Noldor in Ennorath gave them a short bow and left, his robes sweeping behind him. For a moment the two ellyn remained silent and then Glorfindel handed the book back to Elrond. "This belongs to you," he said, "but when you are finished reading it I would like to read it as well. I remember Eärendil as a child, I would like to know him better as a man." He refrained from mentioning his meeting with Eärendil in Aman long before his return to Ennorath.

Elrond gingerly took the book, a diary actually, in which his adar had recorded his thoughts, hopes and dreams as he roved across Belaegar in search of Aman and the Belain to solicit their help against the Enemy and save what could be saved of the Elves and their Edain allies.

He looked up at the golden-haired ellon who frightened him on some level he could not name or understand and made a decision, one that would change the course of history, though he was little aware of it. "Perhaps we can read it together," he suggested hesitantly.

Glorfindel nodded, secretly pleased at this small overture of friendship from Elrond. "I would like that." Then he gestured and together they found a table where they could sit together and pore over the little treasure that had lain hidden on a dusty shelf for over twelve hundred years.

****

All words are Sindarin.

Peredhel: Half-elven.

Mellon nîn: My friend.

Ennorath: Middle-earth.

Belaegar: The Great Ocean between Middle-earth and Valinor.

Belain: Valar.

Note: Bibelot: A small object of curiosity, beauty or rarity; a miniature book, especially one that is finely crafted. Pronounced BEE-buh-low or bee-BLOW.

TALLER: True Lies

SUMMARY: Having returned to Aman, Glorfindel speaks about the most important thing he did while in Middle-earth, but not everyone agrees with him.

WARNING: Humor alert.

****

“So there I was,” Glorfindel said, “all nine of the Nazgûl coming at me and I only had three hobbits and a weary Ranger for help.”

“I thought there were four Halflings?” Arafinwë questioned.

“Frodo wasn’t there,” Glorfindel reminded them. “Asfaloth already had him on the other side of the Bruinen.”

“So what did you do?” Finrod asked his long-time friend.

Glorfindel shrugged. “The only thing I could think of.... I got them all to make firebrands and then I went after the Nine single-handedly and....”

“Wait!” Sador exclaimed. “I know you’re good, gwador, but single-handedly?” He gave Glorfindel a jaundiced look and turned to the two dark-haired twins who were sitting on his right. “Could he have done it single-handedly?”

Elladan shrugged and Elrohir took another swig of ale. “We weren’t there so we don’t know,” the older twin said in an uninterested tone. They’d both heard this story too many times to care.

Glorfindel glared at them all. “Do you mind? Who’s telling this story?”

Finrod smiled. “Go ahead, gwador, we’re listening.”

“Though we may not believe a single word you say,” Sador added with a wicked grin. Glorfindel’s only response was to lean over and pull on Sador’s single warrior braid. “Hey!” the ellon protested, slapping Glorfindel’s hand away.

“Where was I?” Glorfindel asked rhetorically, sitting back with a smirk. “Ah yes... rescuing hobbits and crownless kings.”

Sador turned to Finrod. “He says that like it’s a weekly event with him.”

Finrod nearly spat his ale out trying not to laugh. “With Glorfindel I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Arafinwë and Sador both grinned while Glorfindel continued to glower at them. The twins exchanged raised eyebrows, shrugged almost as one and went back to drinking their ales.

“So your confrontation with these... Na...nazgûl,” — Arafinwë stumbled slightly over the unfamiliar word — “was the most important thing you did in two ages?”

Glorfindel shook his head. “Rescuing the Ringbearer from them,” he corrected. “I knew that Elrond had set a spell upon the Bruinen and if any of the Nine survived being swept away I would have to deal with them.”

“So just what did you do?” Finrod asked again.

Glorfindel smiled. “I brandished one of the torches we made and showed forth my might by invoking a Song of Power and....”

“You never!” Finrod exclaimed in protest.

“Did so.”

“Olórin,” Finrod turned to the last member of their party who had so far remained quiet and unobtrusive. “Did he really use a Song of Power on these Úlairi?”

The Maia, who had donned his istar persona for the occasion, pulled a pipe out of his mouth and looked thoughtful. “Well you have to understand, young Findaráto” — the twins snickered at their great-uncle being referred to as ‘young’ — “I was not there so I can only take Glorfindel’s word for it.”

“Plus Estel’s,” Glorfindel insisted. “The hobbits wouldn’t have understood but I helped raise Estel. He would have recognized a Song of Power when he heard one.”

Elrohir put his mug down. “I don’t recall Estel ever mentioning a Song of Power being sung at the Bruinen, do you, ’Dan?”

His older brother shook his head. “No. I’m pretty sure I would remember something like that.”

“I am not lying!” Glorfindel retorted, beginning to sound angry. He pointed a finger at the twins, his expression stern. “I can still make your lives very miserable if I so choose. Don’t forget it.”

“You’re not captain of Imladris anymore, Glorfi,” Elrohir said with a sneer. “You can’t do anything to us.” Elladan emphasized his brother’s point by sticking his tongue out at the former Balrog-slayer.

Glorfindel turned to his gwedyr and Arafinwë with a scowl. “See what I had to put up with for more than an age with these two?”

The others just chuckled. “You can’t fool us, gwador,” Sador said with a wicked smile. “You were having the time of your life.”

Glorfindel’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “The time of my life?” he sputtered. “Chasing after Nazgûl and idiot kings of Gondor, not to mention putting up with these two plus their adar plus....”

“Hey! Leave Ada out of this!” Elladan protested. “He was a true lord to his people and....”

“Peace,” Arafinwë said, placing a placating hand on the ellon’s arm. “Your adar is a wonderful person and full worthy of respect. I’m afraid our Glorfindel is a bit of a whiner.”

“I never whine!” the ellon nearly screamed, causing heads to turn in the inn where they were sitting.

“Oh? That’s not what I remember from our time in Mandos,” Finrod said drolly.

The twins went suddenly still. No one, but no one, ever mentioned Mandos in Glorfindel’s presence. Terrible things tended to happen to them if they did. The Elrondionnath knew that and wondered what their erstwhile captain would do to their ‘Unca Finda’ as their naneth had jokingly called him when they were first introduced to the great Finrod Felagund.

Glorfindel gave Finrod a scathing look which the twins recognized from their own childhood and they found themselves involuntarily cringing, a fact that did not go unnoticed by their elders. “Well, you remember wrong,” Glorfindel said dismissively. He turned to the Maia. “Tell them, Olórin. I never whine, do I?”

“Only when you don’t get your own way,” the istar replied, puffing on his pipe. Finrod and Sador started laughing and Glorfindel was ready with another retort when Arafinwë spoke.

“So do we all agree with Glorfindel that rescuing the Ringbearer and his companions was the most important thing he did while he was in Ennorath?”

Finrod, Sador and Olórin nodded but Elladan shook his head. “Actually,” he drawled, casting Glorfindel a wicked grin, “I think the most important thing Glorfi did” — Glorfindel did not appear amused — “was to lock Erestor in the garden privy in the middle of a blizzard.”

Elrohir started laughing. “Oh yes. I agree. It meant we got out of doing history that day. Boring stuff... history.”

“How old were you?” Finrod asked, giving them a knowing smile.

Elrohir shrugged. “Thirty... thirty-two?” His twin nodded.

Glorfindel rolled his eyes and muttered something none of them could hear. The others looked on in amusement at the interplay between Glorfindel and the twins. “Did you really lock poor Erestor in the privy?” Sador asked.

Glorfindel gave them a supercilious look. “Is it my fault that a heavy tree branch just happened to fall directly in front of the privy door and land in such a way that he couldn’t open it?”

“It is when you were last seen sitting in the selfsame tree just before it happened,” Elrohir said laughingly.

“How long was he stuck in there?” Finrod asked.

Elladan shrugged. “Five or six hours?” He turned to his brother who nodded in agreement.

“And no one knew?” Sador asked in disbelief.

“It was the old garden privy,” Elrohir explained, “and the closest to Erestor’s office, therefore more convenient, but it was rarely used by anyone except Erestor, especially in the winter. Most people just used one of the indoor privies situated in a back wing of the house.”

“How did the poor ellon get out?” Arafinwë asked, trying not to look too amused. He liked Elrond’s quiet, unassuming administrator and had great respect for him.

“No one knew he was missing until the evening meal,” Elladan answered. “That’s when the alarm went up.”

Elrohir sniggered. “Ada immediately called for a search and ordered Glorfindel to lead it.”

The others gave the golden-haired ellon enquiring looks. Glorfindel smirked. “I made sure they searched everywhere but the garden privy. It was another hour before anyone remembered it and finally rescued him.”

“Oh gwador!” Finrod exclaimed laughingly. “You are much too wicked for your own good.”

“Whyever did you do it?” Arafinwë asked.

Glorfindel gave them a mock scowl. “He made the mistake of saying that crossing the Helcaraxë couldn’t have been as bad as everyone made it out to be, that Elves don’t suffer cold like Mortals do.” He leaned back in his chair, taking a satisfied sip from his mug. “Well, he learned differently that day.”

Finrod turned to his great-nephews, giving them a disbelieving look. “And you seriously think that locking poor Erestor in the privy was the most important thing Glorfindel did while in Ennorath?”

“Oh yes,” Elrohir said, giving them an ingenuous look. “We were excused from lessons for the rest of the week...”

“And the week after,” Elladan added with a smile.

Elrohir nodded. “Erestor took some time to... um... thaw out.”

The others exchanged glances and then started laughing all over again.“Well I vote for ‘locking Erestor in the privy’ as the most important thing you did, gwador,” Sador said with a wink to Finrod once everyone calmed down.

“Oh?” Glorfindel gave him a dark look. “Why?”

“Because I still don’t believe you invoked a Song of Power against those Ringwraiths.”

“But I did,” Glorfindel insisted. “Why won’t anyone believe me?”

“Did Elrond?” Arafinwë asked shrewdly.

When Glorfindel didn’t respond immediately they all nodded knowingly. “Just what I figured,” Sador said with a smirk. “You made that all up.”

“A good story, gwador,” Finrod said, clapping Glorfindel on the back as he stood up. “Well, I must be going. Amarië is waiting for me.”

The others, except Glorfindel, stood as well, exclaiming that they too had other places to be. Soon, only Glorfindel remained, glowering into his mug.

“Why didn’t they believe me?” he asked almost pleadingly, looking up as Námo appeared, seated in the chair that Elrohir had just occupied. None of the other patrons in the inn ever noticed him. “I did use a Song of Power. Did they seriously think a few torches were going to frighten those servants of Sauron away?”

“I’m afraid your reputation proceeded you, best beloved,” Námo said with a gentle smile. “You and I know the truth, as does Ilúvatar. Does it really matter if others do not?”

Glorfindel shrugged. “I guess not,” he said reluctantly, “but it was the most important thing I ever did, wasn’t it?” He looked to the Vala for confirmation.

Námo’s expression was unreadable. “Actually, I have to agree with the others. Locking Erestor in the privy was the most important thing you ever did.”

Glorfindel just stared at him in disbelief. Námo nodded, his mouth slowly spreading into a smile. “Boring stuff... history.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, and then Glorfindel threw back his head and laughed as a still smiling Námo faded from his view.

****

Úlairi: (Quenya) Nazgûl, Ringwraiths.

Gwador: (Sindarin) Sworn brother. The plural would be gwedyr.

Istar: (Quenya) Wizard.

Adar: (Sindarin) Father. The hypocoristic form is Ada.

Naneth: (Sindarin) Mother.

Ennorath: (Sindarin) Middle-earth.

CONTEST: Power Play

SUMMARY: In any contest there is always a loser and a winner. One elf learns that losing is not necessarily a bad thing.

MEFA 2009: Honorable Mention: House of Finwë (Drama)

****

‘There you will be sung

you’ll be sung and chanted....

Until your hands cannot turn

until your feet cannot move.’

—The Kalevala, 3:45-50

They knew they were in trouble almost immediately when slavering wolves came out of the woods and surrounded them, forcing them to go west rather than north. To Tol-in-Gauroth they were brought and Finrod grimaced at the sight of his tower of Minas Tirith, now in the hands of Morgoth’s greatest and most evil lieutenant, Sauron. A miasma of evil veiled the island and none of them were unaffected, though Beren was the worst off.

Edrahil surreptitiously took the Mortal’s arm to keep him from stumbling. “Steady now,” the Elf whispered. Beren could only nod, fighting with all his strength not to vomit and give them all away.

They were brought before Sauron in the great hall of the tower. This had always been a tower of guard but even so it had been of elvish make and so form and function blended in pleasing ways, making it less grim than a typical Mortal tower. Now, however, Finrod cringed inwardly at the decrepitude and ruin of what had once been fair. Tapestries that had graced the walls, lending both color and warmth, hung in tatters, their images faded with a film of filth. Bloodstains were splattered across the flagstones, and the Elves wondered grimly whose dead comrade’s blood they were treading upon.

“Ah...” Sauron made his presence known as he appeared sitting upon a throne of blood-darkened stone. The Elves steeled themselves, fearing what would come. Edrahil kept close to Beren, for Finrod’s captain saw the Mortal as the weak link. If anyone was going to break down before the Dark Maia it would be he. Edrahil’s nine companions kept close to them both while King Finrod stood in the front, confronting Sauron. Each of them prayed that the king’s enchantments hiding their true forms would hold under the terrible scrutiny of Morgoth’s Lieutenant.

The Maia stared at them for a long moment, doubt gnawing at him. His wolves surrounded these strange Orcs who had failed to come to him as was his command to bring him news of all their deeds. “So, what are your names?” he asked them suddenly. His voice was silky smooth,  almost gentle, and its very gentleness sent shivers of dread up their spines. “Who is your captain?”

“Nereb and Dungalef and warriors ten, so we are called, and dark is our den under the mountains,” Finrod replied in a raspy voice and the others looked upon him with wonder at the misdirected accuracy of their king’s words. “Over the waste we march on an errand of need and haste,” Finrod added. “Boldog, our captain, awaits us there.”

Sauron appeared to ponder Finrod’s reply and the Elves held their collective breaths. The Dark Maia shifted his weight upon the throne, resting his left elbow on its arm and holding his chin in his hand. “Boldog, I heard, was lately slain warring on the borders where Thingol and his folk cringe and crawl beneath elm and oak in drear Doriath. I find it rather strange that ye who claim to be hurrying to Boldog’s side are unaware of his death.”    

To that they had no answer. Finrod was at a loss for words that would allay Sauron’s suspicions. The Maia saved him the trouble. His demeanor became suddenly frigid as he straightened in his throne and glared at them with dark intent.

“Come,” he demanded. “Whom do ye serve, Light or Mirk? Who is the maker of mightiest work? Who is the king of earthly kings, the greatest giver of gold and rings? Who is the master of the wide earth?” He stood now, his stance one of great imperiousness as a dark veil seemed to cover him, making him even more menacing than before.

“Repeat your vows, Orcs of Bauglir!: Death to light, to law, to love! Cursed be moon and stars above! May darkness everlasting old that waits outside in surges cold drown Manwë, Varda, and the sun! May all in hatred be begun, and all in evil ended be, in the moaning of the endless Sea!”

The Elves and Beren reeled at the force of Sauron’s will lapping against their own and the very sound of the oath was as a rotted corpse to their fëar — a cloying, sweet blasphemy from which they would have fled had they been able. Sauron resumed his seat, a faint smile on his still fair face. “Ye are not what ye appear, I deem. There is something… elvish about ye, a glamour I cannot pierce.”

“We are but Orcs,” Finrod said abjectly, hoping he sounded convincing, but fearing he wasn’t convincing enough.

Sauron shook his head. “I think not.” Then his demeanor changed again and his eyes flamed with remembered starfire as he gazed upon them. Darkness, black and fell, surrounded them and through the pall of eddying smoke they saw only those eyes, mesmerizing and profound in their depravity. Instinctively, the Elves moved closer, keeping Beren in the center. Finrod never moved as Sauron began to Sing:

            “Veils of enchantment will I pierce,

            open before my eyes what hidden be,

            revealing treachery, uncovering betrayal.

            Let this glamour be undone…”

They all found themselves reeling, even Finrod, who regained his senses sooner than the others. Suddenly he began to counter Sauron’s magic with his own Song of Power:

            “Let thy singing be stayed, all spells to resist.

            Let secrets be kept with strength like a tower.

            Let trust be unbroken, as we battle against power.

            Changing and shifting of shape gives us leave

            to escape to freedom,

            elude snares and broken traps,

            the prison ope’d, the chain snapped.”

Edrahil motioned to his companions. “We must protect the Mortal from the energies that are being unleashed,” he commanded, deciding that the combatants were no longer aware of anything but their contest so it was safe enough to speak thus. The wolves which had surrounded them had slunk away at the first note of their master’s Song, not wishing to be caught up in the maelstrom that was sure to follow.

Beren grimaced. “I am no babe who needs coddling….”

“Nay, mellon nîn,” Edrahil said, “it is no slight against thee. Thy mortal frame was not meant to withstand such power. Thou canst not survive the forces that are being unleashed.”

Beren nodded reluctantly and the Elves gathered even closer, forming a tight circle and shielding him whose coming to Nargothrond had brought them to this plight. They stood in silent awe as they witnessed a battle of Words between Sauron and their lord.

Backwards and forwards their Songs swayed. Sometimes Sauron had the upper hand and Finrod would reel and founder for a moment before gathering himself and fighting with more power, bringing to fore all the might and magic of Eldamar into his words. The room brightened to incandescence as the combatants unleashed their spells. From the deepest dungeon to the highest parapet their Songs were felt. Many an elven prisoner languishing in dungeon drear knew that something momentous was happening and wondered what it might portend.

Softly in the chthonic gloom they heard the birds singing in Nargothrond and the sighing of the sea beyond. And further still unto the West they heard the waves brush the pearl-strewn strands of Eldamar. Many of the Elves held in prison smiled at the images Finrod’s magic evoked.

Then the gloom gathered and the images grew darker, as Sauron sang of night falling on Valinor. Red blood flowed beside the sea where the Noldor slew the Falmari, stealing their swan ships from their lamplit havens. Even as Sauron sang the last note of betrayal and kinslaying, the wind rose to a wail and the wolves howled. There was a rumble of thunder that shook the very foundations of Minas Tirith and a vast roar nearly overwhelmed the Elves and Beren cowering in the hall.

Then, Finrod collapsed.

Suddenly their disguises melted away and they stood revealed in their own fair shapes. The elves cowered around Beren, hiding him, fearing what might happen should the Maia realize that the son of Barahir stood before him. Gazing triumphantly upon them, Sauron’s smile could only be called evil as he ordered his Orc guards to bind the prisoners and throw them into the deepest dungeon. One of the brutish creatures did not even bother to truss the still senseless Finrod, but grabbed his golden locks and hauled him away by his hair, laughing as he went....

****

“I failed them. I wasn’t strong enough,” Finrod said dejectedly as he sat in one of the gardens of the Reborn. His arms were wrapped around his knees as he rocked himself, trying to find an elusive comfort. The memory of his battle with Sauron had come suddenly and without warning and he became hysterical, so much so that his Maiar attendants called upon their lord; Findaráto was too much for them to handle on their own.

Now he and the Lord of Mandos sat in an arbor as evening drew nigh and night blooming jasmine began to open and give off their sweet scent. Somewhere a nightingale sang a melancholy tune and crickets chirped around them. Finrod paid no heed to any of it, his eyes closed, his expression one of defeat.

Námo smiled sympathetically. “Your spells were not all unavailing, you know,” he said gently.

Finrod opened his eyes to give the Vala a hard stare. “What do you mean? I lost.”

The Lord of Mandos nodded. “From a certain perspective you did, and quite spectacularly I might add, but that is not what I meant.”

“I don’t understand,” Finrod said, looking equally puzzled and frustrated by the Vala’s words.

“Sauron never learned the names of any of you, nor did he ever discover your purpose. As much as he pondered and bethought the riddle you and Beren and the others in your party presented him, he could never learn the truth. In your Song did you not sing thus?” Námo closed his eyes and Sang:

            “Let secrets be kept with strength like a tower.

            Let trust be unbroken, as we battle against power....”

Finrod went still and even the nightingale ceased its warbling as the Vala sang. His voice was beautiful beyond endurance and though Námo Sang only that much and no more, Finrod felt as if he had been given an immeasurable gift and he could feel tears coursing down his cheeks unheeded. All he could do was nod.

“You wove into your Song strength and endurance to remain steadfast in resolve against evil and your companions benefitted from it,” Námo said. “To the very end, none betrayed you and Beren. I would think that is something of which to be proud.”

Finrod sighed, still looking downcast. “They must hate me,” he whispered.

“Who?” Námo asked in surprise, not expecting such a statement.

“Edrahil and the others,” Finrod answered.

“They do not hate you, Child, nor did they ever blame you. Beren, perhaps, they blamed but their oaths to you forbade them to betray him, for to do so would be to betray you, and that they would never do.”

Silence stretched between them as the night deepened. A breeze wafted through the arbor, caressing Finrod’s locks. Finally he looked up at the Vala who sat in a patience born of eternity. “I lost,” he reiterated.

Námo nodded. “And won, for in your losing you gained a second chance at Life, you and your ten liegemen. In the end, it matters not that you lost, it only matters that you lost well, that you strove against evil and did not succumb to it.”

Finrod nodded and then sought the comfort of Námo’s embrace. “It was so terrible....” he started to say, but Námo hushed him.

“I know,” he said quietly as he gently rocked him, “but it’s over now and you’re safe.” He softly began singing an ancient lullaby as the heavens above turned indigo. Varda’s stars blossomed forth and Isil rose out of the Sea. Tilion looked down from his great height at the erstwhile King of Nargothrond sleeping in the arms of the Lord of Mandos and smiled.

‘From time to time in the eyeless dark

two eyes would grow, and they would hark

to frightful cries, and then a sound

of rending, a slavering on the ground,

and blood flowing they would smell.

But none would yield, and none would tell.’

—Lay of Leithian, 7: 2232-37

****

Bauglir: (Sindarin) A name for Morgoth meaning ‘the Constrainer’.

Falmari: (Quenya) ‘Wave-folk’; a name of the Teleri.

Note: Much of this, particularly the oath Sauron demands of Finrod and his companions, is adapted from The Lay of Leithian, Canto VII, ll. 2080-2237, found in The Lays of Beleriand, HoME vol. III.

DISORDER: Chaos Theory

SUMMARY: A day in the life of the Lord of Mandos.

WARNING: Not as serious as you might think.

****

Vairë paused in her weaving and looked up to see her beloved standing at the doorway of her workshop, looking somewhat frazzled.

"Is there something wrong, my love?" she asked.

It was rare for the Lord of Mandos to look anything but cool, confident, and uncrinkled. Today, however, appeared to be one of those rare days. Námo’s blue-black hair was mussed, his front braids lopsided. His midnight blue velvet tunic looked as if he’d slept in it for the last two yéni, and his expression could only be called ‘haunted’.

He was also dripping wet.

"Why do you ask?" he asked diffidently, vainly trying to put his braids in some order and to smooth out his tunic.

Vairë glanced at the puddle forming around her spouse’s feet and looked up with a smile. "Oh, I just wondered. You rarely visit me in my workshop this time of day. I thought perhaps...."

Námo sighed and came further into the room, plopping down on a bench near the door. His garb made a squelching noise as he did so and he looked slightly embarrassed at the sound. Vairë gave him a shrewd look.

"Mortal or Elven?"

"Wh-what?" Námo tried to focus on his spouse, unsure of her meaning.

"Is it one of the Mortals or is it one of the Firstborn giving you grief?" she clarified.

"Oh... um... Elves," he answered.

"Anyone in particular?" Vairë asked with not a little exasperation at Námo’s unhelpful replies.

Námo blushed. "Sorry. I guess I’m a bit... flustered."

Vairë nodded and got up to sit next to her husband, handing him a towel. "Go on," she said.

"Well... everything was going well," Námo began as he wiped his face. "The Mortals weren’t any more trouble than usual and several were actually ready to leave the Circles of Arda. Tindomerel was handling the logistics of getting them into the boats, so I left her to it and went to the Mardi Winiron to see how the little ones were doing before moving onto the Mardi Envinyantiëo." He paused, grimacing. "That’s when things went... not as planned."

Vairë refrained from saying anything while Námo stared glumly at the wall opposite where they were sitting. It was adorned with one of Vairë’s tapestries showing a scene from the time of the Darkening: the creation of Isil. It was one of his favorites and he never tired of looking at it. Now, however, he barely saw it, so wrapped up in the memory of the last few hours.

"I knew the minute I walked into the main hall that there was trouble," he finally said.

"How did you know?" Vairë asked.

The Lord of Mandos turned and gave her a sour smile. "Maranwë was perched on the top of the fountain looking decidedly unhappy."

Vairë felt her eyebrows leave her forehead in surprise. "Why?"

"My question exactly...."

****

The Lord of Mandos stopped in surprise when he saw his Chief Maia clinging rather precariously atop the statue that graced the fountain in this particular hall. It was a statue of Námo with a butterfly in his outstretched hand. Maranwë was sitting on the statue’s head. Námo casually walked up to the fountain and stared up with interest at the Maia, who was clearly embarrassed. "Let me guess: Glorfindel? Findaráto? Or no, the both of them."

Maranwë could only nod miserably.

"Anything I need to know before I go after them?" he said as he gestured for the Maia to come down.

"Only that they are just becoming more and more impossible, lord," Maranwë said, as he started to climb down from his perch. "Calimo and Vanimeldë have both threatened to take oath with one of the other Valar."

"Indeed? Anyone in particular or just whomever they happen upon first?" Námo looked more amused than offended. It seemed that ever since Glorfindel had wakened and joined the other fëar waiting to be Reborn at least one of his Maiar was always threatening to leave his service. Once Findaráto had befriended the former Balrog-slayer the two Noldor had been wreaking havoc right and left. "I will refrain from asking why you were up there," Námo said, glancing briefly at the statue, "but I don’t want to see it happening again."

"Yes, lord," Maranwë said humbly, giving Námo a deep bow.

"Which direction were they headed?"

The Maia pointed towards an arch to his right and Námo nodded. "Carry on with your duties," he ordered as he traversed the space and passed through the arch, never noticing the slight grin on Maranwë’s face.

****

Námo looked around at the hall through which he was traversing, frowning suspiciously. It was quiet... too quiet. There should have been Elven fëar roaming the corridors, singing or playing or just quietly talking, but there was no one, not even any of his Maiar.

"Where is everyone?" he asked rhetorically as he rounded a corner to find himself facing a stampede of seemingly frightened Elves. The fact that they were incorporeal did not deter them from running over the Lord of Mandos in their fright. Námo suddenly found himself on his back staring up at the ceiling and it took him several seconds before he noticed that two of his People were standing over him with looks of concern on their faces.

"Forgive us, lord," Morinehtar said as he offered Námo a hand. "We did not know you were there."

"What is going on?" Námo demanded as he got to his feet. "Why were those Children running as if Melkor’s minions were after them?"

"Er... well," stuttered Elemmartamirë, stealing glances at her fellow Maia, "the truth is, lord, that... um... well...."

"Elemmartamirë," Námo said, not sure if he should be alarmed or annoyed and settling on just being faintly amused, "in all the ages in which you have been in my service I have never seen you at a loss for words. Do not disappoint me now."

The Maia blushed. "Forgive me, lord, it’s just that we knew not what else to do to stop them from following Findaráto and Glorfindel into the... um... lower levels except to... er... pull a Wrath-of-Mandos on them."

Now Námo was seriously alarmed. "Why would they... no... forget that. What are Findaráto and Glorfindel doing in the lower levels and how did they even know where to find them?"

"That we do not know, lord," Morinehtar said. "We didn’t even know they were missing until we noticed several of the other Elves heading in this direction. When we realized where they were going, we... well... we did the first thing we could think of to stop them."

"We just didn’t think they would actually run you over, lord," Elemmartamirë offered apologetically, looking very contrite.

Námo sighed. He had not been sanguine about releasing Glorfindel from healing sleep as early as he was and having to undergo Judgment. The Lord of Mandos would have been happy if Glorfindel and Findaráto had never met within these Halls. Separately, they were both forces to be reckoned with. Together, they were a menace to civilization as the Amaneldi knew it, not to mention a threat to the sanity of the Valar, especially this particular Vala.

"Very well," he said. "Go after the Children and make sure they are well. If I have to put half of them into healing sleep over this, you two will be spending the next three ages ushering the Mortals into the boats taking them from the Circles of Arda."

Both Maiar cringed as they gave their lord their obeisance. It had to be the most boring task any of them could think of and they always dreaded it when their duty rotation brought them to that particular chore.

Satisfied that he’d gotten his point across, Námo nodded and headed down the hallway after two errant Elven fëar. Had he bothered to look back he would have been astounded to see his two Maiar surrounded by the very Elves who had run him over.

"Were we convincing enough, Morinehtar?" asked one of the Elves nervously.

The Maia smiled warmly at them. "You were all splendid. Thank you," he said. "Now off you go and play."

The Elves needed no other encouragement and soon they were fast in a game of catch-me, even getting the two Maiar involved in the game.

****

Námo strode down one corridor after another, taking several stairs down into the lower levels where few went. These levels were reserved for those Elves who had refused Judgment outright even though they had heeded Námo’s summons. Fëanáro and most of his sons were unhappily ensconced here as were a few others. Somewhat further down in the lowest depths was the cell where Melkor had been held. None of the fëar who were destined to be Reborn should have been able to find their way here. Even most of Námo’s Maiar never ventured into the chthonic depths of Mandos where it truly lived up to its name.

Somehow Findaráto and Glorfindel had managed to find the door that led into the nether regions. Námo was beginning to suspect that they might have had help but could not imagine any of his People giving it. He came to a central hall where three other passages met and paused to get his bearings. Further down on his right were the cells reserved for Eöl and Maeglin and a few others who had proven traitorous to their lords. He doubted his two wanderers would have gone down there. It was dark and unwelcoming, not to mention the fact that had they gone that way they would have been caught by the grim Maiar guarding the cells and delivered into Námo’s hands by now. The passage to his left was unfinished and dead-ended after only a few hundred feet. He vaguely recalled thinking of expanding Mandos in that direction once upon a time, but had decided against it, opting to expand elsewhere. That left the passage he was facing and that led straight for...

"Oh for the love of Atar!" he muttered as he hurried down the corridor into a large round hall, its further walls and the ceiling lost in gloom. In the center was a dais made of obsidian upon which sat a black granite throne with his emblem of the Sun-in-Eclipse carved on its back. It was, in fact, the place from which he often sat in judgment of the more recalcitrant of the Elves who came to him. Its intimidation factor was quite…immediate. Few Elves stood before this particular throne without a great degree of trepidation.

Such was not the case with the two Elves who were climbing all over the throne in obvious curiosity.

"I don’t remember this place, do you?" Glorfindel was asking Findaráto even as he was climbing the back of the throne to sit on top of it.

Findaráto shook his head. He was sitting on the throne seat, which was actually not built to elvish measurements but to Valarin ones, so his feet didn’t quite reach the floor. He looked, in fact, rather ridiculous to Námo’s eyes. "It reminds me of something, but I can’t quite put my finger on it," the former king of Nargothrond replied.

"Well, it’s rather large," Glorfindel commented. "Do you think Lord Námo sits here whenever he wants to pretend he’s Lord Manwë?"

Findaráto nearly fell out of the throne in laughter and Glorfindel giggled. Námo decided he’d heard enough and made his presence known.

"Children," he said in sepulchral tones. "You should not be here."

Glorfindel gave a squeak of fright and fell off his perch, disappearing from view. Findaráto scrambled out of the seat and ran behind the throne. Námo raised an eyebrow in amusement, not sure if the elf was attempting to hide or had gone to help his friend. When, after a few seconds, neither ellon showed himself he gathered it was the latter.

"Come out, both of you," he commanded and when there was still no sign of them, he sighed and stepped behind the throne, stopping in surprise when he realized that they weren’t cowering in fright as he had expected. In fact, they weren’t there at all! Looking about, he realized they’d snuck away, ingeniously keeping the throne between him and them as they made their escape down another corridor. Being incorporeal, they had made no sound when they moved.

"If they weren’t already dead," Námo muttered, beginning to get annoyed, "I would kill them all over again… slowly."

The odd thing about the throne room was that no matter which corridor one took out of it, one always ended up back in the main hall on this level. It took no time at all for Námo to realize that the two Elves had not retraced their steps back to the Halls of Renewal but had gone down the other corridor where grim-faced Maiar guarded certain cells. Námo almost smiled at the thought of the two ellyn being intimidated by these particular Maiar.

His smile fled when he finally found them. The Maiar who guarded this hall were specially chosen for their lack of humor and dedication to their work. They were not easily swayed by their charges and they exhibited a grim sort of satisfaction in keeping the Elves cowed. Neither Glorfindel nor Findaráto appeared at all cowed. Findaráto in fact, was chatting up to Aicatirno as if they were old friends, while Glorfindel was jumping up and down in front of some of the other Maiar trying to see into the cells, which was rather hard to do with a sword-bearing Maia blocking his way, not to mention there were no windows in the cell doors.

"So why do you have to guard them?" Findaráto was asking. "Anyone I know?"

"Or me?" Glorfindel piped in, still trying to see past the imposing figure of Hurinórënámo who stood there as if made of the very stone of which Mandos was built. Aicatirno refused to answer Findaráto’s queries, and indeed, the ellon was not giving him any chance to answer anyway, as one curious question followed immediately upon another:

"Do you get tired standing about all day doing nothing? Is that a real sword or just pretend? Can I look at it? How long do you have to stand here? Are you being punished, too? Lord Námo punished me once by making me stay in my sleeping chamber for just forever. I was soooo bored! Aren’t you bored? Why…."

"Children, come to me now," Námo said in tones that actually made the grim-faced Maiar pale slightly.

The two elves stopped and stared at the Lord of Mandos blocking their escape, for this hall also came to a dead-end a few cells further on. They cringed at the sight of him but obeyed readily enough, knowing they had been truly caught. Námo gave the Maiar a considering look and then nodded. The Maiar each gave their lord a single nod in return. Námo then turned around and ushered the two Elves away.

Findaráto turned and gave the still silent Maiar a wave. "Namarië," he said softly.

Glorfindel also looked back with a smile.

Had Námo bothered to look back himself he might have just caught the hint of a smile on each of the Maiar’s faces and have seen Hurinórënámo waggle his fingers at them in farewell. However, he was more intent on returning these two to their proper hall. They made it as far as the main hall where Námo had found Maranwë when Glorfindel balked.

"I want to climb the statue like Maranwë did," he exclaimed and slipped neatly out of the Vala’s reach and started to do just that.

"Oh no you don’t," Námo exclaimed as he grabbed Glorfindel.

The ellon gave a squawk of anger. "You’re a… a ninny!" he proclaimed at the top of his voice as he struggled in Námo’s hold.

Námo gave him a shake. "Silence!" he commanded, but just then Findaráto started beating on him while Glorfindel continued to thrash about.

"Don’t hurt Glorfi!" he screamed. "Don’t hurt my gwador!"

Between Glorfindel thrashing about and Findaráto beating on him somehow the Lord of Mandos lost his balance and with a mighty splash found himself sitting in the fountain. Glorfindel managed at the last moment to slip out of his hold and Findaráto just stood there staring at him in shock. Then, before he could stop them, the two ellyn gave whoops of laughter and ran off again, thankfully back towards their own hall….

****

Vairë gave her spouse a sympathetic smile. "My poor beloved. No wonder you look so…"

"Wet?" Námo offered in a sarcastic tone.

"I was going to say ‘so upset’," Vairë corrected. "I think you’ve been working too hard lately. Perhaps you should take some time off. I’m sure your Maiar can handle things for a time."

"I’d like to know how those two managed to find their way to the lower levels," Námo said, ignoring his wife’s suggestion.

When Vairë remained silent, he gave her a searching look. "You didn’t," he exclaimed, frowning.

Vairë just smiled, refusing to say anything.

"Why?" he asked.

Vairë shrugged. "Why do you think?" she countered.

Námo stopped his retort and closed his mouth. Why, indeed? It wasn’t true what she had said about him working too hard, he’d just been rather busy lately. Still… while he had been chasing down the two elves he’d not been thinking of other things. It had almost been fun seeing what mischief those two Children were getting themselves into. He wondered if his Maiar were in on it and decided that perhaps they were. Visions of punishment details began to formulate in his head, but then he shook it and sighed. "Those two are still a menace," he said.

"To Aman?" Vairë asked in all innocence.

Námo gave her a sour look. "To me."

His wife gave a silvery laugh and stood up. "Go dry off, dear," she said as she went back to her loom and began weaving again. "Remember, there’s always tomorrow."

The Lord of Mandos stood. "That’s what I’m afraid of," he muttered as he stalked out of the workshop trying to make a dignified exit in spite of the sloshing sounds he made while walking.

The Weaver of Arda paused in her work, giving her beloved a fond look as Námo left. Phase one of her plan to get her spouse to lighten up a bit and relax more had been partly successful. Now she needed to work on phase two. As she returned to her weaving she began to plot how best to use the two Elves who were presently the bane of Námo’s existence to good effect....

****

All words are Quenya.

Mardi Winiron: Halls of Children.

Mardi Envinyantiëo: Halls of Healing.

Amaneldi: Elves of Aman, specifically those who never rebelled against the Valar.

Fëar: Plural of Fëa: "Spirit, soul".

Námo’s Maiar:

Aicatirno: "Fell Watcher".

Calimo: "Shining One".

Elemmartamirë: "Star-fated Jewel".

Hurinórënámo: "Hidden Heart of the Judge".

Maranwë: "Destiny", Námo’s Chief Maia.

Morinehtar: "Darkness Slayer".

Tindomerel: "Daughter of Twilight", a kenning for Nightingale.

Vanimeldë: "Beautiful Dear One".

SUNRISE: Arin Etarácië

SUMMARY: At the first rising of Anar, four Elves ponder its significance.

****

He had thought the silver globe that rose just as they reached the shores of Endórë had been spectacular as it cast its soft glow upon them, reminding them sorrowfully of the argent light of Telperion. Seven times the strange orb rose and set and Ñolofinwë pondered its significance even as he urged his people further eastward. Then just as Isil, as the Noldor were calling it, was setting in the east on the seventh day, a brighter, greater light rose in the west that left many cowering, fearing the wrath of the Valar. Ñolofinwë did not flinch, but gazed steadily into the new light, espying a Maia of fire in its midst.

So, he thought sardonically, the Valar were not as impotent as Fëanáro would have us believe. He turned to see his sons, Findacáno and Turucáno, together with their cousin Findaráto, approaching. Findacáno, the eldest of the three, was the first to speak.

"What can this mean, Atar?" he demanded. "Have the Valar decided only now to aid us with these lights, for surely Moringotto will cower in his fastness and dare not show himself?"

Ñolofinwë shook his head. "The Valar may have set these lights in the sky for our benefit," he said, "but I doubt me this is so. Nay, something more is afoot here if we can but see."

"I care not," Turucáno said, shaking his dark hair. "I wearied of the stars and welcome this new light. Look ye! Green! And there, yellow and blue and red. How I missed these." He sighed and bent down to pick one of the flowers that had bloomed suddenly under their feet as Arien conveyed the last fruit of Laurelin into the heavens, twirling it between his fingers, a somewhat silly smile on his face.

Ñolofinwë glanced at his nephew, now the leader of his brother Arafinwë’s people. Findaráto had not shown any emotion at the rising of Isil, and he was exhibiting even less emotion now. The death of Elenwë had hit him hard, harder than any had expected. Even Artanis had been unable to bring him out of his depression. Which reminded him....

"Where is Artanis?" he asked. "I would think she would have an opinion about all this."

Turucáno sighed. "She is helping Arelda with Itarildë, keeping her occupied. My daughter hath been somewhat troublesome since...." He shrugged, unwilling or unable to continue.

Ñolofinwë nodded, sorrow etched on his fair face at the pain his youngest child was experiencing, but he had no comfort to give him. All of them had suffered privation and loss on a scale unimaginable when they had set out from Tirion some four years before. Instead, he looked to Findaráto. "What are thy thoughts, Nephew? What thinkest thou of these great lights with which we have been blessed?"

Findaráto’s expression was unreadable, his voice neutral. "What think I?" He shook his head. "I think they have come too late for us, if they were ever meant for us to begin with, which I doubt."

"For whom have they been created, then?" Findacáno asked, giving his cousin a curious look.

Findaráto shrugged, not really caring. "Perhaps for these Apanónar Fëanáro mentioned."

The cousins grimaced but Ñolofinwë just nodded. "Perhaps thou’rt correct, Nephew. Yet, shall we not also benefit from them? As Findecáno hath said, it is likely that Moringotto will cower away in his fastness, giving us the advantage."

"Yea, but for how long?" Findaráto countered. "Moringotto walked under the Two Trees and never flinched from their Lights. Why would he do so now?"

"Thinkest thou these great lights that now shine upon us were born of the Two Trees?" Turucáno asked skeptically. "They are forever dead. The Valar said as much. We all were witnesses to that."

"From where else could they have come?" Findaráto asked with some heat, the first real emotion he had exhibited for some time. "Doth not Isil remind thee of Telperion with his silvery glow that casts all in purple shadows? And now look thou upon this fair land." He swept a hand around. "Doth it not have the seeming of Aman when Laurelin was in full bloom?"

"Findaráto is correct," Ñolofinwë said before either of his sons could offer a retort. "Let us not quibble over such details, but rather let us decide what the coming of this greater light portends for us."

They pondered Ñolofinwë’s words in silence. Findecáno gazed towards the mountains further to the east of their encampment. A large lake lay before them, and there were rumors that Fëanáro’s sons were settled somewhere on its northern shore. Turucáno kept his gaze on the yellow flower still in his hand, a wistful look on his face, and his atar suspected that he was thinking of Elenwë who had always loved to wear yellow flowers in her hair. Findaráto was staring back the way they had come and Ñolofinwë was at a loss as to what his nephew might be thinking.

It was Findaráto, though, who finally spoke, still gazing westward. "A people who walked in darkness have seen a great light... two, in fact. Whether they are a sign of the Valar’s mercy and forgiveness or they serve another purpose, we cannot deny that they are there and not to take advantage of them is folly." He turned to look at his uncle, his eyes smoldering with dark emotions. "Let us hence to the very gates of Angamando and give Moringotto our challenge."

Ñolofinwë looked to his sons and they both nodded in approval. Then he turned back to Findaráto. "As thou hast said, verily let us do."

Then he ordered his blue and silver banners unfurled and horns blown as the great host of the Noldor under him marched south of the lake and passed unopposed through the mountains unto the very gates of Angamando. And as Ñolofinwë smote upon the iron doors, standing next to him was his nephew, Findaráto, and the expression on his fair face under the watchful gaze of bright Anar was terrible to see.

****

All words are Quenya:

Arin Etarácië: ‘Morning Hath Broken’ [etarácië, literally, ‘has broken forth (from the darkness)’].

Apanónar: Afterborn, a name for Men.

Arelda: Aredhel, the sister of Fingon and Turgon, wife of Eöl and mother of Maeglin.

Itarildë: Idril.

Moringotto: Morgoth.

Note: According to Tolkien’s timelines for the Silmarillion, the Noldor did not set out after Melkor immediately but took a Valian year (9.58 solar years) after the destruction of the Two Trees to gather their forces. The Time of Darkness lasted a total of five Valian years (47.9 solar years), thus the Elves under Ñolofinwë’s leadership spent most of the next four Valian years (approximately 38 solar years) crossing the Helcaraxë to Middle-earth. [See, for instance, The Lost Road, HoME V; in particular ‘The Later Annals of Valinor’].

POWER: Divine Restraint

SUMMARY: When some of the Ainur voice their concerns for their brethren in Eä, Atar explains why he will not interfere with what is happening.

****

‘Of all His Designs, the issue must be for His children’s joy.’

— J. R. R. Tolkien

"Aira, aira, aira, Heru Eru Iluvala...."

Some of the Ayanumuz were singing a paean of praise to their Creator when two others appeared before the throne clearly agitated.

Atar raised a hand to quiet the singing and gestured for Ezelullumirub and his twin sister in Atar’s Thought, Ezelurushebeth, to approach Him. "What troubles ye, Children?" He asked.

"Our brethren in Eä are in sore straits, Atar," Ezelullimirub exclaimed. "Mbelekoro is nigh destroying all that they have striven to create."

"They need help, Atar," his sister added, her usual spring green aura going dark with anxiety for her friends struggling against their fallen brother.

"And what do you think I should do?" Atar asked, giving them both an embrace to comfort them in their agitation.

The two looked at each other, unsure how to answer. Other Ayanumuz were beginning to gather around the throne, drawn by the obvious turmoil that they could sense from the twins, wondering what had upset them so. Atar gestured for them all to come closer.

Ezelurushebeth finally answered. "Thou shouldst stop Mbelekoro, Atar. He doth ruin everything."

"Not everything, Child," Atar said, "only that which I allow him to."

One of the others then asked a question. "But why shouldst thou permit him to do any harm to thy creation, Atar?" Ullukeluth asked. He was one of the oldest of the Ayanumuz who elected to remain in the Timeless Halls.

Atar smiled, though it seemed rather sad. "Hast thou forgotten all I have taught thee, Ullukeluth, of My Purposes? What is the first and greatest gift I gave all of ye?"

"Thy love," Ullukeluth answered unhesitatingly.

"Nay, Child," Atar said, "My love is but a product of the gift given, but it is not the gift itself." He turned to the others. "Do ye know, My Children, what that gift is?"

No one ventured an opinion at first, many of their aurae darkening in confusion. Finally, Phanaínithil whispered somewhat uncertainly, "Thou didst give us the ability to love Thee?"

Atar’s smile was more brilliant and He nodded. "Thou’rt closer to the answer, Phanaínithil, but not quite there."

There were whispered consultations among some of the Ayanumuz but none was able to offer an answer to Atar’s question. Several of them appeared dispirited, their aurae dimming. Atar smiled even more and sent them all an embrace of Love to comfort them.

"Fear not, My Children," He said. "I am not angry with ye, nor dismayed at your unknowing. Perhaps if we look at it from a different angle ye will understand."

At that Atar stood and gestured for them all to follow Him to the very borders of the Timeless Halls until they were staring into the Void and watching the drama of Eä unfold before them. All could see their brethren battling against Mbelekoro and those who had followed him into rebellion against their Creator. They watched in awe and dismay as Mbelekoro’s People overturned the great Lamps that had been created, plunging the world of the coming Children into darkness once more. They saw the planet being reduced almost to molten slag and their brethren struggling to save what they could.

"It’s not fair, Atar!" Ulluinithil cried. "It was so beautiful and now it’s all gone. Why didst thou allow Mbelekoro to destroy everything?"

Many of the others voiced similar complaints. Atar gave them another smile.

"Fairness hath nothing to do with it, My little Lily," He said. "I gave unto Mbelekoro the same gift I gave all of ye and your brethren who fight so valiantly in My Name. Can ye tell me now what that gift is?"

They all stared at the drama unfolding before them. They saw Tulukhastaz and Aromez attempting to capture Mbelekoro while Manawenuz, Azulez and Ulluboz directed the other Ayanumuz to preserve what could be preserved. The Máyar, they could see, were busy battling with Mbelekoro’s People. When some of the enemy were hurled away by several Máyar working together, Tulukurush actually cheered. Then his orange-red aura shaded towards green with embarrassment. Several of his brethren laughed and Atar embraced him, kissing him lovingly so that his aura returned to its proper hue.

"It’s still not fair, Atar," Phanaínithil said with a sigh. "Mbelekoro is getting away. Why doth he hate Thee so much? Why doth he hate Thy creation that he would see it utterly destroyed?"

"The answer to those questions is the answer to My question to ye," Atar replied. "What gift doth Mbelekoro possess that all of ye have, the very gift that doth not permit Me to intervene, though ye would all like Me to?"

For a moment there was silence in the Timeless Halls, then Ullukeluth’s bluish-green aura brightened considerably. "Thy gift to us is the... the ability to refuse Thy gift."

Atar’s smile deepened. "Yes, Child. My gift to all of ye is the free will not only to love Me but to refuse to do so, to reject Me. In giving ye that gift I bound Myself in such a way that I cannot and will not interfere in the free will decisions of any of My Children. I wished not for puppets with which to amuse Myself, but free creatures whom I could love and who could return that love... or not."

"W-wouldst Thou not like to stop Mbelekoro, though, Atar?" Ezelullumirub asked hesitantly.

"Nay, Child," came Atar’s surprising answer. "For otherwise the ultimate issue of all My Designs will not come about."

"What is that, Atar?" Ezelurushebeth asked and her confusion was mirrored by the others.

"Your joy," Atar said. "All that happens, even that which ye account as evil, ultimately will be for the joy of all My children, for in the end, nothing can be done unless I will it so. Mbelekoro thinketh he is frustrating My Designs in what he doth but in truth he is merely Mine instrument in bringing all My Designs to fruition in the fullness of Time."

"It sounds... hard," Phanaínithil said with a frown. "Dost Thou not regret giving Mbelekoro Thy gift, Atar, and never being able to stop the evil he commits?"

Atar gave her a gentle smile. "Nay, Child, I do not, for one can never regret a gift given in love. What the recipient doth with that gift is for them to decide. I gave all of ye this gift to freely act for good or for evil, knowing that some of ye would misuse the gift or reject it outright."

"It doesn’t seem right, though, that Thou canst not do anything to stop Mbelekoro," Tulukurush said sadly.

Atar hugged him. "I did not say that I can not do anything, Child, I said I will not interfere with My children’s free will choices. There is a difference."

Many of the Ayanumuz gave him puzzled looks. "What hast thou done then, Atar?" Ezelulumirub asked.

"I sent Tulukhastaz to help your brethren," Atar replied.

Phanaínithil gave him a surprised look. "I thought thou didst get rid of him so we could have some peace and quiet for a change."

Atar’s laughter rang through the Timeless Halls, impinging upon the Walls of Eä. "Nay, Little One. That I most certainly did not. Tulukhastaz is my secret weapon. Mbelekoro fears him and with good reason. I waited until the time was meet before sending him to your brethren."

"Secret weapon?" Phanaínithil asked, looking doubtful. "Tulukhastaz was your secret weapon?"

Atar nodded, smiling at the confused expressions among the Ayanumuz. Then Phanaínithil’s aura brightened and she turned to Atar with a sly smile. "Perhaps Thou shouldst have sent me instead, Atar. Mbelekoro never did like my poetry."

Atar wasn’t the only one to laugh at that. He took Phanaínithil into His embrace and kissed her gently. "If ever I have need of another secret weapon, Daughter," He whispered to her, "thou shalt be the first one I think of."

"Look!" Tulukurush exclaimed. "Our brethren have completely routed Mbelekoro’s People. They’re fleeing!"

A great cheer rang throughout the Timeless Halls and then the Ayanumuz spontaneously began singing: ‘Aira, aira, aira, Heru Eru Iluvala, ilyë Carmelyar laituvar Esselya, Arda ar Lúmelóra Mardissë...’ while Atar smiled benignly upon them all.

And in the depths of Eä a war came to an end and peace reigned for a time in the Little Kingdom.

****

Linguistic Note: Obviously the Ainur would not have spoken Quenya but their own language, which we know as Valarin. Quenya is the closest one can get to it.

Aira, aira, aira, Heru Eru Iluvala...: ‘Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty...’

...ilyë Carmelya laituvar Esselya, Arda ar Lúmelóra Mardissë...: ‘... all Thy Works shall praise Thy Name, in Arda and in the Timeless Halls...’

Máyar: Older form of Maiar.

Ayanumuz (Ainur) of the Timeless Halls:

Ezelullumirub: "Green Water Wine", twin brother to Ezelurushebeth in the Thought of Ilúvatar.

Ezelurushebeth: "Green Fire Air", twin sister to Ezelullumirub in the Thought of Ilúvatar.

Phanaínithil: "Bright Lily".

Tulukurush: "Golden Fire".

Ulluinithil: "Water Lily".

Ullukeluth: "Water Mirror", known for his exquisite poetry.

Ayanumuz of Eä:

Aromez: Oromë.

Azulez: Aulë.

Manawenuz: Manwë.

Mbelekoro: Melkor. This is the attested oldest Quenya form of the name and most likely derived from Valarin. As we don’t have an attested Valarin form of the name I use this form here rather than the later ‘Melkor’ in keeping with the fact that everyone in this story is speaking the original language of the Timeless Halls.

Tulukhastaz: Tulkas.

Ulluboz: Ulmo.

REBELLION: Ránë Nésë

SUMMARY: A son’s rebellion may well cost him his life... and a kingdom.

****

Armenelos, Númenor, S.A. 824:

"I forbid it," Tar-Meneldur declared to his son, Anardil, known to all and sundry as Aldarion. "You will not set sail again so soon after returning from your last voyage. It is time you thought of settling down and taking a wife."

"Nay, I will not seek a wife at this time, Atarinya," Aldarion stated firmly. "Other things of more urgency I have yet to do, for my mind is bent on them. ‘Cold is the life of a mariner’s wife’ they say. The mariner who is single of purpose and is not tied to the shore goes further and learns better how to deal with the sea."

"You do not ‘deal with the sea’, Aldarion!" Meneldur exclaimed in exasperation. "Do you forget that the Atani dwell here under the grace of the Lords of the West, that Uinen is kind to us, and Ossë is restrained? Our ships are guarded, and other hands guide them than ours. So be not overproud, or the grace may wane. Nor should you presume that it will extend to those who risk themselves without need upon the rocks of strange shores or in the lands of men of darkness."

"Life on land is irksome to me," Aldarion stated, scowling. "Why do you think I built Eämbar, so I might not be subject to any will but my own, where I am the Great Captain whom my men love?"

"You are the King’s Heir, yonya," Meneldur reminded him coldly. "As such, you are subject to my will."

"We will see," Aldarion said, then gave his king and father a stiff bow and strode out of the room, his face set.

****

"He did what?" Meneldur shouted.

"He has left Rómenna, Majesty," Beregar, his chamberlain, stated, "with the evening tide and with seven ships. It is said that a cloaked woman came to the quays before they set sail and offered him the Green Bough of Return. None know who she was or whence she came."

"He has defied me both as father and king," Meneldur stated, his fury rising. "Therefore I rescind his authority as Lord of the Ships and Havens of Númenor. The Guildhouse of the Venturers on Eämbar is to be shut down, effective immediately. The shipyards of Ròmenna are to be closed and the felling of trees for shipbuilding is to cease. My son, when he returns, if he returns, will find that he will get no warm welcome in Númenor unless he ceases this rebellion against mine authority and acts the King’s Heir in truth."

Almarian, the Queen, stood silently by, distraught by her husband’s words, for she dearly loved her wayward son. It was she who had seen that the Green Bough of Return, without which it was considered ill luck to sail, be brought to the Palarran. She silently prayed to the Valar that they protect her son both from the dangers of the sea voyage and the wrath of the king. Outwardly, though, she merely said, "You shall do as you think best, my husband."

At Meneldur’s smirk of satisfaction, though, she had to stop herself from slapping him.

****

Aboard the Palarran, now returned to Númenor, S.A 829:

"He did what?" Aldarion shouted, glaring at his father’s chamberlain in disbelief as he stood on the deck of his ship. He had been dismayed to see the shipyards empty of men and now his own crew were forced to unload their cargo of timber without aid. His father’s chamberlain was the only person to greet him at the quay and his news was not good.

"It is as I said, lord," Beregar replied, "Your father, the king, ordered the Guild of Venturers to be disbanded, the shipyards here in Rómenna closed and the felling of trees for the purpose of shipbuilding to cease. That decree has been in force these five years since you left." There was a hint of rebuke in the chamberlain’s words, though he kept his expression carefully neutral.

Aldarion stared at the man for some time before he spoke and his fury knew no bounds. "Then say this to my father, for I will not step upon the land again: If I am to have no welcome in Númenor, and no work for my hands to do, and if my ships may not be repaired in its havens, then I will go again and soon; for the winds have been rough and I need refitment. Has not a King’s son aught to do but study women’s faces to find a wife? The work of forestry I took up, and I have been prudent in it. There will be more timber in Númenor ere my day ends than there is under your sceptre."

When Meneldur heard these words, he was grieved, but he did not deny Aldarion his desire to leave. He did, however, make one final decree. "No woman of my household shall be given leave to go to Rómenna. No Green Bough of Return shall they give unto my son. He has not my blessing nor the blessing of the Valar in this. See also that a guard is put around the harbor and that none approach the Venturers with bough in hand."

Almarian stood by and said nothing, knowing that there was naught she could do this time. Her son would set sail unblessed and she feared that Ossë would see that as an invitation to do Aldarion great mischief.

True to his word, Aldarion set sail a few months later with three ships and the hardiest of his men as crew. No Green Bough of Return graced the prow of the Palarran. For the first time a ship of Númenor sailed out of the harbor unblessed.

****

Fourteen years later:

"My king," Beregar exclaimed, bursting into the king’s study unannounced. "Ships have come into Rómenna. One of them is thine own son’s ship, the Palarran!"

Meneldur stared at his chamberlain in disbelief, then swallowed hard, sending a prayer of thanksgiving to the Valar for his son’s safe return. "Ask Aldarion to come to me," he finally said, "if... if he will so deign to greet his father, if not his king." Beregar bowed, his expression neutral as he carried out his king’s command, grieved that so great a lord would humble himself unto his wayward son.

Aldarion arrived the next day, looking tired and battered, his eyes bleak, and he looked old before his time. Before he could offer his king his obeisance Meneldur took him into his arms and embraced him. "Welcome home, yonya. You were gone for so long, we all feared you had either decided to remain in Endórë or that you... you...."

"I am here, atarinya," Aldarion replied, sounding worn and defeated. "Your son returns, not in glory, but in shame."

Meneldur led him to a seat beside the fire and gave him a goblet of mulled wine, for the day was damp and cool with winter rain. "Tell me," he said simply as he took his own seat.

"We sailed first to the haven of Vinyalondë," Aldarion said after taking a sip of his wine, " and thence we made a great coastwise journey southwards, far beyond any place yet reached by our ships. All went well, but turning northwards we met contrary winds and great storms, scarce escaping shipwreck at one point." He paused, closing his eyes and sighing. "When we finally returned to Vinyalondë it was to find it overthrown by great seas and plundered by hostile men."

Meneldur reached over and put a comforting hand on his son’s arm. Aldarion opened his eyes to see naught but sympathy in those of his father.

"Thrice we attempted to cross the Great Sea," Aldarion continued his narrative, his tone blank of any emotion, "and thrice we were driven back by high winds out of the West. Palarran was struck by lightning and dismasted." Tears began to form in his eyes. "I lost several good men in those storms. It was almost as if Lord Ulmo himself was angered at us." He shook his head, forcing the tears back. "The fourth time, by dint of great labor and hardship, were we able to come at last to Rómenna."

For several minutes neither spoke. Aldarion downed his wine and reached for the decanter to refill his goblet while Meneldur watched him under hooded eyes, greatly comforted at his son’s safe return, but grieved at the sense of defeat Aldarion exuded.

"Thou didst rebel against Our authority, yonya," he finally said, speaking formally, knowing that Aldarion needed to hear the truth. "Thus didst thou forsake the guardianship of the Valar, risking the wrath of Ossë, not only for thyself, but for thy men whom thou hast bound to thee in devotion. Yet, I forgive thee thy transgressions, both as thy king and thy father, if thou abidest in Númenor for a time. Thy people need thee, Aldarion, as do I."

Then Aldarion went to his knees before his king and father and taking Meneldur’s hands into his own, he bent down and kissed them in filial love, as well as in fealty. "Thou hast my promise, atarinya, that I will not stray from the harbors of Númenor, for I deem that there is much that needeth repairing because of the neglects of my long absence."

"Then, I will restore thee to the Lordship of the Ships and Havens," Meneldur replied, standing and raising his son to embrace him, giving him a kiss upon the brow, "and I have in mind to bestow upon thee the further title of Master of Forests." He gave Aldarion a smile and Aldarion returned it with one of his own, though it was less sure.

"I will no longer be a mariner upon the seas, then, but I will abide in Númenor, as thou commandest lord, and be the King’s Heir," he repeated his promise. Yet, even as he spoke the words, Aldarion knew them to be futile, for in the very depths of his heart he could hear Uinen singing and see Ossë cavorting with the great shepherds of the seas, while far in the distance where no land is sighted, Ulmo’s mighty conches sounded across the purple waves. Still, for now, he was content just to be home and in his father’s good graces once again.

For now....

****

All words are Quenya:

Ránë Nésë: ‘Wandering Youth’.

Atarinya: My father.

Atani: Men; more precisely, the three Houses of the Edain in Beleriand from which the Númenóreans are descended.

Yonya: My son.

Cultural note taken from 'Aldarion and Erendis' in Unfinished Tales:

"[It was] the custom that when a ship departed from Númenor over the Great Sea to Middle-earth a woman, most often of the captain’s kin, should set upon the vessel’s prow the Green Bough of Return; and that was cut from the tree oiolairë, that signifies "Ever-summer," which the Eldar gave to the Númenóreans, saying that they set it upon their own ships in token of friendship with Ossë and Uinen. The leaves of that tree were evergreen, glossy and fragrant; and it throve upon sea-air."

Historical notes taken from ‘The Line of Elros: Kings of Númenor’ in Unfinished Tales:

V. Tar-Meneldur

He was the only son and third child of Tar-Elendil, and he was born in the year 543. He ruled for 143 years, and surrendered the sceptre in 883; he died in 942. His "right name" was Írimon; he took his title Meneldur from his love of star-lore. He married Almarian daughter of Vëantur, Captain of Ships under Tar-Elendil. He was wise, but gentle and patient. He resigned to his son, suddenly and long before due time, as a stroke of policy, in troubles that arose, owing to the disquiet of Gil-galad in Lindon, when he first became aware that an evil spirit, hostile to Eldar and Dúnedain, was stirring in Middle-earth. 

VI. Tar-Aldarion

He was the eldest child and only son of Tar-Meneldur, and he was born in the year 700. He ruled for 192 years, and surrendered the sceptre to his daughter in 1075; he died in 1098. His "right name" was Anardil; but he was early known by the name of Aldarion, because he was much concerned with trees, and planted great woods to furnish timber for the ship-yards. He was a great mariner and ship-builder; and himself sailed often to Middle-earth, where he became the friend and counsellor of Gil-galad. Owing to his long absences abroad his wife Erendis became angered, and they separated in the year 882. His only child was a daughter, very beautiful, Ancalimë. In her favour Aldarion altered the law of succession, so that the (eldest) daughter of a King should succeed, if he had no sons. This change displeased the descendants of Elros, and especially the heir under the old law, Soronto, Aldarion's nephew, son of his elder sister Ailinel.

REBUKE: Animadversions

SUMMARY: On the eve of the Fellowship’s departure from Imladris, Legolas seeks advice from another and gets more than he bargained for. This one is for Nina who requested this scenario. Merry Christmas, meldenya.

MEFA 2009: Third Place: Later Age Elves (Drama)

****

Legolas came into one of the lower gardens of Imladris to find Lord Glorfindel already there. The golden-haired balrog slayer and Captain of the Guards of Imladris stood in a relaxed position, staring pensively at an oak tree that only now was losing its golden leaves to the encroaching winter. He was not attired in his usual garb of leathers and hauberk, for he was not on duty. Instead, he wore a knee-length tunic of soft grey velvet with a high collar and sleeves that gathered at the wrists. His leggings were grey wool and tucked into soft ankle house-boots. A deep rose velvet robe, open in the front, with silver interlaced embroidery on the shoulders and flowing sleeves, its hem brushing the tops of his boots, completed the ensemble. Grey squirrel fur formed a wide collar on the robe and lined the inside. His hair was carefully braided and a simple circlet of mithril graced his head. He looked every inch the Elf-lord that he was. Legolas, wearing typical Silvan green and grey hunting garb, felt woefully underdressed.

As silently as he had entered the garden the Captain of the Guards of Imladris still heard him and, turning, offered him a warm smile. Legolas, for all that he had known Glorfindel his entire life, still felt a thrill of something undefinable course through his fëa at that smile. There was such a degree of acceptance to it that always stunned him; that and the ethereal light of Valinor that shone through Glorfindel’s eyes. He found himself bowing as if to his own adar, prince though he was.

"You wished to see me, Thranduilion?" Glorfindel’s musical voice echoed softly through the garden already shrouded in winter sleep.

"Yes, Lord Glorfindel," Legolas said. "I... I find I am in need of counsel and would have your thoughts."

For a moment Glorfindel did not speak, merely gazing upon the Sinda as if gauging his worth. Legolas did his best not to squirm. He loved and respected Glorfindel, both as a friend and a mentor, but sometimes this particular Elf unnerved him in ways that not even Lord Elrond could. Finally, Glorfindel made a gesture of invitation. "Let us walk."

The two of them strolled through the garden in companionable silence until Glorfindel turned to Legolas with a quizzical look. "It always helps to vocalize one’s thoughts. I gather you are troubled, but until you speak, I cannot advise you."

Legolas found himself blushing. "Goheno nin, hîr nîn," he said. "I was trying to gather my thoughts in some kind of order before speaking."

Glorfindel nodded. "When you are ready, then, Thranduilion."

Legolas stopped on the path, taking a deep breath. Glorfindel waited patiently, as if he had all the ages of Arda at his disposal. "We leave tomorrow night on the Quest," the Mirkwood Elf finally said. "I have watched the others who will be my companions these two months and I confess I am no more sure of them than when first we met at the Council."

"By ‘them’ I assume you mean the Periain?" Glorfindel ventured.

Legolas sighed and nodded. "Them... and the Dwarf."

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow at that last admission. "The Elves of Mirkwood have been dealing with the Dwarves of Erebor for nigh on seventy years now. Though such years are of no account for us Firstborn, still it is more than enough time for even stubborn Sindar to understand them." He gave Legolas a small smile to take the sting of the rebuke from his words.

Legolas stiffened nonetheless. "I have had little to do with the Naugrim," he replied, stressing the pronoun.

"Ah..." was Glorfindel’s only reply. For a long moment Noldorin Elf-lord and Sindarin prince stared at one another across a chasm of cultural and historical differences. Finally, Glorfindel resumed his walk and Legolas was forced to join him. "Putting aside all that, let us deal first with the Periain. What exactly would you know of them that you already have not discovered on your own?"

"They are... silly creatures," Legolas said, then raised a hand to still Glorfindel’s response. "Do not mistake me. They are amusing and delightful and I find it difficult to be serious around them and therein lies my dilemma."

"And what exactly is your dilemma?" Glorfindel asked, canting his head to the left as he contemplated the younger ellon.

"We are about to go on a Quest into the very heart of Darkness," Legolas replied soberly. "Except perhaps for Iorhael, I cannot think these... creatures can ever do anything but bring danger to the rest of us. The youngest one, especially, I fear, does not recognize or understand the gravity of what we are about."

Glorfindel pursed his lips. "Then you are seeing only the surface of things, child," he said.

Legolas raised an imperious eyebrow, reminding Glorfindel, not so much of Thranduil, as of Oropher. "I have not been a child for quite some time, hîr nîn," the Sindarin prince said between gritted teeth.

Glorfindel could not help but laugh, the sound joyous and full of bells. "Oh Legolas, the very way you said that tells me that you are indeed a child. No, mistake me not. I do not say this in disparagement, but in truth. You little realize just how young you are, if not in age, as even we Elves measure such things, then certainly in outlook."

Now Legolas was confused. He gave Glorfindel a quizzical look. "What do you mean?"

Glorfindel took the younger ellon by the arm and led him to a stone bench where he indicated they should sit. For a moment silence stretched between them and then Glorfindel began to speak in soft tones, almost as if he were reminiscing to himself.

"Bilbo was not the first Perian I ever met, though he is the one I’ve known the longest. I remember when he first appeared in Imladris with Mithrandir and thirteen Dwarves."

Legolas nodded. "I have, of course, heard the story from Bilbo’s own lips when he visited us for a time after the Battle of Five Armies. It always amazed me that Lord Elrond would ever welcome the Naugrim into this vale. Elves and Dwarves simply do not get along."

"Lord Elrond has ever opened Imladris to any in need of succor," Glorfindel stated quietly, "so long as they harbored no evil intent within them. However, let us forget about that for now. We, or rather, I was talking about Bilbo and our first meeting." He paused for a moment, a slight smile on his lips as the memory came to the fore. "He was the most unlikely burglar I had ever seen, and I had my doubts about Mithrandir’s choice and told him so...."

****

Glorfindel cornered Mithrandir before they went to the Hall of Fire. It was the evening after the Wizard had led thirteen Dwarves and one sorry looking Halfling to Imladris. Lord Elrond, gracious host that he was, had held a welcoming feast for them and now all were making their way to the Hall of Fire for the evening’s entertainment. This was the first time Glorfindel had had a chance to speak with the Wizard alone. Mithrandir gave the Noldo an enquiring look. "Is there something on your mind, Lord Glorfindel?"

Glorfindel motioned with his head towards Elrond’s library and with a nod from Mithrandir the two made their way there. If any noticed, they gave no indication. Once alone, Glorfindel turned to Mithrandir, his expression serious.

"What, by all that’s holy, are you playing at, Mithrandir, bringing a Perian on this little jaunt of yours?"

"As I told Elrond...."

"I know what you told him," Glorfindel interrupted angrily. "I was there, remember? A burglar? He’s not a burglar, he’s a gentlehobbit who has probably never had to burgle anything in his life."

"Well, except for mushrooms," the Wizard said with a slight smile.

Glorfindel raised his hands and rolled his eyes in defeat.

"Have you noticed his sword?" Mithrandir asked suddenly and Glorfindel stared at him in bemusement, the seeming change in subject throwing him.

"Sword?" he asked. "I saw no sword."

"Then you were not being as attentive as you should be, Captain," Mithrandir replied coldly. "If you had seen the sword I think your concerns would not matter so much."

Glorfindel closed his eyes and replayed the scene of the previous evening when the Wizard had introduced Lord Elrond and his household to thirteen Dwarves and one Hobbit. He prided himself on his perfect recall and focused his attention on Bilbo, looking miserable as only one of the Perian could when not properly fed. He almost smiled at the memory of other Hobbits long ages past whom he had met during the war with Angmar. Then his smile froze as he suddenly ‘saw’ the sword Mithrandir had mentioned.

It was not, in fact, a sword at all, though for Bilbo Baggins it certainly served well enough as one. It was actually a long knife and its hilt...

He opened his eyes, staring at the Wizard in disbelief. "That’s not possible!" he exclaimed.

"Is it not?" Mithrandir countered. "You recognize it." It was not a question.

Glorfindel swallowed and nodded. "I had it made in Gondolin. Tuor teased me about it, but I had been having visions of late in which the knife played an integral part. I did not know what it meant, only that it was important that the knife be crafted and kept in my house." He stopped, his face paling with the memory of fallen Gondolin. "I forgot all about it after... after I died."

Now Mithrandir went to the Elf and took him by the shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze. "I confess that I had my doubts about Bilbo as well, yet something told me he and only he would do. When we found the trolls’ treasure I suspected that the swords and Bilbo’s knife came from Gondolin, but nothing more do I know of their history."

"You will have to show them to Elrond," Glorfindel said. "He mayhap will be able to tell you more. I will not speak of Gondolin to any; the memories...."

Mithrandir nodded. "I understand, mellon nîn, more than you realize."

"I still do not think it wise of you to drag this poor Perian into your mad scheme," Glorfindel said, "but I trust you as I trust few others and I hope that my knife will prove of use to the little fellow."

"As to that," Mithrandir said with a twinkle in his eyes, "only time will tell...."

****

Legolas stared at the Elf-lord in surprise. "Bilbo’s sword, Sting... you made it?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "I had it made by one of our swordsmiths. Then I hung it on the wall in one of the rooms of my house and never gave it another thought. I watched Bilbo during his stay in Imladris. He seemed so unprepossessing and feckless, yet there was something about him that told me that Mithrandir had not made as huge a mistake in his choice as I had originally thought. When he and Bilbo returned after the Battle of Five Armies, I was amazed at the change that had come upon our burglar. He had grown, if not in stature, then certainly in nobility and courage. Since he came to live here these many years ago, we have become good friends and I admire and respect not only him but all the other Periain for themselves."

"Does he know about Sting?" Legolas asked.

Glorfindel shook his head. "No. I deemed it an unimportant detail." He gave Legolas a deprecating grin and the Sinda chuckled.

"So you are saying that even someone like our young Tûk is more than he seems?"

"Indeed." Glorfindel answered then gave Legolas a considering look. "Do you not trust Mithrandir’s judgment in this?"

Legolas sighed. "You would think that after all this time I would, and I do... mostly."

Glorfindel put an arm around the younger ellon’s shoulders and gave him a brief but warm hug. "That’s all right. Sometimes I still have my doubts as well."

"What about the Dwarf?" Legolas suddenly asked.

"What about him? Gimli son of Glóin is very honorable and a doughty warrior I deem."

"He’s a Dwarf," Legolas stated categorically as if that was all that mattered.

"And you’re an Elf," Glorfindel countered, frowning. "Again, you are seeing only the obvious, child. Look deeper, in him and in yourself. You may find more there than meets the eye."

"Or less."

"Sometimes, child," Glorfindel admonished him with quiet gentleness, "you find what you are looking for. Look for the good and the noble in all. You may find them even in yourself."

Now Legolas stared at Glorfindel in shock. "Are you accusing me of being less than good and noble?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "No. I am saying that if all you see in others is the bad, what does that say about you? We are all reflections of our thoughts." He stood and gazed serenely down at the bemused prince. "Remember, Thranduilion, in the end, whether we are Elves or Men, Dwarves or Halflings, we are ultimately Eru’s Children and beloved by the Belain. Never forget that."

With those words he gave Legolas a brief bow and walked away towards the house, leaving the Sinda sitting alone in the garden. Only when one of Elrond’s people found him some hours later, reminding him that the farewell feast for the members of the Fellowship would begin soon, did he make his way back inside to change into more formal garb, his expression still thoughtful.

****

All words are Sindarin.

Adar: Father.

Goheno nin, hîr nîn: 'Forgive me, my lord'.

Periain: Plural of Perian: Halfling, Hobbit.

Naugrim: Dwarves.

Ellon: Male Elf.

Mellon nîn: My friend.

Belain: Valar.

Linguistic notes:

1. Animadversion: From the Latin animadvertere ‘to turn the mind to’. There are two obsolete meanings which apply to this story: 1). The act or power of perceiving or taking notice; direct or simple observation; 2). Admonition; cautionary advice or counsel. Its present-day meaning is as a synonym of ‘rebuke’ as a noun.

2. Since Legolas and Glorfindel are speaking Sindarin, they naturally ‘translate’ Frodo’s name into its Sindarin equivalent, Iorhael. As Bilbo’s name has no remembered meaning he is referred to simply as ‘Bilbo’. Tûk is the original form of the family name anglicized as ‘Took’ in Tolkien’s writings.

WINTER TRADITIONS: First Solstice

Author’s Note: In lieu of a weekly prompt for the week of Christmas, a challenge was issued in which the theme is ‘Winter Traditions’. The challenge requires the incorporation of the following elements into the story: the word ‘estel’ because this is the season of Hope; a tree; snow; the colors red, blue, green, black and gold; an animal; a warm drink; and a rock.

SUMMARY: In the first year of the Sun, as Arda enters its first winter, the growing darkness is troubling to many.

****

"They’re not going to understand what is happening or why," Námo said to the other Valar as they sat in counsel in the throne room of Ilmarin.

Aulë nodded. "They have either had the constant light of the Trees or starlight as their guides. They have no experience of the natural astronomical phenomenon of the nights getting longer and the days shorter."

"Some of the Elves are complaining that we cannot keep even these great lights in the sky properly," Yavanna said with a scowl and the others smiled sympathetically.

"I never understood why we couldn’t simply create a star for this system from the very beginning," Varda commented. "I think this has caused more problems than necessary. We can explain to the Children here in Aman but I wonder how those in Endórë will react to it?"

"Melyanna is there," Irmo reminded them. "She will be able to reassure them."

"One can only hope," Manwë replied.

Námo nodded, a grim smile on his fair face. "It is always well to keep estel in one’s heart when the darkness comes."

****

"It is a natural phenomenon, my husband," Melian said calmly as she and Elu Thingol sat with Thingol’s council. Their daughter Lúthien was there along with Prince Celeborn and Beleg, who, in spite of being a member of the royal family, eschewed all titles but ‘Marchwarden’. The Lady Galadriel and her brother Prince Finrod were also in attendance, being recent guests of Doriath.

"There is nothing natural about any of this, my love," Elu said with a scowl. "Long have we held sway under starlight, and now we must contend with these two strange lights in the sky which you say are the last fruits of Telperion and Laurelin." This last was directed at Finrod and his sister.

Finrod nodded. "We were there and witnessed their deaths."

"And do you not say that your fellow Maiar guide these new lights, my lady?" Galadriel asked.

Melian nodded. "Arien and Tilion, both of the People of Orma. We fought together in many wars against the Fallen One in ages uncounted."

All of them, even Thingol and Lúthien, stared at the Maia Queen of Doriath with no little awe. Finally, though, Celeborn spoke. "Getting back to the purpose of this council, you say that this is a natural phenomenon, my lady?"

Melian nodded, a slight smile on her lips. "The world turns and as it turns it also moves around Anor...."

"But clearly that cannot be!" protested Lúthien. "Anor it is that moves."

"Only in seeming, my daughter," Melian said with great patience. She shook her head. "When it came time to create Arda Lord Bannoth told us that the star that would normally sit in the center of this system could not be created at that time, for Eru had decreed that the Firstborn were to awaken in Ennorath under starlight."

There was a troubled silence among them as they tried to understand what Melian was telling them. Then Beleg shook his silvery-grey head and gave them a snort. "I care not the how or the why of all this; I care only that our people are fearful that, with the lengthening of the nights, Morgoth will use this against us."

"It will not continue forever," Melian said. "There will be a day when it seems as if the sun is standing still. On that day the night will be the longest, but afterwards the sun will appear to move northward and the days will lengthen."

"And the dying of the trees?" Finrod asked. "Is that also a natural phenomenon?"

Melian nodded. "Yes. For the first time Arda is experiencing what the Belain call ‘seasons’ in which the climate changes from warm to cold and back again. You remember the longest time of daylight shortly after your arrival in Beleriand?" She looked at Finrod and Galadriel, who both nodded.

"We noticed the length of time in which Anor was in the sky was longer and longer," Galadriel answered. "We thought for sure that at some point she would remain in the sky forever."

"Instead, the days are growing shorter again and the dark is encroaching upon us," Finrod added.

Melian gave them all a sympathetic smile. "As I said, it is not a permanent loss of light. In a few short weeks the days will lengthen again. It is a never-ending cycle of light and dark that is played out on countless worlds throughout Eä."

"And we’re no different," Thingol said, his tone making it not quite a question but not exactly a statement either.

"No, beloved," Melian answered gently, "except for one minor detail."

"And what would that be?" Thingol asked in surprise.

"Arda is the only world in which Eru’s Children — all of them — reside."

Finrod nodded. "That makes Arda special whatever else it may be."

The others all nodded in agreement. Then Beleg spoke up. "What then are we to do about it?"

"There is nothing that can be done to stop this, Beleg," Melian answered. "All we can do is let our people and the Noldor, if they have not figured it out already, know that there is naught to fear. The growing darkness is not a sign of Morgoth’s rising, but it is certainly a consequence of the destruction of the Two Trees and the subsequent creation of Anor."

"Is there aught we can do to mark the day, though?" Celeborn asked, looking thoughtful. "If there is a longest day and longest night perhaps we should consider marking them and celebrating them in some way."

"You are correct, Celeborn," Thingol said approvingly. "Does anyone have an idea?"

For a space of two or three minutes there was only silence as each thought of Thingol’s question. Finally, Finrod looked up. "What about a ball?"

"A ball?" Melian asked. "You mean a formal gathering of our people in dance to celebrate the return of light?"

Finrod nodded. "We should illuminate Menegroth as it has never been illuminated before and don our gayest robes and dance the darkness away."

They all stared at one another for several minutes, and then, one by one, they nodded and there were smiles all around. Elu then stood and the others followed. "An excellent idea, Nephew," he said to Finrod. "We will hold a great ball on the longest night. Let us see if our gaiety will drive away the darkness. Come, we have much to plan."

With that, all left the council chamber, all, that is, save Melian. The Maia Queen of Doriath sat in contemplative silence. Finally she shook her head and smiled ruefully. "I never thought I would be giving these Children a lesson in elementary astronomy," she said out loud. Then she gathered herself together and left the chamber in search of her family to help plan the upcoming ball.

****

Ingwë stared at the Valar in surprise. He, along with Arafinwë and Olwë had been summoned before Lord Manwë and had listened in stunned disbelief at what the Elder King told them.

"This... darkening is something natural?" he finally asked, trying to assimilate all that he had been told.

Manwë nodded. "I assure you that it is a temporary state. You may recall not long ago soon after Anar rose that the length of daylight increased over time."

All three kings nodded. "Yet now the light is waning again and our nights grow longer."

"And this cycle of the day lengthening and shortening will continue for all the ages of Arda in a never-ending rhythm," Varda stated.

"I am not sure if I care for the fact that on top of that the days grow colder and our crops are dying," Ingwë said with a frown.

"Again, a temporary state. With the destruction of the Two Trees, Aman is no longer protected from the vicissitudes of Arda’s changed state due to Melkor’s machinations," Manwë told them, his expression sorrowful. "I assure you though that in time you will find that it is no bad thing, merely different from what you are used to."

"I confess I rather enjoy seeing the stars in all their glory at night rather than having to travel through the Calacirya to see them," Arafinwë said.

Varda smiled. "So you see, something good has come of all this."

"What then should we do about the... waning of the light?" Olwë asked, looking troubled.

"Nothing," Manwë replied. "There is nothing any of us can do for or against this phenomenon. As I said, it’s a natural consequence of the creation of Anar."

"There will always be a longest day and longest night?" Ingwë then asked and all the Valar nodded. "Then perhaps we should mark these days in some way."

"That is a good idea," Arafinwë said, his enthusiasm rising; Olwë nodded in agreement.

The three kings looked at one another, some silent communication passing between them and then Ingwë turned to Manwë and bowed. "With your permission, my lord, we will retire and think upon your words and decide how best to inform our people of this phenomenon."

Manwë nodded. "Go with our blessing and the blessing of Ilúvatar."

When the three kings had left the throne room, Námo raised an eyebrow. "I wonder what they will come up with."

"We’ll have to wait and see," Manwë said. "Now, how do you think we should celebrate this first solstice?"

"First?" Varda retorted with a smile. "Is this not the second?"

"It is the first that the Children have noted," Manwë reminded them. "It was only as the light began to decrease again that they even voiced a concern. Next year they will pay more attention to the other solstice."

"In time they may even notice the two equinoxes," Aulë added, "and give names to the different seasons as they come and go."

"A most interesting development in their growth of knowledge," Oromë said with a slight smile. "I look forward to seeing how it all plays out and what new customs and traditions they develop for these times."

The others were in complete agreement and then they began formulating their own plans for celebrating the longest night.

****

"What is this?" Elu Thingol enquired as he stepped through the gates of Menegroth to stare in wonder at the landscape before him. It was blanketed in a white powdery substance that, when he knelt down to scoop some in his hand, was also cold.

"We call it lossë," Finrod told him as he and Galadriel joined Elu and Melian. "It covers the peaks of the Pelóri mountains."

Melian watched with an amused smile at the expressions of wonder on the faces of her husband and daughter and all the denizens of Doriath as they examined the snow that had fallen overnight. Some of them had discovered that the substance could be packed tightly into a ball and thrown. Soon Beleg, Lúthien and Daeron were merrily fighting with Celeborn, Finrod and Galadriel, dodging between the trees and laughing whenever they were hit. "It is what happens to ross when it becomes too cold," Melian explained to Thingol as they stood together watching the antics of their subjects.

"White rain," Elu muttered, then gave his spouse a sly look. Before Melian realized what he was about, he had already thrown his first snowball at her even as he was stooping to make another one. She was not slow at retaliating.

****

"I thought this stuff only stayed on the peaks of the Pelóri," groused Ingwion, heir to the throne of the Vanyar, as he looked out the window of his parents’ private apartments at the snow gently falling.

"Apparently not any more," Elindis, Queen of the Vanyar, said with a quirk of her mouth, her eyes bright with amusement.

Ingwion sighed. "This is rather confusing. I liked the way some of the trees changed color and grieved when their bright leaves fell, but this...." He shook his head. "Why can’t it be the same as before?"

"Nothing is the same as before," Elindis said softly, sorrow dripping from every word and Ingwion embraced her, his own grief nearly overwhelming him. "But that is not to say that what we have now is bad," Elindis continued. "As the Valar have said, it is merely different."

"I guess."

Elindis kissed him gently on the brow. "Come, let us finish these plans for the celebration your atar wishes to have. I confess, I rather like the idea of a ball to dance away the darkness, as your sister puts it."

Ingwion sighed. "It just means having to dress up even more than usual."

Elindis laughed merrily and gave her firstborn a warm hug. "I tell you what. Why don’t you have one of the servants bring some more of that hot spiced wine drink Vardamelda has created. We’ll forget about the ball for now and just sit beside the fire and watch the snow fall."

Ingwion nodded and went to do his amillë’s bidding.

****

"Did the Belain have any names for these... seasons, as you call them?" Elu asked Melian as they sat before a fire sipping on their hot drinks.

Melian nodded. "When we observed the same phenomenon on other worlds of our making, we called this time ‘winter’. Eventually winter will be followed by a warming of the earth and the springing of new life which will reach its height on the longest day, the gateway to what we call ‘summer’. The waning of the year we call ‘autumn’."

Elu mouthed the strange words to himself, sighing in frustration at the tongue-twisting language of the Powers. "Perhaps we can just call it rhîw," he finally said, rendering the name for winter into something that sounded more natural.

"I think that is as good a name for the season as any," Melian agreed.

"Rhîw it is then," Elu said decisively. Then he sighed again. "While we’re at it, we might as well come up with names for the other seasons. What were they again?"

Melian laughed and happily answered her husband and the two of them spent a pleasant hour or so devising new words for the other seasons.

****

"I think we should give these seasons names," Arafinwë said to Eärwen as they wandered through a snow-covered garden admiring the ice sculptures that several artists from Tirion had devised for the enjoyment of the city’s inhabitants. The Noldóran and his queen were not the only ones wandering the garden but they were presently alone, save for the ubiquitous guards.

"What do you suggest?" Eärwen asked. "Have the loremasters decided?"

Arafinwë shook his head. "If they have, they have not informed me," he said. "So I have decided to inform them." He gave her a sly smile.

Eärwen raised an eyebrow. "You mean, make it a royal decree?"

"Saves a lot of time and bickering over minutia, don’t you think?"

"Oh, I agree, my darling," the queen said with a light laugh. "I can just imagine their expressions when you tell them."

Arafinwë smiled somewhat wolfishly. "Well, I consulted with Ingwë and Olwë and they agreed to the idea. I’ve asked Lord Aulë for the Valarin words for these seasons. I think we can render them into acceptable Quenya easily enough."

"Then what shall we call this season of glittering white?" Eärwen asked with a nod.

"I was thinking hrívë...."

****

The ball was set for midnight. Menegroth had never looked so beautiful. There were candles everywhere and someone thought to bring in fresh greenery and holly, strewing them about the main hall where the dancing was to be held. Some of the ellith had even created wreaths of greenery with candles embedded in them that they wore on their heads with red and green ribbons flowing among their tresses. All around the Elves danced to lively music while Elu and Melian gazed contentedly upon the scene from their thrones. Galadriel and Celeborn were there, having just finished dancing one reel and now Finrod was on the floor with Lúthien, her gold and red gown, reminiscent of the flames of Anor, a pleasing contrast to his deep blue velvet tunic studded with diamonds. Her black tresses were adorned with a simple circlet of gold, her neck adorned with a gold necklace from which was suspended a single multi-faceted ruby. Finrod’s head was crowned with evergreen and holly and his only jewelry was the ring of two serpents which he had brought with him from Aman.

"A wondrous sight," Elu commented.

"Indeed," Celeborn said. He and Galadriel were dressed in matching garb of white and gold velvets studded with sapphires. Elu and Melian also wore matching garb: dark green and gold, their heads adorned with emerald crowns. All the denizens of Menegroth had gone out of their way to create the most colorful array of garb, though most seemed to favor white, gold, red and green.

The reel finished, Finrod and Lúthien joined the others on the throne dais. Elu gave them both a fond smile. "So what are your kinsmen doing to celebrate this night?" he asked Finrod.

The younger elf shrugged. "I have no idea, Uncle, nor do I care."

"Ah...." was Thingol’s only comment. Then Melian indicated that she wished to join in the next dance and so king and queen rose and led the pavane as the people of Doriath continued to dance away the longest night of the year.

****

Turgon was sitting on a flat rock, gazing up into the star-strewn sky. Beside him was his daughter, Idril. Nearby were their horses contentedly grazing on winter grass. They had ridden out of Vinyamar earlier in the evening with the intention of spending this night star-gazing.

"Look," Turgon said, pointing to the west, "Menelmagor rises and there is his faithful hound right behind him."

Idril squealed with delight and snuggled closer to her Ada. Turgon had had little time for her of late being busy with the construction of their new home, so she had been delighted when he had suggested this little outing.

"Will the sun return, Ada?" she asked somewhat doubtfully. "Will the days grow longer once again?"

"So Cousin Finrod said in his last missive to me," Turgon answered. "We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?"

Idril nodded. "Ada, can we do this again next year and the year after that and...?"

Turgon gave his daughter a gentle smile and a kiss on the top of her head. "If that is what you wish, sell nîn. We will make it our little tradition. Every year we will come out and spend the longest night under the stars, just the two of us."

"You mean, the three of us, my king."

Turgon looked up to see Glorfindel riding up, laughing.

"What are you doing here, Glorfi?" Idril asked with excitement. "Have you come to watch the stars with Ada and me?"

Glorfindel dismounted from his steed and after giving his king his obeisance he smiled lovingly at Idril. "Nay, Little One. I came to watch over you, for you are the only star in my life."

Turgon raised an eyebrow at Glorfindel’s words. "Well, if you insist on star-gazing, pull up a rock," he commanded and with another bow and a laugh Glorfindel did just that. It did not escape Turgon’s notice, though Idril was unaware, that Glorfindel’s hand was never far from his sword. Long after Idril was fast asleep in her bedroll, king and vassal sat in companionable silence, watching over the only star in their lives that mattered.

****

In the courtyard of the High King of all the Elves of Aman, Ingwë was gathered with his family. Arafinwë and Eärwen were there as well along with Olwë and his queen, Lirillë. Others of the court were also there. Each person held a small unlit candle. At the moment of midnight Ingwë stepped forward.

"Tonight is the Andohrívë, in which we celebrate the longest night of the year. Tomorrow, Light will return once more unto all its glory. Yet, darkness has its place and proper sphere and so we honor it tonight."

At that a choir of elflings sang a hymn especially written for this ceremony, in which Darkness unsullied by fear was praised and Light eternal was glorified. As the hymn rose to a crescendo, Ingwë lit a taper from a single coal set in a brass brasier and one by one the candles were lit until the entire courtyard was ablaze with light. Then they processed into the main ball room, placing their candles in specially made holders. Musicians struck up a stately pavane and as Ingwë and Elindis, along with the other royal couples led the first dance, the solstice ball officially began.

****

High in the fastness of Ilmarin the Valar were gathered with their Maiar. There were no candles lit, all was in darkness, though none had trouble seeing. Beginning with Manwë, each of the Valar mentioned one thing for which they were grateful, then it was the turn of the Maiar. Anar was rising out of the east before the last of them finished speaking.

Thus ended the first winter solstice in Arda.

****

Endórë: (Quenya) Middle-earth; the Sindarin equivalent is Ennorath.

Orma: Sindarin form of Oromë.

Bannoth: Sindarin form of Námo.

Belain: Sindarin form of Valar.

Lossë: (Quenya) Snow; the Sindarin equivalent is Loss.

Ross: (Sindarin) Rain; the Quenya equivalent is Rossë.

Atar: (Quenya) Father; the Sindarin equivalent is Adar (Ada).

Amillë: (Quenya) Mother.

Rhîw: (Sindarin) Winter; the Quenya equivalent is Hrívë.

Ellith: (Eldarin) Plural of Elleth: Female Elf.

Menelmagor: Sindarin version of the Quenya Menelmacar: Orion

Sell nîn: (Sindarin) My daughter.

Andohrívë: (Quenya) Gate of Winter.

RUMOUR: Whispers of War

SUMMARY: As the Valar war against Melkor, the Elves at Cuiviénen are only dimly aware of what is happening.

****

'Then the Valar passed over Middle-earth, and they set a guard over Cuiviénen; and therefore the Quendi knew nothing of the great Battle of the Powers, save that the Earth shook and groaned beneath them, and the waters were moved, and in the north there were lights as of mighty fires.' — The Silmarillion, Chapter 3, ‘Of the Coming of the Elves and the Chaining of Melkor’.

****

The earth shook for the fourth time during the span of time it took some of the stars to go from horizon to zenith and the waters of Cuiviénen actually receded from the shore only to come rushing back with tree-high waves that nearly swept away those standing on the shore in fear and wonder. Miraculously, or so it seemed to them, none were drowned. Indeed, several little ones were mysteriously swept into unseen arms and carried safely to higher ground. When their parents found them they insisted that ‘bright ones’ carried them to safety, but the parents looked dubious and said nothing, just holding their children close to them, thankful that they were still alive.

"What can this mean?" one of them asked in confusion. "Ever since Lord Oromë left us, the ground has shaken and the waters have moved. Even the sky has brightened as if on fire."

"I know not," said another, hugging close her child. "I only know that nowhere is it safe anymore. Look! That last tremor opened up another rift in the ground." She pointed to where a fissure, beginning at the shore and moving away into the forest that stood along one edge of the bay that was Cuiviénen, had opened up. Water was streaming into the ready-made channel and trees were toppling in all directions as the rift widened.

The two quendir stared in horror and dismay at the waters rushing away and hugged their little ones all the more tightly.

****

Finwë glanced at Ingwë and Elwë as the three of them stood on another rise overlooking the bay, surveying the devastation this latest series of tremors had created. They could see flashes of lightning on the horizon and there was the sound of thunder rolling across a sky otherwise clear of clouds. Stars glittered serenely in the eternal dark of Arda, their music high and faint to the ears of the Quendi.

"What do you suppose it must mean?" Finwë asked and the other two shrugged.

"Lord Oromë only said that he must needs return to... Amanaphe... Amanaphel... Aman!" Ingwë finally got out with some exasperation.

Finwë and Elwë grinned. "The language of these Powers is rather difficult to get one’s tongue around, is it not?" Finwë said. "I think ‘Aman’ sounds much nicer."

Ingwë shrugged. "At any rate, Lord Oromë is not here. I think whatever is happening he and the other Powers are involved."

"Why though?" Elwë asked, looking troubled. "Do you suppose it has anything to do with... with the Hunter?"

The other two quendur just shrugged, as unsure of anything as Elwë. "Lord Oromë told us that the Hunter was one of the Powers who has forsaken Eru and wishes us ill." Finwë said. "I imagine that the other Powers have decided to... to meet? Seek? Face? No, those are not the right words." He grimaced in frustration at not being able to express himself clearly.

Ingwë gave him a grin. "I’m sure you will find the right word for what is happening." The Ñoldo clan were well known for their ability to craft beautiful words so Ingwë had no doubt that given time for reflection Finwë or one of the other Ñoldor would come up with an appropriate word. "In the meantime, I suggest we move everyone away from the bay and towards the hills. I think it will be safer."

A fifth tremor, more powerful than the other four, suddenly shook the ground and all around there were cries of panic and distress as quendur and quendir struggled to keep their balance. Little ones cried out in terror. Ingwë lost his balance and would have tumbled off the edge of the rise into a chasm that had opened up beneath them spouting scalding water but somehow he found himself not falling. Instead, he seemed momentarily suspended in midair and then he was standing upright on a flat piece of earth some distance from the rise. He could see Elwë and Finwë staring at him with their mouths gaping. They were both kneeling on the ground and Ingwë could only hope that they were not kneeling to him but simply hugging the earth to prevent themselves from tumbling into the chasm.

The pressure of invisible hands left him and he glanced about, gauging the damage. He noticed that several Quendi who had been sitting in some nearby trees had tumbled out, yet none seemed injured. One was even sitting cross-legged on the ground with the most bemused expression on his face.

By now Finwë and Elwë had run down to him, their own expressions one of fear mingled with awe. Before either could speak though, Ingwë held up a hand. "Let us see to our people," he said. "Time enough for talk later."

The other two nodded and then the three turned to render whatever aid was required.

****

Calimo of the People of Námo gave his fellow Máya a smile as they met by the roiling waters of Cuiviénen where several Quendi were struggling to reach the shore after having been swept into the bay by the force of the tremors. "Good save," he said as he invisibly reached out and snagged an adolescent quendu and pulled him out of the water, safely depositing him on the beach where one of the other Children came and helped him to higher ground.

Aldarondur of the People of Oromë gave him a short bow. "Thank you. I almost dropped him when that geyser suddenly shot up, though. It surprised me."

"These tremors are increasing in wrath," Ancalequirindë of the People of Vairë said as she joined her two fellow Máyar by the shore and helped them with rescuing the Quendi still struggling against the undertow. "I wonder how our masters are faring against Melkor?"

"Eönwë will let us know as soon as he is free to do so," Calimo said. "Unless I miss my guess, I imagine they’ve found Utumno by now."

"One can only hope," Aldarondur said. "I wish I were there instead of here."

"Our masters have entrusted us with a more crucial task," Ancalequirindë said. "Protecting these precious Children is of greater importance than joining our fellows in one more war against the Fallen One and his minions. As it is I am unable to fight. I have never regained my full strength after... well after." She grimaced at the memory of the last battle she had been engaged in when the Children’s world was only newly built and Melkor was threatening the destruction of all of Atháraphelun.

The other two Máyar gave her sympathetic looks. "You are correct," Calimo said. "Protecting these Children is more important. Come. I see that Ingwë is ordering everyone further away from the water. Let us see that there are no stragglers."

With that the three Máyar, now joined by several others of their fellows, ranged the area in search of any of the Quendi in need of invisible assistance as Ingwë, Finwë and Elwë led their people to relative safety.

And far to the north the sky was lit as with mighty fires; and the war against Melkor raged on.

****

All words are Quenya unless otherwise noted:

Quendir: Plural of quendi: Female Elf. The singular here is not to be confused with the plural Quendi (sg. Quendë), q.v.

Quendi: An older word for the Elves meaning ‘Those who speak with voices’. Eldar, ‘People of the Stars’, was a name given them by Oromë.

Ñoldo: Pronounced ngoldo meaning ‘The Wise’ and the name of the second clan of the Eldar. Known for their love of words.

Quendur: Plural of quendu: Male Elf.

Máya: An older form of Maia. The plural is Máyar. At this time the Elves had no knowledge of them.

Atháraphelun: (Valarin) Arda; usually in reference to our world but technically the solar system as a whole.

Note: Cuiviénen, according to the Elves, was a bay in the inland Sea of Helcar, rather than a lake as many readers suppose.

DREAMS: Dréam ne dréose

SUMMARY: Thengel reflects on the course of his life during a momentous occasion.

****

Minas Tirith, T.A. 2943:

Thengel stood before the Steward’s Chair nervously waiting for the world to come to a crashing halt... or not. He was not sure about this all of a sudden. The thought of... He took a deep breath and felt his palms become clammy with sweat and groaned inwardly. Not now! Was he not a Ranger of Ithilien, one of Lord Turgon’s trusted captains? He had faced an incursion of Haradi mercenaries with fewer qualms. This was not the end of the world... his world; it was the beginning, or so he hoped.

He remembered when he first came to Minas Tirith some twenty years earlier, running away from a father whom he hated and from a destiny that he feared. Valar! but he had been so young and naive and terribly homesick. He remembered the sense of confusion and unease he had felt when he first came to the White City — the smells and crowds and the immensity of the place; it had all been so overwhelming, that and the fact that he spoke neither Westron nor Sindarin. Turgon had assigned one of his Rangers whose family farmed in Anórien and had dealings with folk in the Eastfold to act as his interpreter, guide and teacher. Anborn was a good man, patient and kind. He never laughed at Thengel’s mistakes, unlike some of the Rangers-in-training and Thengel was eternally grateful for the man, which is why he was standing next to him before the Steward’s Chair.

Thengel glanced at the tall Gondorian, taller than he by several inches, the dark hair and grey eyes looking at him steadily, marking him as being of pure Númenórean blood. Thengel suppressed a shiver at that thought. The ancient Sea-kings were legends even among his own people, yet he now lived among people who could trace their ancestry to those very kings and their followers who fled drowned Númenor to found kingdoms in exile.

Anborn gave the displaced Rohirr lord a brief but warm and supportive smile and Thengel smiled back, though he feared it might have been a little hesitant. He swept his gaze through the chamber. Even after twenty years he still was in awe of this throne room that had not seen its king in over nine hundred years. He remembered how uncouth he had felt when he first came to this place, a beggar bereft of homeland and kin. He had wept tears of joy when Turgon had accepted his fealty and Turgon had not disparaged those tears.

Now he stood before the twenty-fourth Ruling Steward this day and Turgon’s pride and love for him was evident in his every gesture. Turgon had taken him into his own household, treated him as a son and his own son, Ecthelion, became the brother Thengel never had. Ecthelion was standing beside his father as was mete for the heir to the Stewardship and gave him a wide grin and a wink. Thengel remembered to breathe again and nodded, feeling suddenly calmer than he had all morning.

The hall was filled with people. Many of them were friends, a few were enemies, for Thengel had learned early on that one could not have the one without the other. All in all, though, those who were in attendance were there to wish him well and he was grateful. For a second he felt a pang of regret that his family could not be there to share his joy. It was only a fleeting thought, quickly pushed to the back of his mind as other things of more importance took his attention.

Morwen of Lossarnach, for instance.

A rustle among the crowd alerted him to her approach. He turned to face the long nave down which she came, escorted by her father. She was so beautiful and so young. Her lineage was nearly as old and as pure as Turgon’s or Anborn’s. Her hair was raven and flowing past her waist. A wreath of summer wildflowers adorned her head. She wore a gown of blue silk that made her grey eyes seem blue as well. Thengel’s own garb was an ochre-yellow silk undertunic with tight sleeves over which he wore a sleeveless velvet surcoat of the dark green favored by the Rohirrim though it was the White Tree of Gondor rather than the White Horse of Rohan that was embroidered upon it. His head was also adorned with a wreath of wildflowers.

He smiled as she neared him and her own smile was more radiant than the sun’s. When her father placed her hand in his, he forgot all else. He little remembered the ceremony that followed, its ancient words in a Sindarin that was nearly archaic, yet Turgon spoke them with fluent ease. Thengel remembered stumbling over one or two of the phrases while Morwen spoke her vows with the grace with which she did all things.

The ceremony continued to progress in stately elegance. It was different from the less formal wedding ceremonies of his own people, and for a brief moment Thengel felt a pang of regret in the midst of his happiness. Then, just where Turgon would have invoked the blessings of the Valar, the ceremony unexpectedly changed.

The Steward, smiling at the newly minted couple, gestured to his son, who in turn went to the table where the wedding contract was laid out ready for the signatures of the married couple and their witnesses and took up an intricately carved mazer which Thengel, in the general nervousness of the situation, had failed to notice. He noticed it now. It was made of maple and the patina of great age shone in the very grain of the wood. It was carved with scenes of men and women at leisure, many of them playing musical instruments as they sat amidst a lush garden.

Ecthelion handed the mazer to his father and then to the surprise of all the Steward began to sing, not in Sindarin or Westron but in accentless Rohirric, and only a handful of people in the entire hall understood the words. Thengel stood there in absolute shock to hear the heartfelt song of good wishes upon a newly wedded couple traditionally sung at weddings in Rohan coming from the lips of this scion of Númenor:

‘Éadig béo þu, góda mann!

Éadig béo þu, léofe wif!

Langre lisse ic þe ann —

hafa lof and liþe lif!

Dóm is feor þeah dóm sie strang,

Dréam ne dréose nymðe hæl and wynn!’

Turgon then handed the mazer to Thengel with a knowing smile at the younger man’s dumbfounded expression and Thengel had just enough presence of mind to take the proffered bowl and present it to Morwen.

"Take the bowl and drink, beloved," he whispered in Rohirric which she had begun to learn. She did as he bid and then handed it back to him. He drank from it before handing it back to Turgon.

"I now pronounce Lord Thengel of Rohan and Lady Morwen of Lossarnach husband and wife," the Steward of Gondor proclaimed. "May they know only joy."

As the crowd broke into a cheer, Turgon leaned forward and, with a sly smile, said, "Kiss her, my son."

Thengel and Morwen shared a shy smile between them and then they were kissing, all else around them forgotten in the passion of the moment. Thengel reveled in the feel and taste of his new bride. Yes, there had been heartache in the past but it was a minor thing to the joy of the present, a joy that would follow him into the future, whatever that future might bring. Morwen would be the holder of that joy and he knew that as long as they remained true to their love for one another all would be well.

"Langre lisse ic þe ann," he whispered to her.

"Dréam ne dréose," she replied with a smile that he knew was only for him.

"Nai Valar let manátar," Turgon whispered the more traditional blessing, giving them each a hug and a kiss on the brow in benediction.

"Indeed," Thengel said, never taking his eyes off his beloved, and knew the words to be true.

****

Dréam ne dréose: ‘May joy not fail’. In Old English dréam means ‘joy, pleasure, gladness, delight, mirth, rejoicing, rapture, ecstasy, frenzy, as well as what causes mirth — musical instruments and song’. The title is taken from a line of a poem written by Tolkien, Éadig béo þu (Good luck to you). The poem was published as part of a collection called Songs of the Philologists (private publication 1936).

Translation of Turgon’s song. The words are borrowed from the same poem:

'Good luck to you, good man!

Good luck to you, dear woman!

I give you lasting joy —

have praise and pleasant life!

Doom is far enough though doom be strong,

may joy not fail nor health and happiness.'

Nai Valar let manátar: (Quenya) ‘May the Valar bless the two of you’.

CROOKED: Mîn bain raeg

SUMMARY: Círdan learns something to his sorrow.

****

Círdan woke with a start, wondering what was happening. His dreams had been dark of late and this last one....

The Lord of Mithlond shook his head, as if to clear it of the last shreds of the nightmare that was haunting him. This was the third time he had had this same or a similar dream, yet he could never remember fully what they were about. All that remained of them afterwards was a cold dread stealing into his fëa.

"Bah!" he muttered in disgust as he climbed out of bed and grabbed his nightrobe, thrusting his feet into bed slippers. He moved unerringly in the dark to the wash stand and poured some water into the basin, splashing his face to wash the rest of his sleep away. Moving out onto the balcony that wrapped around the entire upper floor of the house, he could tell by the position of the stars that dawn was still several hours away. He strolled along, moving northward, until he was facing west and frowned.

"Odd," he muttered aloud, "there was no hint of a sea storm coming our way." He stared at the dark clouds that were piling up on the horizon well beyond the Havens. He could see flashes of lightning though the storm was too far away for thunder to be heard. High rolling waves were beginning to rush towards the shore and Círdan scowled. This storm looked to be bad, perhaps the worst he had seen in many a long yén. Turning around he entered the house where he found himself in the upper gallery. Running towards his bedroom he began shouting.

"Arminas! Galdor!"

Even as he reached his room, two ellyn, still fully dressed in spite of the lateness of the hour, came to him at a run, each with identical shocked looks on their fair faces. Without giving them time to ask the inevitable questions he ushered them inside and began to strip out of his night things and grab whatever tunic and leggings lay to hand.

"We have a sea storm coming our way," he told them. "Get everyone up. We need to get the ships batten down and..."

"Lord Círdan!" Galdor cried, cutting off the Shipwright’s words. "What are you talking about? There is no storm. Arminas and I were just down at the harbor not ten minutes ago. We saw no sign of a storm."

"Indeed, if anything, the sea is strangely calm," Arminas said, giving his lord a concerned look.

Círdan stared at them in consternation. "What are you two babbling about? Of course there’s a storm coming. Do you not think I know when one comes?"

Before either ellon could answer, Círdan strode out of his bedroom and down the hall to the central staircase leading to the outside. Arminas and Galdor followed him. Through the front door and down the steps they went, making for the outer terrace overlooking the harbor. Círdan came to a shocked halt as he stared out across the Haven to see the western sky clear of any cloud, the stars burning brightly, the sea, as Arminas had remarked, calm... too calm.

"How can this be?" he asked, a sense of dread beginning to rise within him. "I swear, there were clouds on the horizon heralding a storm such as I have not seen since the War of Wrath."

"Perhaps it was a... waking vision, lord, sent to you by Lord Ulmo," Galdor suggested with some degree of uncertainty. He had never seen the Shipwright so nonplused before in all the long years of their acquaintance.

For a moment Círdan did not speak, merely stood there staring out to sea as if searching for something that wasn’t there. Then, almost to himself, he nodded. "I have been plagued by dark dreams of late," he said softly. "Perhaps I was still dreaming and did not know it."

"If Lord Ulmo has sent you a vision of such a storm as you describe," Arminas said, frowning slightly, "perhaps it would be well for us to secure the harbor."

"But we have no idea when or if such a storm will happen," Galdor protested. "For how long do we secure the harbor?"

"For as long as it takes until I am assured by Lord Ulmo or even Lord Ossë that no such storm is coming, or that it comes indeed," Círdan stated, interrupting the two ellyn’s conversation. "Alert the harbormaster, Galdor," he ordered even as he turned to go back inside the house. "I want every ship secured before the second hour after dawn. Arminas, come with me."

Galdor was wise enough to his lord’s moods not to argue but gave Círdan his obeisance and started down the path that would lead to the harbor, while Arminas followed the Shipwright into the house and down the lefthand hall to Círdan’s office. The Elf-lord went to his desk and drew out a piece of parchment and a quill and was quickly composing a letter, speaking even as he was writing.

"Take this to Lindon," he said to Arminas. "See that Ereinion receives this immediately. No one else. Do I make myself clear?"

"But why....?"

"He needs to be warned of the impending storm," Círdan replied brusquely, sealing the missive with wax imprinted with his personal sigil of a ship. "Lindon is more vulnerable than we and he will need to make the necessary preparations."

Arminas nodded as Círdan handed him the letter. "I will take the swiftest horse."

Círdan nodded. "Go with the blessings of the Valar."

****

Dawn saw the Havens a hive of activity as the Elves hastened to secure the ships and the harbor against a storm for which there were no signs and none could sense coming, yet they trusted their lord implicitly and there were no arguments about it. Círdan walked along the quays, heading towards his private skiff. He had sent orders ahead to have it ready for sailing by the time he arrived.

"Do you think it safe to travel outside the harbor, lord?" Galdor asked him as they met beside the boat. "If this storm comes up without warning...."

"I do not intend to go far," Círdan assured him, "only to the harbor mouth so I may commune more easily with Lord Ulmo if he will deign to grant me an audience. I cannot get it out of my mind that something portentous has happened or will happen."

In minutes the skiff was making its way past the harbor bar and into the rougher waters of the open sea. Círdan skillfully brought the little boat to a small island, little more than a sandy knoll with clumps of sparse vegetation. It was where he normally would go to speak with Lord Ulmo or Ossë whenever the need drove him. Beaching the boat with practiced ease, he sat on the highest part of the island where he had long ago placed a wooden bench and looked out towards the west, towards Valinor. Schooling himself to stillness, he sent out a silent plea, hoping it would be heard. Sometimes his calls went unanswered.

Anor was well above the horizon, shining down upon the harbor before a wave that was larger than all the others rose from the depths of the sea and then Lord Ulmo was there, standing waist-deep in the surf. Círdan stood and offered the Vala his obeisance.

"Thou callest, my son, and I come. Wherefore hast thou summoned me?"

"Summoned, lord?" Círdan asked in confusion. "Never have I summoned thee. All I have ever done is asked for thine attention if thou wouldst so deign to give it."

Ulmo’s expression became unreadable to the Elf. "What dost thou here, child?" the Vala of the Waters asked gently.

"Guren ôr enni," Círdan said simply.

"Of what doth it warn thee?"

"I do not know, lord," Círdan exclaimed, "save that thrice have I dreamt and the dreaming hath left me... disturbed. I woke in the middle of this very night and walked out to view the harbor and saw...."

"What didst thou see, Círdan?" the Vala asked when the Elf hesitated.

"A storm," he answered in a whisper, his expression stricken. "A storm such as I have not seen since the War of Wrath."

For a long moment the only sound was that of the waves crashing upon the beach as Vala and Elf stared at one another. Then Ulmo sighed and it was as if all of Arda sighed with him. Círdan felt a frisson of fear sweep across his fëa.

"Thou dost dream true, my son," Ulmo said at last. "The storm thou didst see cometh though it will not be felt upon these shores for several more days."

"What hath caused this storm, lord?" Círdan asked. "Hath Lord Ossë...."

"Nay," Ulmo said and there was a rumble of thunder that the Elf recognized as the Vala laughing. "Ossë is not to blame for this. The blame is squarely upon the shoulders of the Edain of Númenor, for they have attempted that which should never have been assayed. They have tried to conquer Valinor... tried and failed."

Círdan felt his world tip sideways and he suddenly found himself on his knees, the blood draining from his face as shock took over. Ulmo leaned down and with a single finger gently caressed the Elf’s cheek. The blackness that had threatened to overwhelm the Elf subsided and the ellon could see again, breathe again.

"They did what!?"

Ulmo nodded. "And have been punished for their temerity. Even now Númenor sinks beneath the waves never to be seen again and the wrath of the Valar bloweth nine ships of the Faithful towards these shores and...." Here the Vala hesitated, as if he thought he might have said too much. Then he sighed again. "Ilúvatar in His wisdom hath removed Valinor from Arda."

Círdan shook his head, not sure he had heard correctly. "I... I don’t understand, lord."

"Mên dîr abant n’ Annûn, si mîn bain raeg. Valinor hath been removed from Arda," Ulmo reiterated. "Any who saileth West, be they Elf or Mortal, will find only new lands, mortal lands, where once were the Undying Lands."

"B-but how then? Shall we who reside here in Ennorath be sundered forever from our kin? What of those who wish to leave these shores, who have felt the Sea-longing and can no longer deny it?"

"Peace, child," Ulmo said. "The Elves will always be able to find the Straight Road if they so desire. Ilúvatar wishes not for the Firstborn to suffer for the follies of the Second Children."

Círdan shook his head again, unsure how to feel about this news. Then, he looked up at the Vala. "How much time do we have?"

"More time than thou might otherwise," Ulmo said gravely, "for it is in my mind that Ilúvatar Himself sent thee these dreams as a warning."

"And thou didst not think to do the same, lord?" Círdan could not help asking with a quirk of his lips and a wry look in his eyes.

Ulmo laughed again. "I have been busy of late, child," he said not unkindly. "I would have gotten around to thee eventually."

Now Círdan laughed as well, though his humor did not last long. He sighed, thinking of the destruction of the Isle of Gift given to the Edain by the Valar themselves. He mourned for their loss and dreaded having to tell young Elrond that the descendants of his brother had fallen so far into Shadow. Then he remembered something the Vala had said...

"Ships?" he asked, giving Ulmo a hard stare. "Thou didst mention ships flying before the storm?"

Ulmo nodded. "Nine ships of the Faithful led by Elendil the Tall make their way to these shores even as we speak. Four will land here, the other five have been driven southward."

"Then I had best return to Mithlond and warn the High King to expect visitors," Círdan said drolly and Ulmo smiled.

"I am sure young Gil-galad would appreciate the warning." With that, the Lord of Waters turned and walked out into the sea, slipping beneath the waves, his trident the last thing seen.

Círdan stared out towards the west and south in the direction of drowned Númenor. No sign of storm or ships was there, all was deceptively calm. With a shake of his head at the foolishness of Mortals, he climbed back into his skiff and raised the sail to take him back into the harbor and the Havens, already mentally composing his next letter to Ereinion as he went.

****

All words and phrases are Sindarin.

Mîn bain raeg: ‘All Roads are Bent’.

Yén: An elvish century equal to 144 solar years.

Ellyn: Plural of ellon: Male Elf.

Guren ôr enni: ‘My heart warned me’.

Fëa: Spirit, soul.

Mên dîr abant n’ Annûn, si mîn bain raeg: ‘A straight road went towards the West, now all roads are bent’. This phrase is attested in Qenya: ‘Malle téra lende númenna, ilya sí maller raikar’ [See The Lost Road, HoME V: Part I ‘The Fall of Númenor and the Lost Road’, Section III ‘The Lost Road’, Subsection (i) ‘The Opening Chapters’, Chapter 2 ‘Alboin and Audoin’]. In LoTR-style Quenya this would be rendered: ‘Mallë téra lendë númenna, ilyë sí maller raicë’.

Ennorath: Middle-earth.

STAR: Albedo 0.65

SUMMARY: Manwë assures Eärendil of the importance of his mission even as the Valar prepare Vingilot for a most remarkable voyage.

****

"Your ship is nearly ready," Manwë said as he and Eärendil strolled through the gardens surrounding the Elder King’s mansion in Valmar. Roses bloomed everywhere, along with hydrangeas and crown chrysanthemums. Purple wisteria climbed the arbors and butterflies flitted about. Songbirds sang sweetly in the trees along the garden’s edge or in the hedges lining the path.

"I still do not understand, lord, why I must do this," Eärendil said, feeling somewhat at a loss. So much had happened in so short a time and he had barely had a chance to speak with Elwing.

He grimaced slightly at that thought. He was unsure how he felt about her choice for them. He probably was a fool to let her be the one to choose, but it was too late now. They were counted among the Elves and his Mortal kin were apparently of little importance to anyone.

Manwë smiled gently, well aware of the young man’s inner turmoil. "Your Mortal blood is what saved you, you know," he said and Eärendil stopped and stared at the Elder King in confusion. Manwë nodded. "Yours and Elwing’s. Had you been of pure elven blood you would never have reached Aman. Your Mortal ancestors were the key."

"I’m sorry, I don’t understand," Eärendil said, feeling suddenly stupid and somehow uncouth.

"There’s no reason why you should, child," Manwë said solicitously. He gestured towards a stone bench under a cypress tree and together the two of them sat. For a moment or two they stared out into the garden where sunlight played among the flowers and fountains splashed merrily. Finally, Manwë spoke again. "Elwing made the right choice. You realize, don’t you, that once here we could never allow you to return to Ennorath?"

Eärendil felt himself grow pale at that thought, his expression one of deep loss, and Manwë put a comforting arm around the young man’s shoulders. "You were always meant to come here, child," the Elder King said gently. "It was always your fate to do so, to be the ambassador of both Elves and Men, to be the catalyst for us to take action, but it was never your destiny to return to your people. That road is forever closed to you. So you see, Elwing’s choice was the right one for you both."

"But I don’t want to live forever," Eärendil blurted out, then went white at his own temerity.

Manwë simply grinned. "Forever is a long time, child, even for us. You will share the same lifespan as the Firstborn but no longer than that. When Arda comes to an end, so will you and what happens afterwards only Ilúvatar knows."

That thought did not exactly comfort him, but Eärendil remained silent, not wishing to offend the Elder King any more than he already had. As he continued to sit and think, something Lord Manwë had said caught his attention. "You said something about being a... a catalyst...."

Manwë nodded. "We knew eventually we would act, but we needed to wait until the right moment. We were waiting for you, you see. Your coming here was foretold and long-awaited. Now, we can act and finally put an end to our Fallen Brother’s reign of terror."

Eärendil stared at Manwë in confusion. "Why couldn’t you act sooner? Why do you act at all? You cursed the Noldor and all who have commerce with them, including Men who had nothing to do with their rebellion. You raised your mountains and shut yourselves away and heeded not our cries. Frankly, my lord, I am surprised that Elwing and I were ever allowed safe passage through the Shadowy Seas and now you punish us... punish me by making me fly this ship of yours into the sky, forever doomed to sail among the stars alone."

"Is that what you think, child, that this is a punishment?" Manwë asked, his face etched with sorrow. "I assure you that it is not, and you have not been condemned to eternal solitude. You will voyage only for a short time while we Valar create a more permanent sign for the peoples of Ennorath. After that you are free to do as you wish, to live where you will with your beloved Elwing." He paused and gazed out into the garden for a moment before continuing. "As for the rest... we did not sanction the rebellion of the Noldor but neither did we curse them for it. They, in fact, served a purpose though they would be loath to know that they served as our instruments in spite of everything."

"What purpose did they serve?" Eärendil asked.

"How much of the early history of your Mortal ancestors before they entered Beleriand do you know?" Manwë asked.

Eärendil blinked a few times, caught off-guard by the unexpected question. He was not sure to what history the Elder King referred. He knew some of the legends that were spoken among his Mortal kin but that was all. "They escaped thralldom from... from the Dark One and fled to the West in search of... of paradise. All they found though was war and a curse."

Manwë nodded and, though he knew the truth of the early history of the Edain, he did not contradict the young man’s version. "Just as we did not know the time or place of the awakening of the Firstborn, neither did we know when or where the Secondborn would appear. We knew, though, that at the creation of the Sun and Moon they would arise."

Eärendil frowned. "You just said you didn’t know when...."

"That is true. We did not know when. Your early ancestors came into existence before the first rising of Anor, but it was with the coming of the Sun that some of them threw off the yoke of thralldom to the Dark One, as you call him. At that moment, your ancestors rose out of the ignorance that had enslaved them and sought us and Ilúvatar, though you knew it not until you came to Beleriand and were tutored by the Noldor, the same Noldor who unwittingly were your protectors, keeping Morgoth at bay, virtually besieged and fully occupied on the northern fringes of Ennorath. And they did so without provoking him to a frenzy of nihilistic destruction, giving your ancestors time to reach Beleriand so you might join in the war against him."

Eärendil remained silent, trying to assimilate all that the Elder King had told him. "And now you would go to war at the last?"

Manwë shook his head. "The Valar will not, for that would bring total destruction to Arda. We will send the Maiar and those Elves who are willing to go. I know Arafinwë is anxious to lead the Noldor and many of the Vanyar will also answer the call to arms though the Teleri will not."

"And my role in all this?"

Manwë smiled. "Your role is to bring hope to the beleaguered peoples of Ennorath, to be a sign that the Valar have not forsaken them in their hour of need. It will take time for us to prepare for war, so your task will be to offer solace to those of Beleriand who must endure until the host of the Valar can reach them."

Eärendil nodded, then looked somewhat abashed. "I... I’m not... I mean... flying...."

"I will have one of my people accompany you this first time," Manwë said with a gentle smile. "I realize that this must be somewhat frightening for you, but I think you’ll get used to it soon enough." He rose and Eärendil stood as well. Manwë took the young man in his embrace and kissed him on the brow. "Go with the blessings of the Valar and Ilúvatar."

"What about Elwing?" Eärendil asked suddenly. "Could she not come with me?"

Manwë shook his head. "She is with Aulë and Yavanna learning how better to control her shapeshifting abilities which she inherited from Lúthien. When you come back this way after your maiden voyage she will meet you. Ah, and here is Fionwë to see you to your ship."

Eärendil turned to see one of the Maiar approaching, one wearing the sky-blue tabard with the embroidered eagle that was the Elder King’s emblem. The Maia bowed and gave Eärendil a smile. "Your ship awaits you, Lord Eärendil."

Eärendil sighed, still not sanguine about any of this, but he gave Manwë a bow and dutifully followed the Maia out of the garden. Manwë watched the young man go, a wistful smile on his face. Even as he stood there, Varda, Ulmo and Námo appeared. He turned and gave them a warmer smile in greeting. "So, have you determined the parameters for the planet yet?" he asked as he gestured for them to follow him through the garden.

Ulmo nodded. "Based on the Silmaril’s luminosity we’ve decided Tancol — that’s the name we’ve given the planet," Manwë nodded and gestured for Ulmo to continue, "should have the following characteristics: mean radius of 0.949 Ardas... mass of 0.857 Ardas...semi-major axis of 0.723332 astronomical units... eccentricity of 0.0068... orbital period of 0.615 years... sidereal rotation period of 243.0185 days... albedo of 0.65...."

****

Ennorath: (Sindarin) Middle-earth.

Edain: (Sindarin) Men; specifically the Men of the Three Houses associated with the Eldar in their war against Morgoth.

Tancol: (Quenya) Signifer, i.e. Venus. The name literally means ‘sign-bearer’ and is attested.

Arda: (Quenya) In this instance, meaning 'Earth' rather than the solar system as a whole.

Notes:

1. The discussion about the ultimate role of the Noldor in the war against Morgoth is taken from Tolkien’s ‘Notes on Motives in the Silmarillion', HoME X, Morgoth’s Ring.

2. Manwë’s assertion that Men rose before the rising of the Sun is based on some of Tolkien’s later writings where he decided that Men awakening with the first rising of the Sun was too late chronologically speaking. It is something that he never fully resolved to his own satisfaction (or ours). I have decided that Men did indeed arise under the stars but it was with the rising of the Sun that some of them rejected Melkor’s thralldom and came westward into Beleriand. These Men became the Edain. Keeping in mind that the Silmarillion is a collection of Mannish tales twice removed from the original source, it stands to reason that legends about the ancestors of the Edain shaking off Melkor’s shadow at the creation of the Sun would be conflated with other tales describing the first awakening of Men in Middle-earth.

3. Albedo: The fraction of the total light striking a surface that gets reflected from that surface. An object that has a high albedo (near 1) is very bright; an object that has a low albedo (near 0) is dark. The Earth’s albedo is about 0.37. Venus’ albedo is the highest of all the planets in our solar system.

CHILD: Childe Estel to the Dark Tower Came

SUMMARY: Young Estel gets a history lesson and his family gets another kind of lesson.

WARNING: There is humor here, so be alert.

****

Elrond entered his library to find that it had been invaded by orcs, Easterlings and miniature mûmakil.

"Ada! Don’t step on my army!"

Elrond looked to see young Estel, just turned five, lying on his stomach, his feet in the air, happily moving a group of orcs forward, apparently to do battle with a group of warriors that appeared to be either Elves or Men, though there were a couple of shorter figures with full beards that could only be Dwarves. The Lord of Imladris glanced around to see that most of the floor space before his desk was covered with several warrior figures, as well as toy horses, toy mûmakil... and one ceramic cat.

"Odd, I don’t recall a cat fighting in any of our wars," Elrond mused aloud and he heard a chuckle from behind. Turning, he saw Glorfindel standing there with his hands on his hips. His older sons, he noticed, were trying to peek around the massive frame of the golden-haired Captain of the Imladrin Guards, amused smiles on their identical faces.

"Apparently young Estel thinks there should have been," Glorfindel said. The former lord of the Golden Flower of Gondolin cast a critical eye across the battlefield and then in a graceful motion knelt down to move some elven warriors forward.

"No, Glorfi!" cried Estel. "You’ll ruin ev’rything!"

"And what exactly will I ruin, penneth?" Glorfindel asked, clearly intrigued by the youngster’s strategy.

For an answer, the youngest son of Elrond pointed to a lone figure to his right. The Elves all looked and Elrond heard one of the twins gasp. "Hey! Where did you get that, Estel?" Elrohir demanded. "Do you have permission..."

"Actually he does."

They all turned to see Erestor entering the room with a tray of food. From the looks of it — a plate of apple slices, another of ginger biscuits, and two glasses of milk — this was meant for little Estel. Erestor gave them all an amused look as he placed the tray on a reading table to the right of the battlefield. He nudged Glorfindel with his foot. "Move, you over-grown balrog-slayer," he said. "You’re in the way."

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow at Elrond’s chief councillor. "What did you call me?" he asked in a tone of voice that just bordered on the dangerous.

Erestor gave him stare for stare. "I called you an overgrown balrog-slayer," he said calmly.

"Oh," said the golden-haired ellon, seemingly mollified. "I thought you said ‘overblown balrog-slayer’."

"That too," Erestor replied with a wicked grin and Glorfindel smiled back. Elrond and the twins chuckled. Estel, apparently forgotten by them all, was unimpressed.

"Glorfi, move!" he cried with childish frustration. "Westor and I are playing."

"And what exactly are we playing?" Elrond asked, looking pointedly at Erestor.

The Chief Councillor of Imladris smiled. "We’re playing war as you can see." He pointed to the lone figure to Estel’s right. It was somewhat taller than the other figures, clearly elven. "That’s Sauron, in case you have any doubts."

"I see," Elrond said. "So this is the Last Alliance."

Erestor nodded as they all examined the layout. Of the five Elves, only Elrond and Glorfindel had actually fought in the Last Alliance. Erestor had remained behind as Elrond’s steward in Imladris, and the twins had yet to be born.

"So where are Gil-galad and Elendil?" Elladan asked, trying to identify the figures based on their general location.

"There," Estel pointed to his left to a small group of figures somewhat in the middle of the field. "An’ Ada and Glorfi and me!"

"Excuse me?" Elrond asked.

Estel nodded excitedly and reached over to pluck one of the figures from the floor. This one was just a tad larger than the others. It wore elven armor and held a sword and shield. "See? This is me and I’m gonna fight Thauron," the child lisped the fallen Maia’s name, his two front teeth missing.

"Truly?" Elrohir asked, getting down on his knees to better speak to his little brother. "Well, if you’re fighting in the Last Alliance, why can’t ’Dan and I fight as well?"

Estel gave his older brother a scathing look. "’Cause this is my army, ’Roh. Go get your own."

"Now, Estel," Elrond admonished him with a frown," what have I told you about sharing?"

"But, Ada," the little boy protested, "ev’rytime ’Roh and ’Dan play war with me, they never let me have my own army. They just make me watch."

Elrond turned his frown on the twins, who were both red with embarrassment. "Is this true, iôn nîn?" he asked, but the expressions on their faces told the story. He turned back to Estel. "I am sorry penneth. From now on whenever your brothers play war with you, they will let you have your own army. Isn’t that so, my sons?"

"Yes, Ada," the twins muttered together, clearly chastised.

"Sorry, Ada," Elladan added. "I guess ’Roh and I just got carried away."

Glorfindel gave them his own hard stare. "You are not teaching your brother anything if you simply take over his games."

"Westor let’s me play all the time," Estel said with childish smugness, "even if I’m not very good at... at stwatgy."

"Strategy," Erestor corrected gently as he handed the youngster one of the glasses of milk, along with some ginger biscuits. "And you’re better than your brothers were when they were your age."

Estel gave his tutor a surprised look. "Really?"

Erestor nodded, casting an amused smile at the identical affronted looks on the twins’ faces. Glorfindel, meanwhile, went back to examining the battlefield. It was surprisingly accurate in layout and no doubt that was Erestor’s doing. Although the ellon had not participated in the war, he had studied it, questioning all those who had been there, examining and re-examining every point of strategy, and sometimes even recreating it much as he was doing with Estel at the moment. Still Glorfindel was unsure about one detail of this particular recreation of the battle.

"Why are you fighting Sauron, Estel?" he asked. "I thought Gil-galad and Elendil fought him."

"Not this time!" Estel exclaimed, the gleam of battle brightening his young eyes as he finished his milk, giving Erestor back the glass.

The Elves exchanged amused smiles, but before anyone could comment, Estel looked up at Elrond, his eyes now dark with confusion and worry.

"Ada, were you hurt in the war?"

Elrond gazed at his youngest child with grave sympathy, understanding what was behind the question. He reached down and lifted his son into his arms and settled him on his lap as he sat in the chair before his desk.

"Yes, iôn nîn," he answered gently. "I suffered many wounds during the long siege. That is the price every warrior pays for lifting a sword."

"Even you?" the child asked.

"Even I," his Ada replied. "Even Glorfindel, and your brothers."

The youngster cast wide eyes at the others, who all nodded gravely. Glorfindel was saddened at the small loss of innocence that he could see in Estel’s eyes, knowing that all too soon the child would become a man and he would suffer his own wounds.

Estel climbed down from Elrond’s lap and went to the warrior figure he had designated as himself. Picking it up and stepping carefully around the battlefield so as not to upset any of the figures, he reached for the ‘Sauron’ figure and brought the two together in a mock battle.

"Take that, Thauron!" he cried. "That’s for hurting my Ada and Glorfi." There were actual tears of anger in his eyes and Glorfindel, being the closest to the child, reached over and lifted him, settling him in his lap, rocking him gently.

"Hush now, Little One," he said softly. "Your Ada is well and safe, as am I. There’s no need for tears."

Estel, however, was not easily consoled and it took the combined efforts of all of them to give the youngest member of the household assurances — though the ginger biscuits and apple slices that Erestor gave him probably helped. The child was calmly drinking from the other glass of milk, Erestor having assured the youngster that he really wasn't thirsty, seated cross-legged between Glorfindel’s knees, when the door to the library opened and Lady Gilraen stepped in. Immediately, all the Elves stood and offered the young widow their bows, which she accepted with shy grace. She noticed the toy warriors strewn about the floor and raised a delicate eyebrow, but said nothing except to hold out her hand to her son.

"Estel, it’s time for your nap."

"Aw, Nana," the child protested, "We were just getting to the good part."

"Your Nana is correct, iôn nîn," Elrond said with a sympathetic smile. "Finish your milk. You and Erestor can fight the Last Alliance another day."

Estel dutifully did as he was told, but as Gilraen began to lead him out, he stopped before Elrond, his expression wistful. "Ada? Do you think I will be a good warrior when I grow up?"

Elrond glanced at Gilraen, noticing the haunted look in her eyes, before giving his youngest son an answer. "I think you will be good at whatever you put your mind to, child." He bent down and gently kissed the boy on his brow, brushing back the unruly tangles and smiling. "Now, off you go with your Nana."

Estel nodded and gave Gilraen a winning smile. His Nana smiled back as she led him to the door while the Elves gave her another bow. Just as they reached the door though, Estel stopped one more time and turned back to his brothers, giving them a stern look, or as stern a look as a five-year-old can muster. "’Roh, ’Dan, don’t play with Thauron. He’s mine."

Gilraen rolled her eyes and shooed her son out of the room, giving the Elves an apologetic smile as she closed the door. For a moment there was only silence in the library and then Glorfindel snickered and soon they were all laughing, each of them claiming one of the figures for themselves as they started a mock battle of their own.

But they wisely left ‘Sauron’ alone.

****

All words are Sindarin unless otherwise noted.

Childe: (Archaic English) A youth of gentle birth, an untested knight. The title is a play on Robert Browning’s poem, ‘Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came’.

Ada: Hypocoristic form of Adar: Father.

Penneth: Young one.

Iôn nîn: My son(s). This can be plural from context.

Nana: Hypocoristic form of Naneth: Mother.

MEMORIAL: Carved in Stone

SUMMARY: Legolas attempts to deal with his grief after Gimli’s death. A sequel to Parting Gifts which can be found at this archive.

****

"What are you doing, Legolas?"

Legolas Thranduilion looked up from his work, his expression one of annoyance, for this was the third person this morning to ask what to him was an inane question. He found himself staring into the concerned eyes of Mithran... no, he corrected himself mentally, Olórin. The Maia was not even in his ithron guise, but clothed as he normally appeared among the Elves of Aman. He tried to school his features to something that was more polite but wasn’t sure if he succeeded when he noticed Olórin raising an eyebrow.

"What does it look like I’m doing?" Legolas retorted with a sigh.

"Hmm... at a guess, I would say you’re making a right mess of things, as our dear Sam would say."

The drollness of the answer and its unexpectedness brought the Elf up short and in spite of himself he found himself grinning.

"Seriously, Child," the Maia said, "what are you doing?"

Legolas leaned back on his heels, for he had been kneeling all this while. "Isn’t it obvious? I’m building a memorial for Gimli." He gestured at the slab of black marble on which he had been carefully chiseling Gimli’s name and attributes. Marble chips lay all about and there was a thin coating of black dust on the Elf’s clothes. ‘GIMLI GLÓINU...’ was as far as he had gotten, carving the Cirth runes with great deliberateness.

Olórin sighed. "Perhaps I should rephrase the question: Why are you doing this?"

Now Legolas’ demeanor became somewhat haughty, his expression suggesting that the answer to the Maia’s question was obvious to even the most dimwitted person in Arda. "You know as well as I that it is the custom among Dwarves to..."

Olòrin gave him an impatient gesture. "You needn’t lecture me on the customs of Dwarves, elfling. I was there when Durin awoke."

Legolas felt himself blush for no particular reason, and when he spoke, his demeanor was less haughty. "Gimli has no kin to remember him or to build a memorial as is their custom. I remembered Balin’s tomb in Moria and I wanted... I just wanted...."

Now he found himself trembling with the effort not to break down before the Maia. He’d been doing that a lot lately and hated himself for his weakness. Olórin gave him a sympathetic smile. "Who are you doing this for, Legolas, you or Gimli?"

The elven prince looked up in surprise even as he rose to face the Maia more squarely. "For Gimli, of course!" he exclaimed, growing suddenly angry. "Who else would I do it for? The other Elves don’t even care...."

"Do they not?" Olórin interrupted, though his tone was not unkindly. "Do you think Lady Galadriel does not care or Lord Elrond or even Prince Finrod, who only met Gimli on his deathbed? Do you think I don’t care?"

Legolas blushed at the reprimand but would not back down. "I need to do this, Mithrandir," he said in a pleading voice, forgetting he was not speaking to his old friend from Middle-earth but to one of the Maiar who had helped to create the very world they inhabited.

"Why?"

For a moment, Legolas did not answer. He glanced down at the half-finished tombstone and shook his head. "I don’t know," he whispered. "I just know I need to do this."

He felt rather than saw Olórin approach and place his hands on the Elf’s shoulders, forcing him to look up. There was no condemnation in the Maia’s eyes, not even pity, which Legolas feared the most, only deep sympathy. "Legolas, the best memorial you can ever give your friend is to honor his last request."

"His last request to me was to play my harp," Legolas insisted though he knew full well what Olórin meant.

The Maia shook his head at the intransigence of this son of Thranduil. "You know that is not what I meant. You know that Gimli’s one concern was for you, his dearest friend. I promised I would do what I could to help you to find new friends but you need to do your part...."

Legolas pulled away from the Maia, his expression set. "I do not want new friends," he hissed vehemently. "I want my old ones back!"

For a moment silence enveloped them as Olórin continued to gaze sympathetically upon the upset Elf. "I miss them, too," he finally said softly, "more than you shall ever know."

Legolas stared at his friend in consternation, realizing that in his own pain he may have inflicted pain on one who deserved only his understanding and not his condemnation. He was appalled at his behavior. He was, after all, an elven prince. Granted, his lineage was not as noble as, say, Prince Finrod’s, but even so....

"Goheno nîn," he said softly, and meant it.

Olórin gave the Elf a sad smile. "Unlike you, my friend, I made many friends among the Mortals during my sojourn in Middle-earth. I miss every one of them, but I do not regret having known them. I built a memorial for every one of them as well."

Legolas gave him a surprised look. Olórin nodded and then jabbed a forefinger at his chest. "My heart is carved with memorials to all my mortal friends. I grieved for their loss and then I moved on, keeping alive their memories here in the depths of my fëa. You need to do the same, Child. Build your tomb for your friend if you wish, but know that your best memorial to him is to go on, to live as he wanted you to, to know joy again."

"It’s so hard...." Legolas began but he could not continue his thought for the tears that were now streaming down his cheeks.

Olórin took him into his embrace. "I know it is, far better than you might think." He held the Elf, giving him whatever comfort Legolas would accept from him. "But the alternative is even harder. You are a prince of your people, Legolas Thranduilion. Do not disappoint your friends, both here in Aman and those who have passed beyond the Circles of Arda, by succumbing to grief. Gimli would not wish it, nor Aragorn, nor any of us who love you." Then he pushed the Elf gently from him far enough to look him in the eyes and gave him what Legolas could only describe as a wicked grin. "And just think what your adar would say if he saw you like this."

In spite of himself, Legolas could not help grin at the image of Thranduil giving him a lecture on the very subject. "He would kick my behind from here to Mordor and back if he knew."

Olórin nodded, giving him a wide grin. "And rightly so."

Legolas sighed, closing his eyes briefly and then opening them to stare down at the marble slab. "He was impossible to the very end," he muttered as if to himself. "I think if he were here he would scoff at my efforts."

"He would probably make a scathing remark about incompetent Elves," Olórin said teasingly, "but in the end, I think he would have been pleased."

Legolas gave the Maia a shy glance. "Do you think so?"

Olórin nodded. "Not that he would ever tell you," he said with a laugh and Legolas joined him.

"I need to finish this," the Elf said once they had calmed down.

"And you will," Olórin said, "but not today. Come. Let us find our friends who knew Gimli as well and build the best memorial we can for him together."

"How?" Legolas enquired, somewhat puzzled by Olórin’s words.

The Maia gave him a gentle smile and Legolas suddenly saw in Olórin’s eyes the ithron he had known in Middle-earth looking out at him. "By sharing our stories about him," he answered. "By sharing our laughter and tears." Then he gave him a knowing look. "By carving his memorial upon our very hearts where not even a cave troll can destroy it."

For a moment Legolas did not move, suddenly remembering their time in Moria and how the cave troll had destroyed poor Balin’s tomb and knew that Olórin spoke truly. He glanced down at the marble slab one more time and nodded. "Tomorrow, my friend," he whispered, then he looked up at the Maia and smiled. "I think Gimli would like that."

Olórin smiled back and together the two of them walked away, leaving the half-finished memorial in stone behind to its own memories of when it was once part of the mountains of the Pelóri.

****

All words are Sindarin:

Ithron: Wizard.

Goheno nîn: ‘Forgive me’.

Adar: Father.

END: Nightfall in Aman

SUMMARY: When the Two Trees die, night descends upon Aman. A look at one Elf’s reaction.

****

Itarildë stood outside her bedroom, looking up at the sky in wonder, her mouth agape, as she clutched her favorite stuffed toy. She could not believe how beautiful the dark was with the stars spangled across it like diamonds. And rubies. And emeralds. For she could see that the stars were not all one color.

She hugged herself and a smile crossed her lips as she continued to stare upward. She had been frightened at first, she admitted to herself, when the Lights of the Trees had wavered and then dimmed altogether. She recalled the shocked voices of her parents and the other adults even as she had stopped in her play. They had been at a feast decreed by the Elder King and all had gathered in Ilmarin. Itarildë had been playing with other elflings in one of the courtyards while their parents sat around the tables and spoke of boring things, when all of a sudden the light that was always present went out and they were left in what many assumed was eternal darkness.

There had been much screaming and crying. Itarildë had tried to find her ammë or atto but there was so much confusion about with everyone running hither and yon that she was nearly crushed by the throng seeking to leave Ilmarin for the Trees. Then, strong hands wrapped around her and lifted her up.

"Stay with me, Little One," her rescuer said quietly and she found herself in the arms of her cousin Findaráto.

"Fi-finda! What has happened? Why is the Light gone? Wh-what are those?" She pointed upwards into the night sky. She could not see her cousin’s face very clearly for there was no light, though she heard him chuckling softly.

"Those are stars, Little One," the prince said.

"Stars," she said in wonder. She had heard of stars but had never seen them, for she had not yet traveled through the Calacirya to where they were visible. Atto had promised to take her at her next begetting day.

They were out of Ilmarin now, her cousin’s strong arms around her, keeping her safe. "Where’s ammë and atto?" she asked at one point as they followed the crowd of elves along the road leading down the mountain to Vanyamar and thence to the city of the Valar and the Trees beyond. By now torches had been procured by some so there was more light though many of the older elves insisted that they could see quite well without them, recalling the early days of their existence before coming to Aman.

"I do not know," Findaráto answered calmly, "but they are well, never fear. We will find them soon."

Itarildë snuggled further into her cousin’s embrace and looked contentedly at the carpet of light above them, no longer feeling afraid.

****

"Itarildë! Come inside, child."

Elenwë gently took her daughter’s hand and led her back inside, chivvying her into her bed and tucking her in. Itarildë could see her ammë was worried, her usual smile fled.

"Ammë, why did the Trees... the Trees...?" but she suddenly realized she had no word for what had happened and she clutched her toy closer to her, feeling unsure again.

Elenwë sighed as she sat on the edge of the bed and ran her fingers through her daughter’s locks in an attempt to comfort her. "The word you want, yeldenya, is ‘die’.

"Die." Itarildë played with the word in her mouth for a moment, deciding she did not like the sound of it. She looked up at her ammë. "So why did they... die?"

"They were... hurt by Melkor," Elenwë said, unwilling to explain to her child the concept of ‘poison’.

"Can they not be fixed?" Itarildë asked in all innocence.

Elenwë shook her head. "Melkor hurt them too much," she said sadly. "They will never shine again."

Itarildë thought about that for a moment. She knew she should be sorry for the Trees and she did sort of miss their Light which had been a constant in her life, but then she glanced outside and saw the stars and could not be sad. She turned to her ammë and gave her a smile. "It is well, ammë. I am not afraid."

But Elenwë merely shook her head. "It is the end of the world as we know it. Nothing will ever be the same again."

Itarildë had no answer to that and shortly afterwards Elenwë leaned over and gave her daughter a kiss. "I will leave this candle lit so you will not be afraid," she said before she left.

For a long moment, Itarildë remained in bed, but then the stars drew her and she made her way outside again, her toy firmly in her grasp. She knew that she would miss the Trees but she could not be sad. The stars were so beautiful and she reveled in their high cold song just barely heard on the fringes of her mind.

"I wonder if they have names," she said aloud and the thought of all those stars each with its own name brought her mind to a standstill in wonder.

When some time later Turucáno came into the bedroom to check on his daughter, he found her sitting cross-legged on a rug that she had brought out onto the balcony,pointing at the sky, obviously speaking to her stuffed toy. He stood in shock and growing wonder, listening to her naming the stars.

"...and that pretty green one we can call Ezelmírë and the diamondy one next to it we can call Finda after my cousin ’cause he likes diamonds, and...."

"You should be asleep, yeldenya," Turucáno said softly as he came out onto the balcony.

Itarildë looked up at her atto and smiled. "I could not sleep, Atto. The stars were singing."

Turucáno looked down at his daughter, giving her a wistful smile. "And what are they singing, child?"

"Their names, of course," she responded simply and Turucáno nodded gravely, even as he picked her up and settled her into his lap as he sat on the rug.

"Perhaps you would like to introduce me to some of them," he said softly. There had been so much fear and confusion when the Trees died and now they had only just learned that Finwë himself had been murdered by Melkor and Fëanáro’s Silmarils stolen. He did not know what would come of all of this and grieved for all that had been lost, for all that might still be lost.

Yet here was his innocent daughter happily naming the stars, oblivious to all the anguish and pain that others were feeling. Perhaps not everything was lost, he decided as he stared up at the star-strewn night. Perhaps there was still innocence and high beauty untouched by the evil surrounding them. He bent down and kissed his daughter gently on the top of her head and Itarildë snuggled further into her atto’s embrace. She pointed up into the sky.

"Do you see that pretty red star shining above those trees, Atto?" she asked, happy to introduce her atto to her new friends. "That’s Carnimírë and then further up is a blue star. That’s Nenya and...."

****

Ammë: Hypocoristic form of Amillë: Mother.

Atto: Hypocoristic form of Atar: Father.

Yeldenya: My daughter.

Note: Itarildë is the Quenya form of Idril; Findaráto is Finrod, and Turucáno is Turgon.

APRON: Ambiguities of a Lexical Kind

SUMMARY: When Aragorn and Legolas visit Gimli at Aglarond, they all receive a language lesson. Takes place early in the Fourth Age.

WARNING: Linguistic humor here.

****

"Mind the apron," Gimli said.

Legolas glanced around in confusion, looking for a piece of cloth with strings. Aragorn hid a smile at the Elf’s expression, saying nothing. "Why do you need an apron, Gimli?" the Prince of Ithilien-en-Edhil asked.

Gimli snorted good-naturedly as he pointed to a scree of gravel and sand spread before the entrance to Aglarond, the Glittering Caves, where Gimli and a small colony of Dwarves now dwelt.

"That’s called the apron, you daft elfling, where all that sand and gravel lie."

"Whatever for?" Legolas couldn’t help asking, in spite of the fact that he knew he was in for a terrible ribbing from Aragorn, never mind the Dwarf. "Aprons are what you put on over your clothes to protect them from harm. I don’t see why you would call this pile of dirt an apron."

Gimli scowled, though both Man and Elf could see a glitter of amusement deep in his eyes. "I don’t know why it’s called an apron, either, it just is. Why do you call yourself an Elf?"

Legolas raised a surprised eyebrow at the unexpected question. "Because that’s what I am."

Gimli nodded. "Just so. We call you ‘Elf’...."

"Among other things," Aragorn couldn’t help muttering and had the pleasure of seeing Legolas frown at him while Gimli chuckled.

"We call you ‘Elf’ because that is what you are," Gimli repeated. "We call this an apron because that is what it is."

"Why didn’t you call it something else?" Legolas insisted. "‘Apron’... that has too many domestic connotations."

"I didn’t decide to call it that, you pointy-eared menace," Gimli nearly shouted. "It’s what it’s always been called."

"Hmm...." Legolas said, his eyes darkening with mischief. "Elves began the making of words. I don’t recall any of the loremasters deciding to use ‘apron’ to indicate this," he said, pointing to the moraine.

Now Aragorn couldn’t resist entering into the discussion. "As if you were there in the beginning," he said with a sniff.

Legolas rewarded him with a cool, elvish stare. "I know those who were," was his only comment and both Aragorn and Gimli blanched at the implications of those words, giving each other uneasy looks. Suddenly, they saw their friend and long-time companion as something utterly other and both Man and Dwarf felt a frisson of awe course up their spines.

"Still," Aragorn said after a tense moment of silence, swallowing a bit nervously as he pushed certain thoughts to the back of his mind to examine later, "Elves are not the only people to create new words or new uses for words."

"Yet, unlike the Mortal races," Legolas retorted, "Elves use words precisely. Mortals, I notice, are rather lazy with their words, using ‘apron’, for instance, for more than one thing, neither having any bearing on the other, so far as I can tell."

"Oh? So tell me, Elf," Aragorn said with a wicked smile, "if my cousin Gilhael suddenly announces to the court ‘iAran gwann’ am I dead or have I simply left the room?"

Legolas gave him a smirk. "Knowing Gilhael as I do, he probably would mean both at the same time."

Aragorn laughed, conceding the point. "Well, how about this? If we’re in a cave," here he winked at Gimli, "and the Dwarf says ‘Mabo ylf’ does he want you to seize a torch or a goblet?"

Gimli snorted, "It’d better be a torch," he muttered, then his eyes twinkled with merriment, "so he can then hand me the goblet."

Legolas rolled his eyes while Gimli laughed. Aragorn just smiled. Then he resumed his ‘lesson’. "Or what if I were to travel to the Woodland Realm and told your father, ‘Éomer ’ar higil na lanc Legolas’. Is he holding a dagger at your throat or a necklace?"

"Oh, really Aragorn," Legolas protested.

But Aragorrn ignored him and turned to Gimli with a smirk. "Of course, one has to be careful how one says things in Sindarin," he said pedantically. "If I told Thranduil that ‘’Éomer ’ar higil na Legolas lanc’, it might leave him with the wrong impression."

"Estel!" the elven prince nearly screamed while Aragorn laughed.

Gimli, not getting the joke, gave them a put-upon expression. "Would either one of you care to enlighten me?"

"No!" Legolas shouted, glaring at the two Mortals.

Aragorn, ignoring the fuming Elf, leaned over and whispered into Gimli’s ear. The Dwarf’s expression was priceless as he stared at the Elf, who attempted to appear unaffected by it all... and failed miserably. The Adan straightened, giving the elven prince a cool stare of his own. "So, Legolas, will you admit that even Elves aren’t always precise in their language?"

For a moment Legolas stood there in high dudgeon, but at the insistent stares of his two closest friends, he finally sighed and gave them a terse nod. "But I still don’t understand why this area is called an apron," he said, sounding somewhat petulant, as if those who had decided on the word had done so just to irritate him.

"Ah, well," Gimli answered. "It’s because it’s like a blanket covering the ground the way an apron covers you."

"Hmmm...." Legolas replied, his brow furrowed in a frown, clearly unconvinced.

"Well, what would you call it, you fool of an Elf?" Gimli demanded in a huff, borrowing Gandalf’s favorite phrase for a certain young hobbit.

For a moment, the Elf didn’t answer, then a glimmer of mischief lit his eyes. "I’m inclined to call it ‘Gimli’s Blankie’."

"WHAT!?" the Dwarf roared in fury as Legolas leapt away with a laugh.

The Dwarves of Aglarond were soon treated to the sight of the elven Prince of Ithilien being chased about by their own lord — the Elf laughing and taunting, the Dwarf yelling and cursing — while the King of Men rolled on the ground in helpless laughter. They watched the shenanigans for a moment or two, then shrugged and went back to work, ignoring the three friends.

After all, it wasn’t anything they hadn’t seen before.

****

All words are Sindarin:

Ithilien-en-Edhil: Ithilien of the Elves, to differentiate Legolas’ demesne from Faramir’s.

Gwann: departed, dead: iAran gwann (The king is dead; The king has departed).

Ylf: drinking vessel, (fire)brand: Mabo ylf (Take/seize the drinking vessel/brand).

Sigil: dagger, necklace: Éomer ’ar higil na lanc Legolas (Éomer holds a dagger/necklace at Legolas’ throat).

Éomer ’ar higil na Legolas lanc: 'Éomer holds a dagger/necklace at a naked Legolas'.

Adan: Man.

Note: Apron:(Geology) An area covered by a blanket-like deposit of glacial, eolian, marine or alluvial sediments, especially at the foot of a mountain or in front of a glacier.

DECEPTIONS: The Last Council of the Wise

SUMMARY: At what would be the final meeting of the White Council, all is not as it seems. Takes place in T.A. 2953.

NOTE: The germ of this story is taken from two sources: The Fellowship of the Ring, Book II, Chapter 2, ‘The Council of Elrond’ and The Silmarillion, ‘Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age’. Some of the dialogue, particularly what is said by Curunír, Mithrandir and Elrond, is taken directly from these sources, though not necessarily in the same context as originally written.

MEFA 2009: Second Place: Elrond and His Family (Character Study)

****

They met in Imladris this time, much to Curunír’s annoyance, though he hid his displeasure behind a façade of cool disdain. He detested traveling, which is why he had finally claimed Isengard as his own. He would have preferred the White Council to have met there, though in retrospect, it was perhaps better that they hadn’t. He wasn’t sure he could have kept the presence of the palantír he had found a secret from the others.

He looked about at the gathering. They were seated in the portico where all council meetings were held in Imladris. There was Elrond Peredhel in his usual chair flanked by Glorfindel and Erestor as his chief councillors. Curunír frowned. He had never cared for either of Elrond’s councillors. Erestor he dismissed out of hand as unimportant, though he noticed the others treated the half-breed Noldo with respect, a respect that was no doubt as feigned as his was, for no one wanted to get on Elrond’s bad side. Glorfindel was another matter entirely and the ithron smiled to himself at memories of a time in Aman when the former Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin had been a troublesome Reborn. He was glad that he’d had nothing to do with the ellon, though Olórin had.

At the thought of his fellow ithron and Maia, Curunír forced himself not to openly sneer. Mithrandir, the Elves called him, though he was more widely known as Gandalf. Whatever he bothered to call himself, he was a definite thorn in Curunír’s side. He had never forgiven Galadriel for trying to get Olórin chosen as head of the White Council. He was, after all, the White and head of their Order. The thought of Olórin as their leader was ludicrous. Might as well have that simpleton Radagast lead them and be done with it.

At the thought of the other member of their Order, Curunír glanced to where the Brown sat between Círdan and Thranduil, chatting amiably with them as they waited for the council to begin. Aiwendil he had been called in Aman, Yavanna’s pet. Curunír had little use for Mithrandir, but he had even less for the half-witted bird-tamer. It amused him to remember how the silly fool had unwittingly lent him aid when he set a watch on the Gladden Fields. Radagast had in all innocence allowed him the services of many birds to act as spies, believing it was but part of the watch upon the Enemy. Curunír chuckled at the thought of how he had used those spies for his own purposes with his fellow ithron none the wiser.

His steel-grey eyes continued to roam around the portico. Thranduil he knew little of, save that he was rather belligerent and in the habit of contradicting everything everyone said, most likely just on general principles. Of the four elven rulers, the king of the beleaguered Woodland Realm was the only one never to have possessed a Ring of Power. Curunír knew that Ereinion Gil-galad had been given one and he was rather certain that the last High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth had passed it on to Elrond. There was no doubt in his mind that Galadriel, as Celebrimbor’s cousin, received one of them, but the third remained hidden from him. He would have guessed the Shipwright to have possessed it, seeing how close he and Ereinion had been, but he could detect no aura of power about the Teler lord, perhaps the oldest Elf to still abide east of Belegaer, other than that natural to him.

Then there were the two he detested the most: Galadriel and her spineless mate, Celeborn. While they pretended that Celeborn held the rule of Lothlórien, all knew for a fact that it was Galadriel, his scheming Noldorin wife, who truly was the power in that fair enclave. At least, that was the way he saw it. Artanis. She had been a schemer from the very first, desiring a realm of her own to rule as she pleased. When Gil-galad had founded Lindon it must have galled her to have to bow to her nephew Orodreth’s get rather than be able to claim the High Queenship for herself, but the Noldor did not allow their females that much power, which proved that they weren’t as stupid as everyone tended to make them out to be.

Curunír smiled to himself as he contemplated the golden-haired daughter of Finarfin, as they called Arafinwë here. She gave him a cool stare when she felt his eyes upon her and he shifted his gaze elsewhere, not wishing to confront her at this time. He did not see Celeborn frown in his direction before turning his attention to Lord Glorfindel who was asking him about patrol tactics used by Lothlórien marchwardens.

There were two others here — Gildor Inglorion was seated on the other side of Círdan. As Lord of the Wandering Companies, Gildor did not often bother to attend Council meetings but Curunír had to assume that Elrond persuaded him to attend this one. The Noldo was an enigma to the White Wizard. A member of the vaunted House of Finrod, yet a vagabond. It made no sense, but he held power of his own and was highly respected by the others of the Council for his wisdom. It was known that he and his people gathered the news of all the lands in which they roamed and passed it on to those in need of whatever intelligence was garnered. Or rather, passed it on to certain people, such as Elrond and Mithrandir. None had bothered to seek him out with news, much to his annoyance. He had had to employ his own spies for that.

Then there was Thranduil’s youngest son, Legolas, if the ithron remembered correctly, seated between his adar and Celeborn. He was only a few years past his first millennium. The ellon was a complete unknown to Curunír. In fact, this was his first appearance at any meeting of the White Council and he looked a bit out of his depth. Thranduil had told them when the two had arrived the day before that he had decided to expand his son’s education and Legolas was there merely as a spectator, nothing more. The young Elf was wide-eyed with wonder at the sight of them all gathered together and the ithron had to stifle an urge to snicker at the ellon’s expression.

Then, Elrond, acting as host even though Curunír was the acknowledged head of the Council, called them to order and the White Wizard dismissed Thranduilion from his mind and from his calculations.

"We are gathered here, in this darkening hour, to discuss the One Ring," Elrond began after giving them the obligatory welcoming speech. "Too long have we ignored Its fate, but now that it is known that the Enemy is once again rising, it behooves us to rethink our strategies and devise plans for thwarting Sauron. I have no doubt he hunts for the Ring even now."

"The One Ring is gone," Curunír said firmly, deciding to put a stop to any discussion about it at the beginning. Not that he believed what he was saying. He suspected that the Ring was at the bottom of the Anduin, somewhere near the Gladden Fields where Isildur met his doom.

"How can you be so sure?" Círdan asked mildly. "Just because there has been no trace does not mean the Ring isn’t lying around somewhere to be found."

"Better to search fruitlessly for It than not," Celeborn said. "I would hate to learn that the Enemy found It while we were sitting around doing nothing, as usual."

"As usual?" Thranduil snorted. "Did we not drive him from Dol Guldur? I don’t call that ‘doing nothing’".

"Yet," Mithrandir replied, "Orodruin is active again and the towers of Barad-dûr rise above the Plain of Gorgoroth. Sauron’s retreat from Dol Guldur was a feint, nothing more. It was meant to lull us into a false sense of security. Lord Elrond is correct. We need to discover the fate of the One Ring."

"We know that Sauron has been actively searching for the Ring," Galadriel said softly. "Our scouts watched his servants hunt along the Anduin near the Gladden Fields, though they have not been seen of late." She smiled somewhat smugly. "We of Lórien made it clear that such encroachments upon our borders would not be tolerated."

Several of them nodded, and many wore expressions of grim satisfaction, for all knew the fierceness of the Lórien marchwardens. There was no doubt in any of their minds that such messages as were given to Sauron’s spies were at the end of an arrow.

Thranduil gave her a fierce grin. "Considering that the Gladden Fields are nowhere near your borders, that’s saying much."

Galadriel merely smiled, nodding her head in acknowledgment of the Elvenking’s words. They had little liking for each other, for Thranduil had little love for any of the Noldor and had been shocked that his kinsman would stoop so low as to marry one, but they were both Elves and had an abiding hatred for the Enemy and his spies. In this one thing, at least, they were allies.

"Perhaps he has given up the search," Gildor suggested but Círdan shook his head.

"Nay," he said. "The Enemy does not give up, he merely changes tactics." He turned to Elrond. "Are we even sure that Isildur fell at the Gladden Fields? Mayhap he was able to swim further afield before he was betrayed unto death. The Ring may lie elsewhere in the Anduin."

Elrond shook his head. "The three who survived the attack and came at last to Imladris claimed that Isildur died in the Gladden Fields. If the Ring is to be found, it will be found there."

"Why have none but the Enemy’s spies searched for it then, if we know where it lies?" Legolas asked, forgetting that he was not an official part of the Council.

All eyes turned to look at him and Curunír openly sneered at the young ellon’s expression of bafflement and embarrassment as he realized what he had done. Thranduil scowled. "Legolas, have you learned nothing...."

"Nay," Elrond interrupted with a raised hand, giving Legolas a warm smile. "It is a fair question, Thranduil, and one that should be answered, for I deem others here also wonder." He paused for a moment, his grey eyes darkening in memory. "I was there when Isildur cut the Ring from Sauron’s hand...."

"As was I," Círdan added softly and Elrond gave him a nod of acknowledgment before continuing his narrative.

"Isildur took the Ring." He paused again and sighed, his expression one of deep sadness, for he had loved the fiery son of Elendil and had seen much of his own brother in the Mortal. "Círdan and I attempted to persuade him to destroy the Ring, to cast it into the fires of Orodruin, but he would not. He claimed it for himself as a wergild for his father and brother."

"Wh-why didn’t you force him to destroy the Ring?" the young elf asked hesitantly, stealing a glance at his father whose expression remained stonily impassive.

Elrond gave the ellon a sad smile. "Doing so would have destroyed Isildur’s mind and I dared not touch the Ring, for I could sense Its malevolence and Its thirst for revenge."

"Revenge?" Gildor asked, his expression one of disbelief.

It was Círdan who answered. "Yes, revenge. I, too, could sense the evil of the Ring. The Ring seemed to be possessed of a certain degree of... intelligence, for lack of a better word, a kind of knowing or awareness and It was aware that Its master had been, if not utterly defeated, at least made impotent for a time and It craved revenge for what Isildur did." He turned to Elrond, his expression solemn. "I have thought about that day over the long years and I am convinced that even at that moment It was plotting Its revenge on Isildur and so exerted Its will upon him."

"I agree," Elrond replied. "There, at the place of Its making, Its will was strongest. I fear that Isildur had no chance against It." He sighed again, then looked up at Legolas and smiled. "But we have not yet fully answered your question, Thranduilion. And the answer is this: None of us here are willing to face the power of the Ring and Its malevolence. Sauron poured much of his own Self into the Ring and as such any who handle It may be corrupted by It, even one of the Firstborn."

"The Ring fell into the Anduin," Glorfindel spoke for the first time. "It may still be there, but even I who walked among the Maiar while I abided in Aman and learned much that they were willing to teach me will not venture to look for it. I deem even the act of searching for the Enemy’s trinket a dangerous thing."

"Trinket, you call It, Lord Glorfindel?" Mithrandir asked in an amused tone. "Well, perhaps It can be called that by some, but it is not wise to belittle the tools of the Enemy. Trivializing It diminishes neither Its power nor Its threat."

Glorfindel nodded to the ithron, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I stand corrected," he said genially.

Curunír decided it was time to take control of the discussion. Was he not, after all, the head of the Council? "All this talk of searching and finding is to no avail," he said coldly, "for I believe not that the Ring will be found again in Middle-earth."

"Yet, as long as the Ring exists somewhere in Arda, then Sauron cannot be fully destroyed," Mithrandir said. "Even now he rises in power again and we needs must tighten our own guard against him."

"Should we not have summoned the Gondorians, then?" Radagast asked mildly. "When the Enemy decides to go to war against the West, Minas Tirith will bear the brunt of the attack. I would think they would want to have someone attend this Council and put forth Gondor’s views on the subject."

Elrond shook his head. "Turgon is dead and Ecthelion has only just ascended to the Steward’s Chair. I received no reply from him and must assume he is too busy consolidating his power to bother."

"A pity," the Brown Wizard said. "A Mortal viewpoint might have been... enlightening."

"Never have any of the Secondborn been invited to attend the White Council," Curunír said with a faint sneer. "They are weak and willful and more like unto the Enemy in their thinking than not, always grasping for power and prestige, always consumed with what they can win today and never thinking about the morrow or the next day after. There is little wisdom among Men."

"Harsh words, my lord," Elrond said quietly, "and untrue. My brother’s descendants are far more honorable than you give them credit for."

There was an uncomfortable silence and Curunír realized he’d gone too far in revealing his contempt for the Mortals who seemingly overran Middle-earth like an infestation. He had never understood the Creator’s desire for such creatures and could barely countenance that the One would ever call them His Children.

"Forgive me, Elrond," he said with false sincerity, giving the Lord of Imladris a brief bow of his head. "I spoke out of turn. However, my fellow ithron’s observations are moot. The Men of Gondor are not here and therefore their opinions, if they even have any, are of no importance." Then he turned to the rest of the Council. "As for the Ring... at the worst our Enemy knows that we have it not, and that It still is lost. But what was lost may yet be found, he thinks. Fear not! His hope will cheat him. Have I not earnestly studied this matter? Into Anduin the Great It fell; and long ago, while Sauron slept, It was rolled down the River to the Sea. There let It lie until the End when all this world is broken and the deeps removed."

"If what you say is true," Círdan said, "perhaps I should consult with Lord Ulmo on the matter and confirm it."

Curunír shook his head, amused at the naivety of these Children. "Even if Lord Ulmo deigned to come to you he will most likely not reveal to you what he knows of the matter, if he knows anything. The Valar will not interfere in this. It is left to us to deal with what we find here for weal or for woe."

The ithron hid a smile seeing Mithrandir and Radagast nodding in agreement, though the latter did so reluctantly.

"Is that it then?" Thranduil asked. "Have we come all this way for nothing? The Ring is lying in the depths of the ocean, you say, and therefore can never be recovered. Yet, the Enemy is rising again. With or without the Ring that threat cannot be ignored."

"All we can do is watch and wait," Celeborn advised.

"As we have done too often in the past," Círdan said.

"Yet, what else can we do at this time?" Elrond asked. "The time of the Elves is over and we no longer have the strength to fight against the Shadow as we once did. And so, we will watch and wait and hope."

"Hope for what?" Legolas asked, in spite of himself.

Elrond smiled at the young ellon. "Hope that it will come out well for us all."

"My people will continue to keep the watch," Gildor said, "and garner whatever intelligence is to be had. We will send word to you all if we learn anything new."

"Thank you, Lord Gildor," Curunír said. "Your willingness to be the eyes and ears of the Wise is gratefully acknowledged." Well, that wasn’t strictly true, he thought. The Wandering Companies could be a threat to his own plans to have the Gladden Fields searched, but he would deal with that when he had to. At the moment, he was only concerned that he had dissuaded them all from thinking the Ring was anywhere where they could find it. "If there is naught else that needs to be discussed, then, I would call this Council to an end. I thank Lord Elrond for graciously hosting us."

They all stood and began to mingle, save Curunír, who stood in majestic isolation. Thranduil shook his head in disgust. "A wasted journey," Curunír heard him muttering.

Erestor, who had remained silent during the entire proceedings, approached the Elvenking with a smile. "I am sure your son does not think so," he said with a wink to the young ellon who smiled back at Elrond’s Chief Councillor. "It has been some time since either of you have graced us with your presence and I know Legolas would like to renew his friendship with Elladan and Elrohir."

"Will they return soon?" Legolas asked.

Erestor nodded. "In a day or two. They are riding with the Dúnedain, as is their habit."

Curunír moved away, heading for the interior of the house, for he planned to retire to his room in preparation for the long journey back to Isengard. He noticed, as he left the portico, overhearing bits of conversation from the others, that there was a great deal of dissatisfaction over the inconclusiveness of the meeting, yet all averred that there was little else they could do at that time. He smiled to himself. That was what he had hoped for. It would allow him greater freedom with which to search for the Ring without others looking over his shoulders, as it were.

He was stepping into the hallway leading to the main part of the house when he heard Elrond speaking to someone ahead. He slowed his steps and his breathing so as to listen to what the Lord of Imladris had to say.

"...and I forebode that the One will be found and war will rise once again, and in that war this Age will be ended. Indeed, in a second darkness it will end unless some strange chance deliver us that my eyes cannot see."

"Many are the strange chances of this world." Curunír recognized Mithrandir’s voice. "And help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter."

The White Wizard sneered in contempt at those words. If by ‘the weak’ Mithrandir meant Men, then he was more a fool than Curunír had originally given him credit for. Men were indeed weak, he thought, and in the end they will fail at anything they put their hands to. He allowed Elrond and Mithrandir to continue on their way before moving again, already dismissing the Council from his mind as he contemplated his next move: Rohan.

Now that he had taken over Isengard, he was in a position to manipulate events in the Land of the Horselords to his benefit. With Rohan under his control, Gondor would be alone in any war against Sauron. The Dunlendings would help him there. He sneered again at the thought. Yes, Men were indeed weak, but it was a weakness he intended to exploit. He would also have to do something about Mithrandir. He did not trust his fellow ithron. Well, he would come up with a plan to deal with the Grey Wizard while he was on the road back to Isengard.

In the meantime, he preferred to contemplate how he would continue the search for the One Ring, smiling at the thought of finding it, unaware that he was already nearly five hundred years too late.

****

All words are Sindarin.

Ithron: Wizard, the Sindarin form of the Quenya istar.

Ellon: Male Elf.

Belegaer: The Great Ocean separating Middle-earth from Valinor.

Adar: Father.

Historical Notes taken from Appendices A and B pertaining to the White Council:

2460: The Watchful Peace ends. Sauron returns with increased strength to Dol Guldur.

2463: The White Council is formed. About this time Déagol the Stoor finds the One Ring, and is murdered by Sméagol.

2851: The White Council meets. Gandalf urges an attack on Dol Guldur. Saruman overrules him. Saruman begins to search near the Gladden Fields.

2939: Saruman discovers that Sauron’s servants are searching the Anduin near the Gladden Fields, and that Sauron therefore has learned of Isildur’s end. He is alarmed, but says nothing to the Council.

2941: The White Council meets. Saruman agrees to an attack on Dol Guldur, since he now wishes to prevent Sauron from searching the River. Sauron, having made his plans, abandons Dol Guldur.

2951: Sauron declares himself openly and gathers power in Mordor. He begins the rebuilding of Barad-dûr.

2953: Death of Turgon, Twenty-fourth Ruling Steward; Ecthelion II becomes the new Steward. Death of Fengel of Rohan; Thengel, who had been residing in Gondor, returns to Rohan, becoming the sixteenth king of the Rohirrim. Soon after Thengel’s return, Saruman declares himself Lord of Isengard and fortifies it. He then begins to give trouble to Rohan, encroaching on its borders and supporting its enemies. Last meeting of the White Council. They debate the Rings. Saruman feigns that he has discovered that the One Ring has passed down Anduin to the Sea. Saruman withdraws to Isengard. Being jealous and afraid of Gandalf he sets spies to watch all his movements.

NOTHING: It’s Just a Scratch

SUMMARY: Elrond and his sons have a time trying to keep Legolas in bed after he is injured. Takes place in T.A. 2484. This one is for Nina who gave me the plot bunny. Le hannon, meldis nîn.

WARNING: Humor alert, though it gets a bit angsty toward the end.

NOTE: In this story Elladan and Elrohir are 2,354 years old, while Legolas is only 542 years old, which is why they refer to him as an elfling. Legolas’ age is based on his age in my story Tâd Edhel a Firion wherein he is 1,014 years old in T.A. 2956.

****

"Where did you find him?"

That was Lord Elrond, Legolas was pretty sure, though he was too weak to open his eyes to see if his assumption was correct.

"We didn’t. He found us, though the Valar only know how."

Legolas frowned (or thought he did), for he couldn’t quite place the voice but it was familiar so he ignored it.

"Fortunate it was that ’Dan and I were there, Adar, or we would have brought him back fully dead instead of only mostly dead."

Elrohir! Legolas was sure of that and wanted to tell the younger Elrondion that his sense of humor had deteriorated since last they met, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Luckily he didn’t have to reprimand him, for Lord Elrond was doing a good job of it.

"Your levity is uncalled for, iôn nîn," the Lord of Imladris said in a forbidding tone, "though I grant you he is definitely ‘cuivië-lancassë’.

Legolas frowned again (or thought he did). He understood everything Lord Elrond had said except the last part. Cuiv-what? He had a dim sense that the strange sounding words were possibly Quenya. He hated when the twins spoke the tongue-twisting language of their daernaneth and he only understood one word in twenty and those were the words that sounded the same in Sindarin. He smiled (or thought he did) at the memory of him speaking the Silvan tongue of Mirkwood just to spite the twins. Unfortunately, they seemed to understand what he was saying more than he understood them when they spoke Quenya. It seems being the sons of the greatest loremaster of Middle-earth had its benefits.

"Well, we can only thank whichever Vala looks after elflings and other fools that he managed to escape from the orcs and find us," said the familiar voice that had spoken earlier.

"And which Vala would that be, Glorfindel?"

That was Elladan, Legolas decided. The ellon’s tone was teasing and Legolas knew how much the older twin enjoyed teasing their captain. He waited for Lord Glorfindel to speak, finding he was just as interested in the answer as the others. He wasn’t sure he would classify himself either as an elfling (though everyone else in Middle-earth seemed to) or a fool (though his adar most likely would), but he was interested nonetheless.

"Well, where Legolas is concerned," Lord Glorfindel said in all seriousness, "I suspect all of them."

There were snickers all around, except from Legolas who sighed (or thought he did). Why did they all treat him as if he were a... a Mortal child or something!? Was it his fault that the passes across the Misty Mountains were filling up with orcs and goblins and wargs? No one had told him!

"What of his escort?" Elrond asked.

"No trace," Glorfindel answered with a vile oath that had Legolas raising his eyebrows in shock (or thought he did). He had never heard that particular malediction before and he was happily trying to remember it for future use while the others were doing whatever it was they were doing. He wasn’t sure what that was exactly, though it seemed to involve causing him a lot of pain, only he was too weak and tired to protest. Listening in on their conversation at least kept his mind off other, less pleasant, realities.

"That’s assuming the elfling even had an escort," Elladan said darkly and Legolas could just imagine the look on the older twin’s face. "We backtracked his route and found no evidence of anyone else except several dead orcs and goblins and, oh yes, one warg."

"If any of the vile creatures had survived, they would have taken the dead away, including their own dead, to eat," Glorfindel said with in an authoritative voice and who, Legolas thought to himself, would know better than the former Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin and Balrog-slayer extraordinaire?

"Fool of an elfling!"

That was a new voice, one that he knew he knew but couldn’t place. He had the feeling the owner of the voice wasn’t going to be as forgiving of his folly as the others, whom he considered as part of his family.

"Well, we’ve done what we can," Elrond said wearily and Legolas wondered just how long they had been working on him. "I will put him into healing sleep once we’ve gotten him settled in his bed."

"How long will you keep him under?" Glorfindel asked.

"I think only for three or four days," Elrond said, "but he will have to remain in bed for at least another week after."

"That will be fun," Elrohir said dryly. "Legolas hates beds with a passion."

"We’ll just have to come up with ways to keep him there," his twin said with a chuckle.

Legolas frowned, and this time he knew he had. He was not happy to hear he would have to remain in bed for so long. After all, there was nothing seriously wrong with him, was there? It was only a scratch or two. He’d be up sooner rather than later. He knew from past experience, though, that the healers of Imladris would do all in their power short of actually tying him down to keep him in his bed. He smiled at the thought of how he could outwit his caretakers this time. It was the last thing he remembered before being sent into oblivion.

"Uh oh," Elrohir said as they watched Elrond place the Sindarin prince into healing sleep. "I don’t like the look of that smile. That smile spells trouble for us all."

The others all agreed, but by then Legolas no longer heard what was being said about him.

****

"...broken right arm, fractured left leg, your back looks like they were using it for target practice and that cut on your other leg was infected with poison..."

That was Lord Elrond giving him a litany of woes. It was now the third day since he had been brought to Imladris by the patrol led by Lord Glorfindel and he had just been brought out of healing sleep to face the not-so-pleased Lord of Imladris.

"You are one fortunate elfling," Elrond ended his litany.

"Not an elfling," Legolas protested, though it didn’t sound like his voice, all weak and paper-thin.

"Child, you’re barely five hundred..."

"Five hundred and forty-two last month," Legolas corrected and then paled at the frown Lord Elrond gave him. One never contradicted the Lord of Imladris. Terrible things tended to happen to anyone who did.

"My mistake," Lord Elrond said with a faint smile and Legolas paled even further. That smile boded no good, he was sure. "At any rate, you’re not going anywhere for at least a week, so I suggest you enjoy the rest. When you are fully recovered, Lord Glorfindel will be happy to teach you some tactics you obviously never heard of for staying alive."

"What tactics, Ada Elrond?" Legolas asked in confusion, addressing the Lord of Imladris as he had when he had been an elfling in truth.

"Such as always having an escort with you when you travel outside the Woodland Realm."

Legolas looked to see Lord Glorfindel striding into the room with the twins right behind him. The twins were smiling, the Balrog-slayer was not. Glorfindel turned to Elrond with a quizzical look.

"Are you sure he should be out of healing sleep so soon?" he asked. "I thought we had agreed to keep him under until all his wounds were healed."

Legolas felt his eyebrows leave his forehead. He had never heard of such a thing and suspected that keeping someone under for that long might even be dangerous.

"So we did," Elrond said in all seriousness. "However, in this case, I think Legolas needs some time while his wounds are healing to contemplate the stupidity of his leaving his adar’s realm without an escort."

"You know he’ll be spending most of that time trying to leave his bed rather than in contemplation," Glorfindel said.

Legolas really hated them talking about him as if he weren’t there or still asleep. So, they wanted him to remain in bed, did they? He would let them think so for another day or two but after that... Already plans were formulating in his brain on ways of eluding his caretakers. The day after tomorrow for sure would see him up and about.

"Why don’t we just tie him down and be done with it?" Elrohir asked.

Legolas frowned, though none of the others noticed, so busy were they in discussing their patient. It would certainly put a crimp in his plans if they did tie him down. Best to avoid that. He plastered as pathetic a look on his still bruised face as he could manage, his eyes tearing on cue.

"Pl-please... not that... I... please, Ada Elrond... I’ll be good."

Elrond sighed and looked at the others to gauge their reactions, finally turning his attention to the elfling lying (and possibly lying in truth) on the bed, looking paler than the sheets. "Very well, iôn nîn, no restraints. Just try to behave. A week is not really that long, after all. Now, why don’t you rest for a time? I’ll have someone bring you something to eat later."

Legolas nodded and dutifully allowed his eyes to glaze over as he slipped into the Path of Dreams, secretly gleeful that he had fooled them all. He never saw the others nod to one another knowingly as they slipped quietly out of the room.

****

He was rather put out when he found he’d slept most of that first day except briefly to take sustenance or to swallow some of Lord Elrond’s foul brews. Still, he had to admit he felt much better for it. Indeed, he thought he could even venture out of bed if just long enough to use the privy, of which he was in dire need at that very moment. He looked around. He recognized this part of the healing wing. The Belain knew he’d seen it often enough. The privy for this wing was just down the hall, if he could just get there.

It was rather awkward getting out of bed with one leg and one arm in splints and he wasn’t sure if he could actually stand, especially since the other leg felt weak and the area around the slash from the orc’s sword still burned. Very well, he would crawl. It wasn’t as if he were proud or anything, but Arda would come to an end first before he ever resorted to the chamber pot. He did have his dignity to maintain, after all.

He inched his way off the edge of the bed, wincing as he put pressure on the fractured leg, but finally he was down on the floor. He started crawling, using his left hand and right foot to pull himself across tiled floor. Unfortunately, he had to stop every once in a while to reach back and pull down his nightshirt, for it had a tendency to creep up his buttocks. He hoped he would be able to reach the privy soon as his need was getting greater and then there was the question of whether he could even sit himself up to do what he needed to do. Well, he would worry about that when he got there. Right now, though, he....

He bumped into a boot, or rather two of them. He lay there in defeat knowing that he would have to wiggle himself backward far enough to see who was standing over him and he would not demean himself that way.

"Legolas, what are you doing?"

Oh great, Lord Glorfindel. If only it had been one of the twins.

"Privy," he said hoarsely. "I really need...."

"What you need is to get back into bed," Glorfindel said as he stooped down and casually scooped him into his arms. "And the only privy you’ll be seeing for the next week is the one under your bed. It’s called a chamber pot. I’m sure you’ve heard of it."

"No, please... I just need...."

"Now, Legolas, there’s no need to feel embarrassed," the Captain of the Imladrin Guard said as he settled the Sinda in his bed and reached down for the chamber pot. "We’ve all had to use one from time to time. Now, do you need help or can you manage on your own?"

"I hate you," the ellon said petulantly, refusing to take the pot from Glorfindel.

Glorfindel smiled. "That’s all right, elfling. You aren’t the first, and the Valar know you won’t be the last, to say those words to me."

Legolas sighed and decided it wasn’t worth fighting this particular battle. "I... I’m going to need some assistance," he said, refusing to look at the golden-haired ellon standing over him, hating to admit that he needed anyone’s help.

He did not see the gentle smile on Glorfindel’s face as the former Balrog-slayer handed the chamber pot to him and then moved to kneel at his shoulders, grabbing him under the arms. "I’ll lift you up and you can push the pot under you...."

****

From Legolas’ Secret Diary (which he writes in his head):

Day Two: After embarrassing myself with the chamber pot, I spent the rest of the day plotting revenge on Lord Glorfindel, or tried to. Unfortunately I was constantly interrupted by people stomping into my room and asking how I was and then sitting down and chatting about nothing at all... for hours! Did a lot of smiling.... Yawn... Now that it’s night I will pretend to... yawn...sleep so they won’t bother me and I can dream up... yawn... up ways of getting out of bed without beee...iiing....

"Too bad you can’t just give him that sleeping draught in his tea all the time," Elladan said to his adar as they watched the elfling’s eyes glaze over. "My jaw aches from all the talking I did this afternoon."

"At least you prevented him from trying to leave his bed again," Elrond said with a chuckle, "but I’m afraid we can only give him this sleeping draught at night."

"I wonder what schemes he’s hatching?" Elrohir commented. "Do you think we should let him try just to see what he does?"

"I hesitate to allow that," Elrond said. "He is supposed to be resting, after all. His injuries won’t heal otherwise."

"Still, we ought to let him try this once, just to prove to him that it’s hopeless and he should give up his attempts at thwarting us," Glorfindel said.

"Well, just this once," Elrond replied with a weary sigh before leaving to attend to some of his other patients, Dúnedain who had had a run-in with bandits. They at least were more cooperative.

****

Day Three: The healing wing is oddly silent and empty. Not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but have decided to take advantage of the situation. No one’s told me how my horse fared. Think I’ll check the stables....

The problem, as Legolas saw it, was that the stables were nowhere near the healing wing, an architectural design flaw that he intended to point out to Lord Elrond at the earliest opportunity. He looked about him, trying to remember the layout of the Last Homely House and its surrounds. From his bed he could see a walled garden, mostly herbs for the medicinals the healers brewed, but there were some ornamental flowers, roses mostly, that brightened it up, making it a pleasant place for convalescents to sit and soak up the sun. If memory served, he was sure that there was an outer gate just past the yew trees. From there it would be a simple matter to follow the path around the house and get to the stables.

Legolas sat up and checked to see if there was anyone lurking about. He pushed back the bed covers and pulled his legs off the bed, being careful to put his full weight on his right foot. He found that there was less pain now, though he had to clutch the chair next to the bed while the world righted itself and he could see straight again. Taking a deep breath he pulled the chair around and held on to its back, using it as a very awkward crutch. He had to lift the chair with his left hand and then as quietly as possible set it down again a few inches before him, then shuffle forward. It was a tedious process, but he was determined.

The first stop was to the clothes rack where a house robe hung from a hook. He really should not leave the room in just his nightshirt after all. What if an elleth saw him? Hunting around for slippers proved futile. Apparently Lord Elrond saw no need to provide him with any yet. Well, he would have to go barefooted. Nothing he hadn’t done before.

It took him forever to make his way to the archway that led into the garden and he was nearly out of breath when he finally made it. His head was swimming and the light seemed to be getting dim. Luckily there was a bench nearby and he plopped himself down to rest. Looking about he saw that the garden was empty. He smiled. Now that he was outside he didn’t have to move as carefully as before for fear of alerting someone. The gravel path would be too harsh on his naked feet, so he would walk on the verge beside it, muffling the sound of his makeshift crutch even more.

Taking a deep breath and gathering his strength, he stood and started towards the gate. It was not visible from where he was but the garden was not overly large so he did not think it would take him long. It helped that there were benches along the way and he took advantage of them. He wondered if there would be any places along the route to the stables for him to rest once he left the garden and then chuckled ruefully when he realized he had brought his own chair for resting on.

He felt himself relaxing, enjoying the mid-morning sun, as butterflies flitted about. He could hear the droning of bees somewhere and had to shake himself from falling asleep. He stood up hastily, fearing that someone would come into his room and find him missing. He really needed to get to the stables before they did.

The garden gate came into view and he sighed with relief. Once out of the garden he should have no problems getting to the stables. The tricky part would be to avoid people, but he knew that this side of the house faced one of the numerous waterfalls that graced the valley. All the outbuildings were on the other side and the stables would be the first building he would come to.

He reached the gate, a door, actually, made from sturdy oak, and took a moment to look about one last time to make sure he was alone. Nothing. He was in the clear. Reaching out, he lifted the latch and slowly opened the door. Before him lay another gravel path that wended its way around the house.

Legolas smiled in triumph as he stepped through the gate. Once outside and the gate closed no one would be the wiser as to where he had gotten....

"Lovely day, isn’t it?"

"Heek!" Legolas nearly screamed, startled, his heart racing. He made a panicky grab for the chair, fearing he would fall, but strong arms enveloped him and he found himself in Elrohir’s embrace.

The ellon was smiling somewhat sympathetically as he stared at the elfling staring back at him in fright. "Wh-where did you come from?" Legolas stuttered.

"Oh, I’ve been here since dawn," Elrohir said equably. "I drew the lot for this spot, the others are ranged around the healing wing since we weren’t sure in which direction you would go."

"I want to go to the stables," Legolas pleaded even as Elrohir scooped him into his arms and started back through the garden. "I want to see Celegbôd. I want to make sure he is well."

"You only had to ask, honeg," Elrohir said, "and we would have told you that your horse fared far better than you and is well."

"But I want to see him," Legolas whined, even as Elrohir put him back in bed and pulled the covers over him.

"When you are healed," the younger son of Elrond said firmly, "and not before." Then he went back out into the garden and shortly returned with the chair, setting it down beside the bed. He then walked over to a side table where he picked up a book, returning to the chair and plopping himself down. Opening the volume — a collection of Elvish nursery tales — at random, and finding a story, he began to read out loud while Legolas sat in his bed, fuming.

"When Ithil had yet to rise and Anor had yet to shine...."

Addendum to Day Three: Life is so unfair.

****

Day Four: Another wasted day. Lady Celebrían came with Arwen and several other ellith who all sat around with their stupid embroidery and gossiped. Gossiped! And then Arwen had the temerity to ask me if I wanted to learn how to do ribbon embroidery, of all things....

"I’m a warrior," Legolas said in as cold a voice as he could manage and still be polite (he was after all surrounded by ellith and had already decided he would rather be surrounded by orcs with just one arrow left in his quiver instead). "Warriors don’t do embroidery."

He couldn’t figure out why they were all laughing. Celebrían saw the look of hurt confusion on the ellon’s face and took pity on him, hushing the others. "Perhaps you should ask Lord Glorfindel about that, Prince Legolas," she said with a knowing smile.

As Arwen and the others continued to giggle into their embroidery, Legolas decided he really hated ellith and planned to have nothing more to do with them ever. He would ask Lord Glorfindel about it though, just to clear things up. Warriors didn’t do something as silly as ribbon embroidery, did they?

****

Day Five: Have decided to change tactics. There is too much activity in the healing wing during the day, therefore I will venture out of bed at night. I am determined to reach the stables and see Celegbôd. Maybe I can even go for a short ride. All I need to do is stay awake and, oh yes, find some clothes....

Legolas was sure they were slipping the sleeping potion into his tea, or perhaps it was mixed in with the horrid brew Lord Elrond always made him take, claiming it would help speed his healing. That might actually be true, he thought, since he was sure that even the dead would come to life to avoid having to take the awful stuff. If it was in the tea he could fake drinking it, but if it was in the healing brew, he was out of luck because Lord Elrond never left him until he had drunk every drop.

He sighed, trying to figure out how to avoid taking the brew, but could come up with no reasonable way. If only Lord Elrond were called away just as he was drinking the vile stuff, then he could empty it into the chamber pot with no one the wiser, but he wasn’t holding out any hope for that particular miracle to occur. So, he would avoid the tea that was served with the evening meal and hope for the best.

The only good thing about it was that at least he would be allowed some privacy while he ate. Once the healer’s assistant brought him his tray, he would be left alone. He made a show of pouring the tea from the pot while the assistant was still in the room and pretending to drink it. The look of smug satisfaction on the elleth’s face as she closed the door did not escape Legolas’ notice. He counted to twelve slowly before reaching down and grabbing the chamber pot. If anyone came in at that moment he could tell them he needed to use it. However, no one came in and in a trice he poured the tea into the pot and resumed his meal. When the assistant returned some time later to retrieve the tray, Legolas made a show of yawning a couple of times in her presence. He settled further into his bed and pretended to drift off while waiting for Lord Elrond to appear with his nightly healing potion. Once he had drunk that they would leave him alone for the rest of the night.

When the Lord of Imladris appeared an hour later, it was to find his patient already asleep. He hated to wake the elfling up, but the nightly potion was a necessary part of the healing process. He bent down and gave the ellon a slight shake. Legolas was surprised to find himself waking up and seeing Lord Elrond standing over him, a fond, paternal smile on his lips.

"I hate to wake you, iôn nîn," Elrond said quietly, "but I need you to take this." He handed him the vial. Legolas struggled to a sitting position with a rueful sigh but drank the potion readily enough before settling back down. Elrond ran a gentle hand through his hair. "Pleasant dreams, child," he said before he left.

Well, he supposed the brief nap had done him no harm. Legolas lay there thinking out his plan of escape one more time. He had remembered earlier in the day that the rooms opposite his faced an inner courtyard. A covered walkway led out of the courtyard and into another open court. Along one side of this outer court were the stables. The trick was going to be finding an empty room. He had overheard the healers talking about some Dúnedain patients housed across the hall from him but was unsure how many had been injured or which rooms were theirs. Still he was determined to get to his horse and take a brief ride just to show everyone that he wasn’t as badly injured as they all insisted he was.

Clothes were his biggest concern at the moment. He wished he could at least find a pair of breeches to cover his half-nakedness, but in the end decided the important thing was to reach the stables and take that ride. He waited another hour, forcing himself to stay awake this time by planning just where he and Celegbôd would ride. There was a little dell not too far from here that had always been a favorite of his. He’d often go there whenever he felt troubled. The place soothed him.

When he decided the wing had quieted enough, he slid out of bed and grabbed his robe. He was still barefooted, but that was a minor irritation. Using the wall for support he made his way to the door and as carefully as he could he opened it, peering out into the darkened hall. The candles in the wall sconces were extinguished save for the ones at either end.

So far so good. He took a deep breath and hopped across to the other side, clutching the door opposite his until he regained his balance. Then, he put his ear to the door and listened, sure that his superior elven hearing would alert him as to whether the room was occupied. He stilled his own breathing and was able to detect the faint breathing of someone on the other side of the door. Well, he didn’t expect to find an empty room immediately. He made his way to his right, figuring that the rooms closer to the examining rooms would be occupied while those further along would not be. He had to pass two other doors before he found a room that was empty.

Stealing a glance down the hall, he opened the door, hoping he was correct and that the room was indeed unoccupied. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding when he found that fortune was still with him. He could see the courtyard through the open arches and thank Elbereth! Hanging from the clothes rack were a pair of breeches. He reached for them and started to pull them on. They were larger than his own, yet not so large that he was able to slip them on over his splinted leg with any ease. He had to struggle a bit to get them on and the fabric tore along the outer seam. Tucking his nightshirt into the waist of the breeches, he used the belt of his robe to hold them up.

Satisfied that he was properly dressed for his midnight excursion, Legolas made for the courtyard, clinging to walls and arches along the way until he reached the walkway and then into the outer courtyard. Here, he figured, would be the real test. As late as it was, it would not be considered unusual for there to still be some activity going on. He was gratified though when he detected the faint sound of singing. That meant that most everyone, including Lord Elrond and his sons and Lord Glorfindel, would be in the Hall of Fire enjoying the entertainment.

The Belain were smiling upon him tonight. The outer courtyard was empty and the stables were just ahead. There was a side door that was never locked so that stablehands could get inside immediately at any hour of the day or night. Keeping to the shadows and thanking the Powers that there was no moon he made his stealthy way to the stables. He breathed a sigh of relief when he opened the door and slipped in as quietly as he could. It was silent inside, save for the soft nicker of those horses not yet sleeping. Of course, he had no idea where his own horse was lodged and he had to make his way from stall to stall in search of him.

Luck was still with him, for he found his beloved steed after checking only four stalls. Celegbôd was also awake, as if he knew his master was coming for him. The horse gave him a friendly nicker and Legolas patted his velvety nose, wishing he had an apple or a carrot for him.

"Sorry, my friend," he whispered. "Maybe next time. Come. Let us ride. The night is fair and I hunger for the open air."

He opened the stall gate and ran his hand over Celegbôd’s neck, assuring the horse with whispered words of his love. He was a little concerned about how he would mount the horse with one leg and arm in splints but he was sure he could manage. He encouraged the horse to leave the stall and led him to the door, peering out to make sure no one was about. The courtyard was still empty as far as he could tell. Then he noticed a mounting block which he knew was used by elflings and Mortals. That would do.

"Tolo, Celegbôd. iDhaw ammen dartha."

He positioned his horse in front of the mounting block and stepped up. Using Celegbôd for leverage as he grabbed the mane with his left hand, he started to mount up. It meant putting pressure on his left foot, but it was nearly healed and it would be for just long enough for him to scramble onto the horse’s back. His right leg was nearly over when there was a shout from somewhere in the near distance.

"Legolas!"

Both horse and elf were startled. Celegbôd skittered sideways and, with a cry of alarm, Legolas fell, his left leg hitting the granite mounting block. He screamed as something cracked and there was darkness that had nothing to do with the night shrouding his vision as the pain overtook him. He heard someone running and then there were hands upon him and a soothing voice though he could not make out the words.

Then he was being lifted up and carried. The pain was overwhelming and he might have blacked out for a time, for the next thing he knew he was lying on an examining table. Figures hovered over him and someone was caressing his head, soothing him. There were voices but he only caught snatches of the conversation.

"...broken in two places...."

"His arm is uninjured but we’ll need to resplint...."

"Let’s dose him so we can work...."

He felt someone lift his head up far enough for them to pour something down his throat. And then there was nothing, nothing at all....

****

He woke to the sound of voices murmuring. Opening bleary, pain-filled eyes, he found himself back in his own bed and the Lord of Imladris was frowning down at him. Elladan and Elrohir were also there, their expressions equally cool. His left leg throbbed and he had a vicous headache. There was also something odd about his right foot. Struggling with his bedclothes he tried to sit up to see what was wrong. Lord Elrond lifted the corner of the sheet so he could see, never saying a word. He gasped in utter dismay.

Wrapped around his ankle was a mithril fetter, padded on the inside with lamb’s wool to prevent chafing. A chain was anchored to the bedpost. Legolas felt sick as he stared at it in disbelief.

"I am sorry, child," Lord Elrond said sadly, "but you left us no choice. Your foolish stunt caused you to break your leg all over again, only now in two places instead of just one. You’ll be in bed for at least another week, if not two."

"Y-you said no restraints," Legolas whispered, forcing back the tears that were threatening to fall.

"And you promised to behave yourself," the Lord of Imladris admonished him. "As I said, you’ve left us with no other choice." He covered the foot, then leaned over and brushed a hand over Legolas’ head. "I wish there were some other way, child, but you only brought this upon yourself." He straightened, gave a nod to his sons and the three exited the room, closing the door behind them, leaving him alone.

The rest of the day was torture. He lay there, face turned into his pillow and refused to respond to anyone who came in. Not even a visit from Lady Celebrían and Arwen could cheer him up and after about a half an hour they left, their expressions troubled, though he did not see. Nor would he eat and all his meals were left to congeal into cold messes. The chain turned out to be long enough to allow him limited movement. He could sit up and lean over for the chamber pot when he needed to, or reach over to the nightstand for some water, but that was about it.

A crisis arose later that evening when Lord Elrond came in with the usual potion. He refused to take it. Sighing, Elrond left for a moment and then returned, followed by his sons and Lord Glorfindel. Without a word between them, Glorfindel and the twins approached the bed. Elladan reached down and without any ceremony pulled Legolas into a sitting position so Glorfindel could squeeze himself behind him and hold his head between his hands, preventing him from turning aside.

"All right, elfling," the Balrog-slayer said in a no nonsense tone, "time for your medicine."

Legolas, however, had other ideas. He kept his mouth shut, tightening his lips into a thin line. But Elrohir, who had come around to his right side, pinched his nose shut so he could no longer breathe. He tried to pull the ellon’s arm away but Elladan grabbed his hands and held them down. Now he started struggling, fear and anger burning in his eyes as he made mewling sounds of protest, trying to break free of their hold.

"Don’t fight us, honeg," Elladan pleaded.

"Please, Legolas, just take the medicine," Elrohir said almost at the same time.

It was a losing battle. He was almost out of air and he was blacking out. With one more attempt to break free he lunged against their hold but the effort left him gasping. At that moment Elrond struck, forcing the vile liquid down his throat as he swallowed instinctively. When it was all down they released him and he fell back upon his bed with a stifled sob. Someone brushed a hand through his hair in an attempt to comfort him, but there was none to be had and soon he was left alone in his misery.

At that moment he hated the world and everyone in it.

****

The next day was no better. He still refused to acknowledge anyone who entered the room. However, he did consent to eat something late in the afternoon when his stomach began protesting the lack of food. And when Lord Elrond entered later that evening with his medicine, followed by the twins and Lord Glorfindel, he took it meekly enough, though in an act of defiance he threw the empty vial to the floor where it shattered rather than handing it back to Elrond. Without bothering to see their reaction he scrunched down into his bed, pulling the covers over his head.

Someone sighed and a few minutes later he heard the sound of glass being swept up and then nothing. He was alone again in his misery and he still hated the world and everyone in it.

****

"Fool of an elfling. Whatever are we to do with you, iôn nîn?"

Legolas stirred, trying to focus his gaze in the near darkness, lit only by a single candle which was always left burning at night. He must have fallen asleep not to have heard someone entering the room. That voice was very familiar, and Legolas realized he’d heard it before when he had first been brought to Imladris. But that was impossible! How could....

"A-ada?" he said tremulously, shifting his position so he could see the person sitting beside the bed.

"Yes, Lasseg nîn, it is your ada," Thranduil answered and his tone was gentle rather than condemning.

"B-but what are you doing here?" Legolas asked, still not sure he wasn’t dreaming.

Thranduil smiled. "Oh, I’ve been here all along. You gave me a merry chase, my child, and I nearly caught up with you in the Vales of Anduin, but you managed to give me the slip. I will have to remember to commend your tutors for their excellent training." Legolas wasn’t sure how to take that. His ada didn’t seem to be angry with him, which confused the ellon. "However," and here Thranduil’s voice turned somewhat colder, "they did not train you well enough." He gave his son a knowing look and Legolas nodded.

"I was stupid to try the passes alone," he acknowledged, but couldn’t resist gloating a little. "But I acquitted myself rather well, I think...."

"You don’t think you escaped from those orcs all by yourself, do you?" Thranduil asked with a humorous glint in his eyes.

"B-but I did," Legolas protested. "Everyone says...."

"Well, let us just say that I and my escort," he emphasized the word, giving Legolas a meaningful look and the ellon blushed at the implied reprimand, "took care of the ones you didn’t get, enabling you to make your escape."

Legolas blinked. "Then... why didn’t you... I mean... I was injured and you...." Now he was totally confused.

Thranduil’s expression softened. "By the time we finished with the orcs you were far enough down the mountain that it took us some time to catch up with you. However, Lord Glorfindel’s patrol found you first. When I arrived, the Elrondionnath were attempting to keep you alive long enough to get you to Lord Elrond."

"You’ve been here all this time?" Legolas asked.

Thranduil nodded. "I decided to keep out of sight and see how things developed, knowing you as I do."

Legolas felt himself go red in embarrassment and he felt tears forming. "Th-they chained me," he whispered in shame.

"At my suggestion," Thranduil said and Legolas stared at him in shocked disbelief.

"Y-you?"

Thranduil nodded solemnly, then sighed at the look of confusion and betrayal on his son’s face. He moved to the bed and settled himself so they were half lying side-by-side, putting an arm around Legolas’ shoulders and hugging him. "I regret having to do so, but as Elrond said, you gave us no other choice. If you had just been patient one more day the splint on your leg would have been removed."

"I wanted to see Celegbôd," Legolas replied softly, as if that excused everything.

"I know," Thranduil said, planting a kiss on his son’s head, "and I sympathize, but you were being reckless with your injuries which you should never have had to suffer but for your foolishness of leaving without a proper escort." He sighed. "I was so afraid."

Legolas looked up at his ada in surprise. "You?"

Thranduil nodded, giving his wayward son a sad smile. "I thought I would lose you. You do not know how close to death you were when they brought you to Imladris. Only Elrond’s healing arts saved you."

Legolas thought about that for a moment or two. "I’m sorry," he whispered and meant it.

"I know you are, child," Thranduil said, giving him another kiss on his head. "I will have the shackle removed if you promise to behave yourself from now on."

"I... I promise," Legolas replied with a deep sigh. It was going to be a most boring two weeks.

"Warrior’s oath?"

Legolas gave his ada a surprised look but nodded. "Warrior’s oath," he said firmly.

Thranduil nodded. His Little Leaf was many things, but dishonorable was not one of them. If he gave such an oath, he would keep it or die trying. Perhaps, he thought somewhat ruefully, I should have told Elrond to invoke that oath from the beginning. Then he mentally shrugged. He’d enjoyed watching his son trying to outwit his caretakers and only regretted that it had ended so tragically.

"Well, I’ll go get the key," he said, climbing out of the bed. "The splint on your arm will come off tomorrow, I’ve been told. I will help you with the necessary exercises to strengthen it again." He gave his son a teasing smile. "Now, don’t go away. I’ll be right back."

Legolas actually giggled as his ada left to find Elrond. He settled back down into his bed, smiling, and decided that perhaps he didn’t hate the world and everyone in it as much as he’d thought. Now, with his ada here, he could just imagine all the mischief the two of them could get into together. After all, he still needed to plot his revenge on Lord Glorfindel for the chamber pot....

****

All words are Sindarin unless otherwise noted.

Adar: Father. The hypocoristic form is Ada.

Elrondion: Son of Elrond. The collective plural meaning ‘all the sons of Elrond’ would be Elrondionnath.

Iôn nîn: My son.

Cuivië-lancassë: (Quenya) Literally, ‘on the brink of life’, of a perilous situation in which one is likely to fall into death.

Daernaneth: Grandmother. In this case, Galadriel.

Belain: Plural of Balan: Vala.

Ellon: Male Elf.

Elleth: Female Elf. The plural is ellith.

Celegbôd: ‘Swift-foot’ [celeg ‘swift’ + lenited form of pôd ‘animal’s foot’].

Honeg: ‘Little brother’. In his later writings, Tolkien decided that ‘brother’ in Sindarin was hanar, pl. henair (cf. Quenya háno). Honeg is also used as a play-name for the middle finger [Vinyar Tengwar 47]. It is unclear if Tolkien, by introducing this form, abandoned the older Noldorin word muindor.

Tolo, Celegbôd. iDhaw ammen dartha: ‘Come, Celegbôd. The night awaits us.’

Lasseg: nîn: ‘My Little Leaf’; cf. honeg ‘little brother’ and atheg ‘little father’. Legolas’ name translates as ‘Green Leaf".

LONELY: Waiting

SUMMARY: In the lonely watches of the night, the King of Men waits. Waits for whom? For what?

****

The King of Men stood upon the tor, staring into the star-strewn night. The stars here in the North were different from those in the South, but they were old, familiar friends to him, as familiar to him as the face of his beloved wife and their children. He smiled to himself as his roving eyes traced the shape of the Valacirca. A fitting symbol, he thought. Ever the Sickle of the Valar remains as a sign of doom to Evil howsoever it might manifest itself.

He hunched his shoulders against the cold wind blowing from the northeast down from the mountains of Angmar, drawing his warm cloak of rabbit’s fur closer to him and sighed. He looked northwestward, across the hills and plains of Eriador to where Annúminas lay. There had been long years of rebuilding, but Annúminas was the jewel of the North now and he smiled wistfully, wondering when next he would see it. Construction at Fornost was also finished and he was confident that the fortress and those who manned it would provide adequate protection to his people here in Arnor while he attended to business in the South.

His eyes strayed westward, where his hope lay, where it always lay, for were not the Lords of the West there, Guardians of Arda, who watched over them? He recalled the stories of his youth, the tales told of the Eldar and the Edain as they battled against the Enemy, the coming of the Host of the Valar and the downfall of Morgoth. They had stirred his blood and they still did, though his reaction was tempered now by age and experience.

He glanced down to the plain spread below him. Campfires lit the surrounding fields, pale reflections of the glorious lights that hung above them, glinting with cold indifference at the small doings of the denizens of Arda. Well, perhaps not so small, he decided with satisfaction. Much had been done, but much still needed doing and he would see it through to the end, wherever the end might lead.

Turning, he saw Voronwë standing in the shadows. His advisors had left him alone, for which he was grateful, but he was never truly alone, not with the ubiquitous guard ever watching over him. He nodded to the man who straightened a little more, returning his king’s nod with one of his own.

"I will climb the tower now," he said and proceeded to do so, taking the outer stairs that wound themselves around it. Voronwë did not follow, knowing his lord’s mood, but stationed himself before the tower stairs. None would disturb the King’s peace; he would make sure of that.

Reaching the top of the tower, the king leaned his elbows against the parapet and continued to contemplate the night. Clouds were scudding across the sky now, blocking some of the stars. From the way the wind was shifting and the smell of wetness in the air, he suspected that it would rain or perhaps even snow sometime soon and grimaced, hunching further into his cloak, as if to ward off a blow.

In the east, there was a pale lightening of the sky and glancing that way he noticed that one star remained burning brightly and saluted it. Eärendil’s presence warmed him and he felt hope rising in his breast that all would be well in the end, howsoever that might be. He felt himself smiling as he turned again to look westward and gasped in shock and delight at what he saw there.

Without a word he spun and raced back down the stairs, heedless of their steepness in his excitement. "He comes! Gil-galad comes!" he cried to Voronwë, who had heard his lord’s descent and was already waiting, sword drawn, thinking that there might be danger which the king had seen but he had not. But when the guard saw the joy in the king’s grey eyes as he reached the bottom of the stairs, he sheathed his sword and quickly followed Elendil down the path leading from the watch-tower of Amon Sûl to the plains below.

And there, as dawn greeted them, the High King of the Númenóreans-in-Exile hailed his friend, the High King of the Noldor-in-Exile, and they were glad.

****

‘It is told that Elendil stood [upon the great watch-tower of Amon Sûl] watching for the coming of Gil-galad out of the West, in the days of the Last Alliance.’ — Aragorn, The Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter XI, ‘A Knife in the Dark’

VAGABOND: Footloose and Fancy Free

SUMMARY: Sometimes a carefree existence is not as carefree as one would wish. Takes place circa S.A. 1800.

****

     "I’m busy doing nothing, working the whole day through,

     Trying to find lots of things not to do.

     I’m busy going nowhere, isn’t it just a crime?

     I try to be unhappy, but I never do have the time.

     I have to wake the Sun up, She’s liable to sleep all day.

     And then inspect the rainbows so they’ll be bright and gay.

     I must rehearse the songbirds to see that they sing in key.

     Hustle, bustle, and never a moment free...."

"Whatcha doin’?" the little girl asked, suddenly appearing as if from nowhere.

"Singing," he answered with a wistful smile. He had not noticed her approach and found that rather disturbing. He was usually more aware of his surroundings.

"I know that!" she exclaimed in exasperation. "Whatcha doin’?"

"Ah! You mean ‘what am I doing here’," he said, stressing the last word.

She nodded enthusiastically and his smile broadened.

"I’m merely passing through," he answered.

"Passing through what?" And the genuine confusion on her face caused him to laugh.

"I am passing through your little village on my way to... well, to somewhere else." He ended on a somewhat lame note, for in truth he had no idea where he was going, nor did he particularly care. Life, in all its twists and turns, had brought him to this place, to this little seaside village, but he did not see a need to remain. He knew that strangers were seldom welcome in these dark and troublesome times with the Enemy rising somewhere in the East and the Sea-kings claiming dominion over much of the seacoast.

"Oh," the little one said, contemplating his words as she stared at her bare feet. Then she looked up, her dimples evident as she smiled. "Will you sing again?" she asked.

He nodded gravely, readjusting his grip on the lap harp and began to sing the same sweet song he had been singing before. He didn’t know what possessed him to sing that particular tune. It was not his usual choice. He tended to sing long weepy lays about loss and death and other dark matters. Yet, today, for some reason, as he sat on the bluff overlooking the sleepy little village, as the waves crashed upon the beach and the sea gulls screeched, as the sun shone warmly upon his shoulders, he found himself singing this little ditty instead, an amusing walking song he had overheard another sing, unaware that he was being watched.

"I like that," the little girl said as he came to the song’s end.

"I’m glad," he said and smiled at her warmly. "Now, don’t you think you should be getting on home? See you. The sun is sinking into the Sea and soon she will be abed."

The little girl, her hair the color of gold that achingly brought to mind a distant memory, one that still caused him pain, looked down upon her village and sighed. "I s’pose," she muttered. Then she turned to look at the dark-haired stranger with the lovely voice and sad grey eyes. "Thank you," she said, rising up on her toes to leave a wet kiss on his cheek. She skipped away down the path leading to the village just as a woman’s voice called out from somewhere.

"Gimilâriphel!"

"Comin’ Mama!" the girl cried, turning to give her new friend a wave before passing out of view.

Gimilâriphel. So that was the little one’s name. He idly strummed the strings of his harp. Gimilâriphel. He knew enough of these people’s language to know the name’s meaning. It pleased him oddly to realize that these people still held Varda in reverence. He glanced up into the darkening sky to see Eärendil’s Star glittering just above the horizon and the hand that had once held a Silmaril spasmed in remembered pain. He gasped, drawing a shuddering breath before he was able to calm himself again, shaking his head over past regrets.

Then, he stood, making his way along the bluff, heading north to an unknown destination, the melody now more sorrowful, yet still hauntingly beautiful. Maglor’s song drifted into the evening air, wafted by a gentle sea breeze back to the village where a little girl lay in bed, silently weeping.

He never looked back.

****

Gimilâriphel: (Adûnaic)‘Star-queen’s Daughter’.

Note: Maglor’s ditty is adapted from the 1949 musical comedy film A Connecticut Yankee at King Arthur’s Court (score by Jimmy Van Heusen, lyrics by Johnny Burke).

KEY: And the Password is...

SUMMARY: Celebrimbor and Narvi discuss the West-Gate of Khazad-dûm. Takes place soon after the founding of Ost-in-Edhil in Eregion (S.A. 700).

****

"Hmm..." Narvi of Khazad-dûm said, stroking his reddish-brown beard, already beginning to be streaked with white, his bright eyes under bushy eyebrows furrowing in thought.

"Hmm what?" Celebrimbor asked in amusement. He gave his friend a sideways glance as he placed a paperweight made from a nugget of gold on the corner of the vellum sheet showing his design of the West-gate for the Dwarf city that he and Narvi were crafting.

The Dwarf glanced up at the Elf. "‘Pedo mellon a minno’. A bit ambiguous."

Celebrimbor shrugged, his dark hair flowing, braidless except for the single back braid of his House. The ellon had never really been a warrior, at least not intentionally, Narvi knew. A metalsmith and crafter of jewels was his friend and the only battles Celebrimbor fought these days were with the ruling council of Ost-in-Edhil and with his cousin Galadriel. Being the head of the Gwaith-i-Mírdan, which had grown powerful and influential in its own right, brought its own headaches, Narvi thought, and he was glad he was just a humble carver of stone.

"We don’t wish to make it too obvious, do we?" Celebrimbor replied. "After all, your enemies shouldn’t have an easy job of entering Khazad-dûm."

"True," Narvi allowed, then gave his longtime friend a wicked look. "In that case, we ought to carve these words in Cirth and in the language of the Khazad. We wouldn’t want just any Elf wandering in, would we?"

Celebrimbor threw back his head and laughed. "No indeed," he said, giving Narvi a fond look. Their friendship, unlikely from the beginning, when the Dwarves had offered to help the Noldor build their city, had blossomed and grown over the years. Narvi had been a young apprentice then, just learning his craft, and had an openness about him that warmed Celebrimbor. The Elf had taken upon himself to teach the Dwarf something of Sindarin and, in turn, Narvi had given him lessons in some of the more colorful Dwarvish curses.

"Well, while I don’t understand all the intricacies of your language," Narvi said, "I do know that ‘mellon’ should actually be ‘vellon’."

"Ah... but that is the key, don’t you see?" Celebrimbor said, smiling. "If someone were to say ‘vellon’ the door would not open. They need to say ‘mellon’."

"Why don’t you just have "Pedo i-beth mellon’ then?" Narvi asked. "Why make it so ambiguous?"

"Hah!" Celebrimbor exclaimed, giving his friend a mock scowl. "This from one whose people thrive on secrecy. I would think you would enjoy the... jest."

"Jest?" Narvi asked, both eyebrows going up.

Celebrimbor smiled. "Well, don’t you think it would be a fine jest if someone came to the door when it was closed and in reading these words walked away in sorrow believing that he needs a password to enter, not realizing that it is right there before his eyes, having misread these words? I can just imagine you sitting behind the door sniggering in your beard at that."

"I suppose," Narvi said with feigned reluctance.

"Besides, those who are indeed friends would already know the password," Celebrimbor suggested.

"And yet," Narvi said, "I am thinking how such knowledge can be lost over time. A day might come when none live who remember the key just when it is most needed."

"Elves will be here," Celebrimbor said somewhat dismissively. "They will remember. I will remember."

"Assuming you are still here, my friend, even after I have gone to the Halls of my Fathers," Narvi retorted. "The fortunes of the Elves could well turn against them. It has happened before, it can happen again."

To that Celebrimbor had no answer. He stared moodily at the drawing he had made. When Narvi had first approached him, asking his help when King Durin had decided he wanted the West-Gate remade and had ordered Narvi to see it done, he had only agreed out of friendship to draw up plans for its design, but as he began to think on it, his excitement over the project grew and he had thought long and hard how best to highlight the password without making it obvious. Now, he felt cheated, his hard work unappreciated by the one person whose opinions mattered to him.

He sighed. "I suppose I could go back and think of another design...."

Narvi snorted. "Nonsense! I think it’s a fine design and Durin will approve."

Celebrimbor’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he stared at the Dwarf, wondering when the hammer would fall, as the Dwarves liked to say. "You just said you didn’t like it."

Now Narvi’s eyes glinted with affront. "I never said that. I said these words were ambiguous," tapping the vellum with a stubby finger. "If anything, I don’t think they’re ambiguous enough."

"What?" Celebrimbor demanded. "Just how much more ambiguous do you want it?"

"Oh, I don’t know," Narvi said, feigning disinterest. "How about ‘Pedo i-bethirith mellon a minno’? That should make it even more ambiguous, don’t you think?"

The Elf rolled his eyes in disbelief. "Well, for one thing, that would make it too long and there’s not enough space for another word. As it is, I had to forego using the correct Sindarin name of your fair kingdom and settle for ‘Moria’, insulting as it is."

Narvi nodded, not at all offended. "Well, I know some of the Elves of Eregion are less than polite about it, but then, some of my friends call your city, well, I suppose the best translation would be ‘Gobel-i-Thais’". He gave his friend a sly look.

Celebrimbor raised an eyebrow and then a slow smile spread across his face at the irony of the Dwarf’s words. "It is probably a truer description of Ost-in-Edhil than Moria is of Khazad-dûm."

"Perhaps," Narvi said, giving the Elf his own wry smile. "After all, life has never been the same for me since you darkened my doorstep. You’ve been nothing but trouble with your flighty ways."

Celebrimbor laughed, the sound of it like bells ringing through the halls of the Dwarf-city. "But admit it, mellon nîn, at least you cannot claim your life is boring."

"I suppose," the Dwarf averred, "though sometimes boring sounds good to me."

"But only sometimes," Celebrimbor said, looking uncertain, as if he was not sure if Narvi was being serious and wondered if his friendship with the Dwarf was only one-sided.

"Yes, friend Celebrimbor," Narvi answered with a warm smile, "only sometimes. When I think back to before we met, I realize that my life was too constricted, too narrow. Since meeting you, my vistas have widened. For that, I thank you." And the Dwarf gave him a profound bow, one usually reserved for King Durin.

Celebrimbor was touched and he smiled shyly. "I can say the same, friend Narvi. Your enthusiasm and love of life have often lightened my own burdens and troubles, and for that I thank you." He gave Narvi a bow of his own, one that he would only give to the High King in Lindon.

The two friends smiled at one another. Then, Narvi poked a finger at the design. "As I’m the one carving this, though, I think my name should come first."

"But ‘calma’ comes before ‘órë’," Celebrimbor protested.

"But it’s my door and my people’s door, not yours," Narvi retorted.

Celebrimbor stared at the Dwarf for a moment, then nodded. "You are correct, Narvi," he said rather stiffly. "I will make the necessary changes."

Narvi merely nodded, keeping his face expressionless, though inside he was somewhat saddened. He’d been looking forward to a good war of words with his friend. He saw the look of confused hurt in the Elf’s eyes and decided to change the subject. "It is a good design, my friend," he said softly, "better than I could hope for. Durin will be pleased, as I said. He had to fight his councillors who did not want an Elf designing our door."

Celebrimbor gave him a startled look. "Truly?"

Narvi nodded. "Durin has great respect for the Elves and for you personally," he said. "I was very glad when he appointed me to carve the door. I told him I would not do it unless you helped me with the design."

"Thank you," Celebrimbor said shyly. "I confess when you first approached me with the idea, I was reluctant to take on the project, for I have many others that hold my interest more. Yet, I soon found I was enjoying the challenge." He gave Narvi a worried look. "Are you sure Durin will approve?"

"Why don’t we go and find out?" Narvi said with a smile, removing the paperweights from the vellum and rolling it up. He handed it to the Elf.

Celebrimbor nodded. "By all means, let us go."

Together the two friends exited the chamber in search of the King of Khazad-dûm to show him his new door.

****

All words are Sindarin.

Ellon: Male Elf.

Pedo mellon a minno: 'Speak/Say friend and enter'.

Gwaith-i-Mírdan: Brotherhood/Guild of Jewelsmiths.

Pedo i-beth mellon: 'Speak/Say the word friend'.

Mellon nîn: My friend.

Pedo i-bethirith mellon a minno: 'Speak/Say the password friend and enter'. Pethirith, literally ‘watchword’, from peth ‘word’ + tirith ‘watch’. ‘Watchword’ is a synonym for ‘password’.

Gobel-i-Thais: ‘Town of (those who are) Trouble’.

Notes:

1. The correct Sindarin name for Khazad-dûm is Hadhadrond, literally ‘Dwarf-cave’. Moria means ‘Black Pit’. The name was not adopted until Khazad-dûm was abandoned to the balrog in T.A. 1980. This is my take on why the West-gate has ‘Moria’ some 4,700 years before Khazad-dûm was renamed.

2. ‘Calma’ comes before ‘órë’: Each of the tengwar had a name in Quenya and these names were used even when referring to a different writing system, such as Beleriandic Sindarin, which is found on the West-Gate. Celebrimbor’s name begins with the tengwa called ‘calma’ (No. 3) while in the Beleriandic Sindarin mode, Narvi’s name begins with the tengwa called ‘órë’ (No. 21) which, in Sindarin, was used for the simple nasal ‘n’ rather than No. 17 ‘númen’ which was used for the long nasal ‘nn’.

FIRE: Burning

SUMMARY: Ñolofinwë and others reflect on their choices while encamped on the shores of Araman, waiting for what will never come.

****

"Dost thou think he will send the ships back?" Findecáno asked his atar as the Noldor huddled on the shores of Araman.

"I do not know, yonya," Ñolofinwë replied, looking east across the dark waters of Alatairë where his brother — half-brother, a part of him whispered contemptuously — had gone, having stolen away with the ships, he and his sons. He glanced at his oldest son and heir and sighed inwardly. Findecáno’s expression was one of hurt and confusion. Ñolofinwë knew well the deep bond of love and friendship Findecáno had for Nelyafinwë, knew that the two were otornor, but he feared that bond would be severed by what Fëanáro had done, was doing to them all in his madness.

"Did ye notice whom he left behind?"

Ñolofinwë turned to see his nephew Findaráto approach with his siblings. Findaráto’s expression and those of his brothers appeared grimly amused. Artanis’ expression, however, could only be called wrathful, her grey eyes glinting balefully even in the starless mists that enshrouded them.

The second-born son of Finwë nodded. "He took all those who have pledged loyalty to him."

"Kinslayers," Turucáno said darkly. He was standing with Elenwë and Itarildë on either side of him, huddled inside his cloak, for they were beginning to suffer anguish from the unrelenting cold and clinging mists.

"What will we do if he doth not return with the ships, though?" Findecáno asked. "Surely he will not abandon us." And in the pain they all heard in his voice they knew Findecáno really meant that he hoped that his otorno had not abandoned him.

Findaráto put a comforting arm around his cousin. "We will see," he said quietly. He himself held little hope that their uncle would return for them. He feared that Findecáno’s trust was about to be betrayed, if not by Nelyafinwë then certainly by Fëanáro, for Findaráto was convinced that his uncle’s will had enslaved his sons so that they would not gainsay anything their atar did.

"If the ships do not come, do we go back?" Aracáno asked. The youngest son of Ñolofinwë shivered, drawing his cloak closer.

His atar gave him a considering look. "Is that what thou wishest, yonya?" he asked and there was neither rancor nor disapproval in his tone.

Aracáno looked down at his feet. "I do not know," he whispered. "I miss ammë."

A spasm of pain flashed across Ñolofinwë’s face but was quickly shuttered and his expression became unreadable to them. "We all do," was all he said.

"Look!" someone cried and they all turned towards the voice to see one of the guards stationed further along the shore pointing eastward. They peered through the enshrouding mist and it was as if a great wind came sweeping across the ice-dark waters, the tumult of its sound causing them to wonder, for it was full of wrath. And then, on the horizon a great light, red and baleful, rose into the sky and they could see a great smoke, dark and billowing on the wind.

"What doth it mean?" Itarildë whimpered, huddling closer to her atar.

For a long moment the only sounds were the endless swishing of the restless sea and the wind blowing away the mists clinging to the shore. The Noldor themselves were too shocked to speak or move as they slowly comprehended what their eyes showed them.

Finally, though, Ñolofinwë spoke, and it was as if it were a death-knell to their fëar. "The ships are burning. We have been betrayed."

There was a collective gasp among the Noldor and then there was much weeping and cursing as the import of their lord’s words became clear.

"What do we do now?" Aracáno asked fearfully, hunching further into his cloak, the despair that was beginning to overtake him evident in his posture. Findecáno gathered his youngest brother into his embrace, trying to comfort him.

"Go back," Elenwë said, giving her husband a hopeful look.

Turucáno shook his head. "Go back to what, meldanya? Shall we slink back to the Valar in shame like naughty elflings promising never to be bad again?"

"What other choice have we?" she demanded hotly. "We stayed our northward trek for fear of the grinding ice. We were to cross the Sea in the ships. We dare not attempt the journey northward. I fear me that we will not survive the terrors that await us if we go on."

"I will not go back," Findaráto declared loudly, his eyes glittering with a cold fire that had nothing to do with the flames that still rose heavenward on the horizon.

"Nor will I," Ñolofinwë said more softly, yet there was a steel in his voice that they had never heard before and his children and his brother’s children stared at him in wonder. They could see the anger burning in his eyes, anger and something else: the bitter pain of knowing oneself betrayed. "We go on," he continued, still speaking softly as he picked up his gear and slung it over his shoulders. He gave them all a determined look. "We go on. I have a tryst to keep with my brother."

Then he started walking northward along the shore. For a moment the others stared at one another in uncertainty, then Findecáno nodded, picking up his own gear and shouldering it as he silently went after his atar. The others soon followed and behind them came the rest of the Noldor, still weeping and cursing the name of Fëanáro.

****

Atar: Father.

Yonya: My son.

Alatairë: Great Sea, the name of the Western Ocean that separates Valinor from Beleriand; the Quenya equivalent of the Sindarin Belegaer.

Otornor: Plural of otorno: Sworn brother.

Ammë: Hypocoristic form of amillë: Mother.

Fëar: Plural of fëa: Spirit, soul.

Meldanya: My beloved.

Note: Since these people have not yet reached Beleriand, their names are given in Quenya. Below are the Quenya names and their Sindarin counterparts. As Elenwë and Aracáno never reached Beleriand, they’re names were never Sindarized. Tolkien at one point gave Ñolofinwë three sons rather than the two we know of from the Silmarillion. The third son, Aracáno, supposedly died crossing the Helcaraxë and so never came to Beleriand or received a Sindarin name. As was a common practice among the Elves of this period, Ñolofinwë named this son after himself, giving him his amilessë or 'mother-name'.

Artanis — Galadriel

Fëanáro — Fëanor

Findaráto — Finrod

Findecáno — Fingon

Itarildë — Idril

Nelyafinwë — Maedhros

Ñolofinwë — Fingolfin

Turucáno — Turgon

WONDER: Cal' Oira

SUMMARY: The Quendi woke to starlight and were awed, but they were unprepared for the glorious Light of the Two Trees or the majesty of the Valar.

NOTE: As this takes place in the early period of the history of the Elves, some words used by the Elves are in their original Primitive Quendian (marked ‘PQ’ in the notes) forms rather than in their later Quenya forms.

****

Valian Year 4602, 496 solar years after the Awakening of the Elves at Cuiviénen:

Oromë looked upon the three Quendi and smiled as they spoke among themselves. They were still some distance from Amanaphelun but he hoped to reach it soon. The journey had been swift by the Children’s reckoning, but rather slow by his.

*Too slow,* Nahar bespoke him, grousing, and the Ayanuz forced himself not to laugh out loud, contenting himself with a broader smile. Three of his other Máyar, who had agreed, temporarily, to take on the fanar of what the Quendi had termed rokkoi, were already moving away from the camp into a stand of trees. It had been their habit to go incorporeal whenever they camped to allow the Children time to eat and sleep. Always they sauntered off into any nearby woods before divesting themselves of their physical shapes so as not to frighten the Children. While the ellyn slept they held guard against any wild creatures or the threat of Melkor’s evil falling upon them, returning to their rokko shapes before the Children awoke.

"How long dost thou think it will be before we see Aman?" Elwë asked Ingwë who was the eldest of the three. Elwë was deemed the youngest while Finwë fell somewhere in between. While all had woken under starlight, of the three, Ingwë had woken first.

Ingwë shrugged. "Thou must ask Lord Oromë," he answered.

Three sets of eyes gazed up at the Ayanuz and Oromë hid a smile at the sight of their expectant faces. "Soon," he answered.

"Define ‘soon’, lord," Finwë said somewhat boldly. Of the three, he was the more outspoken and was usually pestering Oromë with questions. All three of them were inquisitive but the other two were content to let Finwë ask their questions for them.

"All times are soon for me, child," Oromë said equably, "for I came into existence in the Timeless Halls where Eru Ilúvatar dwells. I watched as Varda herself brought forth the very stars thou seest above thee, singing them into existence, long before Arda was created."

The three Quendi stared at him awestruck. Ingwë’s gaze drifted upward to the heavens and he sighed. "There are so many of them," he whispered. "I once tried counting them, but..." he gave Oromë a sheepish look, "I... um... fell asleep before I got too far."

Oromë simply smiled at the ellon’s confession. "Rest now," he said to them, and the three dutifully slipped into their bedrolls and were soon drifting onto the Path of Dreams. Once they were asleep, Oromë called the three Máyar who appeared in fanar similar to that of their lord. "Let us hie them across the land bridge while they sleep," he told them.

"Will they not wonder what had happened to them when they awaken?" Roimendil asked.

"I am sure they will be upset to learn that we brought them across the sea while they slept," Oromë said with a faint smile, "but I will show them something of the path we will take. It should convince them that they were better off sleeping through this part of the journey."

The Máyar laughed as they gently bundled the sleeping Quendi into their arms even as Oromë mounted Nahar and they set off for home.

****

As Oromë had predicted, none of the three Quendi appreciated waking up in the middle of a frozen tundra when they had fallen asleep in a meadow glade beside a small swift flowing brook.

"You transported us while we slept!?" Ingwë shouted, his face contorted in anger. "Are we but children in truth in your eyes that you would do such without our consent?" Finwë and Elwë were equally incensed and were about to add their voices to Ingwë’s, but Oromë forestalled them with a gesture.

"Let me show you something," he said and the gravity of his tone stopped the Quendi in their tracks. They allowed themselves to be led some distance from the encampment, wrapping the warm wool blankets the Ayanuz had provided them around their shoulders in an attempt to ward off the freezing cold. He led them eastward and they soon heard the shur-shush of waves and for the first time they beheld the Sea, mostly frozen with icebergs and ice floes. The very starkness of the landscape stunned them as they stood staring out across the icy dark waters.

"That was our road," Oromë said quietly, pointing to where a narrow strip of tundra wended its way eastward, and watched as the three Quendi shivered with more than just the cold. He gave them a moment or two more to contemplate the view. "Shall we continue our journey, then?" he asked and the three nodded mutely, meekly following him back to the camp where they quietly broke their fast before resuming their course southward.

****

"How will we cross that?" Finwë demanded, his look of terror mirrored by his two companions. They were making their way down the coast of Valinor with the sheer face of the Pelóri rising on their right, dark and forbidding. As terrifying as the mountains they had encountered earlier had been to behold, these were even more so. The Quendi had hung on for dear life as the rokko-shaped Máyar fairly flew over the crest of those mountains wreathed in mist which now seemed like hills in comparison to what they were presently beholding.

"Fear not!" Oromë cried. "Further south the mountains become lower. There is a pass over which we will climb and then we will be in Aman."

Elwë gave them a weary sigh. "I think I should have remained in Cuiviénen," he said, his voice quavering somewhat with barely suppressed fear. There had been too many wonders along their route and each seemed more astounding and more terrifying than the last. The other two nodded in agreement. It was becoming too much for them all.

Oromë gave them a sympathetic look. "I promise ye, ye have naught to fear. Soon we will reach Aman and all will be well."

The three ellyn nodded mutely, not willing to dispute the Ayanuz’s claim, but their expressions were still doubtful and their eyes drifted ever to the mountains looming over them menacingly in the dark beneath the stars.

****

As Lord Oromë had promised, the mountains became lower the further south they went, though they were still high enough. Now they were climbing a narrow cleft along a well defined path that wound its way past towering cliffs. Oromë glanced at the Quendi, hiding a frown. He was concerned about how they might react to the Light of the Trees and had long debated with himself as to whether he should warn them about it, knowing that their dark-adapted eyes might find the Light too much to handle, but he could not think how to adequately explain what was clearly beyond the Children’s experience. In the end, he had decided not to say anything; they would have to learn of the Trees on their own.

The path wound in such a way that the mountains blocked the Light, leaving them in comfortable starlight. Only when they had come around a bend at the crest of the pass, still well below the towering peaks around them, did the Light of the Trees shine forth upon them. Suddenly, the three Quendi screamed in pain and terror, throwing their hands up before their eyes. Elwë actually tumbled off his mount and began crawling back down the path towards his beloved stars. Ingwë and Finwë clung to their steeds, their eyes shut against the brightness of the Light blinding them. Then, even brighter lights appeared before them, coalescing into the fanar of Irmo and Estë.

"Help these two," Oromë commanded, pointing to Ingwë and Finwë, "while I go after Elwë."

The two Ayanumuz nodded as Oromë ran after Elwë who was still crawling away, weeping all the while. Irmo, meanwhile, lifted Ingwë into his arms and held him tightly. "Hush now, child," he murmured soothingly. He spoke slowly and clearly, for his command of the Children’s language was not yet as fluent as Oromë’s. "All is well. Keep thine eyes shut and wait. Soon the light will dim and thou wilt be able to see."

"Wh-what is it?" Ingwë stammered. "It...it hurts."

"And for that we are sorry. Thine eyes have known nothing but the dim light of the stars and so they are not used to this brighter light, but I assure thee that in time thou shalt adjust. For now, keep thine eyes closed until I tell thee to open them."

"Wh-who art thou, lord?" Ingwë whispered.

"I am Irmo and with me is my spouse Estë."

"Th-thou art one of th-the Bali?" the ellon asked in awe.

"Yes, I am. Now, already does the Light of golden Tulukhedelgorus begin to fade and the silver light of Ibriniðilpathanezel waxes. Dost thou feel the intensity of the light lessening?"

Ingwë nodded. "It... it feels cooler," he said.

"Good. When thou’rt ready, open thine eyes slowly. Take thy time, child. There is no rush. We will remain here until thou and thy companions are ready to resume your journey."

Ingwë did as the Ayanuz bade, opening his eyes a crack. The glare was indeed less and though his eyes watered, there was no longer the pain he had felt before. He wiped the tears from his eyes and looked up into the smiling face of Lord Irmo. Then, still feeling dazed, he glanced about him and gasped. He had no words for what he was seeing. He saw colors that he never knew existed, for in the dark beneath the stars, most colors were muted to shades of grey, white and black. The stars themselves glinted in various hues, not just white, and the Quendi had devised names for them. But now, looking upon the glory of Aman he felt that such words as kárani, lugni and láyakwa were too weak to describe what he saw. The colors of the stars were but pale echoes of the vibrant hues that now assaulted his eyes.

He moved tentatively out of the Ayanuz’s embrace and looked back to see Finwë standing by one who appeared like unto the ndissi of his own people, though more fair and beautiful if that were possible. The Tatya was also gazing about him in wonder. Elwë, he saw, was in Lord Oromë’s arms, his eyes still closed, the Ayanuz speaking to him softly. Slowly, reluctantly, the youngest of the ellyn opened his eyes, tears watering them. Then he gasped in awe and Ingwë could see him trembling. Lord Oromë continued speaking soothingly.

"Wh-where are the stars?" Elwë asked in a quavering voice.

"Look behind thee," Oromë said.

The three Quendi turned and breathed sighs of relief to see the familiar darkness and the stars glinting serenely on the other side of the pass. Then they turned almost as one towards the Light and Aman.

"What is this light?" Finwë asked. "Why is it so bright, brighter than any fire I have ever witnessed?"

"It is the Light of the Two Trees," Oromë answered and all three Quendi stared at him in a mix of awe and disbelief.

"Trees?" Ingwë asked. "This light comes from trees?"

All three Ayanumuz smiled. "Would ye like to see them?" Estë asked, her voice more musical than anything the ellyn had ever heard before.

They nodded eagerly, even Elwë who seemed the most reluctant of the three to leave the stars behind. The Ayanumuz helped them to remount the Máyar steeds that had stood patiently by and then they were making their way down the trail to the vale below, crossing swiftly the meadowland covered with flowers of every shape and hue. The ellyn sat with mouths agape, trying to take in the sights and sounds and smells that surrounded them. They soon came upon what would later be called Valmar, the city of the Powers, and they could scarce believe the grandeur of the mansions which they beheld. Through the western gate they went, and now Oromë bade them to dismount.

"From here it is best you walk," he said, and as soon as they were standing on the soft green earth, the three Máyar galloped away, eventually losing their physical shapes and resuming their natural forms once they were out of the Children’s sight. Nahar also trotted off after giving his beloved lord a nod of his head and a flick of his tail. Ingwë, Finwë and Elwë, however, only had eyes for the Trees that stood high on a green mound and they walked towards them as one walking in a dream.

It was only when they were at the top of the mound that they noticed other figures standing between the two Trees waiting for them. The three ellyn moved close together, unsure what was expected of them as they gazed in wonder upon the other Powers. Oromë took Ingwë’s hand and with a warm smile led him towards he who would be known as the Elder King; the other two Quendi trailed behind them.

"Here is Manawenuz," Oromë said, "who is King of all Arda and Eru Ilúvatar’s vice-gerent."

The Elder King smiled benignly upon the three Quendi. "Welcome, Children, to Amanaphelun."

Ingwë bowed as did the other two ambassadors. "We thank thee, Lord Man... manawe...." He stumbled to a halt, shame flooding him. Try as he might he could never get his mouth around the tongue-twisting sounds of the Bali’s language.

The Elder King raised an eyebrow at Oromë who shrugged. Finwë came to Ingwë’s rescue, leaning over to whisper something in the ellon’s ear. Ingwë’s expression mutated from shame to relief and he gave Finwë a grateful look before turning his attention back to the Ayanuz standing before him. He bowed again. "We thank thee, Lord Manwë, for thy kind greeting. Lord Oromë hath spoken much about the Bali and Aman but his words failed to do justice either to your majesty or to the beauty of your land."

Lord Manwë gave Oromë an amused smile. "‘Oromë’ is it?" he said speaking in their own language.

Oromë shrugged. "It is how they have rendered Aromez," the Ayanuz replied in the same language. "They have rendered many of our words into something that is closer to their own language, and now your name will be forever known to them as ‘Manwë’." He gave him a wicked grin.

"Ah..." was Manwë’s only comment. The Elder King then spoke again to the Quendi who had stood there in reverent silence. "I thank thee for thy words. Come. Let me make ye known to the other... Bali." He hesitated briefly before choosing the Quendi’s word for them, already enjoying the flavor of the language even though he did not care for the word himself.

He brought them before his own spouse. "This is Varda, who created the stars under which ye awoke," he said and watched with amusement as the ellyn stared at her in open-mouthed awe, unable to even make their obeisance to her.

She leaned over, giving them a warm smile and kissed each of them upon their brows in benediction. "Glad I am to finally see thee," she said to each of them. "Welcome to thy new home, if thou wishest."

The ellyn stammered incoherent words of gratitude for her greeting, blushing in embarrassment at their ineptitude, but none of the Ayanumuz laughed at them. Manwë then introduced the others, each of them echoing Varda’s gesture of kissing them in benediction and welcome. When Manwë introduced them to Lord Námo, they stared at him with undisguised dread, though they could not have said why they felt as they did. Yet, Námo did nothing more than gaze upon them with a smile, more reserved than those of the others, but no less warm.

"Ye are even more beautiful than we imagined," he said to them and they wondered at the pain that they saw in the depths of his amaranthine eyes. Then the moment passed and they were being introduced to Lady Vairë.

After all the introductions were made, Elwë ventured a hesitant question as he gazed upon the Trees under which they all stood. "Is it permitted to... to touch them?"

Yavanna smiled and took the ellon’s hand and led him to the Tree that shone with soft silvery light. "Here is Ibriniðilpathanezel, the eldest of the Trees," she said, placing his hand upon the silver-grey trunk.

Elwë sighed and cast his fellow Quendi a rueful look. "Their names are too long."

Finwë nodded, giving him a grin, and Ingwë sniggered. "Its light reminds me of the color of your tresses, Elwë," Finwë said musingly. He turned to Manwë. "With thy leave, my lord, we would like to render the names for the Trees in our own tongue."

Manwë nodded. "And what name wouldst thou give to Ibriniðilpathanezel?"

"Kyeleperyon," Finwë said without hesitation, "for the dew which falleth is like unto the metal we call kyelepe, prized among Elwë’s clan above all other metals that we have discovered."

"Then Kyeleperyon he shall forever be called," Manwë intoned solemnly.

Meanwhile, Ingwë had moved to the other Tree, laying a hand upon its trunk. "It sings to me," he whispered in awe as he gazed upon the golden fruit hanging from dark-green boughs.

The other two ellyn joined him under the Tree of Golden Light as the Ayanumuz watched with interest as the three stood about the Tree. Finwë looked to Yavanna. "And dare I ask what name thou’st given to this Tree?" he said with a quirk of his lips.

Yavanna laughed, its sound warm and merry. "Tulukhedelgorus I named her, for in our language tuluk-ha is the name we give to this color," she said, pointing to the golden fruit.

"Hmm..." Finwë said, his eyes narrowing. "Perhaps Láwarilindi then, for she singeth to thee, Ingwë."

"Or perhaps Láwarilingi," Ingwë suggested, "for her fruit hangeth from her boughs."

The other two Quendi nodded. "Either would be acceptable," Finwë replied.

"Then as Láwarilindi or Láwarilingi shall she be forever known," Manwë exclaimed solemnly.

The ellyn gave each other wide grins. Ingwë stared up into the golden Tree and sighed. "I love the stars, but I think I could love thee more," he whispered, running a hand gently over the Tree’s smooth bark.

Finwë and Elwë both nodded. "Kyeleperyon calls to me," the silver-haired ellon said as he wandered over to the elder Tree.

"It is for this reason that we invited ye to come to Aman," Manwë said, "for we much desire to have ye Children live with us beneath the eternal Light of the Trees."

The three ambassadors exchanged meaningful looks before Ingwë bowed to the Elder King. "It too is our wish, lord, and we will gladly lead our people here to dwell amongst ye."

The Ayanumuz smiled and there seemed to be a sense of relief in their eyes, a loosening of their demeanor, as if they had been holding their collective breaths, waiting for the Quendi’s answer.

"Then, after ye have rested from your journey, Oromë will return ye to your people."

Elwë looked somewhat troubled. "How will we convince our people to follow us, though? I fear our words will prove inadequate."

"We’ll have the journey back to figure out just what to say," Ingwë said equably.

"I may have to invent new words just for the occasion," Finwë said with a smug smirk.

Elwë sniggered and then he was laughing and soon the Mound of the Trees rang with the laughter of them all.

****

Words are Quenya unless otherwise noted.

Cal' Oira: Light Eternal. The final 'a' in cala is elided; cf. the phrase lumenn' omentielvo.

Quendi: The name the Elves gave to themselves. Eldar was a name given them by Oromë.

Ayanuz: (Valarin) Ainu, Vala. The plural is Ayanumuz.

Máyar: Plural of Máya: an older form of Maia. There is no attested Valarin form.

Amanaphelun: (Valarin) Aman, literally, ‘Blessed Dwelling’. While this is not an attested word it is constructed after the attested Aþáraphelun ‘Appointed Dwelling (of the Children)’, i.e. Arda.

Fanar: Plural of fana: The physical ‘raiment’ of the Valar and Maiar when they self-incarnate.

Rokkoi: (PQ) Plural of rokko: Horse. The later Quenya forms are rocco/roccor. It is said that the Noldor later devised the -r plural ending for certain words, thus, for instance, Banyai > Vanyar. [see ‘Dangweth Pengolod’, HoME XII, The Peoples of Middle-earth].

Ellyn: Plural of ellon: Male Elf.

Bali: (PQ) Plural of Bala: Angelic Power. The later Quenya forms are Vala/Valar. According to the Etymologies, the plural in Primitive Quendian was formed direct from the stem BAL-. Thus, an older and alternative plural in Quenya was Vali [see ‘The Etymologies’, HoME V, The Lost Road, s.v. BAL-].

Kárani: (PQ) Red. The later Quenya form is carnë.

Lugni: (PQ) Blue. The later Quenya forms are luinë or lúnë.

Láyakwa: (PQ) Green. The later Quenya forms are laiqua or laica.

Ndissi: (PQ) Plural of ndis: Woman. The later Quenya forms are nís/nissi.

Ibriniðilpathanezel (Valarin)/Kyeleperyon (PQ): Telperion. Kyelepe is the original form of tyelpë or telpë. In Sindarin this would be rendered as celeb.

Tulukhedelgorus (Valarin)/Láwarilindi/Láwarilingi (PQ): Laurelin. The Primitive Quendian names are translated as ‘Singing Gold’ and ‘Hanging Gold’, respectively. According to Tolkien, Laurelin could be derived from either word.

ALONE: Out of Options

SUMMARY: Sometime after the end of the Fourth Age there was an Ice Age, destroying the great civilizations of Middle-earth. Unfaded and with nowhere else to go, an Elf walks out onto the ice seeking death. He finds something else instead.

****

The landscape was, to put it mildly, bleak, a barren white desert of scrub grass and lichen clinging precariously to the frozen ground. He had finally reached the tundra, ignoring the desolate beauty that surrounded him. All he wanted was to die and put an end to his miserable existence. He glanced around, looking for any familiar landmarks, but the glaciers had done their work too well and much of the geography was... wrong.

Still, if he had not completely misjudged, where he stood should be Imladris. Of course, he could be wrong. It was easy enough to lose oneself in the trackless snowfields, but he had decided that where he was had to be where Imladris had once flourished. The glaciers had not totally destroyed all landmarks. There were still the mountains to the east and their distance appeared to be about right. He had never actually resided in Imladris, but he knew of it and had kept a watch over its lord and those who dwelt therein. He did not think anyone suspected, though he would not have been surprised if Elrond or Glorfindel knew the truth.

He sighed, wrapping the bear cloak closer around his thin frame. Even he was beginning to feel the cold, a cold that he equated with the Helcaraxë. Not that he ever crossed that land bridge to Ennorath. He had come by ship, and that crossing had been frigid enough for his taste. He scowled at the memory and felt his hands clench in remembered shame and anger for his treachery and all those who had followed Fëanor, leaving Fingolfin and the others to fend for themselves. He had never been able to look Finrod or anyone else who had crossed the Helcaraxë in the eye after that without feeling regret for what was lost between them.

Looking about for some kind of shelter against the coming night and its brutal winds, he espied a clump of rocks in the middle distance. They weren’t much but they would have to do. He intended to die here, but not immediately. He gave a snort of wry amusement at that thought. He had not faded as so many of those who had lingered past their time here had done, and sailing was out of the question, especially now with the seas frozen. There wasn’t enough timber anywhere to build even a decent sized ship. Círdan and the Falathrim had long sailed to Valinor. He had stood on a seacliff overlooking Mithlond and watched the last of the grey ships slip over the horizon, never to return.

Well, if he wasn’t going to die tonight, he had best see to setting up a camp. The rocks were a tumble of boulders offering shelter of a sort. There was an overhang that would do well enough, he decided and settled down to tend to a small fire made from dung that he had collected along the course of his trek. It amazed him that any animal life could flourish in this white hell, yet it did and he was grateful, for it gave him a means to eat and stay warm. He wasn’t sure why he bothered, though.

"I came out here to die," he muttered to himself even as he scooped some snow into an iron pot to melt over the fire for his stew. Then he shrugged. By his estimation he still had provisions to last him for a few more days before he needed to hunt again. Perhaps he would just let them run out. "No sense letting this bear meat go to waste," he said out loud with a chuckle. He had gotten into the habit of speaking aloud just to hear something other than the moaning of the wind.

Night descended in a rush of brilliant flame as Anor sank into the West. The tundra was awash with crimson, indigo and deepening purple shadows that faded slowly with the coming of the stars. He gazed heavenward and felt a tightening of his throat. Their beauty always affected him this way and he struggled not to weep as he watched Eärendil’s Star glitter coldly just above the western horizon, brighter than any of the other stars now shining. It would be a dark night, for Ithil would not rise before dawn. He felt a need to sing but the tightness around his chest would not loosen and he had long ago broken his harp into kindling for a fire. Instead, he huddled closer into his cloak and refused to look up for the rest of the night. And so he never saw Menelvagor rising above the mountains nor did he notice the curtains of light — red mostly with some green — shimmering silently above him.

Dawn roused him from his troubled sleep and he stood, stretching for a moment before crouching over the dung fire that had burned out several hours earlier. It took him some time to rekindle the flame and then he set about half-heartedly fixing something to eat. All the while, he replayed in his mind memories of warmer climes and the warmth of family and friends that he had known in his long years. As he sipped on some hot water — he had long ago run out of any tea — he brought to his mind’s eye images of people — family, friends and foes alike — one after another, asking them for forgiveness. Most of the people he remembered were already dead or had sailed. The fates of some of them he did not know. He had begun this ritual of calling to mind the people who had crossed his path over the long ages of his life and asking them for forgiveness for any wrongs he might have done to them, real or imagined, since beginning this journey, readying himself for the end. He wasn’t sure why he bothered, but something within his fae eased with every apology. Sometimes he found himself weeping uncontrollably and it was as if his tears were washing away the filth of ages from his soul. He was glad no one was there to see him weep, yet he always felt better for it afterwards.

He had just begun his daily ritual when some sound that was more sensed than heard, brought him to his feet, his sword out before he had straightened completely. He glanced around him at the desolate landscape, trying to determine what had alerted him. At first he could see nothing and was ready to dismiss his feelings as a product of imagination but then from the corner of his eye he saw movement. Turning to the southeast, he shaded his eyes against the glare of Anor on the snowfield and after a moment he was able to see what approached. What he saw caused him to drop his sword in shock.

People!

He stood there, wondering if he was seeing things, if perhaps the loneliness and despair that had gripped him for longer than he could remember had finally taken their toll and he was now imagining things, slipping into delusions as a precursor to his death. He bent his knees and slowly reached for his sword, never taking his eyes off the approaching group numbering about thirty, all dressed in furs that, like his own bear cloak, blended well into the bleak landscape, making for good camouflage. He did not sheathe the sword, but held it point down. The group made its way unerringly towards him, almost as if the people knew he was there, though his fire was smokeless and he was still hidden among the boulders. When they had come within ten feet of his camp they stopped. One of those who was in the lead swept back his hood, his silver tresses glinting in the sunlight, his ears slightly leaf-shaped.

"Mae govannen," the Elf said, giving a slight bow in his direction though he was sure the ellon could not see him. "May we join you?"

He stood there still in shock. The last thing he had expected to see in this desolate wasteland was others of his kind. He stepped out from his hiding place, purposely waiting to sheathe his sword until he was in full sight of them. He gave them his own bow. "Mae govannen. What little I have is yours." He swept a hand back to indicate his campsite, welcoming them to join him.

The silver-tressed ellon smiled as he and the other Elves came forward. "We thank you, lord, for your hospitality. I am Denethor, once of Eryn Lasgalen and Ithilien, and leader of this ragtag group of sorry Elves." He gave him a lop-sided grin and some of the others chuckled, as if at an old jest.

"I am... Glîrhir," he said, barely hesitating over the lie.

Denethor raised a delicate eyebrow but said nothing. Instead, he turned to his followers, issuing orders and soon, to Glîrhir’s surprise, his dismal camp was transformed into a lively gathering as the others set about building their own fires and setting up tents made of fur. The group appeared to be equally divided between ellyn and ellith and most were obviously Sindar, though Glîrhir could see some whose darker tresses suggested Noldorin ancestry. All of them were cheerful and seemed unbothered by his presence or the cold. Someone even began singing and soon others joined in.

Glîrhir stood feeling uncertain, not sure how to react to the presence of these others. He had long ago abandoned any pretense of needing contact with other people, be they Elves or Mortals. When he had decided to walk out onto the ice and die he had put all that behind him. Now, however, the numbing cold that he had allowed to nearly smother his heart was fading under the relentless warmth of these Elves.

Denethor gave him a knowing smile. "We are all that are left, or who were willing to leave." Glîrhir gave him a quizzical look as he resumed his seat before his own small fire, indicating that Denethor should join him, which he did. "We have named ourselves the Harthadrim," he said.

"Of what do you hope?" Glîrhir asked. He himself had lost all hope, except the hope to die soon and bring his sorry tale to an end.

One of the ellith had taken Glîrhir’s tin cup of hot water and added a few dried leaves, the scent of apples rising in the steam, bringing with it a wealth of memories of long summer nights when there had once been summer. He gave her a heartfelt smile of thanks and she smiled back before moving away.

Denethor nodded to the other Elves bustling around them. "We hope to find Valinor," he said simply. "We have not faded as you can see and are unlikely to do so, or so it seems." He took an appreciative sip of his own tea. "We have lingered overlong in these Mortal lands and we few who are left or who could be found have decided to head West."

Glîrhir gave him a skeptical look. "The seas are frozen," he said. "You will find no grey ships waiting for you in which to sail."

Denethor nodded. "True, but we are undeterred. It is our hope that the Belain will show mercy upon us and open the Straight Road for us. All we need do is continue West."

In spite of himself, Glîrhir was intrigued. "Do you truly believe you will find Valinor? I think you will most likely die first."

The other ellon shook his head. "Even if that is true, we will have come to Valinor regardless. We will not fade. We have no other options."

"You could just wait here and die, thus saving yourselves the bother of a hopeless journey," Glîrhir said harshly, his own desire for death sitting less comfortably upon him in the presence of these others who exuded life and hope.

"Is that why you are here?" Denethor asked shrewdly.

Glîrhir cast his eyes down, feeling shamed for some reason. "I have no reason to live, and Valinor is closed to me."

"It cannot be completely closed to you," Denethor said with a slight smile, "if your fae ends up in Lord Bannoth’s Halls, unless you intend to refuse his call and join the Houseless Ones." His eyes darkened with disapproval.

Glîrhir blinked and then sighed, giving Denethor a wry look. "Truth to tell, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I only wanted to get the dying part over with."

For a moment, Denethor gazed at him, deep in thought. Then, he nodded, as if coming to a decision. "Join us," he said.

Glîrhir stared at him in surprise. "Why would I do that? Your journey is hopeless. Si mîn phain raeg!" he spat in contempt. "You will all die."

If his manner upset the leader of the Harthadrim, Denethor gave no indication. Instead, he shrugged. "What you say may be true, but we will not be swayed from our quest. Before we decided on our course we were a spiritless people, lost to ourselves, to our memories and our regrets. But look at us now. Hear you not the singing and the laughter? See you not the spring in our steps and the smiles on our faces? For the first time in long years we have hope again. We may indeed die somewhere out on the ice further West, but we will die with hope."

Glîrhir stared about him, seeing the truth in Denethor’s words. He saw people full of purpose. They knew that the odds were against them. It was unlikely that they would ever find the Mên Dîr, but he sensed that that would not deter them.

"I once heard Lord Glorfindel say that Lord Bannoth does not care for quitters," Denethor said. He shrugged when Glîrhir gave him a measuring look. "I suppose if anyone should know, it would be he."

Glîrhir snorted in wry agreement. Still, he hesitated. He had accepted his fate, knowing there was no other way. Death seemed the only viable option, but now.... He glanced about him again and there must have been something in his expression, a hunger for what he knew could never be his, for Denethor leaned over and gently placed a hand on his knee to get his attention.

"All else being equal, Lord Maglor, what do you have left to lose?" he asked quietly.

The sound of his true name on the ellon’s lips startled him. "You knew who I was all the time," he whispered.

Denethor nodded. "And we knew where to find you."

Maglor felt his heart lurch in his throat. "I don’t understand," he said faintly.

Denethor smiled. "A dream came to me," he said, "in which I heard a voice bidding me to seek for you in the barren wastelands where once fair Imladris stood. ‘Bring the Exiled One home’ the voice said to me. ‘It is time’. I spoke to these whom you see here and we resolved to find you and take you with us. So you see, mellon nîn, your welcome is assured if you will turn away from death and join us in hope."

Maglor could feel tears in his eyes at the look of calm acceptance and assurance in Denethor’s eyes. "We may still die," he stated half-heartedly, already counting himself among Denethor’s people.

Denethor nodded. "But you will not be alone if you do."

Alone. He had come out here alone to die alone. Now, however, he was being offered another way. He might still die, they all might. There was no real guarantee that the Straight Road would open for them, and yet.... For a long moment he sat in contemplation, staring at the fire, weighing Denethor’s words against his own thoughts. Finally, coming to a decision, he looked up to see Denethor smiling at him.

When the Harthadrim broke camp the next morning to continue their journey westward, their numbers were increased by one, and they were glad.

****

All words are Sindarin.

Ennorath: Middle-earth.

Falathrim: People of the Falas, the western seaboard of Beleriand, who later relocated to Mithlond after Beleriand’s destruction. Their lord was Círdan the Shipwright.

Menelvagor: Orion.

Fae: Spirit, soul.

Mae govannen: Well met. 

Ellon: Male Elf. The plural is ellyn.

Ellith: Plural of elleth: Female Elf.

Glîrhir: ‘Master of Song’. Cf. Gonhir: Master of Stone = Dwarf.

Harthadrim: People of Hope.

Belain: Plural of Balan: Vala.

Bannoth: Námo. The name is the Sindarin form of Mandos by which the Vala was more popularly known to the Elves of Middle-earth.

Si mîn phain raeg!: ‘Now all roads are bent!’.

Mên Dîr: Straight Road.

Mellon nîn: My friend.

NORTH: News From the South

SUMMARY: A letter is read bringing news from a loved one far away.

****

"Can anything good come from the North?" the captain of the guards muttered in an absent-minded manner as he scribbled the information into his ledger.

I smiled at the Gondorian, who never looked up. "Odd. Where I come from we ask the same question of the South."

The man looked up, seeing me for the first time since the interview began. He was older than I, his hair more grey than brown and cut ruthlessly short. His eyes were blue and held no warmth in them. An old scar, running from his left temple down his cheek and disappearing beneath the collar of his uniform, completed the picture of a hard-bitten soldier.

"What do you mean by that?" he spat, and I had the impression he was spoiling for a fight. Recording the names of possible recruits for Gondor’s army was a thankless, if necessary, job. I had to wonder, though, why he, a captain, was doing the work normally left to his subordinates.

I shrugged. "It is just that historically many of my people’s woes seem to come from the south," I said without any heat. He must have seen something in my eyes, though, for the captain leaned back as if to avoid a blow. "When I was a child," I continued softly, "a mysterious plague swept through our villages, nearly decimating them. It came from the south. I almost died."

The captain gave me a considering look and took a deep breath. "Nothing to do with Gondor," he declared, the scar puckering his lips into a leer that I took to be a scowl.

I shook my head. "Gondor is not the only country that lies south of my homeland," I stated and stole a glance towards the east where dark mountains loomed in the far distance before settling my gaze once again upon the Gondorian. By his set expression as he gave me a nod I knew he understood my meaning. For a brief moment we were in accord with our belief that nothing good ever came from the benighted land.

He leaned forward, picking up his quill and dipping it into the inkwell. "What was your name again?" he asked.

I smiled, though he never saw. "Thorongil," I said, "lately from Rohan...."

****

"‘And so I am now in Minas Tirith and am slowly learning my way around this incredible city,’" Gilraen read to the interested Elves in Elrond’s study. "‘Gilhael says if I don’t stop gawking like a country lad at all the sights, birds will start building a nest in my mouth.’"

Elrohir burst out laughing, "That sounds like Gilhael," he said and the others joined him in laughter.

"Estel certainly has a way of describing his experiences so you think you’re right there with him," Elladan said and everyone else nodded.

"I remember the first time I saw Minas Tirith, Minas Anor as it was known then," Glorfindel said as he took a sip of wine. "Except for the location it could have been Gondolin or even Tirion in Aman."

"The sons of Elendil wrought mightily in the early years of their exile from Númenor," Elrond stated with a sad smile. "I was most impressed by their efforts."

"So, anything else our youngest has to say?" Erestor asked Gilraen, casting a fond smile in her direction.

She scanned the rest of the missive and shook her head. "Just that the meeting with Lord Ecthelion went well and he was glad to renew his friendship with Lord Denethor. He will have finished his training as a Ranger and already have been sent to Ithilien on patrol by now." She sighed, looking somewhat wistful and the Elves remained respectfully silent.

Elrond leaned over and patted her knee. "He has already shown that he is capable of taking care of himself, Gilraen," the Lord of Imladris said gently, "and Gilhael watches his back. I have no fear for him."

"Yet, he moves ever closer to Mordor and to danger," she protested, her grey eyes now dark with a mother’s worry where before they had been bright with delight at sharing her news with the rest of Estel’s family.

"He will do well, Gilraen," Glorfindel said with grave confidence. "He was trained by the best and he has matured into a responsible leader of Men."

Gilraen nodded, mollified. She glanced again at the letter, a small smile on her lips as she re-read her son’s words. Then she sighed and looked up at Elrond. "I wish I could let him know how proud I am of him and how much I love him and miss him."

Elrond gave his sons a diffident look. "Are you not planning to travel to Mirkwood in three days?"

Elladan nodded. "And then to Lórien to visit with Daeradar and Daernaneth," he said.

"Perhaps you could take a slight detour," Elrond suggested, giving them a meaningful look.

The twins raised identical eyebrows and their smiles were nearly identical as well. "Estel will think we’re checking up on him again," Elrohir said with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

"You will be merely passing along his naneth’s message," Elrond said, giving Gilraen a smile, her own smile one of gratitude. "He cannot object to that."

"I don’t think it would be wise to enter the city, though," Elladan said musingly. "The people of Gondor have not seen any Elves in too long a time."

"Go to Ithilien," Glorfindel suggested.

The twins gave him jaundiced looks. "Ithilien is a rather large area to look for one person," Elrohir said.

The former Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin stared cooly at his lord’s sons. "Then it will offer you the opportunity to put all that you have learned from Erestor and me to good use."

Elrond stood then, placing a hand on Gilraen’s arm. "Come, Gilraen. Let us compose our letters to our son."

"Our letters?" Elladan asked in amusement.

Elrond gave him a cool stare that was a match to the one Glorfindel had given them. "Of course," he said with a disdainful sniff. "Gilraen is not the only one who misses Estel."

There was a slight pause and then Glorfindel suddenly stood. "I think I’ll go write a letter to the lad myself," he said to no one in particular and strode out the door with purposeful strides.

When Elladan and Elrohir left Imladris three days later they carried with them a pouch bulging with letters written by the Elves of Imladris for ‘Young Estel’ and his cousin Gilhael, but the four most important letters from Estel’s ‘family’ they carried inside their tunics, next to their hearts, for safekeeping.

****

All words are Sindarin.

Daeradar: Grandfather, i.e. Celeborn.

Daernaneth: Grandmother, i.e. Galadriel.

Naneth: Mother.

SPRING: Meeting of Minds

SUMMARY: When the War of the Ring ends two Elf-lords meet.

MEFA 2009: Honorable Mention: Featuring Mirkwood Elves (Elves)

****

Gwaeron 28, T.A. 3019:

Celeborn strode northward from Dol Guldur, leaving Galadriel to oversee the final dismemberment of the hated fortress, cleansing the evil therefrom. Already he could detect a noticeable change in the air around him. It was more wholesome and the taint of evil that had hung over the southern reaches of Mirkwood was dissipating. The trees that had been twisted and blackened by the power of the Dark One seemed less so. Green shoots were springing forth, tentatively, hesitantly, as if unsure of their welcome and he smiled, singing a song of welcome, of growth and renewal, as the first day of the New Year dawned.

He made his way towards the Narrows along with a contingent of warriors. His scouts had told him that an army of Elves was heading towards them from the north, though they were unable to identify anyone. He suspected Thranduil might be leading the army of Mirkwood and Celeborn looked forward to being able to give his kinsman news about his youngest son, Legolas. He could just imagine what that irascible ellon would say and smiled to himself.

"My lord," Celeborn’s chief Marchwarden said as he approached him from the trees where he had been scouting. "King Thranduil’s army is just over that ridge." He pointed northward. "They appear to be waiting for us."

"Thank you, Haldir," Celeborn said with a nod. "Has there been positive identification as to who leads the army?"

"Aye, lord," Haldir said with a knowing grin. "Thranduil himself leads and from what I could tell, he’s looking somewhat impatient."

Celeborn snorted good-naturedly. "Well, I had best not keep my kinsman waiting too long then. No telling what mischief he might get himself into that I will then have to pull him out of."

Haldir laughed, knowing full well just how these two cousins had been long ago in Doriath. Celeborn gestured for Haldir to lead the way and the rest of his warriors followed. The ridge was more like a low hill that tumbled to the east and west and like the rest of the area it was heavily forested. As he came to the top of the rise he spied Thranduil’s army spread below them in a clearing, pennants with the Elvenking’s sigil snapping in the morning breeze.

He made his way down to where he could now see Thranduil waiting for him. The Elvenking was dressed in ancient mail with a green silk surcoat on which was embroidered a wreath of niphredil and elanor entwined, the emblem of Doriath that was no more. He had doffed his helm for a crown of spring flowers and new leaves. Celeborn himself was wearing mail that was equally ancient, and a surcoat of blue silk shot with silver thread on which was embroidered a white swan. His head was bare of helm or crown. Both Elf-lords wore warrior braids and Celeborn found it amusing that they both wore them in the style of Doriath of old. Even after two ages, some things never change.

Thranduil was sitting in a camp chair under an awning of white samite shot with gold thread. Another chair was there with a table in between on which sat a carafe of wine — Dorwinion, no doubt — and two goblets. Thranduil looked up as Celeborn came near and scowled.

"Took you long enough," he muttered as he poured some of the wine into the goblets and handed one to Celeborn as the Lord of Lothlórien took a seat.

"A hînwain ’elir achen, sui mae, Thranduil," Celeborn said with a congenial smile as he raised his goblet in salute, taking a sip of the wine, which did in fact turn out to be Dorwinion.

Thranduil threw back his head and laughed, raising his own goblet. "Indeed, a very happy New Year," he said, then took a sip of his wine. "A new year, a new age. Sauron defeated." He shook his head in wonderment. "I can scarcely believe it, nor can I fathom how it happened." He gave his kinsman a shrewd look over the rim of his goblet.

Celeborn nodded. "A long tale, one that will have to wait for a proper telling, nor do I know any of the details myself. Be assured though that your son had a hand in Sauron’s downfall."

"Legolas!" Thranduil exclaimed and there was a hunger in his eyes that showed Celeborn the depth of the ellon’s pain at having had no news of his beloved Lasseg.

Celeborn nodded, giving Thranduil a warm smile. "He came through Lórien in Narwain along with Lord Boromir of Gondor and Isildur's Heir." He decided not to mention the Dwarf or the Periain. It would be best to wait until they knew for sure what had happened and who had survived. "They stayed for a month before continuing on."

"I wasn’t too pleased when my son’s escort returned without him." Thranduil said with a scowl. "The captain of the guard said something about a Council and Isildur’s Bane and that one of the Periain was carrying it to Mordor." He gave Celeborn a shrewd look. "What Elrond was thinking to include Legolas as a member of this company is beyond me."

"You should be proud that Elrond thinks so highly of Legolas that he chose him for this quest to destroy the One Ring. He could have chosen one of his own people, even his sons or Glorfindel, and none would have gainsaid his decision. That he decided that your son should represent all the Firstborn is a great honor."

"I suppose you are right," Thranduil said grudgingly.

"What! The great Thranduil Oropherion admitting that he is wrong?" Celeborn said with a laugh. "That I lived to see the day."

"I didn’t say I was wrong," the Elvenking protested, though there was a twinkle in his eyes that belied the heat of his words, "I said you were right. There’s a difference."

"Have it your way, Cousin," Celeborn said with an easy grin, taking another sip of his wine, his eyes twinkling with merriment.

Thranduil flashed him a wicked grin. "I usually do," and they both laughed.

"So, now the question before us is: What next?" Celeborn said once they had calmed down. "What are your plans for Mirkwood?"

Thranduil scowled. "For one thing, we need to find another name for these woods. No longer is the forest dark, for the evil that has held it enthralled is now gone."

"You could always return to its old name, Eryn Galen iDhaer," Celeborn suggested.

Thranduil shook his head. "New year, new age, new name."

"Hmm...." Celeborn replied, looking about them. Here, in the southern reaches of the great forest the trees were still blighted from Sauron’s taint, yet he could see how new leaves and blooms were sprouting all around them, a sign not only of Spring but also of hope renewed. For the first time in ages birds were singing high in the branches, their songs a welcome sound after the deathly silence that had once reigned here. The dark pall that had hung over Mirkwood for so many lives of Men was lifted and one could truly say that the forest was green again.

"What about Eryn Lasgalen, then?" he offered.

Thranduil seemed to mull over the name for a moment before nodding. "I like it. Like but not like its original name." He lifted his goblet in salute and Celeborn followed suit. "Eryn Lasgalen," the Elvenking said, "may it remain forever green," and the two of them drained their goblets.

"So what are your plans?" Thranduil asked as he poured more wine. "And your lady? What of her?"

"She will sail," Celeborn replied quietly, not looking at anything in particular.

"But you will not," Thranduil said, making it a statement rather than a question.

"No, I will not," his kinsman answered shortly. There was an uncomfortable silence between them for a moment or two and then Celeborn shook off the melancholy that had taken him and gave Thranduil a wry grin. "So, will you reclaim the whole of Mirk... I mean Eryn Lasgalen?"

Thranduil shook his head. "Though we were driven north over the long years, I have no desire to rule over the whole of the woods. My realm will stop at the mountains." He cast Celeborn a sly look. "You may have the rest if you wish."

Celeborn laughed. "I thank you for the offer, Cousin, but I think not. However, if you agree, I will claim all the forest south of that ridge." He nodded towards the ridge he had climbed. "I am thinking of calling it East Lórien."

"You truly wish to lay claim to what was the very heart of the darkness here?" Thranduil asked incredulously. "You wish to claim Dol Guldur?"

Celeborn shook his head. "Nay. Even now my lady wife lays bare the foundations of that hateful place. She and my people were in the process of cleansing the area completely. Not even the memory of its existence will survive, I assure you."

"Hmph," Thranduil replied, not entirely convinced. "Then, if it is your desire, take the lands south of the Narrows, but that still leaves a goodly portion of the woods free of any claim."

"Give it to the Beornings and the Woodsmen," Celeborn suggested. "Ever have they come to the aid of both our peoples. The least we can do is reward them for their faithfulness. I think Radagast would appreciate the gesture, also."

"That is a thought," Thranduil said with a nod. "Perhaps we can present the idea to the Wizard together, see what he thinks."

"An excellent idea," Celeborn replied. Then, he gave Thranduil a shrewd look. "In the meantime, what will you do?"

Thranduil did not answer immediately. When he did speak, it was with implacable determination, his eyes dark with unforgiving pain. "I wish to see for myself that Dol Guldur is truly destroyed."

Celeborn nodded, not at all surprised by Thranduil’s words. "Then let us away that you may see for yourself the truth of what I have said."

With that, the two Elf-lords drained their goblets a second time and shortly Thranduil’s army had decamped. Together with Celeborn and his warriors they headed south into the newly renamed East Lórien.

****

All words are Sindarin.

Ellon: Male Elf.

A hînwain ’elir achen, sui mae: ‘ And a Happy New Year to you, as well’ [în ‘year’ + gwain (lenited) ‘new’, cf. Narwain ‘new-sun’, i.e. January. When a word beginning with a vowel follows a ‘and’ the vowel is aspirated].

Lasseg: ‘Little Leaf’.

Periain: Plural of Perian: Halfling, Hobbit.

Eryn Galen iDhaer: Greenwood the Great.

Eryn Lasgalen: Wood of Greenleaves.

Note: Gwaeron 28 (April 6 of the Gregorian calendar) is the first day of the Elves’ New Year and the beginning of the season they called Ethuil (Sindarin) or Tuilë (Quenya), translated as ‘Spring’.

TRUST: Sailing

SUMMARY: In the end, all that was left them was trust and their love for one another.

****

I am sailing, I am sailing,

home again ’cross the sea.

I am sailing stormy waters,

To be near you, to be free.

— Rod Stewart, Sailing

****

"Should we turn back?" she asked.

"Is that what thou wishest?" he replied.

She turned to him and saw the careworn look in his eyes. His hair was completely white now and his face was lined and seamed with age. She knew he had little time left. They had sailed together, seeking Valinor, the land of her youth. It was distant enough in time to be but a vague memory for her, clouded with pain and fear of the Light suddenly going out and her naneth slipping into the dark cold waves beneath the ice. They sailed, hoping against hope, but what they hoped for neither could say.

He stole a glance at her, keeping his eyes forward as he expertly handled the wheel, bringing their ship about in an effort to keep them from entering the shadowy gloom that lay in the middle distance. She was as beautiful as the day they met when he first came to Gondolin. He knew that she was accounted young by the standards of the Elves but he had never found the courage to ask her how old she truly was. It did not matter. He could feel his death upon him. Whether they went back or sailed forward, it was all the same to him; he doubted he would live long enough to see his destination either way.

Idril shook her head. "I wish only to be with thee, meleth nîn," she said softly.

"Ever do I hear the conches of Ulmo calling me," Tuor said just as softly.

"I wish I could hear them," she replied sorrowfully.

"As do I," he answered just as sorrowfully.

It was an old argument, one they had had almost from the moment they had set sail, leaving their only child, Eärendil, behind. The words had become almost ritualistic, as if in the speaking of them they would somehow justify their madness in braving Lord Ulmo’s realm. Yet there was no justification for this journey save for the yearnings of a Mortal’s heart for what he once had heard: the Ulumúri blowing upon the sea, beckoning him westward into the unknown. The days and weeks of sailing across the trackless ocean had not lessened their desire to continue west nor their arguments to turn back. Yet, there was no question of returning to Ennorath. The arguments were spoken simply for the sake of speaking; they had long run out of any other topics of conversation as the winds of Manwë continued to fill the purple sails of the Eärrámë, sending them ever westward.

"No one has ever returned from the west," Idril pointed out.

"Voronwë did," Tuor answered.

They went silent, both staring into the twilit gloom that seemed to hang before them. Idril had warned him that the Shadowy Seas with their floating isles would be the first barrier they would encounter in their quest to reach Valinor. "The first, but not the last, though for us it may well be," she had said as their ship had skipped across the waves, the shores of Ennorath slipping beneath the eastern horizon.

"So be it," had been his answer and nothing more was said about it.

Until now.

"The wind has died," Tuor said, frowning as he saw the sails go limp.

"We may not have a choice then," Idril said, giving her husband the smile that she always reserved for him and no other. He returned her smile with one of his own and the love that flowed between them, unspoken yet undenied, was almost a physical sensation that never ceased to astound him.

"Not so," he said. "We have the choice to either trust in the Valar’s mercy or not."

"Thou knowest the doom of my people," she whispered.

"A doom I willingly share with thee," Tuor stated firmly. "Yet, surely the Valar cannot fault thee for thy parents’ decisions. Thou wast but a child at the time thy people fled Valinor. No blame can fall upon thee. That is why I say to thee that we should trust in the mercy of the Valar."

"I cannot," she said. "The doom of my people lies heavily upon me and whether I was innocent or not I cannot escape it nor their wrath."

"Then we will face their wrath together," he retorted. "Yet, I cannot but hope that it is their love we will find in the end."

Idril leaned over and gave her husband a kiss, putting her hand in his. "Then I will let thee hope for the both of us, but whate’er our fate, I would that we share it together. I would not be parted from thee, hervenn nîn."

Tuor returned her kiss with one of his own. "Nor I from thee, hervess nîn."

They clung to one another while the Eärrámë floated gently in the waves, bringing them ever closer to their doom.

****

Ulmo, listening to their conversation, relayed it to his fellow Valar. The ship was near enough to the Enchanted Isles and the bewilderments set upon the Shadowy Seas that a decision had to be made. Manwë, therefore, consulted with Atar, and then the word came down from Ilmarin, sealing the fate of these two Children. An unexpected breeze filled the purple sails and a subtle altering of the ocean currents brought the ship further into the Shadowy Seas before either of the Children could react. Thus, almost of itself, the ship sailed safely through the shoals and shadows until it came to shore upon a particular island where Námo patiently awaited their arrival.

****

Words are Sindarin unless otherwise noted.

Meleth nîn: My love.

Naneth: Mother.

Ulumúri: (Quenya) The great horns of Ulmo.

Ennorath: Middle-earth.

Eärrámë: (Quenya) Sea-wing, Tuor’s ship.

Hervenn nîn: My husband.

Hervess nîn: My wife.

Author’s Note: As we never learn from Tolkien what Idril and Tuor’s fate was, except for tantalizing hints, I have purposely left the ending ambiguous. I leave it to the reader to decide what happened next, keeping in mind that Námo is not only the Lord of Mandos, but the Doomsman and Judge of Arda, as well as the Consoler and Comforter of Souls.

BLUE: Mid-Summer Memories

SUMMARY: Some wounds never fully heal, as one young Elf learns.

****

It wasn’t until Lord Glorfindel had resided in Lindon for a few years that people began to remark on the fact that the ellon would mysteriously disappear just around Mid-summer. Where he went, none could say. He would leave the court three days before the festivities on Mid-summer’s Day, returning three days after, his mood somber though not dark. Some inquired of Gil-galad about it when they began to notice the ellon’s absences but the High King would assure them that Lord Glorfindel had his leave to be away from court at that time.

Lord Glorfindel himself offered no explanations as to where he went, or why or what he did during that one week and there were none in Lindon, except the High King and possibly Lord Círdan, who had the temerity to ask and both lords kept their own counsels. Some of the more curious thought to learn the reason for Lord Glorfindel’s absence through Lord Elrond, whom everyone knew was Lord Glorfindel’s closest friend at court. The young healer, however, would stare disdainfully at the one who sought the information (usually through indirect means that still did not fool the young lord). "I am Lord Glorfindel’s friend," he would say coldly, "not his minder. Lord Glorfindel’s comings and goings are of no concern of mine nor should they be yours."

In truth, Elrond was just as curious about his new friend’s actions as anyone, but his own reticence forbade him from intruding on Glorfindel’s privacy in such a crass manner. If the ellon felt the need to confide in Elrond, he would, and Elrond would hold his confidence securely. But Glorfindel did not confide in anyone, as far as he knew, and so the young healer accepted that in this one instance his golden-haired friend preferred to be alone.

Surprisingly, or perhaps not so surprising, it never occurred to anyone to simply follow Lord Glorfindel when he disappeared to see where he went and what he did. There was one young Elf, however, whose curiosity got the better of him and when the fifth Mid-summer since Lord Glorfindel’s arrival approached, Erestor decided he would put the hunting and scouting skills that he had been learning to good use and follow the ellon when he left. He was not sure why he felt the need to do something so underhanded and, in truth, dishonest. He tried to convince himself that it was out of concern for his friend. Ever since the bright haired Noldo had befriended him, Erestor had been drawn to Glorfindel as a moth to the flame. Their friendship was still tentative, at least on Erestor’s part, for he was wary of other people’s motives and agendas. Lord Glorfindel did not appear to have any, and Erestor was glad of that, at least.

If anyone had told him that what he felt for Glorfindel was hero-worship, he would have been appalled, but no one did, if they even recognized it for what it was. If Glorfindel himself noticed, he was gracious enough not to mention it to his young friend. Thus, Erestor convinced himself that what he was doing was out of friendship and not because he was too curious for his own good.

It was Glorfindel’s habit to leave on his annual pilgrimage an hour after dawn three days before Mid-summer. He would leave through the west gate of the king’s city, passing through the farmlands of Forlindon into the wilderlands of the far north, riding swiftly but not so swiftly that Erestor could not keep him in sight even on foot, for he felt that taking a horse would make him too readily visible. The young ellon had secreted himself in a stand of black elderberry bushes which lay along the north road just outside the city walls well before Glorfindel set out. He gave him time to pass out of sight before setting off after him, keeping low and stealthy so as not to attract attention.

At some point an hour or so before noon, Erestor saw Glorfindel lead his horse off the road towards the west. This was curious, as Erestor could not recall that there was any path leading towards the coast at this point, and when he had allowed Glorfindel sufficient time to get ahead, he came to where the Elf’s horse had left the road. Sure enough, there was no real track and Erestor could not imagine why Glorfindel would leave the road here for, in looking about him, he spied no obvious landmarks. He shook his head, deciding not to worry about it too much. His quarry was getting too far ahead and he did not wish to lose him.

So they continued, said quarry presumably unaware that he was being trailed. Erestor wondered just how far Glorfindel meant to travel that day. The days were longer now and it was close on ten in the evening and the sun was still in the sky, though another hour would see it sinking behind the clouds that lined the western horizon, when Glorfindel finally stopped for the night. By Erestor’s estimation, they had traveled nigh on fifteen leagues with four rest stops lasting about a half an hour each. Erestor was glad that Glorfindel had finally decided to stop for the night. He found he was tired and hungry and looked forward to finding a nice tree in which to sleep.

He never got the chance.

Crouching behind some bushes, he watched Glorfindel set up camp further west where a small copse of oak and elm spread itself across the landscape. Erestor munched on some lembas trying to gauge how close he could get to Glorfindel without being noticed. He was contemplating heading north once the night became truly dark and approaching the woods from that direction, thinking he could find a nice oak tree to settle himself in, when he saw Glorfindel straighten from tending his fire and look directly at him (or so it seemed) and smile.

"Well, Erestor, are you going to sit there all night or will you join me by the fire?" Glorfindel called out in an amused voice.

Erestor dropped the lembas he’d been holding and simply stared out from his hiding place in shock, unable to move, indeed, unable to think.

"Come, come," Glorfindel said, sounding a bit more impatient, "I really prefer my stalkers where I can see them, so fear not, elfling, I’ll not eat you."

Being called an elfling was what spurred Erestor forward, feeling a sick combination of shame at being found out and indignation at being treated as if he were indeed an elfling. He stumbled out of his crouch, and made his way towards Glorfindel, unable to look the Elf-lord in the eye. He felt Glorfindel lean down a bit (how he hated everyone being taller than he!) and put a finger on his chin to make him look up. He found himself staring into blue-grey eyes that looked upon him kindly.

"H-how long have you known?" Erestor asked in a whisper.

Glorfindel smiled. "Since leaving Lindon, my friend," he said. "I had to ask myself, ‘What is an Elf doing hiding behind the elderberry bushes?’ and decided to find out."

Erestor blushed and tried to look away, but Glorfindel held his gaze, his eyes hardening somewhat as he stared at the younger ellon. "I was rather unamused by the fact that it was you who felt the need to violate my privacy."

Erestor gulped but said nothing. Glorfindel continued staring at him for an eternal moment or two before releasing him. He stood back and smiled. "Though, I admit, I was also amused by your perseverance. I was sure I would lose you once I left the road where I did. I’m most impressed by your skills, Erestor. You show great promise."

Erestor wasn’t sure how to respond to the Noldo’s words. Was Lord Glorfindel amused and unamused at the same time? It was a bit confusing for him, so he just stood there silently waiting for something to happen.

It did, but not as Erestor expected. Glorfindel gave him a shrug and went back to tending the fire. "There’s a rill further south from here," he said, not looking up but holding a small pot towards him. "Why don’t you take this and fill it for me?"

Erestor did as he was bid and shortly thereafter he was helping Glorfindel cut up some carrots and leeks and potatoes to go into the stew that would be their dinner. Erestor contributed some dried rabbit meat he had brought for his own dinner and soon they were having a feast. As they sat there eating, Erestor finally got up the nerve to ask the one question that had been burning in his mind since dawn.

"Where do you go, lord?" he asked quietly, not quite looking at the other ellon.

Glorfindel took so long to answer that the ellon was sure he would not, but finally he spoke. "You will see tomorrow."

Erestor stared at Glorfindel in surprise. "You’re not sending me back to Lindon?"

"And would you go?" came the response.

"If you ordered me to return, then I would," Erestor answered truthfully, then his expression became sly. "Although, I might die of curiosity before I got there."

Glorfindel threw back his head and laughed and the sound of it, like so many bells, sent shivers through Erestor’s fëa. He loved to hear his golden-haired friend’s laugh. It was so joyous. He had never heard such joy in anyone before and it truly mesmerized him.

"Well, we wouldn’t want that, now, would we?" Glorfindel finally said, giving Erestor a friendly wink. "Which is why you may come with me."

"Thank you, lord," Erestor said with sincere gratitude.

"Now, none of that ‘lord’ business," Glorfindel replied with a frown. "I thought we were friends."

Erestor gave him a surprised look. "We were... I mean we are... I mean...."

"Then there should be no titles between us, Erestor," Glorfindel said. "Friends do not need to stand on ceremony with one another, do they?"

Erestor shook his head and Glorfindel smiled. "Well, I’m glad that’s settled. Now, who takes first watch?"

"Watch?" was all Erestor could say, shocked at the idea that anyone would feel the need to set watches within Gil-galad’s demesne.

"Sorry, force of habit," Glorfindel said with a shrug. "Go to sleep, my friend. I will see that no harm comes to you."

"But do you not need sleep as well, lo... Glorfindel?"

The golden-haired ellon shook his head. "Not as much as you do," he said. "If you wish, you may keep the watch tomorrow night."

With that, Glorfindel stood up and set out to walk the perimeter of their little camp while Erestor settled himself to sleep, though that was a long time coming.

****

"How far do you mean to travel?" Erestor asked the next day as they were breaking camp.

"To the coast," Glorfindel answered absently. "Perhaps another fifteen leagues or so. We will reach it just before sunset." Then he leaped upon his horse and offered Erestor a hand. "Come, today you will ride. Tuor will carry us both."

"I can’t believe you named your horse after a Mortal," Erestor said as he climbed behind Glorfindel and they set off.

"Why not?" Glorfindel asked with a light laugh. "We were friends and I think he would be amused that I would name this fine fellow after him." Tuor snorted and nodded his equine head as if in agreement and the two friends laughed.

They traveled through fen and forest, stopping several times to rest the horse and themselves. There was little or no talking between them, for Erestor felt abashed at his own actions. Glorfindel had every right to demand that he return to Lindon, and that he did not, only underscored Erestor’s own feelings of having betrayed his friend’s trust with his own lack of good sense. Yet, he did not sense any resentment or even resignation in Glorfindel’s mood. When he spoke to him it was in the same friendly tone he had always used with Erestor. The young ellon just wasn’t sure what to make of it all.

So they traveled on and as night began to encroach upon the land, they reached the coast. They came to a halt on a headland looking out upon the ocean. A stiff salt-laden breeze blew about them and sea-gulls screeched around them as they began to settle for the night, perched on the cliffside. As far as Erestor could see, there was no way down to the rocky shore below, but Glorfindel did not seem inclined to reach it anyway, moving north along the headland until they reached a dip in the land where boulders, some taller than they, were strewn about.

"We’ll set up camp here," Glorfindel said. "It will afford us some shelter from the wind which never really ceases."

So they swiftly set up camp and were soon eating their dinner while Tuor wandered about, munching on the tall grass surrounding them. They sat in companionable silence as Anor dipped below the horizon, her dying light staining everything crimson and gold and deepening purple while stars began to peep out and Ithil, nearly full now, was climbing the eastern sky. As they were finishing their meal, sipping peppermint tea, Glorfindel spoke.

"You’ve been very patient," he said softly, "and undemanding of answers, for which I thank you."

"I am still surprised you didn’t send me back to Lindon," Erestor replied. "I am sorry I betrayed your trust...."

"Nay," Glorfindel said with a raised hand. "I do not fault you for your curiosity. I suspect the Valar put you in my path for this very reason." He gave the other ellon a brief wistful smile. "I almost thought to invite Elrond to accompany me this year, but that ellon has enough burdens on his young shoulders that he shouldn’t be troubled by mine."

"Burdens?" Erestor asked, not sure what his friend meant.

"I will explain tomorrow, my friend. For now, rest."

"I thought I was to take the watch this night," Erestor replied but Glorfindel shook his head.

"I have no desire for sleep, child," he replied gently and before Erestor could protest the golden-haired Noldo began singing what Erestor thought must be a lullaby, though it was not one he had ever heard before. Still, it drew him and enveloped him as if he were cradled in strong, loving arms gently rocking him and before he knew it he was waking under a cloudless blue sky to the sound of birds singing and Anor shining warmly down on him. Of Glorfindel there was no sign.

****

Erestor wondered if he should go looking for the other ellon as he went through his ablutions and breaking his fast. Tuor was still there and so was Glorfindel’s haversack, so he knew that his friend could not have wandered far. He decided to stay by the fire, allowing Glorfindel his privacy. Thus, it was close to midday when Glorfindel returned to camp, coming along the headland from the north. He smiled as he spied Erestor grooming the horse.

"There’s a place further along where the land falls towards the sea," he said as he came to them. "It’s a bit rough, but we could easily reach the beach."

"Is that where we go, then?" Erestor asked as he finished with the grooming. "Is this where you come every year?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "No. This is the first time I’ve been here, but every year I find myself somewhere along the coast. The location itself is unimportant to me. All that matters is that I can look out upon the ocean."

Erestor gave him a puzzled look. "But you can do that from Lindon," he protested.

Glorfindel smiled. "But then I would be surrounded by others and for what I wish to do I prefer to do it alone."

"Then perhaps I should just stay here and look after Tuor," Erestor suggested, though in truth he hoped Glorfindel would not demand that of him.

The golden-haired ellon shook his head. "For better or for worse, you are here, my friend, and so you will share this moment with me."

Erestor gave him a bow. "Then, I am honored by your trust, little though I deserve it."

Glorfindel gave the younger ellon a brief but heartfelt embrace. "You are my friend, Erestor," he said with a smile. "It is not a matter of deserving anything; it simply is. Come, then, let us break camp. We will spend the next couple of days on the beach."

"It looks rather uncomfortable down there," Erestor said as he followed Glorfindel’s bidding, "with all those rocks and I imagine the tide will make things a bit wet."

Glorfindel laughed. "Do not fret so! As it happens there is a stretch of sand further north and we can camp there above the high tide mark."

And so that is what they did and before noon they were settled in their new camp. Erestor sat by their fire watching Glorfindel who had gone down to the waterline and stood gazing intently out to sea. The young ellon refrained from speaking, for he had noticed that Glorfindel’s mood, so bright and cheery earlier, was now more somber and pensive. Finally, though, Glorfindel returned to the fire and crouched down to pour himself some tea. Then he settled on a piece of driftwood and gave Erestor a knowing look.

"I promised you some answers today," he said. "I know everyone wonders why I disappear every Mid-summer and where I go. So far, only Gil-galad and Círdan know the reason. You will be the third person to know. I ask that you keep what I tell you in confidence."

"You have my word, Glorfindel," Erestor said solemnly. "Nothing that has transpired or will transpire during this time will be spoken of by me to any save you give me your permission to do so."

Glorfindel nodded, apparently satisfied. For a moment longer he did not speak and when he did it was with a question, one that Erestor was not expecting. "What do you know of Gondolin?"

Erestor sat in silence, trying to gather his thoughts. "It was the realm of Turgon, destroyed by Morgoth."

Glorfindel snorted. "Short and to the point," he said and then waved a hand dismissively when Erestor started to speak. "Nay, I do not fault you, Erestor. You are correct. It was Turgon’s realm, hidden for hundreds of years until its location was betrayed by Turgon’s own kin to Morgoth." He sighed and gave Erestor a rueful look. "Gondolin died on Mid-summer’s Day," he whispered, "and so did I."

Erestor stared at his friend in shock. "I knew... I mean I knew Gondolin was destroyed... but I didn’t... I mean... I’m sorry...." He was babbling, and cursed himself for it, stumbling to a halt at Glorfindel’s expression. "I’m sorry," he reiterated softly, unable to look Glorfindel in the eye. He knew the ellon had died and been Reborn, at least on an intellectual level, but this was the first time Glorfindel had ever come right out and said it, at least in Erestor’s presence. Hearing the words just made everything more horrific for him, though even he could not have said why.

Glorfindel, for his part, merely smiled in sympathy. "There is no need to apologize, Erestor. I died and after a time Lord Námo released me from his care and I was re-embodied." He shrugged. "I am not the first nor the last that this has happened to."

"Is this why you leave Lindon?" Erestor asked, "to mourn the dead?" He was pleased with having divined Glorfindel’s reasons for his journey, but the other ellon just shook his head.

"No, child," he said quietly, sighing as he stood to stare out to sea once again, his expression unreadable to the younger ellon. "I come to mourn the living."

****

The rest of the day was spent mostly in silence. Glorfindel’s mood became more and more pensive and he spent his time sitting on a boulder with his arms around his knees, gazing out upon the ocean. They had come to the beach around the time that the tide was going out and Erestor idled the afternoon wandering from one sandbar to another, leaving Glorfindel with his thoughts. He managed to find some clams and began collecting them in their cooking pot, meaning to add them to their dinner. It was only when he called to Glorfindel to come and eat that the ellon bestirred himself from his reveries and joined Erestor by the fire. They ate in silence, but as Ithil rose and Anor slipped under the sea, Glorfindel started to speak, softly, almost to himself, and Erestor had to strain to hear him.

"I remember that last night before the end," he said, not looking at anything in particular. "My closest friend, Ecthelion, Lord of the House of the Fountain, and I were enjoying a repast and discussing the next day’s tournament which Turgon always held at Mid-summer...."

Erestor sat in stillness listening to the ellon describe the final hours of Gondolin’s life, of his own life, with something that was akin to horror which mutated into deep sympathy and sorrow. He felt his very fëa tremble at Glorfindel’s words, spoken so emotionlessly, and was glad that the ellon did not describe his own death. Indeed, Glorfindel stopped his recital well before the attack itself, ending with a description of the preparations that had been made in anticipation of the great festival of Ennyn e-Laer.

Glorfindel did not speak for some time and Erestor feared to break in on the ellon’s silence but finally the golden-haired Noldo looked up at Erestor and gave him a brief joyless smile. "Time enough to tell you the rest tomorrow," he said. "You may keep the watch tonight if you wish," he added and then stretched out beside the fire, throwing his cloak about him, but whether he actually slept, Erestor could not say.

****

The next morning, Mid-summer’s Day, dawned bright and cloudless. Erestor woke to find that Glorfindel was already up and fixing breakfast. He cast the younger ellon a wry look. "I thought you were taking the watch last night," he said.

Erestor blushed. "I was, but the sound of the surf sort of put me to sleep." His expression must have been so rueful that Glorfindel laughed.

"I promise not to tell anyone," he said smilingly and offered Erestor a plate of eggs harvested from some gull’s nest in the cliffside.

That was the only lighthearted moment that entire day. Almost without preamble, once they had finished breaking their fast, Glorfindel picked up on his narrative where he had left off the day before.

"We were all gathered on the eastern walls of the city," he said, staring out into the ocean, "waiting for the rising of the sun that would mark the beginning of Mid-summer. Most of the warriors, myself included, were clad in armor, or mostly so, for the festivities always began with a tournament an hour after sunrise, followed by a grand feast. It’s why as many of us survived that would not have done otherwise, for we were already armed for battle, though we little thought that it would be a battle for our very lives...."

He went on to describe the attack by Morgoth’s balrogs and orcs, climbing over the northern mountains, which rose higher than the rest of the Echoriath and so was only lightly watched. "That was our gravest error," he said, "next to Turgon trusting Maeglin as he did."

Erestor sat there nursing his tea and listened with a sense of rising dread as Glorfindel continued his tale, describing the flight northward along the secret way that Idril had devised. He fervently hoped that Glorfindel would not describe his own battle with the balrog and his ensuing death. The thought of listening to the ellon describe his own demise sent a chill of horror through him and he was secretly glad when Glorfindel only mentioned the fact that he was one of the captains who helped Tuor lead the remnant of Gondolin into the dreadful pass of Cirith Thoronath.

"Then the balrog came," he said in an emotionless tone, and for a long time did not speak.

Erestor waited, not sure if he should say anything, not even sure what he could possibly say that would not sound either condescending, or just plain ludicrous, given the gravity of the moment. Glorfindel saved him the trouble of saying anything by abruptly standing and walking down to where the waves splashed upon the beach and began singing.

"Dannassen —

a naur a morchant dhannasser na nin.

     Massâd hi Loth Valthen e-Gondolin?

     Massâd hi megil e-gallon?

     Massâd hi Glorfindel veren?"

At first Erestor had trouble understanding some of the words, but as he listened more carefully, he realized that they were in a dialect of Sindarin that he assumed had been spoken in Gondolin, hidden away and isolated from all the other realms of Beleriand. And as he listened further, he realized to his dismay that Glorfindel was singing a lament, describing his own death:

"Nan îa dhannassem —

callon a choth —

na Ngûr a Dúaith ui.

     Massâd hi Loth Valthen e-Gondolin?

     Massâd hi megil e-gallon?

     Massâd hi Glorfindel veren?

Nan Annûn fae nîn róviel

rhaw nîn gaeda hi nu chaudh

nuin nîn vithrin e-Beleriand varad.

     Dan adguion, gwenniel,

     a boe enni ista:

     Am man manadh?"

And as the song ended, Glorfindel suddenly fell to the sand, heedless of the waves washing over his knees and started weeping. For a split second, Erestor sat unmoving, shocked to see this great warrior breaking down and then he was on his feet and going to him, falling beside him. For a moment he hesitated, not sure if his presence would be welcomed, but then he wrapped his arms around the still weeping ellon’s shoulders and held him through his tears, as mindless of the surf soaking him as Glorfindel. Finally, after what seemed like hours but was only about ten minutes, Glorfindel’s weeping slowed and then stilled. Erestor kept his arms around him, rocking him slightly as if he held an elfling in need of comfort in his arms.

"And you do this every Mid-summer?" Erestor whispered in disbelief. "You carry this burden alone?"

"It’s my burden to bear," Glorfindel answered, his voice somewhat muffled.

"But not alone, surely!" Erestor could not help saying.

Glorfindel raised his eyes to his and shook his head, giving him a tremulous smile. "No, not alone, not any more. Thank you."

"You are most welcome, my friend," Erestor said, giving him a wider smile and then he helped him to his feet, leading him back to the fire where they both exchanged their wet things for dry ones. Then, they sat and Erestor poured tea for them both. When they were settled, Erestor asked a question. "Why do you torment yourself this way, Glorfindel? What purpose does it serve?"

"It’s my way of remembering those who did not survive," he answered.

"Including you?" Erestor said, giving him a shrewd look and then turned away, abashed at his own temerity.

"Yes," came the soft answer, "including me."

Erestor looked back at the ellon, his eyes narrowing. "Yet you live, so what is there to mourn?"

Glorfindel drew in a deep breath, and Erestor waited with some trepidation for the storm of his anger to break upon him, but it never came. Instead, the golden-haired ellon gave him a piercing look and then smiled. "You are wise beyond your years, Erestor, and you are correct. I live. What indeed is there to mourn?" He stared pensively into the fire and silence enveloped them for some time. Finally, though, Erestor spoke.

"So what now?" he asked, trying to sound diffident but not entirely succeeding.

Glorfindel gave him a rueful look. "I usually spend the day weeping and wailing and then sleep for most of the next, but I don’t wish to do that now."

"What do you wish to do?"

For a moment, Glorfindel did not answer, and when he did, his voice was hesitant, as if he feared Erestor would reject what he had to say. "I... I would like to talk about Gondolin... before it... died."

"And I will gladly listen to whatever you have to say," Erestor replied earnestly.

And so, that day and into the next, Glorfindel spoke of Gondolin, the good, the bad and the indifferent, and Erestor listened, rarely speaking unless to ask for clarification. He noticed that as his friend spoke of those times, his demeanor began to lighten and he appeared less tense and moody. There were still tears but there was laughter, as well, and Erestor joined him in both. When the fifth day came, they made ready to return to Lindon, climbing back onto the headland to where Tuor waited for them with equine patience.

"I want to thank you for your presence, Erestor," Glorfindel said, sounding somewhat shy. "I would like it if you would come with me next year as well."

"I am honored that you would wish for me to come," Erestor said, "but I think next year, another would benefit more by accompanying you."

Glorfindel cast him an enquiring look and then nodded as he understood Erestor’s words. "Elrond," he said. "I fear I have been remiss with him."

Erestor shook his head. "Elrond values privacy for himself and does not begrudge the need of it in others, but I think he would be glad that you wish to share this time with him. Few there are in Lindon who even remember Tuor and Idril, and he has few, if any, real memories of Eärendil. Your reminiscences would be most welcome for him."

Glorfindel did not say anything at first, merely leaping lightly on Tuor’s back, putting a hand out for Erestor to climb up behind him. Only when they were on their way did he speak. "Perhaps you can both join me next year or mayhap I will stay in Lindon and celebrate Mid-summer with my friends, instead."

"Well if you do decide to make your usual pilgrimage, I’ll remember to bring my own horse," Erestor said with a chuckle. Tuor neighed and bobbed his head as if he were agreeing with him and then the two friends were laughing, leaving behind dark memories of a drowned land along with the gulls and the ocean waves.

****

Words are Sindarin unless otherwise noted.

Ellon: Male Elf.

Adar: Father.

Fëa: (Quenya) Spirit, soul. The Sindarin form is fae.

Ennyn e-Laer: Gates of Summer, i.e., the Summer Solstice.

****

Glorfindel’s Lament:

I fell —

and fire and shadow fell with me.

     Where now the Golden Flower of Gondolin?

     Where now the hero’s sword?

     Where now brave Glorfindel?

Into the abyss we fell —

hero and enemy —

into Death and Shadows everlasting.

     Where now the Golden Flower of Gondolin?

     Where now the hero’s sword?

     Where now brave Glorfindel?

Into the West my spirit having flown,

My body lies now under a burial mound,

’neath the grey waters of doomed Beleriand.

     But I live again, having died,

     and I must know:

     For what fate?

****

Linguistic notes for ‘Glorfindel’s Lament’:

Dannassen = intransitive first person singular past tense form of danna- ‘to fall’. Dhannasser and dhannassem are lenited forms of the third and first persons plural, respectively.

Morchant = ‘shadow’, i.e. referring to shadows with a recognized form.

Dúaith = plural of Dúath: ‘dark shadow’ and may be considered a personification of the word.

Massâd = man sâd (with assimilation), literally, ‘what place’.

Adguion = ad- ‘again’ + cuia- ‘live’ + -n ‘first person singular suffix pronoun’. In Sindarin, first and second person singular drop the final _a_ of an A-verb and replace it with _o_.

Manadh = doom, fate, final end, fortune.

****

Note: A description of the origin of Erestor and Gorfindel’s friendship can be found in my story Beginnings.

****

As the Tolkien Tango prompts at Leaf and Stone have been discontinued, this will be the final story of my Tapestry series. However, I have started a new series of stories based on prompts taken from other sources called Tales from Vairë’s Loom.