Title: Tithen Maethor

Author: Calenlass Greenleaf

Disclaimer: I do not own Estel or Elrond. I own only the wooden sword. :)

Spoilers: For any Aragorn references in LOTR, both books and movies.

Rating: PG-13. No slash (I don’t write it) or romance (This is not a romance piece).

Summary: Written for the OAA Prompt 108—Weapon. He is the little warrior of Rivendell, the fierce dae amlug-dagnir…Elrond’s POV.

Tithen Maethor

He is the little warrior of Rivendell, the fierce dae amlug-dagnir. He swings his wooden sword at Balrog and Orcs envisioned in his mind and imagination, rescuing countless toy soldiers, slaying the myriad of paper enemies, and once, during the dead of night, even wrestling with a blanket he claimed was Sauron himself.

He twirls in the dance of the swordsman, jumping from tabletop to bookshelf, hacking at furniture and—Eru help us—even elves, and shouting his loud war cries of “Lacho calad! Drego morn!”

Awkward though he may seem, with many a crooked stance and riposte, often stumbling, often falling, the look of determination set upon his face belays any doubts of his courage. The light in his eyes is determined and bright, his grip on the weapon tight and unrelenting. There is no doubt that one day his enemies will fear him and know he is the Heir.

But as the years pass, he outgrows his wooden sword, fighting with real weapons and foes that are very real. Each time he returns home, he is stained with blood, the blood of his enemies and his own. The light has not dulled, nor has the courage faded. But the weariness in both body and spirit are apparent.

The little warrior is no longer so little.

He is not the innocent child he once was, but one who has faced, is facing, and will face great and fell things in his life. Though he has become mighty and brave, strong and a man to be proud of, I still worry.

He was born the Heir, with the weight of the world upon him. His childhood was carefree at least, but once he was of age, and taught of his heritage, that carefree life was over.

He played the warrior when he was young. “It is only a game!” he insists. “Play with me, Ada?” Now it is no longer a game, but a way of life. Day after day and year after year, he saves and protects the lives of many, some who do not even appreciate what he does. They call him names, their comments spiteful. I see my child confront them—head up, eyes steady.

As a youth, he refused to acknowledge his wounds and weariness. He hated it when I fussed over his various scrapes and injuries. Many times I wonder why children always hide their pain, troubles, and fears. Do they think it a sign of maturity? During his childhood years I had tended to many a bloodied nose and broken bone, yet he always insisted he was fine.

The warrior no longer does that; he knows what weakness is, and what is not. He comes back to me with deeper hurts, his eyes full of tears—not for himself, but for others.

He asks me if I thought him a warrior, with all his doubts, and if he were worthy of that title.

My reply is always the same.

“Le tithen maethor nîn, Estel.”

The End

Sindarin Translations:

Tithen maethor – little warrior

Dae amlug-dagnir – Literally “shadow dragon-slayer”

Lacho calad! Drego morn! – Flame light! Flee night! (I didn’t make this up; taken from Merin Essi ar Quenteli.)

Ada – Daddy

“Le tithen maethor nîn, Estel.” – “You are my little warrior, Estel.”

Title: Of Boring Books and Shining Stars

Author: Calenlass Greenleaf

Disclaimer: Not mine, and never will be. I don’t make any money out of writing this. This was written for my pleasure and for the pleasure of my readers.

Spoilers: None, really. LOTR in general.

Warnings: None. Not beta-ed.

Genre: Family

Rating: PG

Summary: A quiet moment between a father and daughter. Written for OAA prompt 137—Book. Also written for Lady Roisin’s birthday. This is Option 1. 500 words.

A/N: Posting at a number of places. OAA, my LJ, FF-Net, SoA, and LOTRfanfiction.com for now.

“Ada?”

He looked up. A small, tousle-headed figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the lights in the hallway.

“Arwen?” he frowned. “It is late. You should be sleeping.”

“Can’t.” Large, pleading eyes looked up him. “There’s something in my closet.”

Elrond counted to five before speaking. “I’m sure it is nothing.”

“But there is! I opened it and something nearly fell on me! I told Dan but he just rolled over and said ‘Ro, go ’way,’ and Ro didn’t wake up, and Nana is—”

“Very well.” Of all the nights—why this one? He looked longingly at his book. “I will go with you.”

Arwen ran forward, grasping his hand and pulling him towards the door. He allowed himself to be lead through the hallway. She suddenly stopped in the doorway, making him stumble. “In there!” she whispered dramatically.

He sighed to himself, crossing over to the closet. The door was slightly ajar, and he flung it open, causing Arwen to squeak. Elrond saw a dress on the ground, and guessed it was the cause. “There is nothing inside.”

“Nuh-uh!” she insisted. “It just left because it knew you were coming, but when you leave it’s going to come back.” She burst into tears.

The elf hurried over, irritation forgotten the instant she began crying. “It won’t come back, Undómiel vuin.” He knelt and wrapped his arms around her, kissing the top of her head. “What if I stayed with you? Would you be able to sleep, then?”

Sniffling, she nodded.

“All right, then.” He picked her up and carried her over to the bed. “I am going to find a candle and I will be back very soon.” He brushed the side of her cheek gently. “I promise.”

She relented, curling up and giving him a forlorn and tearful look.

I wonder just where she learned that, he thought as he left the room, returning quickly with a candle and his book.

“I’m back,” he said, setting the candle down on the nightstand. He pulled a chair near Arwen’s bed and flipped to a page in his book. “Now go to sleep, Undómiel.”

“Ada?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s that about?”

“History.”

“Oh.” She sighed. “Looks boring.”

“It is not.” He turned a page. “I thought I told you to sleep.” He looked at her.

“Yes, Ada.”

The room was quiet for a few seconds.

“Ada?”

He gritted his teeth. “This is the last question, all right? Any more and you and I will have a long, long talk.”

“Sorry,” A pause. “Why do you call me Undómiel?”

Why indeed. “Because…” he thought for a moment. “You are the shining star in my life.” He chuckled, irritation gone. “And my dearest daughter.”

He was surprised when she flung her arms around his neck. “I’m your only daughter, Ada,” she snuggled against him, eyes closing. “G’night.”

“Iston. Now—” he realized she had fallen asleep. Smiling to himself, he cradled his sleeping child with one hand, the other holding his book.

Translations:

Ada – endearing form of “Adar,” meaning “father”

Undómiel vuin – “Beloved Evenstar”

Iston – I know

Title: Blue and Grey

Author: Calenlass Greenleaf

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings in any way.

Spoilers: For LOTR in general, maybe the movies.

Rating: PG

Genre: Family/Angst

Summary: Grey and blue are often mixed, but he knows that the color of his eyes is grey. Centered on Estel Elrondion. 500word fic written for OAA prompt 179: Blue.

Blue and Grey

It is not that he hates the color blue.

Blue is a beautiful color. It is the color of the sky, the color of water. It is the color of the library (Erestor wanted it to be white, though), the color of his bedspread, and the color that Glorfindel likes wearing.

He sees the color every day.

It is so commonplace.

Grey is also ordinary. It is the color of the sky right before a storm, the color of some birds. It is the color of ‘the room with the broken sword,’ the color of his current tunic, and color of Lothlórien elves’ clothing.

He too, sees this color every day.

But it is the color of his eyes.

He has spent a long time staring at his eyes in the mirror. He has viewed them in a dim room and under bright light, and compared them to others to make sure they were grey.

Blue and grey.

They are two different colors.

Blue is a color that is both bold and mild. It is vibrant, yet gentle. It can either mean harshness or peace. It can remind him of winter or summar.

Grey is a color that is both hard and soft. It is firm, yet yielding. It can either mean strength or pliancy. It can remind him of cold nights or warm mornings.

Perhaps they are more similar than he thinks. Grey has some blue in it, and blue has some grey in it, too. Grey can change to blue, and blue can turn into grey.

But how can anyone look at his eyes and call them blue?

He knows there are some people who are obsessed with blue eyes. It “sets them apart.” He has heard it called by many names.

“Like ice.”

“Like the sky.”

“The color of a robin’s nest.”

“It is the shade of spring.”

Blue eyes have so many different names, while grey has little expression to its name.

“Like flint.”

“Stiff.”

“Silvery.”

It makes him want to laugh. The eye colors of the world are brown, blue, grey, green, hazel, and sometimes red. How can someone compare them to anything else?

His eyes are grey. Silver-grey, maybe, but they are still grey.

They are not blue. Not like the color of a frosty winter day or the color of the rivers that run through Middle-earth (one poem he read comparing an elf’s eyes to the “pristine waters that surround Valinor” had him laughing).

Grey has been called ugly and plain by some, but he knows it is neither.

His father and mother have grey eyes. Ada has grey eyes. So do his brothers. In fact, nearly all the elves he knows and trusts have grey eyes.

If grey is so despicable, then why is it the common eye color for the Fair Folk?

This is why he cares about the colors.

It is what sets apart from other Men, and lets him know where he belongs.

“My eyes are grey, not blue.”

The End.

Translations:

Ada – endearing from of “Adar”

A/N: After I finished writing this, I had to go look up “blue,” “grey,” and “color” to make sure they were actually words. :P

A/N #2: I got tired of hearing about elves having blue eyes. I was also tired of some authors’ attempts to be creative at describing eyeballs…no offense to anyone who has blue eyes, by the way.