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A birthday gift for Perelleth with her Erestor and my Rostaro 

Career Day

It was inevitable, Erestor oft admitted to himself, that he would end up working in academia in some capacity or other, and he enjoyed his intermittent job.  It was important and slightly more despotic than bureaucratic, requiring an even-handedness few possessed.  He always looked forward to being called back to it.  Since he got to travel a bit, and an expense account was provided.

It had been soon after landing in Eldamar with the Ringbearers’ that he started what had come to amount to a second profession.  At the time, Elrond was either in Estë’s care or staying with his in-laws.  Fortunately, this job appeared and was just the thing to keep himself busy during long years of waiting for his lord and friend to find healing.

Getting along with the Powers or the Noldorin royalty had not been the cause of his leaving Elrond’s side.  Rather, as seneschal and councilor, he had no duties while his lord had none.  Which was certainly fine for the short term for he also needed a rest.  But, the former Lord of Imladris’s prolonged recovery completely suspended the need for any sort of secretary when Erestor was anxious for something useful to do.

However, an agenda of activities was simply not conducive to Elrond’s healing.  The elven-ring bearer was still in the throes of resolution – his children’s absence, Vilya’s demise, reunion with his wife.  Contact with people, other than Celebrian, greatly burdened his nerves.  Of course, as with most healers who themselves become ill, he was a difficult patient.  He protested against being coddled and believed he knew what was best for his ailments.  His wise counselor however agreed that the proscribed isolation was indeed the wisest course of treatment.  Erestor’s temporary absence would help keep his friend from thinking about any responsibility beyond recovery.  He knew that further along the road, Elrond would – and did – take charge of his own cure.  When he had regained enough strength to again conduct a public life was when Erestor rejoined him and Celebrian.

In that long meanwhile and here after, Erestor pitched-in as an admissions proctor for the Associated Academies and Colleges of Elvenhome.  Rescued from idleness back then, he would never say no to a request by the Board for his assistance.  Actually, he would not have minded working as an accreditation officer as well.  But, because of his advocacy of subjects, which were not in favor with the commissioners, to be made part of the standard curriculum, it was not likely he would ever be invited to be part of the Commission.

An admissions proctor’s basic responsible was to assess candidates after written examinations and place them in the proper secondary school or college of study.  With the wide range of  affiliates, just about everyone could be fit into a mutually beneficial situation.  The student  anticipated garnering the regard bestowed by matriculating at a prestigious, certified institution.  The Association taught the best and brightest.

Exam results were important for continuing students, but for new students, what counted was their entire admission portfolio.  Unlike other discriminating organizations, an important goal of the Association was to uplift deserving students who lacked the means to pay tuition by providing subsidizing grants.  To make sure applicants were indeed deserving, besides the prerequisite scores, participation in civic activities or in public service was more then encouraged.

Many could not come up to scratch, and rejection could be heartbreaking for a student unable to continue on into higher education without financial aid.  Rich sponsors were not that easy to find without good family connections.

The stringent conditions were exactly why Erestor had been recruited, practically courted for the job.  He had experience in the teaching and guidance of both youth and adult.  He understood institutional procedure, how to use rules wisely, and the necessary adherence to a policy.  He knew how to counsel students of all ages in their careers and how to help the rejected deal with their disappointment.  All that, and he was also Umanyar.  Even the public had come to see the difference he had made within the Association, and he was proud that he was the first of his kindred asked to join.

The small village where he getting ready for the day’s interviews was the first stop in an itinerary of five, and his roster was full.  The number of names on his list was really not that surprising.  The final exam to be given in this rural region for the next decade had closed a week before, and all the scores were in.  This round held a variety of ages and proficiencies.  All would be leaving home; some for the first time.  A side-effect expected and desired.  Most rural applicants saw education as an opportunity to leave their small hometown for a sojourn into the wider world.  But for others, it meant advancing their studies in hopes of a career, instead of going into the fields for the rest of their lives.  That was how it was with the first applicant, a young nér living quite nearby.  After reading through his dossier, Erestor had moved him up to the head of the schedule.

“Gail,” he called; finally settled at his desk and ready to start.

His lovely young daughter came into the small office they had set up together on the upper floor of the inn.  Neither of them had wanted her left behind at home to kick her heels while on a long semester break, so she was accompanying her father as his assistant.  Ideal since she would get paid and it would add points to her resume.

“Indómelya, Atto?”  He gave her a stern look.  “Áni apsenë!  Ñolmo Erestor.”  His stare did not change.  “Oh, Papa!”  She was exasperated at him, not at herself.  “You’re the boss; I’m the assistant,” she recited with childish rote.  “You are Master Erestor; I am Miss Gail.”

But, his real gripe – and she knew it – was not her unconscious slip into the familial, but into Quenya while in that homey frame of mind.  Erestor wanted his children to inherit a legacy from their parents, and he wanted that to be the oral traditions of the Nandor.  True, he and his beloved wife were Sindar.  But, he had been born Laegrim, and appreciated his birth-folk along with their culture.  At home, they would speak Nandorin as well as Sindarin.  However, the hope that his eldest offspring, although born in Aman, would also treasure her tawarwaith roots, at least enough to preserve them, had significantly faded since the end of her childhood; a time when everything her Papa would tell about his own youth was magically exotic and of infinite wonder to her.

“You may send the first one in.  He is going to take some time, so no interruptions please until he leaves or I call you again.”

“He had only just come in when you called!  Oh but, he is a handsome one,” she said with a twinkle.  “And you are not going to believe – “  His stare, more stern and at the same time more incredulous, cut her off.  “Sorry!”  She rolled her eyes and sighed, before pointedly putting on a professional mien.  “Yes, sir.  I shall send him in right away.”

What in all Arda has gotten into that elleth? he wondered, not for the first or last time.  Maybe his mother’s often repeated prayer that his children wear him down the way he wearied her into early fading had ultimately been answered.  He sighed and prayed that Gail’s silliness was just another phase, as his wife claimed, and that the best thing to do was be patient and let her grow out of it.  He would readily confess that he did not understand females as well as he understood males.

Just as he was beginning to wonder if ‘right away’ meant the same thing to her as to him, there was a knock on the door.

“Enter.”  The door opened only wide enough for the young nér to side-step inside.  He closed the door and remained standing by, hands drawn behind his back.

Astonishingly, the tall youth was not dressed for the interview that could change the course of his life forever.  He wore farm clothes and had washed-up, but not bathed.  His golden hair was coming loose from pulled back, and rather sloppy, braids; still damp from being quickly slicked down.  If he had not read the file in front of him, Erestor would have thought the fellow a thorough hayseed instead of a dedicated scholar.

Yet, there was an... awareness... in the nésë that compensated for his inattentive attire and hinted at depth of character.  That – or he was incredibly confused and trying not to show it.  Erestor quietly heaved a resigned sigh.  Without a doubt, Gail had had a direct hand in straightening up the lad’s appearance.

“Come, sit down.”

But, the youth did not move.  Erestor had to repeat himself as well as gesture at the chair in front of him before the nésë did as he was told.  Which irritated as much as this recalcitrant getting his daughter’s personal attention. 

“Quenya, Telerin, or Sindarin?” he asked.  No response.  “In which language do you prefer to conduct this interview?”  Is this nerves or contrariness? he wondered.

“Quenya.”  An interesting choice.  Sindarin was listed in his dossier, which was why Erestor had offered that option.

“You must already know that I am Sindar.  Why not try to impress me with your language skills?”  Where his personal appearance had not and his conduct certainly not.

“I would not impress.  I understand Sindarin far better than I speak it.  You may speak it, if you are not proficient in Quenya.”  This was said in such an equivocal manner that Erestor was unsure whether or not he had been intentionally insulted.

“Nandorin would be my choice,” he replied in the same tone, “if you understood that tongue.”

A light sprang up in the youth’s eyes; the excited interest once seen in the eyes of his little daughter.  Erestor got a vague impression he had gone up a notch in the young Amayar’s estimation.  What an odd feeling that was.

“What is your name?” he asked, only because he was required to do so before they talked further.

“Is it in not in my file?”  Erestor almost blinked.  What was this nésë’s game?  Was he arrogant or just naive?  A ready reprimand was held back only because of curiosity.

“Yes, but you must prove your identify.  Therefore, I ask.  Make the mistake of lying, and I know you are impersonating the applicant.”  An unvarnished answer had the effect of loosening the nér’s guarded facade.  Which Erestor took as a promising sign.  With a little effort, it could be entirely chipped away and the true personality beneath revealed.  “So,” he said, with a querulously raised eyebrow.  “Your name?”

“Rostaro.”

“Rostaro... son of?”  Having already shared a hearty laugh with his daughter at the funny name combination, it was easy for Erestor to keep to a straight face now.

“I have no family.”  There was a mulish pull to the lad’s mouth.

“Really?”  He relaxed his authoritarian pose.  “Everyone has someone they at least consider family.  Or once considered family.  Just give me the name from your application.”  Bureaucratic ambivalence worked; Rostaro was pleased to explain to someone who did not outright condemn his statement.

“Very well.  My foster-father’s name is Taltaro.  I have ceased using it as part of mine for obvious reasons...”  The confession of vanity came with a chagrined smile and a shrug.

“Why not go by your father’s or mother’s name?”  He was pleased with the opportunity to ask.  That information was missing in Rostaro’s dossier, which Erestor had thought just a stupid oversight on the part of a clerk.

“I do not know their names.”  That was not a lie, which surprised him.  But, why was there a hint of pride behind that sad circumstance?  Aman or Ennor, in the countryside, it was not uncommon, when there were too many mouths to feed, for a child to be fostered out to kin.  But, to not know his parents’ names?  Was there a scandal behind this best left alone? 

He looked into Rostaro’s sky-blue eyes, surreptitiously bending questioning thoughts towards the youth; who looked straight back at him, a blank slate providing not a clue to any question.  So, he tried an old trick of averting the mind’s eye to better see the ever-present emanations of the faer.

What?  He sat back, almost in shock.  The poor lad was a reborn babe?  That had not been in his dossier either!  Suddenly, a great many things made perfect sense.

“When did you leave your foster-home to live at the seronopéle?” he asked, fascinated by Rostaro’s peculiarities.  How had he died at such a very very young age?

“When I came back from boarding away at school for the second time.”  The lad’s expression told him that few of his classmates had bothered to understand him, as an orphan or reborn.  It was an old but sad truth that children could be cruel to those who were different.  Rostaro seemed to sense his genuine sympathy with that sort of treatment at the hands of one’s peers.  “I never really fit in with my foster-family.  They took good care of me, but I was a responsibility, not a member.”

“When did you decide to stop using your foster-father’s name?”

“That I decided only last week,” he said with a thin smile and resettled himself in his chair.  “A great many people get by on just one name.”  There was self-medicating pride in his voice.  However, Erestor knew a name, an anessë especially, was a bankable accolade that only the nonpareil could afford to carelessly discard.

“People who have earned a singular reputation perhaps.  Which I must point out, as of yet, you have not.”

“Well... I will someday.”  Definitely said with more blind conceit than confidence. 

“Then, why ruin your chances for a good start by flaunting disrespect to the one organization that seeks to aid you in your quest for renown?”  He expected his barbed remark to deflate the youth’s ballooning haughtiness, but it did not.  Therefore, he pressed.  “You are not properly dressed.  You made no effort to get cleaned up.  Instead of humility, you present yourself as an... “  He waved a hand over Rostaro’s person in emphasis.  “... arrogant hick.”

The youth stiffened; an angry retort barely held in check.  But, not for long.  Which Erestor found informative of his character.

“Sir!  I was not prepared for this interview because I did not expect this interview – this morning, tomorrow morning, not today or any day.  I was at work, and a messenger came and told me I was supposed to be here when it was already too late for me to be on time.  But, I came because I had promised my Amillë to try my best to get into a new school.  I came, figuring I would be passed over for being tardy and would go home.  I meant only to keep my word, not to impress you!  But, you yourself were running late, and I was forced to come in.”

“What made you think the Association would not offer you placement?”

“What offer?  To call the sheriff if I did not leave the exam?”

“You did not receive your official notice?”  But, there was a copy of the same, and dated, in his file.

“No, sir.  The only communication I have received was the message this morning from your assistant.  At the exam, the proctor said I had cheated, and I was lucky not to be charged and detained.  I thought that was the end of it for me.”  Eyes narrowed in anger, he asked,”Was that not in my file?”

“No, tell me about it.”  Although, Erestor had his own guess what had happened at the examinations and after.  Rostaro was taken aback at being asked for his side of the story.  As a result, his explanation was sparse.

“Proctor Telumon said I cheated.  I did not, and tried to say so.  But, talking is not permitted, and he had me leave.  He threatened me with arrest, then just let me go.”

“I have seen your written answers.  You finished earlier than everyone else, even with taking every section.”  The core exam for any level was difficult.  The subsequent parts for the different major concentrations were rigorously designed to pinpoint potential.  And this nésë had taken them all.  With every one of his answers correct.  The exam proctor was right to be suspicious.  However, after looking over his dossier and his original entrance essay, Erestor knew that Rostaro had honestly passed.  And at the same time, had cheated.  “You had no wrong answers, something almost impossible.  Which tells me that you should have taken the next higher level.  What you did was not fair.”

“I tried to go higher!”  The youth almost leapt out of his seat, becoming animated in his defense.  “I was not allowed because of my age!”

“Well, I think that happened because you have no one but yourself to act as your advocate.  Calm down, Rostaro, and let me help you.”

The lad instantly quieted; he believed that Erestor wanted to right the wrongs done.

“Your letters of recommendation are few but notable.  Ñolmo Yulindo, Perelleth the Wise, Toron Nasaril, and Lady Miluinn... whom I know personally and whose opinion I greatly value.   Why are none of these people your sponsor?”

“I do not need anyone telling me what to do with my life.”  That snappish answer might have thrown off another person, but Erestor caught on to the real problem.  Rostaro was yet in his callow youth; better able to hide his motives from himself than an objective stranger.

“Do you not mean another like the... your... Amillë, who expects you to become a brother servant of the Valar?  Rostaro, try to assess your own actions as you would another’s.  You did not pursue justice for yourself.  You did not petition to be given the test again.  You asked no one to be your sponsor because you could not misrepresent yourself to those whom you respect.  You did not want financial aid that would commit you to follow in your Amillë’s footsteps.”

The young nér, who obviously thought himself forthright, was dumbstruck with the sudden realization that his misfortunes were intentional without his intending them.

“You had trouble at your past schools because, contrary to all appearances, you did not want to be there.”

“Aññolë... ”  The crude interjection was muttered under the breath and certainly not meant to be heard.  Erestor turned necessarily stern.  Rostaro’s impulse to speak, before he thought about whether or not he should, would continue to ill-serve him, if he did not learn to control it.  And there was nothing like the present to start making small corrections in order to change the entire course of this deserving lad’s life.

“You need to watch your tongue, vinyamo,” he sharply warned him.  “It reflects badly upon you and your Amillë.”

“I apologize, sir.”  Amazingly, Rostaro did not resent being enlightened about his short-comings.  In fact, he looked desperate for more guidance.  “You have seen what even she has not.  ‘Tis true, I am not sure of my vocation.”  He became bewildered.  “I do not know what I should do.”  The fair head dropped, dragging the shoulders down with it. 

“But, you have aspirations, do you not?”  At least, that was somewhere to begin.

“I have no worthy goal.”

“Rostaro, raise your head and listen.  I shall give you my knowledgeable opinion.  You have been learning practically on your own for quite some time, and you are not aware how far advanced you are for your age.  Your past problems in school stemmed from boredom and a resistance to regimentation.  You keep happily busy your own or with a tutor, but few of your teachers have ever comprehended the degree of instruction they should apply.  On the other hand, all this personal study has left gapping holes in the fabric of your broader knowledge.  You have become scattered; catering to your own interests and lacking true discipline.  You did well on the exams because you were motivated.”  There was a confirming nod from Rostaro, who was listening and analyzing what was being said about him.  “I wager you had difficulty attending classes on any subject that did not kindle your curiosity.”

“But, I always went to class and did the assignments – and still got reprimanded.”

“I did not say you skipped class.  I am saying you were a ‘disruptive influence’ as reported because you disregard your classmates, who must work harder and cannot come up to your level.”

Clearly, this too had never before occurred to Rostaro.

“You look fit.  Is that from sports or farm work?”

“Farm work.  Who has time for games?”  There was that prideful defensiveness again.

“Not a team-player, eh?”  The young nér did however run and swim as recreation, though not in competition, according to his dossier.

His blush told Erestor that the lad had never thought of himself as unsociable.  Because he had always interacted well with many different kinds of people.  Only not in what, outside a seronopéle, would be considered a normal, everyday situation.

“How long have you been helping your Amillë with her guests?”

“She would tell you as soon as I could walk.  When actually I started after I was allowed to go out from home on my own, without supervision.  My foster-parents’ still kept tabs on me,” he was quick to add.  “I always seemed to end up at the guesthouse.”  Understandable, he appeared reluctant to talk about what happened inside those high walls.  An indication that he could curb his tongue concerning other things, if he would try.  Erestor veered the conversation back to the tender subject of family.

“Why do you not feel that those who raised you are your parents?”

“The only person I love as a parent is the one who loves me as a son.”

“You have not searched for your birth-parents?”

“No, and I never will.”  This was said with complete conviction.  “I do not want to know who they are, what they did or do, or what has become of them.  I am happy with the way things are.”

Erestor could not readily dismiss this statement as mere resentment at being orphaned.  A normal person is born with the imperative to define themselves; their parents being the root of their new growth.  But being reborn so very young... was Rostaro all that normal?  In addition, it might be that an Amillë’s love overwhelmed other emotions, especially in a babe.  If this nésë was ever to find himself, it was time for him to be far away from Aramillë Ulbanís.

“Rostaro, I have decided to offer you a place in an academy that I know can address your special needs and prepare you for the best colleges.”  He held up his hand to halt Rostaro’s ready questions.  The certificate was in the file folder, already prepared; the school’s name and the conditions already filled out.  Only Erestor’s signature and official seal remained to be added.  At the beginning of this interview, he had become worried that he had mistaken the outcome.  To see that his judgment was correct was a relief.  Taking the certificate out, he set it before the youth for him to read.  Rostaro’s face flushed, then paled.

“Sir!” he said in a shocked whisper.  He looked up at Erestor, almost gaping.  “You mean it?”

“Yes, there it is in writing.”  There it was indeed.  A full scholarship for one of the most elite academies in all of Aman.  “You need not worry about anything, but your studies.  Your room and board, supplies and clothing, plus a small – very small – stipend, will be paid by the Association.”

“But... “  The lad’s humility was touching.  “But... it is the foremost seminary for brother servants.  And as I told you, I am not sure... I would not want to take away another’s place.”

“There are secular students there too, and this slot has been set aside for a scholar, toron-to-be or not.  The academy will help you decide if holy orders is what you want, while giving you the challenging curriculum you need.  The Association will not make you to follow your Amillë’s wishes.  To be in Their service always should and always will be your choice alone.  When you graduate, we expect our investment will be returned two-fold to the people of Eldamar.  Do you understand what I mean?  Do you know your true obligation in return for accepting this gift?”

Rostaro’s eyes sparkled with sincere gratitude.  He did understand that Erestor was giving him a vocational option that did not take away his freedom and offered him unexpected independence.

“Yes, sir, I do.  I receive this knowledge and training for the good of others.  I must use my acquired wisdom in the service of everyone.”

“You will help the helpless, without hesitation?”  A bit of dramatics would better imprint Rostaro’s commitment upon him.

“I will.”

“Even at a cost to your own livelihood?  Perhaps even at the cost of your life... ”  That gave Rostaro pause, but only momentary.

“Yes, Master Erestor.”  The lad certainly did not lack courage.

Erestor had felt all along, just from what he had read about him, that the young nér had a true vocation.  But, it was more expansive a cloistered life like his Amillë’s.  Rostaro had the potential of becoming as great a loremaster as Rúmil.  Like that genius, this young nér also had an adventurous heart that would not be confined by convention.  Right then and there, Erestor decided, if the lad made it through to graduation, that college would be the new progressive university on Tol Eressëa, founded by Pengolodh and Rúmil and where Rostaro might possibly study with one of them personally.  And if the Association balked, he would arrange the funding himself from among friends and colleagues.

“See?” he smiled.  “No need for vows or oaths or taking up orders.  Your word is good enough.  However, I do have a personal request to make.”  Rostaro nodded eager to please his benefactor.  “Promise me you will make some friends at the seminary.  At least, one real friend.”

“I will, sir.”  Rostaro’s voice was thick with feeling, his eyes glittering stars.  “I know it.”  He swallowed down his emotions and took a deep breath.  “Amillë will be so glad I am not stuck here like we thought I would be.”

“Oh, I doubt that.  But, I am sure seeing you do well, wherever you are, will always make her very happy.”

He then took the certificate back and carefully signed it, afterwards applying the seal that guaranteed adherence by the members of the Association, whether disapproving or supportive of the award.  Rostaro sat, enraptured by the miracle that had been bestowed upon him.  After blowing to dry the new ink, Erestor rolled the document up and slipped it into one of the tubes that sat in a round tub beside the desk.  He capped the ends and placed it at the edge of the desk in front of Rostaro; offering it to him with an open-handed gesture.

“Congratulations, Rostaro.  Take good care of that, son.”

Rostaro picked it up and clutched it to his chest with both hands.  The life he wanted to live had not only been magnanimously saved, but made purposeful.  He could follow his calling to learn and to serve and in his own way.  He rose from his chair and looked at Erestor.

“Thank you,” he said with great earnestness.  A brilliant smile blossomed over his face; heart open, spirit unguarded.

His radiant joy caught Erestor unawares.  He had been a stranger.  Now, he was a friend; honored with unreserved trust.  And he instantly forgave Gail her earlier lapse of decorum; understanding how her budding maternal instincts had been brought to the fore, if Rostaro had smiled for her like this.  Perhaps some of every childhood should be spent with an Amillë, if this was the effect on an innocent child’s innate grace.

He forgot to wish Rostaro farewell before he was gone out of the office.  Not that the elated young nér would have heard him anyway.  I shall have to tell this tale to Elrond and Celebrían, he decided.  Leaving out the student’s real name, of course.  He was obliged to protect the privacy of all parties.  One day though, when Rostaro was a famous ñolmo, he might introduce him to them.

Gail came in several minutes after the door shut behind the future loremaster.  Her father did not begrudge her taking time to find out from Rostaro how things had gone.  She was pleasantly cheerful again and all smiles.  It was definitely a good thing the lad was going off to the seminary and would not encounter his daughter again until she was past her current silly phase.

“You may send in the next applicant.”

“Be iest gîn, Ada!”

- = -

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Indómelya, Atto? – Yes (Your will), Dada? Quenya

Áni apsenë! – Sorry! (Forgive me!) Quenya

Be iest gîn, Ada! – As you wish, Papa! Sindarin

Aññolë – Sh*t – a very strong smell Quenya

vinyamo – kid (youngster, boy) Quenya

amillë – mater/mother Quenya

toron – frater/brother Quenya

anessë – given or added name

seronopéle – guesthouse seron friend(peaceful person) opéle house(walled house/compound) Quenya

ñolmo – wise person or loremaster Quenya

nésë/nésa – male/female youth Quenya

nér/nís – male/female elf Quenya

ellon/elleth – male/female elf Sindarin

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A birthday gift for Bodkin with her Camentur, Legolas' brother-in-law, and my Rostaro plus a few others of mine...

In the Dark

Camentur and Rostaro both knew better than to be skulking about the wild wood in the dark of night.  Seeing as neither was really all that good at skulking in the first place.  However, their imperfect skills were not going to dissuade either of them to stay out of the forest any more than demerits and punishment.  Nor possible expulsion for disobeying the Headmaster’s clear order against leaving the grounds of the academy, which they were told often enough they were very privileged to attend.  Not when they were so determined to spy on the esoteric festivities taking place in the wilderness preserve that marched over the hills surrounding the seminary.  For the visiting forest-folk reveling this night beneath the interwoven branches of the ancient behemoths under Oromë’s protection were not merely nor mere Moriquendi.

It was not as if these two, as pious young néri supposedly studying to enter into the service of the Valar, had never attended a fête held by Umanyar, thus making them overly curious about those sorts of people.  No, they were just plain ordinary curious about them.  Even though until the present, Camentur had participated in only one such event; given by Sindar from Lindon and a rather conventional and certainly tame affair.  As a matter of fact, before now he never had been very concerned by his lack of interaction with immigrants.  But, present circumstances allowed him to remedy that.  The Umanyar had begun coming to the great forest for special celebrations, and Rostaro’s interest in them had roused his.

Camentur’s father probably had not intended to give him an opportunity to misbehave.  His choice of school for his son was based on the elite education and the character-building rules that went with it.  That, and it was his old school.  Nonetheless, the end of the war with Sauron had brought a wave of survivors from Endor to Eldamar and its environs.  And with them came the return of many of their kin from the Halls of Waiting.  Elvenhome society was changing.  Camentur reasonably figured that his father’s prejudiced opinion about Umanyar had been formed from close proximity.  It was only equitable that he form an opinion of his own in the same way.

Rostaro, on the other hand, was quite familiar with the Sindar.  If one could say Umanyar Teleri were truly Sindar.  Actually, Camentur’s classmate was curious about Nandorin people.  A differentiation Camentur was unaware of before Rostaro became his geometry tutor.  Since then, besides the mathematics of the tetrahedron, he had learned a bit of their nomadic history; an interesting history which spanned the width and breadth of the Hither Lands.

Rostaro attended the academy on a scholarship.  Unlike Camentur, his friend did not need a parent with influence to get him into the right schools.  Nor have any need to engage tutors to ensure he maintained the necessary high scores to stay in.

It was just after the favoured son’s arrival that he met the reborn orphan.  A sullen Camentur had gone into the woods to explore after being warned against it, just to act defiant even if in a mild manner.  He came upon Rostaro sitting in a recently emptied venue, where a betrothal had been held.  The younger youth was hoping to ‘hear’ the trees talking, thinking that they might still be ‘chatty’ after an exuberant encounter with green forest-folk.  Of course, Camentur made fun of him.  Why, the very idea of trees chatting, especially with an Amanyar.  Or that they had anything important to say in the first place.  Absurd, and Rostaro too.  The mortified Rostaro had stomped off without saying a word.

He got Camentur back later; and Camentur admitted giving better than he had got.  As a matter of honor though, the young noble returned volley.  Which got him another provoking bombardment in return.  And just so, with them egging one another on and on, their odd friendship became fixed.  Brother Carnyo, the head librarian, said it best: they were both good young néri, who were a bad influence on each other.  They had discovered that they enjoyed making mutual mischief far too much, despite suffering the consequences, to ever become rivals or enemies.  Therefore, they had to become friends.

Thus it was that the current party of grey forest-dwellers were of great interest to the duo.  These visitors were not Galadhrim.  This minor branch of Lindar had resided less in twilight and more in shadow.  Even their fellow Sindar called them Dark.  They had little use for Caliquendi nor were they well-disposed to be observed by anyone at their rites.  So their Noldor escort had said in a stringent warning to the school faculty, and the Headmaster in a stern lecture to the student body.

Earlier that day though, Camentur and Rostaro were naturally together watching the long caravan’s passage on the narrow road into the hills.  On their walk back to the classrooms, Camentur commenced a report of every rumour he had ever heard about the former inhabitants of Nan Elmoth in Beleriand, including the rumour of blood sacrifices.  He proposed this as the reason why they did not hold their celebration on Tol Eressëa in the groves there.  Because the Prince would have had to arrest some of his close kin and, politics being what they were, wanted to avoid the embarrassment.

Rostaro declared him an idiot and pointed out that if any sacrifices had happened and the Prince hesitated in his responsibility, Olwë or Ingwë as High King would have by now had the perpetrators imprisoned or deported.  But then, he pondered aloud, to where could they be banished?  And could such a willful crime be deterred in the first place?  The Numenoreans certainly had had little luck stopping the practice.  Although, it was facetious to compare latter-day Edain to Eldar...

Camentur cut off his pondering, complaining that he was quibbling.  There was, and always had been, a lack of moral fortitude to act rightly, whether or not it was pragmatic, on the part of the Teleri rulers and apparently on Rostaro’s part too.  To which, Rostaro heatedly claimed that he had taken the discussion to be purely hypothetical since the rumours were unfounded gossip and nothing more.  Where were the witnesses one way or the other?  Whereupon, Camentur suggested they were more than likely dead.  He suggested that they two, themselves being seekers of truth, should ferret out the facts, through a first hand investigation.

Rostaro’s less than swift response earned him an admonishment to show some guts.  But, his delay in taking up the dare was solely from taking the time to weigh the chances of their getting caught.  In the end, although the odds were not in their favour and there was a real risk of being permanently sent down, which he earnestly warned Camentur was the case, he agreed.  For the sake of knowledge and justice, they should do it.  They even clasped hands and shook on it, as honorable loremasters would upon forming an expedition.

When the edict to stay away was pronounced, Rostaro turned to Camentur and solemnly said that their expedition had just become a mission.  The truth should never be suppressed.

So now, here they were – a foolish pair to be sure but not really bothered by it – wrapped in their drab winter cloaks and hoods for better concealment, hoping to sneak up on, of all people, wood-elves.  They paused together at the head of the deer-track they would take to the suspected celebration site and shared a clandestine grin between them.

“Ready?” asked Camentur, as the instigator of this particular adventure.

“Ready!” replied Rostaro, as the accomplice in this particular adventure.

Fearlessly, or recklessly if that was how others were pleased to see it, they took off in a race into the dark interior of the forest, where few stars could be seen.

It was not long before a beryl of light could be seen between the thick trees; flickering as if live flames were at its core.  It became their beacon and grew in size and intensity as they drew nearer to the source.  Eurhythmic drumming became evident; slowly drowning out the nocturnal sounds of the forest.  Featureless hollows of black shadows, created by the bright emanation, aided in concealing their movements.  Familiarity with the terrain was their one true advantage, and they used it cleverly enough as they made their slow approach.  Nonetheless, it was more by luck than anything else that they were able to creep in closer than a person would expect inept young adventurers were capable.

Upon reaching the moss-covered trunk of a fallen tree, the uninvited guests halted.  The tree lay at a safe distance with an unobstructed view of the gathering; its large circumference would prevent them from being seen as they stood behind it, leaning comfortable against the cushioned bark.  With hoods pulled far forward and being careful to keep their heads very low, they peered cautiously over their curved blind to stare in wide-eyed wonder.

The perimeter of the roughly oval clearing was alight with large lichen lamps raised on stakes, along with torches.  Multiple strings of small lights were entwined in the heavy garlands swaged from tree to tree all way round.  These decorations had the effect of forming a great hall, wall-less and open-aired.  Concentric bans of dancers, joined by clasped hands, moved in and out from a central bonfire, undulating in synchronized steps.  The blaze was being stoked into a broiling-hot brightness that should have cooked the dancers, although they appeared unaffected save for the slight sheen of perspiration.  Those standing outside the ringed fire, at the two ends of the hall, swayed on their feet; some looking as if entranced.

All wore forest colors with flourishes of brighter hues, whether feathers or ribbons or flowers.  There were very few jewels.  And everything – the flames, the garlands, the lights, the dancers, the observers, the entranced, the leafy roof above, the trunk that Camentur and Rostaro hid behind, their chests and lungs – reverberated with the low thunder of a multitude of drums, from monstrous to hand-held.

A complement of other instruments began to slowly meld in.  Their whistling and thrumming, atonic horns, coalesced in a counterpoint to the relentless rhythm.  A seemingly but by no means dissonant theme emerged.  Wordless singing began, emanating from within and without the turning wheels of bodies; hundreds of voices swelling in volume, each finding it own line of harmony.

Camentur recognized what Rostaro had before described to him.  The light and music were a net, cast out to aptly draw in as many participants as possible.  For the more included, the greater would be the reward: a communal fervor that went beyond the sensual to become a shared state of grace; one achieved by effort, not bestowed by any Ainur.  This primitive mystery, more than anything else, was what piqued Camentur’s curiosity about the forest-folk of Endorë.  Still, he harboured enough uncertainty about the nature of ancient eldarin powers that he would never have come here alone.

Turning away from the dance and scanning around perimeter of the clearing, the first observation of note he made was that there was every indication of this being, paradoxically with such a great blaze at its center, a cold feast.  There were no other fires for cooking.  Nothing was tethered nearby for slaughter later, neither goat nor quendë.  He looked over at Rostaro, who happened to be looking at him.  His friend was obviously pleased at not having to say a word about what he would have otherwise pointed out himself.  Camentur good-naturedly shrugged.  In truth, neither had really expected any evil doings.

Rostaro was prompted to speak aloud, but Camentur could not hear over the increasing volume of the music; he indicated so with a hand cupped by his ear.  They brought their heads together in order to communicate.

“Camba, the music!  The instruments!  None are made of metal!  Or even glass!  They are only from flora and fauna and stone!”

Camentur enthusiastically nodded.  Another indication that the pending ceremony was indeed from the most distant past!  However, what he next noted truly excited him.  Rostaro did not hear his first exclamation, leaning over to catch what he was saying only after a sharp nudge in the ribs.

“Look!  Look over there!”

“Where?  What is it?”

“Just over there!  Standing by herself!  Vána’s Sweet Smile!  She is... she is utterly… gorgeous!”

“Hunh?  You mean a maiden?  Think you of nothing else?”  Rostaro was quite put out.  “We are here to observe, not to drool over the ellith.”  But, he still strained to see the nís who could so impressed Camentur, whom he acknowledged as a greater authority then he on the opposite gender.  “Just which one do you mean?  They are all lovely.  And some rather scantily clad at that... ”  A fact he did appreciate being brought to his notice.

“Her!  That one right over there!  Augh! She is the flame and ‘tis I who burns!”

“I still do not see this – ”  And then, he did see her.  Camentur had cause to effuse poetically.

Surely, she was noble-born.  And no young maiden, but a mature lady... no, a queen-in-waiting… like unto a Maia... clothed in a fana of night sky and moonlit waters... winging clouds and ancient stars.  Her long ebony tresses were a flowing veil that shimmered with silver and ruby threads.  Her face was the perfection of feminine features.  Her eyes scintillating jewels; her lips luscious and full.  Her flawless skin shone in the firelight like polished amber.  Her simple garment hid not her supple limbs and barely covered her shapely curves.  She wore no adornments; she did not need them.  The sway and swing of her hips as she moved to the music was mesmerizing.

Slim, pale hands slowly rose to lift her loose hair from beneath, seeking to cool her swan neck.  Her chest swelled and fell as she sighed and let the silky mane cascade from her splayed fingertips.

Beside him, Camentur groaned in admiration.  It alerted Rostaro to a mounting desire within himself.  Spying was a dangerous business, and they were loosing focus.  Something he was not normally prone to do.  Alarmed, he shut his eyes and pushed the wanton feelings away.  When he opened his eyes to gaze again at the lady, a shield of rational thought protected him from her beguiling charms.  She was still gorgeous... but now he could see her unobscured... and for all her radiance from being re-embodied... she was... dark.  Her sultry movements were deliberate.

Concerned for his more susceptible friend, he looked at Camentur.  Indeed, his friend was succumbing.  Rostaro snaked a hand out of under his cloak and in under Camentur’s cloak to pinch him – hard.

“Ow!!  What was that for?!”  He angrily rubbed the painful spot.

“She is a sorceress.  You were falling under her spell.”

“And you are an idiot!  There is no such thing!”  That was perhaps true amongst Amanyar.  But, Camentur had to concede that it could be true amongst Umanyar, and his friend knew more than he in that regard.

They simultaneously turned back to look at her again, both intrigued by the idea she was more than supremely lovely.  At a signal indiscernible by them, the music concluded and the dancers halted.  All bowed their heads.  A sole tenor voice began a plaintive, soaring song; the lyrics of which were not understood by either youth.

The dark lady had become motionless along with everyone else.  However, as the singular song crested, her head tilted back.  Of a sudden, her arms winged upward; so swiftly her hair went flying around her.  She seemed to transform; becoming like unto a black-winged raptor; dangerous, taloned, and hungry.  Both youths gasped in shock.  Her flashing eyes snapped in their direction.  Startled, they instantly ducked behind the tree trunk, folding up right down to their feet.

“Did you see that?!  Was that real?” gasped Rostaro.  “Maybe that is why everyone is so wary of Eöl’s people!  Are they hunters of their own kind?!” he pondered with delicious fright.

“Do you think she saw us?” urgently whispered Camentur.  His fright was flavorless ash.  He answered not Rostoaro but himself and as he wished to be answered.  “No... no... I do not think so.”

With a rhythmic fanfare of drums, the music and massive chorus struck up again in an emphatic short reprise.

Rostaro rose, eager to peek over the trunk once more.

“Do not!” warned Camentur.  “Orosta!”  He bounced up and put his hands on his friend’s shoulders, trying to drag him back down.  The music ended; only the drums continued, in a steady low, rhythmic beat.

“Aññolë!” hissed Rostaro.  “She has gone from sight!”

Camentur looked; she had indeed disappeared.

“Because you do gaze in the wrong direction, my little dumplings,” said a voice behind them.

With a sharp inhale of surprise, both youths jerked around to collapse into a protective squat with their backs to their now useless cover.

She stood with palms on hips and feet apart, which only emphasized her voluptuous figure.  The flat line of her alluring lips slowly curled at the corners.  She eyed them as if they were prey.  Rostaro froze as would a stalked fawn.  Camentur nervously stroked his hands over his bent knees, readying to flee.

“Stand,” she dispassionately ordered in Sindarin.  “Remove your cloaks.”  Her smile somehow changed from avian to feline.  “I want to see what you look like under all that shapeless cloth.”

Each rose to his feet.  They helplessly obeyed.  Bewildered by his total lack of will, Camentur looked to Rostaro, only to see that his friend was no more capable than he of refusing.  They unfastened their cloaks and let them drop to the ground; off came the hoods.

“My, what a hansom and strapping pair you are... “ she purred.  Her eyes were jet set in opal.  She walked forward; stepping up to them with her hips tauntingly rocking in rhythm to the beat of the drums.  Her thin garment clung to her glistening body; her female scent wafted around her.

Camentur struggled to keep his composure.  Beside him, Rostaro was an unblinking statue.  For the first time, he regretted getting his younger friend involved in one of his foolish pranks.

After looking them both over as if they were painted pottery for sale in a market stall, the lady picked Camentur.

“Tell me your name.”

He stammered, unable to get past the first syllable.  She laughed at him and tugged on one end of his untied shirtlace.  It came into his thoughts that she might next tell him to strip down.  His face turned crimson.  But perhaps blood flowing unchecked to his face was a fortunate thing.  Else, he might have embarrassed himself even worse.  Again, she laughed, then barely flicked the end of his nose with the tip of a manicured fingernail.

“Quetë, nercë.”

This cruel insult to his budding adulthood effectively squelched Camentur’s uncertain lust, as well as his self-esteem.  Nonetheless, he was relieved that she would pass on him.

“Now for you, mallos... “ she said; her purr deepening to more of a growl.  However, her new victim did not quiver at the sound of her voice as had the last.

Rostaro did not move, because he was thinking.  She had spoken to Camentur in Quenya.  She understood Quenya.  He should not speak the fitting epithet that sat on the tip of his tongue.  Silence would be wiser.  Camentur could not resist her words.  Could he?  Exercising the few lessons he had been given, he made to fortify the weak shield-wall of objectivity surrounding his mind.  He envisioned his inner landscape of feelings blanketed in snow and ice.  An amateur defense to be sure, but now he felt he might defy her will.

“Tell me your name.”

He could have refused.  He did not want her to use his name.  But, she would just ask Camentur.  He wanted her to leave his friend alone.

“Tell me your name,” she impatiently repeated in Quenya.

“Rostaro... “

“How sweet... Rostaro...” she cooed.

That was it.  He swore he would give her absolutely nothing more – no reply, no response, no reaction.  If this sorceress meant to break him, he was not going to let it be that easy for her. 

“Naught to say?  Cat got your tongue?” she chuckled.  Clearly, she had discerned his intention.  But, she made no attempt to sweep away his flimsy defenses.  Instead, she lifted his chin with the knuckle of a bent index finger.  “Interesting… “

He did not fight back, but neither did he quail at her touch.

“You are not afraid of me… “  Of a sudden, her eyes softened and the malevolent smile faded.  Her perplexed gentleness scared him more than her cruel humour.  “You should know better.”

Camentur gulped as he watched the lady bend her mind against Rostaro; knowing that he would not have been able to bear those lancing eyes cutting into his private thoughts.  He wanted to aid his friend; to pull this creature away from him.  But, he was unable to break whatever it was that bound his voice to silence and his arms to his sides.  She held Rostaro’s raised chin perfectly still as her face, her mouth, came closer and closer to his.  Camentur despaired for his friend’s innocence.  At the same time, he was shamefully grateful that it was not him the dark lady wanted.

Suddenly, they were saved.

“What do you think you are doing?!” cried a sanctimonious voice.  A tall nér strode out from of the long shadows.  “Is this how you begin anew?  By seducing children?!”

The lady broke off her penetrating stare at Rostaro and slid a glance over her shoulder.  She drew in a slow breath between clenched teeth; her entire body filling with imperious ire.

From her expression, Rostaro anticipated a striking blow would be dealt to the brother servant.  For that was what this rescuer was.  After being taught by many of that kind, he could easily recognize a servant of the Powers when he saw one.  But, this toron was not from the seminary; he had to be part of the escort.  At the moment attack seemed eminent, the lady calmed herself; changing from a lunging panther to a domesticated mouser. 

Camentur rejoiced when his friend was let go to limply fall back against the tree trunk.  The lady turned to the irate nér, exhibiting a disdain more typical of a pampered housecat than an elda.

“No need to be jealous, Menelmo,” she said with hauteur.  “He is intriguing, but nothing to take home for dinner.”

Her food metaphor sent a chill down Camentur’s spine.  He looked to Rostaro, worried for him after his ordeal.  Although his friend labored to catch his breath like a swimmer that had stayed submerged unto the end of his endurance, Rostaro seemed alright.  He did not look back at Camentur though; his attention was fixed on the lady and the nêr.

“But still, you interrupted,” she complained.  “How impolite.”  Her eyes glittered and his glowed.

“I owe no apology for acting righteously,” he declared.  The contesting sparks that flew between them were almost visible.

She abruptly turned back to Rostaro, her hand reaching out to cup the side of his face.  He turned to stone.  It appeared she would place a kiss upon the opposite cheek, but her lips slid past, and she whispered something directly into his ear.  Rostaro’s lips parted.  She pulled back, trailing caressing fingertips along the underside of his jaw; again tilting up his chin as if to position it for a better kiss than what had been eschewed for the sake of words.  She held his eyes; smug satisfaction and a conniving smile playing across her face.  Then, she drew her hand away, with an almost theatrical flair, and stepped back.

Whatever had bound him, Camentur felt come loose and drop away.  He leapt to shield his motionless friend with his own body, but the lady’s attention no longer rested on either of them.

With a cat-like saunter, she walked over to the nér.  For a long moment, they stared unflinchingly at each other.

“Get you back with the others!” he harshly ordered.

Camentur was in awe of the fellow’s steely courage.  Rostaro saw new reason to respect all Their servants.

“Gladly,” she softly breathed, contemptuous of his command.  Stepping around the rooted toron, she began to slink away, without a backward glance.  But like her scent, her voice floated in the air.  “Their adventure has ended without any harm done.  They have learned their lesson.  Send them home, and let us all forget about this meaningless encounter.”  She melted into the long shadow of some trees, fading completely from sight, into the darkness.  And did not reappear in the lighted gap between that stand of trees and the next.

Camentur’s breath caught.  Rostaro had made mentioned of this trick of becoming unseen, but to witness it with his own eyes!  Beside him, his friend stared, still expressionless.

“You two!”  They jumped at the toron’s authority abruptly being turned on them, as shocked as rabbits cornered by a fox.  “You will confess your indiscretion to your Headmaster!  Go!”

They bolted.  Camentur, in the lead forging a path; Rostaro snatching up both cloaks before racing after.  They crashed their way to the ridge of the next hill and did not stop their stumbling run down into the valley until they reached the campus fence.  Only then did they pause to catch their breath; before sneaking back inside their dormitory the same way they had snuck out.  Camentur kept under his covers until the morning sun drove away the night, choosing to miss the morning meal in favour of rising in sunlight.

After the greeting of the dawn, the two friends briefly discussed what to do.  They argued, finally agreeing not to turn themselves in.  Rostaro was sure the toron who had saved them would not inform the Headmaster.  He thought the dark lady’s last words just needed some time to work.

All morning, Camentur kept expecting for them to be brought into the Office, but it did not happen.  Oddly enough, the frightening event was dissipating into a creepy memory.  By afternoon, it was as if he had dreamed it.  But, he had a feeling that he would never forget entirely.  At the end of day, after last classes, when everyone was washing up for the evening meal, he and Rostaro went into the mud-room to talk outside the echoing lavatory.  Camentur wanted to know what the lady had whispered in his friend’s ear.

“Sorry, Camba.”  Rostaro shrugged.  “I shall not say.”

“Why ever not, if we are going to forget anyway?”  Camentur playfully punched his arm.  “Tell.”

“No, I do not approve of sorcery and will not perpetuate a spell by repeating it.”

“Oh, just listen to you!”  He donned a broad smile.  “It was a love spell, then?”

“No!  Nothing like that.”  Rostaro punched him back, only a little harder.

“Do not act naïve with me, Orosta.  You are not going to enter into orders, anymore than I am.”  His smile turned to a lascivious grin.  “She really liked you, as if you did not know.”

“Do not even imply that!  She was laughing at us!”

“If not a love spell, then just tell!”

“I thought she meant the toron.”  He eyed his friend sharply.  “But, maybe she meant you... “

“O Tulkas, I am scared.  Come on and tell already!  Look here!”  He held up his hand, palm in the air.  “Even if I remember after tomorrow, I promise never to repeat it to anyone else.  But I also swear that I will never stop asking until you spill.”  He absolutely would pick at Rostaro until he learned what was said, and Rostaro knew it.

“Alright, alright,” was his friend’s sudden decision.  “Might as well get it over with.  Maybe saying the words will free me from thinking about them until I do forget.  Listen close for I shall say them but once.”  He took a fresh breath.  “She said: ‘You could easily have been mine.  When he asks, tell him just that.’  And that was all she said.”

Camentur blinked.  That was it?  What a disappointment.   Just another taunt, this one for the brave toron.  But, the brother servant had sent them off without any questions.

Rostaro shrugged again.  His brow beetled with misgiving.  He did not understand what the lady had been about, and he was disturbed by the possibility, then and now, that there was something else hidden in her words.

“You are so lucky that the brother came and pulled her off you.”

Rostaro frowned.  Camentur was nodding and knowingly grinning in that annoying fashion of his.

“Oh, yeah.  She wanted you!”

“Did not!”

“Did so!  No doubt about it!”

“Shut up!”

“Make me!” 

Camentur was dealt an open-handed slap to the head.  And promptly bestowed a similar blow upon Rostaro.  The silly exchange continued and laughing migrated back into the noisy lavatory, where in no time at all it escalated into a mock brawl, drawing in several other students and encouraging many others to cheer and shout for a winner.  It was the two original opponents who were first to fall into the undrained tub of collected waste water, then were joined by others until the tub was full of students.  The entire filthy contents was spilled onto the floor and flowed out into the hall.  That was when the First Instructor came rushing in to see what the clamour was about – and slipped.

So, they made a visit to the Headmaster’s office that day, after all.

- = -

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

“Quetë, nercë.” – Hush, little man. (Be silent, small male.) Quenya

Aññolë – Sh*t – a very strong smell Quenya

mallos – golden bell, the name of a flower Sindarin

toron – frater/brother Quenya

quendë/quendi – elf/elves Quenya

elda/eldar – elf/elves Quenya

ellyn/ellith – male/female elves Sindarin

nér/nís – male/female elf Quenya

néri/níssi – male/female elves Quenya

This is for Perelleth’s birthday, inspired by some comments she made waaay back in May concerning one of my favorite Elves.

- *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* -

The Wait of Words

“The travellers now rode with more speed, and they made their way towards the Gap of Rohan; and Aragorn took leave of them at last... and the Lady said to him: ’Elfstone, through darkness you have come to your hope, and have now all your desire.  Use well the days!’  But Celeborn said: ‘Kinsman, farewell! May your doom be other than mine, and your treasure remain with you to the end!’  With that they parted... “

= Lord of the Rings – The Return of the King – Book VI – Chapter 6: Many Partings =  

Vaulting down from the saddle, Elessar negligently tossed the sweating Roheryn’s reins at the waiting groom.  Close on the royal rider’s heels, a knightly rider stuttered to a quick stop that had the horse over his haunches, and an anxious Rámon hastily dismounted.  The King was not waiting upon him and already headed into the large tent that was His Majesty’s Pavilion.  From the flanking torches’ depleted state, it was obvious that they had been lit early in apprehension of their late return from what should have been a simple leave-taking.  Glimpsing their lord’s face, Elessar’s personal guards, who might have asked as to the reason for the delay, instead stiffened to attention as he strode swiftly past them without a glance.

A hitch in his hurried steps, Rámon caught up to the one who was his lord but also his friend.  He fell into limping pace behind the taller and older man, following him inside when no one else would venture it.  Once inside, he allowed himself a heavy sigh of relief that they had returned late but intact.  At least they two had arrived without mishap, and he was thankful for both their sakes.  And for no injury to their horses.

Elessar had watched until the departing company was out of sight.  He did not move until long after retracting his namesake from o’er his head, where he had held it aloft in farewell.  Only as the dusky veil of the also departed sun began to draw away to reveal the twilight curtain of rising stars did the King then turn his horse and go from the place – springing away at a reckless gallop into the gathering gloom.  His sudden unspoken action surprised the knights of his escort, who fumbled at first then followed in discordant thunder behind.  If not for having been gifted a better mount than any of theirs, Rámon would also have been stumbling after; without Elessar as guide, perhaps to crash in the darkness of the night rushing forward as swiftly as their horses.  But, darkness did not confound the King who had been a Ranger called Strider.

Odd as it was, even if one remembered that strange fact, when invited to accompany his lord upon this journey, Rámon had not reckoned on racing headlong through wilderness at nightfall. 

Although now shielded from scrutiny by canvas walls, Elessar continued to act detached from his surroundings.  It was his routine when coming in from riding to proceed through the separating drapes to his more private chamber to divest.  This time he did not.  He simply halted at dead center of the first chamber.  Rámon nearly walked into him and had to quickly stop then hop sideways a step.  Elessar did not turn to wink at the near faux pas.  He just stood still, staring and silent.  Not cloak, gauntlets, nor helm did he discard.  His sword, always the first thing laid aside, remained at his side.

The King’s valet, Halphir, was at hand.  As he had oft times done before when his lord master appeared to need assistance, the fellow stepped forward unbidden to help lift the crowned helmet from Elessar’s brow.  But he was waved off with the same abnormal disregard dealt the groom and guards and knights.  As if their duty was of nuisance rather than of aid.  Halphir went into the private chamber and brought out a cup from where surely it had sat ready to welcome its owner with refreshment.  That service too was summarily dismissed.  The cup got set upon the tray-table beside the King’s Chair, and the useless hands that placed it there withdrew behind Halphir’s back.

“Is there anything Your Majesty requires?” the faithful servant asked in a decidedly neutral tone.

“No. You may go.”  The curt reply carried no more emotion than had the question.  Halphir had learned his lord’s moods well enough to know when it was wise to cosset him in spite of protest and when it was much wiser to leave him to himself.  Or in this case to Sir Rámon.

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing to the King but also directing a pointed look to the King’s noble comrade before exiting.  Thus with a slight nod, Rámon officially took over watch upon their distracted liege.  After all, he acknowledged to himself, the foremost reason he was here was for the King to have someone to confide in.

Evenstar had personally asked him to stay by Elessar’s side instead of going home, his war service done.  So well did he love the new Queen and King, he had accepted her sincere request and for anon sacrificed a well-earned retirement.  He would therefore remain with Elessar for as long as his friend and prince continued to stand here in body, his thoughts very far away.  Rarely had he seen his lord so distracted, and it was not hard to figure that the last words of Elessar’s Elven in-laws were what had affected him.

However, what was said was said, and the people who said it gone.  By whatever cause, Rámon felt it was for him to dispel the King’s odd mood – and to ease a friend’s anxiety.  Resolved to accomplish that much if naught else, he drew a steadying breath and prepared a calculated plea.  If he could get his lord to move about, it might rouse Elessar out of his current state into a different if not better frame of mind.  For once, his nagging wounds could be an asset rather than a deficit.

“Aragorn, have pity on my poor legs and sit down so I might.”  Elessar abruptly turned to look at him, his distant expression changing to guilty.

“Apologies... I am being inconsiderate, aren’t I… ”  He had replied in the same lax mode of speech, instead of taking affront.  Which Rámon took as a good sign his ploy could work.  “Go on and sit,” Elessar insisted, gesturing at the chair next to his.  “You know you don’t have to stand on ceremony with me.”  The King had a dry sense of humour, but whether he meant to make a bad pun, Rámon was unsure.  So, he ignored it.

“Well as long as we’re not straight away going off again.”  Said to point out that they had not as yet doffed any gear.  “Hurts more than helps to sit down only to have to get right up again.”

“Not my intention... “  Off dropped Elessar’s cloak to be left where it fell.  His unbelted sword got slung over the corner of his chair’s back, nearly oversetting it.  His helm he pulled off to lay it upon the small table, where it rolled slightly and threatened to knock over the goblet he had earlier refused.  His removed gloves were dropped into his upturned helm, steadying it.  He practically flung himself into his chair which, with all the furniture being of the portable kind, protested loudly but held up bravely.

Rámon also removed his gear – while closely watching for further clues that his lord might be coming out of his sulk.  He arranged his things in much the same manner, save his cloak which he bundled up in his lap to lightly lay over his knees when at last settled into his seat.  To his disappointment, after being momentarily pushed down, Elessar’s distraction resurfaced unmitigated.  He sat staring – forearms balanced on armrests, hands floating lax over his lap, his long legs crookedly stretched out before him – once more isolate.

The weight now off his feet, Rámon’s legs felt suddenly and wincingly sore.  Perforce, he sat not speaking until the burning sensation subsided, and he could again work on Elessar’s pain rather than his own.

“Aragorn?” he ventured, trying to convey his own unease in a tone that would demand an answer while remaining respectful.  He kept an intense gaze upon Elessar, willing for him to respond.

After a long moment, his gaze was finally returned.  At first, there was reticence in his lord’s eyes.  Then, he lightly sighed in surrender.  He would talk, if that was what a concerned friend was asking of him.

“I’m just ruminating... ” he said in a slightly self-conscious way.  He glanced at the cup upon the table.  “You thirsty?”

“No.”  He was not.  Elessar was not either.  His lord had asked out of courtesy or for diversion.  “Perhaps a smoke... it’s been two whole days.”

“No, I promised to cut down.  So, don’t tempt me again, please.”  He welcomed Elessar’s wan smile.

“Hers was good advice, though.”  He did not hesitate to address what he was certain was actually bothering his lord.  He intentionally chose to broach the matter by way of the Lady’s cheerful admonishment rather than the Lord’s glum wish.  “You should enjoy your successes – ”

“By the mercy of the One,” swore Elessar; suddenly sitting up straight, hands gripping his chair’s armrests, his words heavily laced with irritation.  “She gives not advice.  She herself has claimed that loudly many times, for she is a wise seer who knows her best counsel has always been in giving warning and not guidance.  Even so were her parting words.”

“No, not at all!”  For all of his own perception of there being further meaning in the pair’s words than of the words themselves, Rámon considered Celeborn’s more a cause to brood than Galadriel’s.  “A fair acknowledgement and at most a nudge to remember to keep your bride happy.”

“Or a compromise with her conscience.  ‘Use well the days!’  Days, Rámon.”  His head bowed as his emotion-clouded eyes looked down at his discarded cloak.  “I pray that Lord Celeborn’s blessing will aid me in averting what threatens my beloved ere comes my inevitable departure from this world.”

“You esteem the Lord doom-saying above the Lady’s encouragement?”  He prudently refrained from voicing an even harsher opinion of the Elf-lord whom Elessar held in great respect.  Rámon did not think it kind, especially of her own grandfather, to be careless of Arwen’s certain grief at living on after the loss of her beloved husband.  And seemingly because Celeborn did not wish for Aragorn to be bereft of his lady wife as he was clearly convinced he himself was soon to be.  “If that was a blessing, thank goodness he was only melancholy and not dour.”

Elessar abruptly laughed aloud.  Then did Rámon realize how his sarcastic remark must have sounded, and he was truly thankful for his lord’s reliable sense of humour.

“Forgive me, my lord!  I wasn’t saying that about you –”

“And my moods?”  He smiled, ruefully bemused.  “Really, I don’t mind if you compare me to Celeborn.  There is no ruler I admire more for all that he speaks as often from temperament as from nobility.”  He gave a slight shrug.  “Don’t we all?”  With a gentle chuckle, he shook his head.  “You think as you do because you know him not.”

“Since you do, enlighten me.”  He indeed wanted to know why Elessar had showed such pride at being addressed as a kinsman by someone most people saw as a mere prince consort.  Yet while at court and in the King’s company, Rámon had never seen any among Celeborn’s family or familiars show disdain towards him, but always respect, obedience, loyalty, and trust if not also affection.  Nor had he heard any of them say anything disparaging about him when there was ample opportunity.  Celeborn’s Galadhrim subjects had clearly felt it an honor to be personally addressed by him.  Between the Lord and Lady themselves, Rámon had observed that she showed him as much deference – and sometimes more – as he showed her.  There had to be better reasons for such regard other than being Galadriel’s helpful husband.

“He would say it matters not what you think of him.”  Elessar’s faint smile became sharply defined.  “Yet despite that apparent attitude, he would expect for you to listen well to all he deigns to say.  Else show yourself unwise.”  Rámon could see that this was the very thing his lord had been doing: thinking upon what he had heard, trying to glean greater wisdom from both their farewells.

“I’d like to know why one should listen.  That is, if it would please you to explain... ”  Talking was noticeably helping.  Besides, Rámon thought he might learn something worthwhile about both princes in the process.

“Very well.  But remember – you asked.”  Elessar paused, leaning back and crossing his legs; much more relaxed than when the conversation was begun.  “You must have heard many times by now the songs of Frodo of the Nine-fingers and the adventures of our Fellowship.  So, you know we were given much needed succor in Lothlorien after Gandalf was thought lost.”

“Yes, and of how you were greeted there.”  The annoyed look on Elessar’s face caused Rámon to regret saying that additional bit aloud and as a judgment of character.

“A bard’s retelling must at times favor art over facts, I grant.  Nonetheless, it should contain some semblance of truth,” Elessar declared.  “From what’s been sung, one might indeed think Lord Celeborn merely petulant at not being told about Mithrandir.  Or take umbrage at his treatment of Gimli.  But then, anyone who does – ”  He bit back what he was going to say and exhaled slowly.  “... lacks perspective.  However, a discussion of that particular scene can wait for another time.  It does not illuminate your issue as much as another entirely left out of the popular lays.  Although... “ he thoughtfully paused.  “Because it is somewhat relative, I will say for added clarity that our parting gifts were from both our hosts.  This heirloom – “ he touched the green stone where it rode upon his chest “ – is from Arwen’s mother, not her grandmother who saw to its delivery.  Galadriel’s gift to us was lembas.”

“What of the cloaks made by her and her ladies?”

“Issued to us, as they were to all their marchwardens.  The lowliest archer received the same boon as we.  It’s just that we were outsiders.  The generosity that best matched the gift of lembas was the boats.  Those were as vital to the Galadhrim as sound chargers to Dol Amroth’s cavalry.  And an even more limited commodity.”  Elessar’s face hinted at strong sentiment he tried and failed to completely hide.  “The boats were entirely from Celeborn, and especially appreciated by me.”

“He aided your Fellowship greatly, no doubt.”

“But only after the Lady told him he should?” he lightly teased, not deceived by Rámon’s condescending remark.  “Another thing to talk about later.”  He took another pause to once more resettle himself in his seat.

In spite of Elessar’s warning about asking, Rámon teetered on begging for him to stop.  For the new expression on Elessar’s face was the one that always came across when the subject of conversation was Boromir.  And Rámon had found a dislike at hearing contradictive details about the heroic deeds that had saved the world from the Dark Lord.  Especially if they were about one of the lords that he admired most.

“On the day of our leaving Lorien, we feasted the Elven New Year upon the hythe,” Elessar recommenced.  “Celeborn was giving us some last advice ere our departure.  He spoke specifically to myself and Boromir of the perils of Fangorn’s forest, saying that it was a place to avoid, knowing its lord to be uncharacteristically hasty with intruders.”  A twinkle sparked in Elessar’s eyes.  “Fangorn had much the same opinion of the Lord of the Golden Wood.”  He heaved a resigned sigh.  “Boromir – as it was ever his nature upon all occasions to speak bravely – did so then.”

“He was indeed brave,” Rámon softly interjected.

“As you yourself know.”  Elessar was well aware that he and his father had served directly under the Captain-General.  “For you have fought beside him too.  Any who has stood with him knows his courage and loyalty.  Any that has walked with him knows his great leadership.  He was much more than his public portrayal.  Whatever might be said of him by others, we who knew him well know he was a true prince of his people.”

Rámon nodded in agreement, but also in understanding.  Elessar was saying the same about Celeborn.

“So as you can expect, Boromir pronounced his confidence in overcoming any challenge and reduced the very real dangers of Fangorn to old-wives’ tales.”  A reminiscent smile came to Elessar’s lips.  “The Lord took his speech to imply what he himself had to say was worthless myth.  Not Boromir’s fault that he was also unaware of the particular respect ancient Eldars hold for the female gender.  So, Celeborn considered his behaviour an arrogant dismissal of hard-earned wisdom – whether his own or that of old wives.”  Elessar’s expression changed to disgruntled.  “I was quite pissed at Boromir myself.  His unintentional offense caused Celeborn to cease his good advice, since it appeared it would never be heeded.  ‘Then, I need say no more.’  Announced with unmatched haute royal.”  His previous smile returned.  “Though, not his last words.  ‘But do not despise the lore that has come down from distant years; for oft it may chance that old wives keep in memory word of things that once were needful for the wise to know.’  And now you are one of the few that know how those very words changed dire events in the Houses of Healing.”

“That was by your powers not some Elven spell!” he protested.

“Applying the remedy, yes.  Finding the remedy?”  Elessar shook his head.  “I think not.  If Daeradar had chosen not to speak for my sake, dear friends would have died.”

“Seems to me his remark was merely coincidental.”

“There have been too many such coincidences.  I for one have learned to listen well to what he says.”

“Then if he has this power, why was he not clear?  Why not tell you plainly to look for an old wise-woman who would give you the herbs you would need and when you would have need of them?”

“Galadriel might have done so, for her guidance tends to be dictatorial.  A tendency she has been more successful in curtailing than her lord husband with his tendency to lecture.”  He offered a sardonic smile.  “Flaws for which I have been grateful on both accounts.  After the fact anyway.”  He inhaled slowly, taking in a deep breath.  “She said: ‘Use well the days!’  I admit I would have preferred no words to those few.”  What was left of the breath came out in a soft affectionate huff.  “When it comes to giving advice, Celeborn’s manner is to map out a way to an opportunity where it lays amidst circumstances.  Always with an alternate path in mind.  His route is never fixed.  There are choices.”  Elessar cocked an eye at his companion.  “The Lord is an inveterate planner at heart, and someone who dislikes it when well-laid plans are upset.  Yet despite complaints, he can swiftly remedy those ruined plans.”  He opened a hand palm up in a visual gesture.  “Where she can discern the dangers that lay unseen in heart or mind... “  He opened the other hand.  “... he can name the dangers that lay out of sight, ill-considered.  Well and good to see far ahead, but when you can name what you will see... ”

“You have power over it.  And they are more powerful together than apart,” he realized.  “She sees what can happen and he sees how it can be opposed.”

“Not opposed!” Elessar said in a raised voice.  “The Children of Eru have been gifted with Free Will.  Just as importantly, Eä with Chaos.  Fate is too strong a force to oppose.  But, the natural flow of history cannot be easily diverted from its course either.  Every design requires wise engineering to succeed.”  Rámon heard the resonance of a stern teacher in that philosophy, a teacher other than Elrond.  An apologetic smile followed the adamant lecture.  “Excuse me, please.  But I believe that Celeborn has an affinity to these preternatural forces as much as to Nature itself.  He can redirect what most would deem inevitable.”

“Why then say he is himself doomed?  What did he mean by lamely addressing your inevitable fate at a detriment to the Queen’s?”

“Ah, I see now, “ Elessar said, looking newly aware.  Then, unhappy that Rámon should think Evenstar slighted by her grandfather.  “If you think him careless of Arwen’s fate in favor of mine, you are wrong.  He is much too clever and practiced to fail either of us, one for the other.”  His eyes narrowed.  “Look around you at the toll of this long defeat ere a meaningful victory.  Look what it has demanded from those that will not surrender.  See you any great queens left in Middle-earth save one?  Where once there were many?  It doesn’t just happen that the only one left is the lady wife of Celeborn the Wise.  Among Men as well as Eldar, they are all gone – dead, slain, and passed away.”  Sympathy replaced examination.  “Soon his, and in accordance with her own wishes.  Little wonder his heart is as burdened as Elrond’s is bitter.”

“You think he could stop her... ”

“Yes, because he has done so before.  But in this last age of the Elves, most of their kind will go from Middle-earth anyway, for they are weary.  He will do nothing to make her stay longer... and nothing will make him go with her as long as his people here have need of him.”

Silence fell upon them, until Rámon decided he wanted to cheer up his lord as well as lift his mood.

“Very interesting, all this speculation about simple farewells.  But really, Aragorn, theirs was a parting from you, not a prophecy for you.  They spoke a wish that you and Arwen be happy – because you are together at last.”

“So, you would say my mere presence is my lady’s greatest joy?” Elessar asked with a soupcon of humour.

“Of course, it is!” was the grinning reply.

“Well then until my departure from this life: the more, the longer, the better.”  Rámon smiled broadly at a king possessing the bawdiness of a common soldier.  Elessar grinned in return, then turned somber.  He looked to Rámon, as if for reassurance.  “But I ask myself, can I do for my lady’s sake what Celeborn has done for his?  Can I succeed where he with all his wisdom and powers has been felled?  And not by the nemesis of all Elves, sea-longing.  But, by the choices of his beloved.”  He frowned.  “For ages, Daeradar held off the separation, the loneliness.  It might be that one of the ways he did it was to eschew a king’s crown.”

“Ironic that a king’s crown was exactly what you had to acquire.”  Rámon became suddenly alarmed.  “Say not that you think to discard yours!”

“Certainly not!” he laughed.  “Fear not that I would emulate Celeborn in that way.  Although, it does impress that he – not born heir to a throne and rejecting that glory many times over – did wed the Lady Galadriel.”  His smile pulled tighter.  “I don’t think she has ever saw my course being that much the same as his.  Else he might have taught me how to go about liege-work without the added benefit of a crown more by instruction than example.”

“Even so, I think you have put too much importance into his moody ramblings.”

“I suppose this last was a sad blessing, speaking more of endings than beginnings...  Nevertheless,” and he wagged a finger at Rámon, ”more than a blithe warning.  The Queen’s joy and her very life are from here on in my hands, and I need to do more than keep an eye out for threats if our happiness is to survive into old age.”

“Shall you await attack or will you prepare a defense, My Captain?” Rámon jokingly challenged with the panache of a spear-carrier in a holiday pageant.

“Ha! Another of Daeradar’s favorite lessons: preparation is prevention.”  Elessar was clearly glad again, freed of sullen worry.  Which genuinely gladdened Rámon.

“With that slogan alone, you’ve convinced me, my lord.  Celeborn the Wise justly deserves that title.  But now, allow me to offer some ordinary advice: you best prevent a new bride’s loneliness and not linger about here longer than needed.”

“Indeed, good friend!  Please inform the camp-master that we prepare to leave with the dawn!”

- *~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* -

The quoted statements of Celeborn and Galadriel are taken directly from “Lord of the Rings” by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Rámon – loosely translates as ‘wing-man’

Daeradar – grandfather Sindarin

lembas – elven waybread Sindarin

For Perelleth's birthday, we ask the question why it took Elrond so very long to wed the love of his life.

- *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* -

Different Hearts – Different Sides

Firstly, a little boning up on Second Age history:

• 1693 – War of the Elves and Sauron begins.  The Three Rings are hidden.
• 1695 – Sauron's forces invade Eriador.  Gil-Galad sends Elrond to Eregion.
• 1697 – Eregion is laid waste.  Death of Celebrimbor. The gates of Moria are shut.
•             Elrond retreats with remnant of the Noldor and founds the refuge of Imladris [Rivendell].
• 1699 – Sauron overruns Eriador.
• 1700 – Tar-Minastir [King of the Númenoreans] sends a great navy from Númenor to Lindon.
•             Sauron is defeated. 
• 1701 – Sauron is driven out of Eriador.
•            The Westlands have peace for a long while.

= The Return of the King – Appendix B – The Tale of Years – The Second Age =

“... and passing through Moria [from Lothlórien] with Celebrían, she [Galadriel] came to Imladris, seeking Celeborn.  There (it seems) she found him, and there they dwelt together for a long time; and it was then that Elrond first saw Celebrían, and loved her, though he said nothing of it.”

= Unfinished Tales – Concerning Galadriel and Celeborn =

Nextly, the meat on the bone:

Over the eroded edge of the narrow ledge, it was a sheer drop down to the rugged valley floor far below.  A slim hithlain rope, looped at intervals through curled iron spikes driven into the rock face, provided a disparate lifeline for any not possessed of enough grit to tread hands-free up the footpath, which was frequently described as not suitable for goats.

The treacherous trail wound around the curve of the promontory cliff in a gradual ascent to a small half-pie shelf situated below a lookout post.  Quite high above the dead-end landing, the cozy niche could be accessed only by scaling up the vertical stone wall with the aid of a hanging knotted rope, also of hithlain.  Looming higher up was the halved crown of the mount that housed the sentinel with his warning horn, as well as provided the precarious sill where nested a mated-pair of predator birds.  For decades now, the birds were hawks, although in the past there had been small fisher-eagles in residence.  The delved hill was just one of many composing the ordinary-appearing landscape of varied elevations that obscured the true course of the swift-flowing Bruinen.

Celebrían stood on the miniature stoop at the foot of the rope; her face turned away from the wall, scanning the length and breath of the bowed river valley.  Only on this side of the bend could the riven dell been seen from end to end, almost every shore point on banks of the Loudwater visible.  Although the foaming falls could be seen, its roar oddly could not be distinctly heard past halfway up the sides of the ravine.  One had to stand inside the vale entrance or upon the scaling steps at either end to note the rush of water over the whoosh of wind-stirred woodlands.

Hrassa stood a long arm’s-length away from the princess, upon the trail itself.  Like most Lindarin folk, he could enjoy a paradox perpetrated by nature and not be driven to puzzle over long about such oddities as an under-loud river.  At the moment, what he was quietly enjoying more was the well-earned satisfaction due any dedicated scout for his discovery of such a oddly wonderful place.  As well, this neatly nestled watch-post, which was an early preparation all of his own making.

He breathed deep the swirling air; catching the faintest whiff of food cooking.  The fleeting scent made his mouth water with thoughts of supper.  But even better, what was to come after.  On this night, there was to be a Fire.  From its inception, the new custom was meant to be a homely gathering, like to a long-home central fire, even if attended under open sky.  Being a usually solitary wanderer, he valued the camaraderie of his fellow warriors, who came from all parts of Middle-earth – Lindon, Eregion, Ered Uial, Eryn Galen, Lórinand, and Khazad-dûm too.  Yes, even them dwarves.  Something he would only ever admit to himself, and hardly at that.

The sun, already hanging above the western hills, dipped below the high blanket of clouds and illuminated the landscape with gorgeous golden light. Heaving a long sigh of passing content, he held out his arms from his sides and opened his palms; welcoming the gentle warmth, drawing it in.

He felt an integral part of this expansive stronghold in the wilderness that had sheltered and provided for the army of Elves, and brave Men, warring against Sauron in the North.  This was a bountiful place.  Just as the Lady had said it would be when the Lord had long ago sent forth his bowman to find it.  At the time, he had not asked the purpose of a secret holdfast, partly fearing it might be a move on their part to regain their old realm after having reluctantly sacrificed it in the name of peace.  But as far as he was concerned, Harlindon had not been a very good trade, nor Lindon truly peaceful until its Umanyar populace abandoned it for the East.  Still, keeping faith in Celeborn and Galadriel had again been rewarded.

At Imladris, a united force of edhil and firinath had been able to stay securely hidden.  They were the last line of defense barring the black horde from the High Pass.  They were the guardians of the only route to safety over on the other side of the Misty Mountains.  For years, along with the vital support provided by Oropher, they had managed to hold off the foe.  Nonetheless, there had been many dark days when Hrassa thought their part in the war would come to a terrible end in a last stand at the pass – and the death of everyone of them.

So, every peaceful day in the sun was to be enjoyed.  It was owned to those fallen to use well and heartily the life gifted by their sacrifice.  Whether that sacrifice had been to die or to survive broken.  And a great many of the broken awaited some kind of healing in Imladris.

Hearing a slight scrabble to his left, he looked down the path to see Elrond slowly making his way up to the lookout.  The prince had arrived sooner than expected.  He was so alike in appearance to his fraternal twin that they could be mistaken for each other.  Or once could be.  The prince had the glossy black hair inherited by all of Melian’s descendants.  And the handsome face and figure of Thingol’s line.  Today, he was not outfitted as a war-captain.  He bore a dagger, but no sword, and no armour over a longer tunic.  Hrassa always thought this lordly style suited him much better.

A smile came to his lips.  Elrond appeared to be finding the guide rope disconcertingly slack.   It was never meant to keep one on the trail, just from being blown over on a stormy night.  His smile grew into a wide grin.  Galadhrim vied for duty up in the Nest, but even his nothrim’s Noldorin members – let alone Elrond’s Lindoni – never volunteered for it.  Their kind seemed happy at a height only when safely encased in stone.

He looked back to his right to Celebrían, who eyes still gazed forward.  She was dressed in warrior’s garb, same as he.  Although, she too wore no sword.  The symbolic devices of her newly entrusted powers hung at her waist: her lord father’s long knife with her lady mother’s key-ring put to service as its belt frog.  Save for the clear clue of her lovely feminine countenance, the princess was not easily distinguishable as a member of her gender.  The daughter who must also be the son, he thought glumly.  Not that she minds.  Tall, athletic, graceful, and strong, she had been gifted with both parents’ notable physical attributes.  Like her cousin, Nimloth, she had their forefathers’ shining mithril colouring.  In Celebrían’s case though, as with her mother, her skin tone was less pale, having the tint of a Vanyar grandmother’s pink hues made rosy by a Noldor grandfather’s bronze sheen.  She had as well inherited from both parents an impressive intelligence and the will to use it.

“Well met, Cogndír,” Elrond said, coming up to him.

“Well met, Lord Elrond.”  He had deposed of the grin by then.  In further deference, he pressed backside against the rock face, scooting upwards slightly, to let Elrond by.  To get around him, the prince had to let go of the rope.  Markedly hiding his uneasiness at doing so.  This brought the grin back and prompted a personal remark from his lips.  “I'd say to pretend you're at sea, but I know you to be a cautious sailor as well.”

“Indeed... “ was the low reply.

Elrond reached the tiny terrace and endeavored to find a comfortable stance in the limited space without crowding Celebrían.  She however slipped her arm through his and pulled him against her side, whilst never taking her eyes away from the vista before them.  They exchanged no greetings, but that was not unusual between the two of them.

All of a sudden, one of the currently resident hawks stooped after prey, shooting past right in front of their faces.  Hrassa and Celebrían followed the dive of the bird with anticipation of a kill, but the strike itself was obscured from sight by the thick trees.  Being the hunters that they were, they were disappointed about missing out.  Elrond on the other hand was irritated by their keen interest.  Which in turn irritated them.  Of late, Elrond had been acting as though buried under his responsibilities, and made everything else out to be a frivolous waste of his precious time.   The lightness of heart, Hrassa knew the prince possessed, had been sorely missing.  As well out of character, Elrond had not sought any assistance, and Celebrían believed that to be on purpose.

She leveled a disapproving look at his obvious annoyance.  Her eyes literally were level with his, for she was taller than the average elleth.  Elrond needed hear no words from her to know what she thought of his own unspoken opinion.  Statement made, she turned to once more look at the view.  He waited for her to start the conversation, but only just long enough as was polite.

“If you wanted private speech,” he rumbled in a low voice, “there are better ways to ask and other – more convenient – places as serviceable as this.”

There was no detectable annoyance in his voiced complaint.  However, Hrassa had observed him long enough to know that he was definitely annoyed.  Worried too.  But then, he had good reason to be.

“I thought this would be a rewarding spot to end a wearisome task,” she told him, unperturbed by his criticism.

Hrassa stifled his own comment.  Serious business was under commencement.  The reason Elrond had come to Celebrían, instead of expecting her to come to him, was because word had reached his ears that she was conducting an inspection of the stronghold – something she was not officially authorized to do so.

From station to quarters, from stores to workrooms, from stable to forge, from barracks to armoury until at last coming to this final guard post, she had moved swiftly.  Brusquely voicing their short-comings to any who disappointed her.  Not restraining sharp censure of officers in charge whom she found lacking.  Giving remedial instructions where needed.  And there had been plenty to cite.  Naught had been said beforehand so personnel might prepare.  Nor had there been a notice issued about her being given this duty.  Even so, everyone but the Lindoni had been expecting her to take over in some fashion or other.

That expectation rested upon a wretched turn of events.  Like so many of the company’s number, Celeborn had been stricken in battle.  Over the ensuing year, his injury slowly took him down.  Until finally he was done.  On his deathbed, he fell mercifully into unconsciousness.  Each shallow breath barely followed by another, each looking to be his last.  Hrassa had guided the Lady to him scarcely in time to save his life.  Celeborn remained in a deep sleep.  As with most other survivors of poisoned wounds, it did not appear that he would soon recover. 

Perhaps never... Hrassa shook off the terrible thought.  Instead, reaffirming to himself that with dedicated care, his lord and friend would awaken and be well again.  Yea, Caun-anim, someday...

Since Celeborn’s collapse almost two months ago, Elrond had been in sole command.  In truth, he had taken on all responsibility long before then.  His co-commander still ineffective, he had become the only one who could hand out new assignments.

The Galadhrim and their fellow Eregrim had of course suffered no misgivings about whether or not it was the princess’ place to order them about.  The Men, though amazed at a beautiful lady captain, had not faltered to obey her either.  It might have had been centuries, but they continued to honor the generosity of the Lord and Lady who had given over their lake and hills to be remade into a homeland for those left behind by the Edain.  It was ironically interesting to Hrassa that the Númenoreans appeared to think that any who did not choose to live in a land provided by the Valar to be of a lesser breed.

On any account, the Lindoni officers had been quite discomforted by Lady Celebrían.  Practically fitful, but unable to confront her and her unassailable royalty.  So, Elrond’s captains had run to him to report her presumption.  She figured they would, and that she would make use of their tattling.  His officers lacked understanding, but their prince would know exactly what she intended by her actions.  Thus, his tracking her down even to this eyrie and coming alone.

“As Cliff informed, a spectacular view,” she placidly continued, his arm firmly clasped by hers.  “A place where one might wish to linger awhile and watch the sunset after a hard day’s work.”

Sunset would be in less than an hour.  Hrassa wondered if that would be enough time for them to resolve their problems.  Personally, he would not mind staying until the stars came out.  But, Elrond would surely wish to leave before darkness set in, and Celebrían would without a doubt leave that choice up to him.

“You have upset my captains,” curtly chided Elrond.  “And have cultivated false assumptions by your lord father’s.  Worse, now the Men have been caught up in a purely Elven issue.”

“Is that so?” she asked.  Her voice had lost none of its pleasantness.  “And just who do you think at fault for my misstep?”

Elrond’s jaw clenched, and he pinked slightly.

Hrassa felt sorry for him at being cornered into an embarrassing admission.  Celebrían certainly had done no wrong in taking on her father’s work as was her duty.  But, would Elrond take responsibility for not doing what was right?  Or would he put the blame where it belonged – on Gil-galad.  Not very likely.

He thought it rather sad that Elrond loved the valley as much as he did himself.  As any prince should, the peredhel enjoyed being in charge of his own place and, in a change for him, of his own life.  Regardless of that, Elrond was not the coveting sort.  There should have been no reason for being as evasive as he had been about giving over to Celebrían her rightful share of authority.  Since, as he had phrased it, he had laid his old resentments against the Lord and Lady to rest with his brother in his tomb.  Over these past years while he and Celeborn were fighting side by side, the princes’s actions had proven his claim to be mostly true.  So, Hrassa could easily suppose that there was something else behind his recent behaviour, and could easily say it was Gil-galad.  The King still held a personal grudge against Celeborn and Galadriel – and Oropher and their old nothrim, the Elmoi.

Whatever his answer, Imladris would not be Elrond’s to keep for much longer.

“Oh, I know ‘tis for Gil-galad’s gain, not your own, that you delay the inevitable.”  Celebrían said, herself abruptly turning annoyed.  “He understandably desires this strategic fortress for his own use.”

She had only yesterday confided to Hrassa the dangers she feared emanate in leaving Elrond in complete control for too long.  She was worried that he meant to stall matters right up until Gil-galad arrived.  So then, the High King of the Elves of the West could seize the opportunity presented in the aftermath of the war and essentially take possession of Eriador.  However, neither lord had anticipated that Galadriel, not to mention Celebrían, would show up and interfere with the attempt.  It delighted Hrassa to have yet again been party in providing Erienion some major frustration.

Celebrían’s head turned to look directly at Elrond, saying straightforward to him, “We know each other far too well to bother with covert plots.”

Something Hrassa was astonished to hear openly acknowledged.  Few would ever suspect it, but the two royals from estranged kingdoms had secretly corresponded for nigh on two and a half enni.  Through letters, they had become friends.  Nevertheless, not one word had been spoken aloud of their custom.  Certainly, never to the Lord and Lady and the King.  Not to their friends or companions.  Not even upon meeting face to face for the first time.  Nor, as far as he knew, in any private moment since.  And never even in confidence to himself.  Although, he had many a time been their supposedly unsuspecting messenger.

Yet, deniability had to be valued above trust.  Just as it had to be by Celebrían’s parents.  Else, they would have to confront the deed and be forced to put an end to it.  He for one was absolutely convinced, as they must be too, that truce had often prevailed between their lands, instead of dispute, for having been clandestinely nurtured between the heirs of the realms.

A strong emotion flickered over Elrond’s composed face, and he swallowed before replying to the princess’ assertion.

Signs that made Hrassa pondered how much was actually at stake for the prince.  Imladris, yea... his honor, certainly... his very freedom, perhaps?

“I treasure our friendship,” Elrond said evenly.

“As do I,” said Celebrían, who made to appear earnest.

“I do not wish for anything to ruin it.”

“Nor do I.”

At the same moment, both turned their eyes away from the other, to green trees and blue sky.  After a short silence, Celebrían loosed a resigned sigh.

“Despite that, I must show Gil-galad that I now stand – and stand firmly – in my parents’ place.  Else he has every expectation – and I suppose the responsibility – of assuming guardianship over the Northlands.”  Her face hardened as she drew in a deep breath; holding it, visibly infusing herself with determination.  “Believe me when I say that I as successor will not allow the King to do as he pleases unopposed any more than would my lord father.  I will not let him have Eriador in violation of the pact he made.  And he shall never have Imladris.  It is ours.”  She turned glittering jade eyes upon Elrond.  “So swears this sell i Nos Galadhad!  Whose House is allied with the lords of the Ents of Fanghorn, the lords of the Men of Nenuiel, the lords of the Silvan of Eryn Galen and their Aran, Oropher King, and whose suzerain is the Aran of Lórinand, Amdir King!”

Hrassa’s heart swelled with pride.  She had turned from being wily to being decisive.  If necessary, she would use physical force to back up her nothrim’s right to this place.  It was very pleasing to see how her adamant speech affected Elrond, holding off any response from him.  She had cowed the highest prince of Lindon, the most-favored lord and most-noble follower of Gil-galad King.  Granted, it was only a short moment of hesitation.  Still, head held high and shoulders back, Hrassa stood in proud solidarity with his princess.  Then, Elrond did respond and firmly, knowing exactly what lay at the root of her threat.

“Gil-galad would never make your parents his prisoners.  Even so, as a son of my House, I do swear that I shall let no one – no one – ever harm them as long as I breathe.”  The sentiment with which he made this vow was genuine, not in the least empty or at the most just for show.

Celebrían’s face instantly softened into the demure admiration only tender-hearted ellith could affect.  Elrond shuffled his feet in a self-effacing dance, his eyes casting back and forth from the ground to hers.  Hrassa’s jaw dropped.

It was so exasperating as make one angry!  He had personally warned the peredhel of the danger of misinterpreting one’s initial reaction upon meeting Celebrían.  Folk were naturally charmed by her –  especially unwed ellyn!  Amroth, Thranduil, Inglor, Glorfindel, and other noble suitors not withstanding.  Given time it usually wore down to into a brotherly affection.  But, it was always best to know it for what it was.  Her allure was just as much of a burden for her.  Heartache was what had taught her to be cautious and not be drawn in by the ardent courtship of a besotted admirer.  However, with this being an old acquaintance, Hrassa had thought there was nothing to worry about.  So much for that!  Neither had avoided the very pitfall pointed out to them!

“Oh, do not even try to be disarming,” Celebrían teased with a flirty smile.  “I am much better at it than you will ever be.”

“That, I concede.”  Elrond smiled in return.  An eyebrow raised in chagrined scrutiny.  “But, there was no need to elicit a promise.  You did not have to make me say it aloud in order for it to be true.”

“I confess I needed reassurance.  I needed to hear that what I thought to be true was indeed.”

“I understand.”   His eyes filled with sympathy.  “There are few encouraging examples of how to becoming the protector of one’s parents.  I wish I could assure you that all will be well.  If only that were possible.”

There were some matters of state he simply felt he could not discuss with her.  She thought to give him a way. 

“Your opinion is possible.  Tell me, will you, what you think of my fears?”

She was, Hrassa realized to his dislike, approaching Elrond for advice in the same way she would have approached her father.  Because she no longer had her father to help her decide what she should do, she was looking to someone else whose words carried weight with her.

It made Hrassa nervous to see them looking so intensely at each other.  On the outside, they acted like any two people determined to be friendly for the sake of a mutual cause; on the inside, they were each struggling with a great uncertainty about the person they thought they knew.  To Hrassa, it was as clear an indication as needed to show there was no heart-bond between them.  Otherwise, they would know each other’s feelings.  Here was the makings of trouble, not love.

“My opinion will not comfort you,” Elrond gently admitted.  “For in my honest judgment, there is no cause to be concerned for your parents or for Imladris.  We both know the King would dare to try and hold the Lord and Lady hostage only as a guarantee of cooperation.”  Grimness took over the caring expression he wore.  “This war has only begun.  Someone is going to have to finish it.”

“Yes,” she nodded sadly, before looking away.  Her eyes blinked several times, perhaps blinking back tears.

A chill went down Hrassa’s spine.  Long ago, Galadriel had said Gil-galad was doomed.

She had once said something of the like about Thingol, and that great king’s end was vastly contrary to what one is born knowing to be the natural order of things.  Back then, Galadriel had harboured a terrible fear that her beloved’s fate was bound to his Aran’s.  But, Celeborn had utterly changed the course of their lives and those of their followers’ by crossing over the mountains to establish a new realm.  Proving on a grand scale that Will can thwart Fate.  At least, particular people’s will.  The particular sort of people wise enough to know what action should be taken, and then clever enough to see it done.

But, Celeborn was no longer capable of making change.  Galadriel was no longer interested in anything but her beloved’s survival.  So, who else might now divert events from the foreseeable?  If leading an army into battle and to his death looked to be Gil-galad’s destiny, many lives bode to be part of it.  Would Elrond survive to inherit a crown?  Or would he die with his King?  Celebrían had become the new leader of their nothrim.  She had at last received her legacy.  It remained to be seen if she indeed possessed every power her parents’ once wielded.

“Well do we know this place important,” Elrond told her.  “More so in the future.”  His lips compressed in consternation, as if what he would say was difficult to convey.  “Would it not be wise for Nos Galadhad to finally make a solid alliance with Lindon?  And, put a stop to the discord between our clans?  For the sake of our people... For the sake of all our kind... ”

“Ada and Naneth would agree with you,” she softly replied.  “As do I.”  She was not looking at him, but at the sun-bathed hills opposite.  “However, they would not agree to terms dictated by the King’s Council.”  Her eyes returned to his, once more filled with steely determination.  “Nor shall I.  Never on the Council’s terms.  Nor on Gil-galad’s.  Only mine.”

Elrond’s brow furrowed, his eyebrows knitting together into the shape of a black raven descending.  Hrassa was familiar with this expression of his, mostly in regards to himself.  The lord was losing patience with what he perceived to be prideful stubbornness.  Except, Celebrían’s stubbornness was not conceit, but rather courage.  In answer to Elrond, Celebrían straightened up to her full height.  With an aloof tilt of her head, she looked down her nose.  Most would have been completely intimidated.  Not Elrond.  For he had courage too.  Just not a lot of good sense sometimes, Hrassa chuckled to himself.

“Lord Celeborn would see this as an opportunity to give some in order to gain more.  An investment with the potential of – ”

“Except, Gil-galad has a problem fairly paying out the profits to those he dislikes,” she snapped.  “Do not bring my father into this!  I am – “

“Then, do not you make the King out to be a villain.  He is indisputably the noblest of rulers.  One who does not resort to trickery!  ‘Tis no mystery but history as to why he is no friend to either of your meddling parents!  Or their bull-headed allies!  It was your Ada that failed to – ”

“Oh no!  The failure has been on Gil-galad’s part!  He could not keep his crown on his own!  He could not rule his Council!  And before that, he could not win your mother’s heart!  Yet somehow, he has succeeded in gaining yours!  You take him for a father rather than your own!”

“My own abandoned his children!  And I was taken from the only other father I ever really had by yours!  Make no mistake, I honor Ereinion as the one who should have been my father!  And would truly have been but for help from yours!”

“Then why ever did you help him?” she demanded in fuming exasperation.

Elrond coming to their rescue after escape was cut off, eight hard years ago, no longer bewildered Hrassa.  Celeborn always said the peredhel was a true prince, and given the chance he would show it.  Although, Elrond was not the true prince Hrassa would ever pick for his true princess.  While arguing, the two had gradually leaned in until they were in each other’s faces; their noses only a hair’s-breadth apart.  Suddenly, Hrassa’s breath caught in his chest; his heart sounding a warning.  If Elrond had the fortitude to kiss Celebrían at this very moment – right now –  she would his – forever.  Don’t! Don’t! Don’t!

“Because I ...” he started roughly, then finished smoothly.  “It was the right and honorable thing to do.”

Celebrían jerked back as much as the close quarters allowed.  Her lower lip pulled in for a moment, and she cast her eyes down to the river below.  Her angry demeanor melted into ruefulness.

“Was it?” said she. “Well, your help came unlooked for, but was greatly welcomed, to be sure.”  Her eyes closed, and she bowed her head in humility.  “If my lord father never properly thanked you, I do so now.  And I will do so publicly, if you wish.  You saved his live and the lives of all those that were with him.”

“Now, ‘tis you leaving much unsaid.  The Dain conspired to have Celebrimbor rule alone, and he chose to remain his King’s subject.  Nos Galadhad was expelled and disregarded.  Yet, your nothrim continued to prepare, willing to fight even for the fools that had rejected you.  In spite of knowing that Sauron’s horde would be too great for any one realm to oppose.”

Celebrían’s glistening eyes returned to his, as he continued.

“Lord Celeborn’s decision for a planned withdrawal was wise.  He conducted it with genius.  He should not have needed my help.  But, who would or could have guessed Celebrimbor would stay behind to die.  And as to gratitude, your lord father has shown more than enough... and unwarranted trust besides.”

“Elrond,” she said softly, placing her hand lightly upon his arm.  “Your decision to fight was not an easy one either.”

The prince looked warily at her, as if fearing what she might say next.

“I know it was not Lindon’s decision but your choice to aid Eregion.  And that you did so without leave.”

Elrond’s face fell.  She knew something that had been held a close secret.  Then, his face filled with shame.  For what he had done could easily be construed as an act of treason, regardless of a final outcome of victory.  No noble lady would esteem any person capable of such a crime.

““I cannot fault you,” she said.  “Your situation required a personal choice.  Fortunately, you had Glorfindel to smooth things over for you.”   A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

Elrond swallowed in relief.  She had judged him not innocent but not a criminal either.

Hrassa did not like being reminded of Glorfindel.  Right now, the one supposedly dedicated to protecting Turgon’s heirs was riding with the King and the Númenorean lords on their way to Imladris.  He was not sure what he might say to the reborn Exile upon seeing him again.  He strongly disapproved of Glorfindel staying behind when his charge headed off into dire danger.  The captain should have done whatever was necessary to accompany the prince on his unsanctioned mission.

“I shall be happy to see the captain again, will not you?” she asked, her smile brightening

Elrond’s face coloured slightly.

Hrassa huffed.  The last thing he needed now was for a rivalry to start between the prince and his bodyguard over the princess.  In a reverse, Gil-galad might try to use Elrond’s well-being against Glorfindel in an attempt to salvage his grab for the valley.  The captain had stayed in custody to appease the King’s anger.  What more would he do in order to keep his charge out of a prison cell?

“He is not being held hostage,” Elrond insisted.  “He could not join up with me and the troop, since there was no way to find us once we broke through and made for here.”

“Indeed he is and indeed he could,” she insisted in return.  “I say he was prevented, and is bond for your renewed obedience.  Else you would have dealt with our dilemma before I had to resort to... “  She donned a mock devious grin.  “... trickery.”  The joking grin changed to a sideways glare.  “How can I not anticipate the same treatment were my parents at the King’s mercy?”

“Perhaps you are right,” was his sudden and surprising concession.  He looked out over the valley.  A weight seemed to be pushing down his shoulders.  But then, he braced up and went on.  “Alas, but there is another alternative to a confrontation.”  He kept his eyes averted.  “Live up to your name, Celebrían.  Unite our Houses.”

Celebrían froze stockstill.   If Elrond was too distracted to notice, Hrassa was not.  She and Hrassa both anxiously held their breath.

“Wed the King.”

Hrassa’s pent up breath exploded from his body.  Idiot!!  Celebrían coiled back in fury.  Her hand flew off Elrond’s arm and poised in air beside her; set to strike the offender that had tread on a sensitive spot.  Sensitivity that had come from being asked repeatedly why she had not married Gil-galad when it meant a crown for her head.

“If you mean to vex me as punishment for pushing you around, well you have succeeded,” she practically hissed.  His obvious confusion at her reaction to his suggestion merely invited her to bite deeper than she might have.  “Would you think it well done if my father had wed Luthien?”

“Fanuilos, no.”   He was utterly shocked by the idea. 

Hrassa allow himself a mean grin.  Poor Elrond considered himself a descendent of Elu Thingol.  He did not think of himself as Elmoi, any more than did Erienion about himself.  Although, both had Elmoi foremothers.  And that blasphemous interjection, though rare for Elrond to use, was most certainly not inherited from a Noldor forbearer.

“Many at the time earnestly solicited it of Thingol and Melian.  Eager to see the bloodlines reunited for the sake of order and power.”  She did not slap his face as expected, but did poke hard at the offender’s chest.

Hrassa would have wagered that she knew Elrond had never learned this tidbit from the Elder Days.  And why would he?  It was not written down anywhere, only sang about amongst the Doriathrim.

“Their degree of kinship is no different than my kinship with Gil-galad,” she coldly pointed out.  “He is my mother’s great nephew.  It was said back then that the closeness of blood would be overlooked for the great benefit.  Which was what you were about to argue, no?”  She once more leaned into his face.  “It was inappropriate then, it is inappropriate now.”  Her eyes narrowed menacingly.  “And if you ever suggest such a thing again, I will punch you black and blue.”

“I apologize,” he said, sketching a very shallow bow that almost bumped his forehead to hers.  “If I ever do, you definitely should.”

“You are pardoned.”  She stood up straight and turned up her nose.  Her eyelids slide down until her eyes became mere slits.  Her resolute mouth pursed.  “Gil-galad however will pay for making you probe for my reaction.”

They looked sideways at each other.  Then, abruptly broke into laughter.  Elrond shook his head.

“Oh, I do not even care what any of you do to him!”   The prince was smiling as he said this; genuinely back to the old self Hrassa had become use to.  “My future is painfully plain: endless restitution.  Whatever the outcome of your campaign of succession, I shall be packed off to Forlindon and be on parole for rest of my life.  And only a handful of people will ever know why.”  He sighed.  “Not that it will be so different from having been on probation all my life.”  He looked down to the fortress.  “I will miss this place... and the company... the friends I have made... your father and even your mother... “  He raised his eyes to her.  “... and you.”

Their correspondence would necessarily have to stop.  Not that Hrassa thought it all that bad of a consequence considering what having shared their thoughts, if only on paper, was drawing them into doing now that they had met face to face.

“I suppose no lord can be seen to reward disregard,” said a subdued Celebrían.  She placed her hand back on his arm, and it was obvious Elrond took pleasure in her kindly touch.  “At least, ‘twas actually no worse than that.”  She glanced over at Hrassa, giving him a sharp but playful look.  “Certainly, not on a par with treason or desertion.”

He feigned ignorance as to whatever she might be referring.  Why, he had only wandered off for spell, as would any full-blooded, forest-born Laegel on occasion.

“I, on the other hand, choose to follow my parents’ example and be overly generous with recalcitrant heroes.”  She looked into Elrond’s eyes.  “No matter whom they have sworn to serve.”  The prince’s eyes turned apprehensive; hers devoid of any artifice.  “I think, as is my right, I shall name you Lord of Imladris.”

Elrond was dumbfounded – and profoundly alarmed.

Hrassa hardly managed to hold back an interjection that would have for sure gotten him a good slap.  But, she had said nothing of this to him!  Had it just now popped into her head to bestow a potential kingdom upon someone she though she fancied?  The dell was not a pretty wild-flower to give away in a flirtatious gesture!

“Ah, you wonder at this gift?  Is it another trick?”  She smiled like a sly cat.  “Well, yes. You have tasted independence, and I think you would thrive given more.  Mine would be the hand that feeds you.”

For a second time, Hrassa’s jaw dropped.  She spoke as would have Elrovail.  Deep inside, he felt a familiar twinge of sadness.  His feelings of loss had faded, but remained very present.  The dark-elf hiril would have been thrilled to see her influence so plainly manifested.

“Continue to be Erienion’s unfailing ally and friend, if you wish.  That would be your right as a Lord.  But, as said before, it should be on no one’s terms but your own.”

Elrond being tempted in this manner bothered Hrassa not.  There was a distinct difference between the young ellon meant to be prince for Harlindon and this worthy warrior-prince already ruling Imladris.  The peredhel was no longer happy being under the Kings’s thumb.

“I cannot... “  But then watching him, one could see Elrond finally admit to himself that he could.  Therefore, he next said quite adamantly, “I will not pledge obedience to Nos Galadhad.”

“No one expects you to.”  She was a little annoyed that he thought she did.  “A Lord must make his own allegiances.  Because, he must always do what is best for his people.  Yours are the people already here, already under your rule and protection.  And more will be coming to join them.  All I or any other lord expects from you is the same respect and cooperation that you are given from them.  That is how Lindarin politics has always been done.”

“Politics more how the Elmoi have done it, I should think.”  He eyed her with suspicion.  “And if I chose Gil-galad to be my suzerain?”

“Personally, I would question your judgment.  Do not get riled!  What I meant is that I question your judgment in choosing to have any overlord at all.  Besides, knowing what kind he would be.”

Hrassa agreed.  Where was Gil-galad when Celebrimbor had needed him?  Not once but twice, the King’s support had severely lacked.  Also, this place was far from any other Elven neighbor, let alone a royal realm.  The holdfast must remain hidden.  That was its greatest advantage.  Outside aid would always have to be limited.  Like his princess, the bowman felt it crucial for Imladris to become self-reliant.

“He will detest me,” Elrond bemoaned, suddenly regretful.  “As much as he detests Oropher.”  He was deterred by the outcome with Gil-galad, while at the same time, tantalized by an outcome with Celebrían.  “How can I possibly accept your offer and not be a traitor?”  His hand rose and covered hers where it rested upon his arm.  “He will claim you beguiled me into it.”

“But, my lord,” she said with extremely false sweetness.  “I have offered you nothing.”  Elrond took her hint and quickly removed his hand.  She dropped the smile for an expression that meant business.

Hrassa recognized that look of hers.  The ruschên likely had this hunt all planned out from the beginning.  So far, she looked to have gotten everyone into position and her friend to the spot where she needed him to be.  She seemed committed to having him take down the prey and claim the trophy.  If he balked, he would not only go home empty-handed, so would she.

“When Gil-galad seeks to make me concede the valley,” she patiently explained, “by showing that he can apply a greater force than mine, rather than lose altogether, I shall grasp for a compromise.  That will be you.  At that time, I shall let him learn that I am called away to Edhellond by Amroth.  So, I am obliged to go, and that will leave you in sole control.”

“Wait... “ Elrond halted her.  He thought for a moment.   “His escort is – “  He stopped himself from divulging what he really was not suppose to talk about.  “ – said to number close to the number of our Lindoni troops.  Setting aside the Men on both sides as neutrals, I would not think him able to equal to your possible combined forces.”

“Within the stronghold, his number shall be the greater.  I am assuming he has been told that the wood-elves are too distant for me to count on to effectively even the odds in my favor.”

“They are not,” stated Elrond.  He always kept close track of all his resources and knew where every troop laid-over.  “The new bivouac is only a day away at the most.”  He glanced over at Hrassa, who had brought the last dispatch from the Silvan captain.  His baffled expression abruptly became enlightened.  “But, no one is going to tell him that, are they... ”

“No.  Unless of course... you do.”

He ran an anxious hand over the top his sleek head.

“You need not decide now,” she told him.  “Think on it.”

“I will have to.  For if I do this, many will call it rebellion or betrayal.  If I do this, I can never return to Forlindon.  In fact, I shall be banned from Lindon entirely.”

“You think so?”  She sniffed in disdain.  “I suppose some fathers’ love is conditional.  Ask yourself: would you miss that city as much as you would miss this valley?”

“Inwrusc... “ he growled at her.

Hrassa had to put his hand over his mouth to hold in his laughter.  That Elrond should call her that!  And to her face!

“You are your father’s daughter,” the perplexed prince went on.  “But by all the stars, you are your mother’s too.”  He turned to scan the river valley from end to end, his eyes coming to rest upon the waterfall.  “Leaving here... never to return... would break my heart.”

“Forgive me for being glad of that.”  A sincere light shone from her leafy eyes.  However, Elrond was not looking at her to see it.  She seemed happy at that though, since she could then gaze at him as closely as she pleased.  “Look,” she eventually said.  “The sun is setting.  Perhaps you should get back and inform your poor captains how things stand.”

Elrond sighed and nodded.  It was then he looked at her again.

“And if you might,” she asked of him, “further forgive me my curiosity, what shall you tell them?”

“Where Celeborn commanded the field, now I shall.  Where I commanded the hold, now you shall.  ‘Tis more appropriate for you to stay behind walls and manage our victuals.  I shall admit I neglected to ask you to wait to start until after the next council when I could announce the change.  The resulting confusion being entirely my fault.”

“You should say also that I apologized for being overly anxious.  All that has happened this past fortnight with my father has been a strain.  They will chalk up your forbearance of my gender’s nervous nature to your exceedingly noble one.”

“Yes, and certainly there is no need to tell them that this is not your first command.”  He smiled at her, donning a boorish mime and matching tone of voice.  “Listen, I do not need any lessons in leadership from you.  I have completed more than enough lessons given me, not only by the same instructor as has taught you, but several other masters besides.”

Again, they broke out into shared laughter.  Neither considered that they had that much experience at being in charge, but both knew someone who did not realize that fact about himself.

“Please do not do mock even that fool again,” she begged him.  “Or surely they will say I have made you my puppet.  So, shall I see you at supper?”

Hrassa huffed.  They tended to sit side by side whenever together at table.  Supper would be just one more opportunity for their attraction to turn into disaster.  From now on, he was going to have to keep a sharp eye on every situation where they met.

“Sorry, but I have other business besides your mischief to attend to.  We shall meet at the Fire?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you shall dance?  Even with me?  You may have agreed in a moment of weakness, but I intend to hold you to it.”

“Yes, of course, we shall dance.  I have been looking forward to it.”

It would be the first time for dancing at a Fire since Celeborn could no longer attend.  With his dying so close by, it had not seemed right to cavort around the blaze as usual.  Everyone would welcome the Lord’s daughter as much as announcing it was proper again.  On his part, he would have to remind Celebrían not to show favor for any one partner.  In particular, Elrond.

“Later, then,” smiled the prince.

“Later,” the princess smiled in return.

Elrond went back down the trail in dimming light; being careful to keep the rope mostly in hand.

Hrassa and Celebrían stayed until the stars came out.

There were no torches along the trail.  Starlight alone was always enough for a forest-dweller to see by at night.  However this night, the moon was full and riding high in the sky.  The valley was bathed in silver light.  Down within the fortress, a warm orange glow had kindled.

The cogndír moved closer to the princess and stood by her side, quite comfortable where Elrond had had to squeeze in.

“Why’d you arrange things this way?” he finally ventured to ask.

“Have you not paid attention?  Amroth needs me in Edhellond.  Most of our Galadhrim’ll go with me.  Elrond cares for the people here, and he has set aside the past.  I can safely leave the people and my parents in his hands.  Most of all, I own him, and he deserves this chance.”

“Why’d you let him know that you have to leave?”

“I s’pose we do trust each other more than we should.”  She sighed.  “In truth, I don’t want to burden us with the same accusation that’s haunted my parents all their lives.”

“He might still bargain with Gil-galad.”  In Hrassa’s estimation and clearly in Celebrían’s too, Elrond had not yet learned how to play both sides at the same time, let alone against each other.

“Well, if he does that, he’s not who I think he is.”  She paused, silent for a short while.  “If he sticks with Gil-galad, I’ll be sticking here.  Amroth’ll simply have to understand.”

He nodded, satisfied.  Later, he would arrange a signal from himself for a rider to fetch the Silvan from the new camp, just in case it was needed.

“Cliff, might I ask what you’re going to do?  Now that you haven’t a place with Ada?”

The question jarred.  He had so far succeeded in avoiding facing the fact that he was of no further use to the Lord and Lady as their personal agent.  Celeborn no longer led his House.  Galadriel would not leave his side.  Their successor had the responsibility to see that he was placed in a new position where he could earn a good livelihood.

“I could use an experienced bowman.”  When he did not answer her, she looked over at him.  “Forgive me, but circumstances are what they are.  For all of us.  Comes the opportunity to have something I’ve wanted since the day we met, I’ll not let it slip past.”

“My lady, when your Ada’s able to travel, shall we return here to fetch them home ourselves?”

“That task l’d share with none else but you.  Aurthôn and Laerlínath can help us, if they choose to.”

“That bein’ so, if the Lady’ll give me leave on behalf of the Lord, I’d be honored to be your bowman.”

“Thank you, Cogndír!  And the honor is wholly mine!”

He knelt to her, right there on the dangerous ledge.  Few of any sort of elf could have accomplished this without falling.  Her appreciative laughter at his daring was unexpected, and his pure enjoyment of the sound surprised him.  He had often heard her laughter, dried her tears, told her old tales, hunted and feasted with her, taught her to fight, pulled her by the ear when warranted, and had protected her for almost all her life.  It felt right and good to finally be hers.  And terrible to no longer be Caun-anim’s.

“You are such a good hound.”  She jokingly patted his lowered head.  “I promise you shall have a good home with me.  There’ll continue to be plenty of tasty bones for you to gnaw on.”

“Woof... ”

- *~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* -

All words are in Sindarin unless indicated otherwise. Underlined means constructed by me.

hithlain – elven silk-like fiber

edhil and firinath – “elves and humans”

mithril – ‘true’ silver

peredhel – ‘half elf’  Elronds family name is Peredhil – Half-Elven (Elves)

cogndîr – bowman Nandorin

nos – a family or household

nothrim – members of a household or a clan

naneth/nana – mother/mom

adar/ada – father/dad

aran – king(also translates as ‘Lord’ for it means the ruler of a realm, not just royalty)

ellon/elleth – elf male/female

ellyn/ellith – elves male/female

ruschên – fox child

inwrusc – fox bitch

Written for the “Perelleth’s Birthday Challenge” story prompt:  Glorfindel and Elrond meet for the first time…

- *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* -

This and That

Elrond sat behind his desk, leaning on bent elbows.  He had a tall letter of application propped up in both hands for easy reading...

It was a beautiful day in bay-side Forlond.  Usually at this hour, he would be going about the Kingdom’s business, not his own.  But on this morning, he had come back to the house before attending Council in order to change into attire more suited to the warming day.  He wanted to be comfortable during the impending debate over the new – and what he considered exploitive – trade policy with Celebrimbor’s thriving realm.  Which many insisted should still be called a colony despite the fact that its ruler – its three rulers in actuality – governed Eregion as an independent nation of immigrants.  Bright sunlight streamed through the wide-open windows; carrying with it a pleasant breeze and lending gentle illumination of the application’s pages.  Also on the desk before him was the separation of service documents and the neatly stacked character references, of which there was more than a few.

... he liked what he was reading.  Genuinely skilled officers, such as the tall, golden-haired warrior standing at ease before him, were as ever hard for a smaller establishment such as his to come by.

Usually by the time they reached this level of experience, command officers were already long-time vested members of their Nos.  So when there was no qualified officer within a herth to advance, there was little chance of finding someone from outside the herth to be simply put in place.  Except through a marriage that brought one along or through a calamity that forced one to find new employment.  Since the first condition was unlikely and the second infrequent in this age, Elrond had decided to add membership in the Household to the open officer position in order to attract better-qualified candidates.

This particular applicant was not attached to any House and came from a salaried captaincy in the Court Guard of Eregion.  The warrior had reached the end of his contract, and upon hearing about the inclusive captaincy, took an honorable discharge.  His resume of commendations and completed missions promised more than the required acumen to justify the bonus of membership.

Indeed, Elrond thought the ellon was well qualified to be in the King’s Household Guard.  Glancing over at the personal letters with their crested seals gleaming, he reluctantly considered that possibility.  If it looked to be a better fit, he probably should send the captain on to Gil-galad’s recruiter.  The generous deed would benefit his King and ultimately himself.  Besides garnering him a grateful favor from this suitably-named Glorfindel.  He wondered if the captain had been given the name at birth or had been compelled to take it on, because of constant allusion to the historical hero.

There had been and were other Glorfindels aside from that most famous one.  However, even subsequent to the War, the name still was not so common as to not be remarked upon when encountered.  Elrond did think that he had met none before this one whose appearance came so near to what the hero had looked like.  At least, when put next to the one rare and faded portrait of the Balrog Slayer that he had inherited.  However, at this meeting at least, dandified hair and trendy clothes ruined what would have been an admirable likeness.  He assumed that these affectations were merely miscalculation at appropriate dress for an important interview.  Since professional soldiers normally distained giving much study to civilian fashion.  He refused to believe that this attire was the captain’s usual dress.

“You bear the name of a great hero of Gondolin,” he said perfunctorily, scanning over the letter a second time just to be sure he had not missed any important points.  He spoke thus because it indeed seemed obligatory to mention the fact, especially with his personal connection to the story.  And, he was interested in seeing how the ellon handled the fact being no doubt continually brought up.  The job would go better if the cón had a good temperament, if not a sense of humour.

“His legacy is mine as well,” came back a smooth reply, where a simple acknowledgement was expected.

Surprised by the claim, Elrond looked up over the top edge of the document.  His initial surprise quickly changed to irritation.  Apparently, this fellow was not of the quality he had assumed.

Upon chance seeing this Glorfindel in the atrium, placidly pacing as he was awaiting his turn along with other applicants for this and other positions, Elrond had been instantly impressed.  The ellon had seemed superior to those around him and without any of the outward haughtiness or condescension one might rightly expect from an elite warrior.  It was obvious that he was born in Eldamar, but the Light within him was less diminished than it was for most Amanyar.  Perhaps it was just too subtle a difference for anyone else to perceive, for no one there showed any notice.  Whereas Elrond could hardly ignore it.  So, a cursory glimpse had gotten this candidate a personal interview right off, instead of first being vetted by Herth Chieftain Moeross, as was the set procedure when hiring new swordsmen.  Let alone any that would also become a member of their Household.

Aside from the brightness, Elrond felt that he had gotten to the point where his first impression of a person’s character was hardly ever wrong.  He had let his intuition sway him.  Yet, this latter-day Exile now appeared to be no different from any other of the remaining breed.  He was peeved that he had somehow mistaken arrogance for confidence.

He considered it arrogant that many a noble Noldo had taken to giving their prior station in life more weight than it had originally supported.  If the current aristocracy in the kingdom were considered a new order based upon an older one, then it was understandable why people would take the opportunity to enhance their tenuous affiliations with departed Eldar, who were no longer present to naysay their claims.  Afar kinship was routinely contracted into a close relation, and anonymous proximity into a familiar acquaintance.  He had seen this transformation of status brazenly include the great and famous of those gone, whether Amanyar or Umanyar

There was a military version of this practice as well.  First, one boasted of past service in a notable House.  Then, out came some award of esteem from its Lord or Lady to prove it.  Usually a sword or medallion, which was most likely acquired by barter and not by deed.  Although sometimes, these trophies were directly recovered from a lost treasure trove by adventure.  That kind of trophy he would reckon in the boaster’s favor rather than fault – if they would admit the truth of it.  As it was, inflated accounts had become something that had to be accepted at face value.  A genteel person was not really allowed to condemn exaggeration in this vein as dishonest.  However much one would like to...

In the case of the captain’s claim, there was a significant additional factor, brought in by Elrond.  He had an unspoken admiration for his father’s brave savior, such that even this rather modest boast annoyed him greatly.  The famous Glorfindel had had no wife and no close kin with him.  There was little that this Glorfindel could possibly hold in common with that Glorfindel beyond a passable resemblance.  That the fellow would even dare claim to be a scion of the House of the Golden Flower irked him.

He raised a practiced eyebrow and gave the ellon a look that would have compelled affirmation of the truth or admission of a lie from anyone else.  This Glorfindel however maintained a composed demeanor; looking as sincere as when he had punctiliously handed over his documentation in the prescribed formal manner to his potential lord.

Elrond’s annoyance shifted into wariness, for he now perceived that he had after all been right.  The warrior was not arrogant... but convinced...

“And what legacy is that?” he asked, making an open invitation to brag on so that he might learn more.

“Nossë Turukáno,” was the answer in Quenya, and just as sincere as any answer before it.  “The Family I chose to follow to Endorë and shall always serve.”

Confusion joined Elrond’s wariness.  This Glorfindel was not claiming to be heir to That Glorfindel, but simply a follower of his great-grandfather.  Perhaps the fellow thought that by being a former minion he could extract some kind of patronal obligation from him.  Compel a reinstatement, as it were…

“That House is sadly gone.” he stiffly informed This Glorfindel in Sindarin.  In a show of distancing himself from its owner, he released the application from his fingers to fall flat upon the desk top.  He straightened up, resituating his elbows upon the armrests of his chair, with his hands lightly clasped above his lap; his stiff posture adding emphasis to his displeasure with the captain’s avowal of loyalty.

“How so when you live?”  The question was respectfully asked in Sindarin, but with a hint of challenge.

He was paused.  Again, that feeling of conviction, like a self-proscribed doom, came to him...  Along with the conclusion that it was not the benefit of belonging to a Nos that had brought the ellon here.  This warrior anticipated sacrificing his life for his prince... as had his namesake...  and he was to be that prince...

The thought was unsettling.  Whether the fellow was zany or mad, he knew it would be wiser to simply send him away with no further words.  But... he wanted to keep him.  Yes, the warrior was beyond being acceptably eccentric.  Yet, he would be a valuable asset to any herth.  And it touched his own sense of noble obligation that he was most likely the only person who could give the poor fellow a home where he might find at least some portion of the fulfillment he sought by coming here in the first place.

Still, there was the entire Household to think of.  If the captain reacted violently to the good-natured teasing or mean-spirited pettiness he would certainly be subject to, over what most would see as a childish fantasy about being the new embodiment of a legendary hero...  Ultimately, he and not This Glorfindel would be the one responsible for any hurt done, because he would be the one who had invited the crazy, lethal fighter in.

To be safe, the ellon would have to be under his direct supervision... he could perhaps make a bodyguard out of him.  That could meet several needs, and it should please the fatalistic captain.  Even though, there was small chance that the fellow would need to step in the way of an arrow to save his lord’s life.  The mere sight of this shining warrior next to him would ward off a good number of unwanted encounters.  As well as draw the friendly kind, since the ladies tended to fawn over attractive pets accompanying their masters and would do the same for handsome servants.  Being in constant proximity presented the possibility of becoming friends.  Yes, a bodyguard was the answer.  Nonetheless, he needed to know the captain better before deciding.  And that after all was the purpose of this interview.  So, the first thing he wanted to learn was just how deep was This Glorfindel’s loyalty to Turgon’s bloodline.

“This is the House of Earëndil,” he firmly stated.  “Whom – as you should have known ere you came here – is not the heir of Turgon.  Agnatic circumstances represented most prominently by the crown not upon my head.  Because there were no other male heirs, it went to my forefather’s father’s younger brother, to Finarfin’s line, according to Noldorin custom.  And so from that brother’s son, to his brother, and then from that brother’s son to his son.  If you mean to serve me, you will be serving no King’s heir.  And barely a prince at that.   I am myself but a mere retainer to the rightful King.”

“What I know, my lord, is that a crown is not given to every prince worthy of one.”  The reply came without hesitation or rancor at an obvious test of the firmness of This Glorfindel’s stated loyalty.  “Your lord father is a prince become a hero.  And a greater hero than his own admirable father.  Who was not born a prince, but then became one.  And deservedly so.   They two cared not for crowns, but deeds and duty.  So also it was with your lady mother, whose courage and sacrifice for duty none can deny.”  A soft smile curved the ellon’s lips.  “And so it will be with you.”  The smile left and the sincerity returned.  “And, as you are the last living descendent of the Family to which I pledged my life... ”   He leaned forward, shoulders inclined in respect.  “ ...‘tis you I have come to serve.”

“Might come to serve,” Elrond said pointedly.  “And at my discretion, not at yours.”  As far as he was concerned, This Glorfindel had lost merit by making a smiling prophecy of a shift in what was generally perceived as an unexceptional career.  The captain also seemed to think it was valiant deeds and not crushing sacrifice that would become his prince’s lot… whereas the warrior saw his own lot was to be death... Had Galadriel put this foretelling in the ellon’s head?  Had she steered This Glorfindel to him?  Or had Celeborn?  “Perhaps you are loyal, but not so punctual, I deem.  The War has been over for some time.”

“I beg that circumstances prevented, my lord.”

That sounded oddly true.  But though he was curious to hear the tale of how, unlike with a Nando, it had taken a Noldo so long to report back for duty, there was no further elaboration on the excuse.  And it appeared none was forthcoming.  So, he decided further revelation of the warrior’s temperament might be achieved using the opening created by the unusual praise given Elwing.

“You mention my lady mother, but what know you of that side of my parentage?”

“That you are Elu Thingol’s last living descendent as well.”

“Folly!“  He made a flippant gesture of the hand to indicate his disregard for the notion.  “One may say that only because my brother chose the Edain over the Eldar.  ‘Tis true most people no longer consider him to be our kind.  Nonetheless, Elros’ decision did not remove him from our Family.  Thus, I am not Thingol’s heir either.  That crown also sits not upon my head, but is with my brother’s sons and daughters.  Who are Thingol’s descendents too.”  He leaned forward on his arms.  “Are you really so keen to serve yet another superfluous prince, mahtor?”

His saying ‘mahtor’ instead of ‘maethor’ was purposefully done.  This Glorfindel had marked himself as Caliquendi.  One that had followed a secondary son into cursed exile in Ennor.  Most recently, one that had served for pay under another secondary son.  A lord commander who, although at one time the most influential Sindarin prince in Ennor, was now playing third fiddle; with Galadriel orchestrating and Celebrimbor as conductor.  This Glorfindel may have proven he could obey orders from a proven warrior prince turned functionary.  But now, he would have to stomach being answerable to a half-elven, born-morben secondary son turned civil servant.

The captain’s assured mien was not disturbed by the inferred ignominy of his past service and his present choice.

On one hand, Elrond liked that the warrior remained composed.  He would take it as a sign that the Noldo could keep his temper and bore no great prejudice against Umanyar.  On the other hand, if This Glorfindel had any pride at all, he should be taking umbrage on behalf of his past liege and his past commander.  For one had been a king and the other was an aran.  Both deserved at least a show of respect by the captain for having been their subordinate.

Again, he raised an eyebrow; this time indicating that an answer to his question was not merely wanted but required.

“Portray yourselves however you wish, my lord,” was the reply, accompanied by a slight shrug.  “It did not trouble me to serve the Lady’s Husband; it will not trouble me to serve the Little Lordling.”

Oh, so now his pride was to be tested?  He held back any change to his expression and took a deep breath.  The Little Lordling nickname attached to him had been coined specifically as an insult.  However, it was much less bandied about than the sarcastic scoff to Celeborn’s dignity.  So, the captain was observant of what went on around him as well as quick-minded, although not always diplomatic.  Likely only one of many vexing mannerisms probably learned from the bad example set by all three of Eregion’s rulers.  This asset might just be too annoying to keep around.

Of course, Elrond did not like hearing the cutting epithet that had come from his longtime position as the King’s Standard Bearer, a duty usually given to a notable youth whether common or noble.  And, he had been very young and deserving when first handed the banner.  What bothered him was that his subsequent achievements, of which he was proud for having overcome the obstacles in his way, were methodically discounted.  What was always noted instead were the honors bestowed by a king known to bear a deep affection for his mother.  Over time, he had come to realize, even if he were actually Ereinion and Elwing’s son as had been originally intended, he would receive the same treatment.  His rivals would still think that they had as much a chance at the crown as he.  For he was not another Gil-galad... nor another Earëndil...  Unlike This Glorfindel, he had no wish to be a repeat of his predecessor.

Although like his father, he carried no real rank by right of birth other than the courtesy of being referred to as a prince.  This lack of noble titles was partly because of his refusal to succumb to the same peer pressure that drove others to exaggerate their worth.  And partly because of his parents’ former refugee situation.  And that his older brother had had children.  And then there was the near revolt in Harlindon that had left him without title to that realm...

The realm of Lindon had been the receiver of all the Elven realms of drowned Beleriand, and the aggregate population along with their ruling lords were therefore overwhelmingly of Umanyar descendant.  The Court however was made up of mostly Amanyar and of those, such as Elrond, who had adopted Amanyar ways.  Not a new situation for the powerful Noldorin minority still present, but it was a minority that wanted to run things just as they had in their lost lands: solely to their own liking.  As a result, after the almost violent rejection of the designated prince of Harlindon, the cutthroat politics of the Council, and the on-going abandonment by the disgruntled in favor of the eastern realms, Gil-galad had decided it too dangerous to peace and order and prosperity to replace any departed Sindarin prince with an appointed Noldorin king.  Therefore, there was no crown to be had by any lord of the Kingdom, except the most royal crown.  Which was coveted by factions engaged in the continual effort to change Gil-galad’s mind about eventually naming Elrond his heir.  The most essential plot of each campaign was to marry the King to one of their party.  If they ever allied, their concerted effort would likely get one of them exactly what they all wanted.

Along side these complicating circumstances, in his own mind, Elrond saw his state of affairs as his personal part to be played in the inevitable passing away of all Elven realms.  He was among the few that believed the Eldarin peoples would diminish entirely in the fulfillment of Eru’s bequest of Ennor to the Second-born.  His brother’s joining that race had been the first significant stride in the slow march towards the final outcome.  Furthermore, he was the younger brother, who would never have inherited sovereignty anyway.  Although, being a younger sibling had never seemed a legitimate limitation to the Elmoi...  Nevertheless, he was not one of them all when the northrim existed, and he would never become one retroactively.  He did not regret pledging to Gil-galad rather than Celeborn... or Elros...  

Suddenly, he was curious.  It appeared that This Glorfindel had also detached himself from his own family’s future to join in another family’s fortunes.  Doing so was the least honorable option their society allowed to younger sons, who were expected to always support their eldest brother.

“Are you yourself a younger son?” he asked, unconsciously seeking affinity.

The captain appeared slightly disconcerted by the shift in focus and did not quickly answer.

In that momentary silence, Elrond clearly heard the faint rustle of secrets being gathered in with the determination not to disclose them through careless words.  Being privy to sensitive knowledge concerning a superior was a responsibility that could easily cause a soldier to be wary of personal questions.  The captain’s hesitation showed that he was capable of keeping confidences, although deficient in the ability to completely hide the effort.

But, Elrond was sure he already knew what it was about This Glorfindel’s former employers the captain would never tell: Celeborn was up to his old tricks.

When they left Harlindon, Galadriel and Celeborn did not sail to Eldamar, but like thousands before them, they disappeared with their Galadhrim into eastern lands.  They had joined their foster-son, Amdir, and his family in Lorinand.  Something not known til much later.  Everyone in Lindon had thought them gone; as gone as the Elmoi clan, which was no more.  Much later, reports arrived telling of a political shift occurring amongst the Lindarin people that dwelt along the course of the Anduin.  He had suspected right then that the Lord and Lady were involved.  Now, once there had been only the traditional array of native arans, there were two new Kingdoms; each composed of several tribes ruled over by former Sindarin Elmoi.  A change in government that would never have come about naturally, in his estimation.  These days, Celeborn, as ever bent on unification, and Galadriel, his powerful partner in everything, were in Eregion shoring up Celebrimbor’s rule.  Clearly, they meant to make another Sindarin kingdom out of Eregion.  They would have a crown for their daughter; if not by marriage then by default.  The very mode by which he himself would inherit a crown.

“No, my lord,” an answer finally came from This Glorfindel. “I am the eldest.”  But, not the one expected.  “I wished for more adventure then life at home offered me.  So, through a friend’s connection with the daughter of one of Queen Indis’ ladies, I joined the entourage of the then youthful Turgon.”

“Where was your birthplace”?  After he had asked, he realized he had used the past tense.  When for an Exile, the place should be still in the light of day and not underwater.

“I was born on the Holy Mountain.”

“You are Vanyar?  I would not have guessed.”  As a people, the Vanyar were considered neither vain nor violent.  They saw their part in the War as instruments of justice, not as warriors.  “And you left it for a younger brother to take up your slack?”   Which was somewhat how he felt about his own situation.

“My older sister’s husband.”  His pointing out to This Glorfindel the he was not the shining example of what most people expected in a Vanya did not much ruffle the ellon.  Nevertheless, like Elrond, he had chose to live according to Noldorin customs.  Therefore, he should have stayed to support his father and expect support from any younger brothers.  “My lord, I was very properly raised, and I would never abandon my familial duty.  I turned it over to someone dependable and more suited.  He has done well, and I have no remorse over the decision.”  That appeared to be the truth.  The captain was at ease with all he had ever done.  “I have seen how unwise it can be to over-value the eldest male child at the expense of other sons and especially of daughters.”

“That is a rather Sindarin viewpoint.”  Not a comment a Noldo would like to hear, Elrond knew.

“Yes, I suppose it is.”  This Glorfindel’s face lightened up, appearing suddenly amused by the admission.  “But on the matter of adopted points of view, I wish to say that I would welcome living in a Noldorin household once more.  Ost-in-Edhil’s stew of customs is not unsavory fare, but it does not always appeal to my taste.”

“You may thank a Feanorean for this Noldorin houshold.”  That was said so he could then ask, “Can you do that as easily as you can salute one of Elmo’s Children?”  He had to know, since it would be stupid to invite constant discomfiture, were This Glorfindel to become his bodyguard and every day within his hearing denigrate Maglor and his kin.

Nowadays, Umanyar and Amanyar alike refused to speak kindly of the Feanoreans.  Elrond suffered a twinge inside every time his mere presence sparked a chorus of bitter condemnation for the Kinslayers.  He had been well-cared for by his warden.  Treated like a son, never like a hostage or captive, with more love than in his memories of his actual father.  It was just as well that no one ever sought the true reason why he did not join in their derision.  Snide epithets such as Little Lordling could smart, but they fizzled out quickly compared to the burning emotional dissonance created by his childhood experiences.  He did not need any more fuel thrown on that fire.

“My lord, if I ever meet the Feanorean that safeguarded your life, I shall certainly give him my thanks and show him the same kindness he did show you.”

With that answer, This Glorfindel won back some of the merit he had lost.  Seeing that the captain was capable of compassion, Elrond felt much more at ease about maybe keeping him.  The warrior’s reserved countenance was not hiding a merciless soldier.

Pleased with the progress made so far, he picked up the reference letters, and began to go through them one by one.  The seals he did not break, but carefully pared off the parchments with a sharp blade in order to save them for his growing collection.  All comments were favorable.  Some authors held flattering opinions; others reiterated their gratitude for some brave deed.  Not unpredictably, none found fault with the dashing captain.

The stamp on Galadriel’s letter was as florid as her speech.  Her recommendation though was not exactly personal; it could have been for any officer of this rank with whom she interacted regularly on business.  She did send Elrond her personal greetings and well-wishes.  Also, the assurance that This Glorfindel was not a spy.  He had not gotten to that matter yet, thinking to leave it till last, when he was certain he would have the captain stay.  But, here was the opportunity to get it out of the way early.

“The Lady Galadriel tells me you are not a spy.  It is kind of her to alleviate that concern.”

“The Lord and Lady understand that I am naught but a soldier.  I appreciate the need for such agents, however I do not consider covert assignments a part of my duty to any superior.

“Courageous soldiery is the extent of duty I too would ask of you.”

“Thank you, my lord, for your assurance.”

He saw that the letters were alike in another way.  There were comparisons of This Glorfindel to That Glorfindel, but none said outright that the living warrior was the same or better than the dead one.  That seemed a bit odd in the face of the ellon’s surety of a similar fate...  Had no one noticed that about him?

There were unanticipated letters from Celebrian and Elrovail, which he was pleased to have.  For their seals were new to his collection and quite lovely.  The last of the stack was from Celebrimbor, whose words were the most personable.  He recommended the captain whole-heartedly, as was normal for his generous nature, even when the fellow was a mere acquaintance from his time in Gondolin.

There was no letter from Celeborn.  And that was more than a bit odd.  He checked the separation papers, but neither was there a perfunctory termination letter from the Lord as This Glorfindel’s commander.  There should have been something...  In truth, he wanted a letter, for it would contain not just a litany of virtues, but of significant faults.   Along with, of course, advice.  Whether that was urging trust or suggesting caution or simply to lecture on the proper placement of outsiders in a herth.

“There is no letter from Lord Celeborn... “ he said to This Glorfindel, mystified.

“You expected one?”  The captain was genuinely surprised.  “Is there not a grudge between you?”

“Once again, you mistake me for the King.”  He was not pleased by this presumption.  It was too reminiscent of Hrassa’s overriding attitude.  Admittedly, he had harbored a good deal of resentment towards the Lord; held over from particular chapters of his childhood and youth.  But, those bad feeling had been reconciled at Elros’ funeral.  Knowing This Glorfindel was coming here, Celeborn would have written to him, just as had Galadriel.  He cast an icy eye upon the captain.  “Was there a letter?”

A look of a faux innocence that forebode prevarication fell over This Glorfindel’s face.  Not unlike a lad caught in the kitchen, hiding a snitched pastry behind his back.  Strangely enough, the juvenile reaction to getting caught dispelled Elrond’s remaining reservations.  The ellon’s true personality had come out into view, where before they had been conversing through a closed door.

The captain himself realized that he had unthinkingly opened up, and that it was foolish to rush back inside.  He smiled and shrugged; a bit chagrined but in a way glad that he did not to have to be so guarded anymore.  With a slightly petulant sigh, he pulled out a thick square of parchment from inside his jacket.  The long ends of the sealed letter had been bent over the middle to make it more compact.  He straightened out the ends and held it in his two hands like an offering, although he made no motion to bring it over.

“Are you worried what it will say?”  Elrond asked, carefully watching This Glorfindel’s response to the question.

“No... “  But, the fellow did look a little worried.  So, he gave him an understanding smile.  They both knew just how barbed Celeborn could be.  “You see,” This Glorfindel hesitatingly continued, “we made a wager.  I, that you would not expect a letter; he, that you would have it or not take me in.”  He sketched an apologetic bow.  “Please pardon my presumption, my lord.”

“By ‘we’, you do mean Lord Celeborn and you?”  Such a bet indicated there was a greater degree of comradeship between them than he had assumed.

“Yes... ”  The captain’s slim smile widened to a grin, and he became much more likable than when wearing a serious or sincere expression.  “Side wagers were made too.  The Herth strives to find adventure in everything, and the Lord leads the way, as we like to say.”

“Well, if you become one of the ‘we’ of this Herth, you will cease making ridiculous wagers.  Unlike Celeborn, I do not approve of gambling.”  He smiled wide in return.  “Only because I tend to lose.”   He held out a hand to receive the letter.    “Please... “ 

This Glorfindel promptly stepped forward and placed it in his hand.

“I am surprised you even thought to bet against him,” he said, as he picked up the paring knife.  “You should know the odds are more likely with him than against.”   And when they are not with him, he will change them...  He recalled a rare moment of admiration by Gil-galad when the King claimed his Uncle could draw rain from a cloudless sky and luck from misfortune.  The elegant seal on the Lord’s letter had warped from body heat.  Disappointing since it was a new design, probably just issued.  Still, he carefully skimmed it off.  A moment on a warm plate should salvage it.

The letter itself was a standard letter of separation.  However, between the impersonal salutations to whom it may concern and the authorized closings, there was naught but one line; written by Celeborn’s own hand, which Elrond immediately recognized.  He read the line, then looked up at This Glorfindel befuddled.  Read the line again, and burst out laughing; any decorum utterly flown.

“So!  Your friend with connections to a lady in Indis’ retinue was yourself,” he cheerily accused.  “Oh, and the fortune-hunter rumored to be *ahem* stealing kisses from the heiress of Nos Galadhad as well!”

“What?”  This Glorfindel was flabbergasted for a moment, and then blushed deeply.  “Surely, he did not write about that!”  The name the captain growled under his breath in clear reference to Celeborn would have no doubt caused the ladies alluded to scold him severely for his vulgar language and lack of respect.  “I have stolen no kisses!  Not from any lady!  Ever!”

“I am sure you have never had to!”   He simply could not stop laughing!  The poor ellon had been so well played for a fool!

“Franuilos!  He did said his winnings would be telling of me that which I would not have told!  But, I did not expect it to be that I have kissed a lady!  Whoever would be so carelessly of their own daughter’s reputation?!”

“No, no, that is not what he wrote!  Indeed, Celeborn would never do so,” Elrond assured the upset warrior, forcing himself to calm his mirth.  This joke was not funny to the captain.  “No deeds nor names are even mentioned.  I only surmised on the advice he gave.  Which for once was not a long lecture!  Just delightfully short and to the point!”  He once more had to stifle his laughter and forcibly straighten his face.  Leveling his head, he looked seriously at This Glorfindel.  “In her letter, the princess does call you her good friend.  Just so there is no further misunderstanding about this matter... “  In anticipation of what he was going to ask, the captain nodded in assent.  “Please, I bid you to tell me truthfully.  Were you more than friends?”

“No!  There is no more than a fraternal affection between the princess and myself.  I have answered, and there will be no discuss of this subject ever again.  If that demand makes it impossible for you to offer me the position, I understand.”

“On the contrary, Cón, your indignation clenches it.  There is indeed a place for you in this Household.  If you still wish to be one of us.”

“I do, my lord.  However, I ... “  The captain took a deep breath to settle himself, then resolutely said, “If any speaks disrespectfully of Lady Celebrian, I will silence them.  Even if that person be my prince.”

“I would be justly chastised.  Please accept my apology for my earlier remarks.  Yet, I am glad for this consternation.  I think now that we might become good friends.  As long as you refrain from calling me: my prince.”

This Glorfindel looked astonished.

Elrond mocked his expression, then raised his eyebrows; prompting him for an explanation.

“I am surprised, my lord, because I was advised to be myself and all would go very well.  I thought that meant showing you my dedication, where I see now it was my heart.”

“Eldarin counsel can interestingly ambiguous, can it not?  Even without meaning to be.  Indeed, this interview has gone well.  Your extraordinary virtues have been pointed out by people whose opinions I respect.  I appreciate their aid in seeing you at your best, but I am just as grateful that at least one of those persons has let me know you possess normal flaws and not extraordinary ones.”  He looked the captain straight in the eye.  “You are not only a good officer, you are a good person.  I would like you to accept the position, Cón Glorfindel.”

“I am very pleased to accept, Lord Elrond,” the warrior said with a deferential bow.

“Good!  See,” he smiled benevolently, “we are both very pleased you are joining the Household.  I think you shall make a brilliant bodyguard.  I look forward to having you by my side.”

“Bodyguard?”  This Glorfindel was again startled.  No doubt, as a new member, he had anticipated having to work his way up; pay some dues so to speak, before being given significant responsibilities.   “My lord, it would by an honor and a privilege, but – ”

“But first, you will indeed have to earn my inordinate trust.  And your first test begins now.  I am charging you with a delicate Household matter.”

This Glorfindel nodded, committed ere he even knew what would be required of him.

“From now on, you will keep to yourself this notion of yours that you are the return of That Glorfindel.”

“That Glorfindel?  Oh, you mean that Glorfindel... “  The captain’s brow lowered. “The Lord told of that in his letter?”

“No, as I said, you are not even mentioned.  I learned this from you, and I know it would attract ridicule if a member of this Household were to make the outrageous claim that he is the mystical re-embodiment of the Balrog Slayer that saved my father.  Believe me when I say, your life is your own.  With your own destiny, not bound by any numinous circumstances to be a repeat of another’s.  Celeborn is not the only one in this world who has a chance of beating out Fate.  I will help you to be free of That Glorfindel’s doom.”

This Glorfindel stood there, stunned.

“Are you at least willing to try?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord... ”  The warrior mutedly replied, then suddenly smiled – literally brightening before Elronds eyes.  “That Glorfindel was someone with whom I was once well-acquainted.  But, I am no more.”  He straightened to attention.  “ As my Lord commands.  That Glorfindel belongs to history and legend.  I am This Glorfindel, born to do whatever it is that I am meant to do.”

“Close enough.  We will work on it.”  He rose to his feet, leaving the paperwork to be straightened up by his clerk.  Although, he did pick up Celeborn’s letter, refold it, and slip it inside a pocket.  It was not really an official letter, and it should not be kept with the rest.  “Come, let us go into the house proper and start getting you settling in.”  This Glorfindel… now his Glorfindel... cleared his throat in askance.  He looked up and nodded his permission to speak freely.

“Exactly what did Celeborn write?” Glorfindel ventured to inquire.

“Lock up your daughters.”

- *~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* -

Author Notes:

All Elven words are in Sindarin unless indicated otherwise. Underlined means constructed by me.

The events of this story take place around 1250 – Second Age.

As a result of trade, the Númenoreans have made a permanent settlement upriver from Vinyalondë (their haven at the mouth of the Gwathlo) on the border of Eregion.  This settlement becomes the crossroads city of Tharbad.  I think this would have been the likely route for Glorfindel to quietly return to Middle-earth, and go looking for some friends to help him out on his new mission.  He had never met Gil-Galad.  Cirdan probably not either.  And Lindon might have a more than a frew people that would know him on sight.  He might have been acquainted with Celebrimbor and possibly Galadriel.  I say ‘quietly return’, because we have only the incident at the time of the war with the Witch King of Angmar to show that the legendary Glorfindel might have come back.  Some like to speculate that he arrived with the five wizards.  I kinda like to think of him having arrived prior to them and on his own.  A credible eye-witness engaged in a sort of boots-on-the-ground reconnaissance, having something to do with the Valar even considering sending in a special strikeforce of Maiar.

A disguised Sauron has yet to come to Forlindon, the capital city of Lindon, where he will be refused entrée by Gil-Galad.  He has already established his realm of Mordor, where some four centuries from the time of this story, he will return to forge the One Ring.

maethor – warrior

mahtar – warrior  Quenya

cón – captain, commanding officer

morben/calben – mor-pen/cal-pen, dark person/light person, Moriquendë/Caliquendë (can be used as an adjective form like human)

nos – a family or household

nothrim – members of a household or a clan

aran – king(also translates as ‘Lord’ for it means the ruler of a realm, not just royalty)

ellon – male elf