Written for both the Leaf and Stone Winter traditions challenge and the Holiday Fic Challenge at the JulieFiannaArchive.

Author’s Notes: Many thanks to Istarnie for the beta and Merry Christmas to you, my dear friend. This story is for you!

This story is a companion piece preceding my story “Season of Hope”.

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The shutters creaked and moaned as the wind howled its fury, shoving aside the trees and railing against the house. Again and again its bitter snow-clad fingers clawed at the windows and doors, seeking entry into the cozy warmth within, but to no avail. Skilled Noldorin stone masons and carpenters had built this sturdy house out of gratitude, a gift of devoted love for the elf maid who dwelt within.

Red and brown merged in a cascading blaze of glory in the elleth’s long unbound hair. Her brilliant grey eyes reflected the memory of the ancient lights which burned before the sun and moon. The heat of the fire crackling joyfully in the hearth flushed the rich cream of her cheeks a delicate pink as she worked, preparing venison stew and warm spiced wine for the evening repast. Even the Eldar considered her wondrous fair to look upon, but those who held themselves in her debt considered her blessed spirit to be far more beautiful indeed. It was these debtors (though she would never call them that) who she held close in her heart and remembered during this festival of Midwinter.

Thirty small statues stood upon the mantle above her hearth in loving memory of the fifteen elves who felt they owed her so much. Each piece of rock, meticulously carved by loving hands she used to wash and kiss, depicted in life-like detail the childhood and adult forms of the children the maid had rescued and raised over the years.

Gondolin, the Havens at Sirion, and the great Eregion all had served as the birthplaces of her children. The Noldor and the Sindar claimed these little ones by blood, but these orphans of elvish realms were hers by heart. Some of these children now dwelt in Imladris, some had sailed to Valinor, and a couple now resided in Mandos, fallen warriors of the Last Alliance.

While her dinner simmered, she took down each statue, one set at a time, and held these child and adult forms of each elf as she remembered. Seated in her rocking chair near the fire, she sang the seven stanzas of the song written for that child by Lindir of Imladris, child number eleven. Tears often escaped her eyes, caressing her cheeks like the hands of a babe while she sang of each child’s life and in some cases death. Those who had died were the most difficult for her to bring to memory for she worried that no one would be there for them when Namo released them. Granted, they had had wives and children and grandchildren and even great-grandchildren of their own, but she knew she could not be there to care for them herself when they emerged again in Valinor as fragile children in spirit though not in body.

The songs long ended, tears still stung her eyes while she again stirred her stew. The wonderful smell of a dinner nearly ready filled the house, mixing with the spices of the green scented candles made for her by child number fourteen. A small smile lit her face as she remembered she needed to buy more blue and silver thread so she could finish embroidering the blanket for Fourteen’s first son and fourth child due in the spring. Lord Erestor, Lindir, and Ancalime would all expect her to be there, too, when their foster-sister gave birth.

Rustling and a soft moan interrupted the maid’s reverie. Fear and concern welled within her as she moved to the cot on the other side of the room and knelt down with a flourish of rose-colored skirts. Her latest charge had rested quietly for much of the day, but now horrible black bruises marred his face and much of his body. The bandages around his torso and shoulder grew red with new blood as he struggled fiercely against some enemy in his dreams. Firmly she held him as she consoled and reassured with soft words and a lilting lullaby. After a few minutes, he relaxed in her arms, tears glistening on his cheeks and her name a whisper upon his lips.

When she was certain he slept again, she went about replacing his bandages. The wolves had nearly succeeded in making a fine Midwinter feast of him. Somehow he managed to fight them off and make his way to her house, barely conscious and bleeding badly. Carefully she re-stitched the wound in his side which he tore in trying to move too soon. When she finished, she washed the sheen of sweat from his face, then lovingly combed her fingers through his hair, admiring the play of the candlelight in the exquisite gold.

In many ways she had him to thank for the memories she treasured each Winter Solstice. Their relationship would have led to marriage had they stayed in Valinor and never joined the Noldorin rebellion all those millennia ago. Once in Middle-earth, the uncertainty of life in the First Age never let them wed, never let HIM settle enough to wed. She loved him dearly, but when she lost him at Gondolin’s fall, she took in children who had lost everything as well. After his return in the Second Age, new evil emerged and nearly conquered all again. Now that that evil was vanquished as well, she was uncertain as to what she wanted anymore. He still seemed as distant and unsettled as before.

Then he arrived on her doorstep this morning…

What was he doing out there alone in a blizzard so far from the Last Homely House at a time of festival? When he awoke, she would be sure to find out, and he better have a good explanation for so recklessly endangering himself.

With a sigh, she gently kissed his perfect lips four times – one of the few places undamaged by the wolves – and rose to her feet. Returning to the fire to tend her meal, she looked up at the statues which gazed back with expressions full of love. One of her most recent charges, number Thirteen, once asked her why she kept this festival above all of the others celebrated by the Noldor.

She remembered answering that it was because it has long served as a reminder to her that even the longest night doesn’t last forever and the dawn will come again (she still remembered the first dawn after the cold dark night which had lasted for years). She had estel, and that was what enabled her to go on year after year, century after century, millennium after millennium.

Brushing her hair behind her ear, she snuck a glance over her shoulder at the sleeping Glorfindel. A small smile stole across her face as she whispered aloud, “I wonder, my love, do you still have hope, too?”

The swollen fingers of his bandaged left hand curled, seemingly in response, as if grasping something precious while his lips moved with words she could not hear. Shaking her head in long-suffering resignation, she turned back to her task. She guessed she would have to wait a little longer to find out about that, too.