Starting from Scratch

Summary: They fell in love with a Vision, but they would find Reality to be much different. Inspired by the ALEC challenge 'New Beginnings.

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‘But when the Valar entered into Eä they were at first astounded and at a loss, for it was as if naught was yet made which they had seen in vision, and all was but on point of being and yet unshaped, and it was dark.’ — The Silmarillion, ‘Ainulindalë’

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The Ayanumuz and their Máyar entered Eä and found—

"Where is it?" Varda exclaimed as she and Manwë led the cavalcade. "Where is Atháraphelun?"

"There is nothing here," Aulë said in confusion as the Ayanumuz gathered in conference, leaving their Máyar to fend for themselves. "Art thou sure this is the right place, brother?" They could all sense the teasing tone of his thoughts and there were some nervous titters from some of them.

Manwë’s pure blue aura never shifted, though the aurae of most of the others were fluctuating along the spectrum, a sure indication of confusion and doubt.

"There is only one Eä," Manwë said calmly.

"That we know of," Námo couldn’t help interjecting.

"Hmmm.... multiple Eäi," Ulmo contemplated. "A distinct possibility. Who is to say that Atar hath not designed other cosmoi for us to play in?"

"So, thou art saying that there could be more than one Eä?" Nienna demanded. Ulmo’s aura indicated assent. "Then how do we know we are in the right one?" she asked.

"Because we are here and nowhere else," Manwë answered her, still calm.

"Why would Atar create more than one universe, though?" Vána, the youngest of them, asked.

Ulmo shrugged. "Why not? Not all our brethren desired to come here. Perhaps Atar hath created other... um... playgrounds for them."

"Well, this playground is empty," Oromë commented wryly.

"Except for us," Námo pointed out.

"So, what are we supposed to do?" Yavanna asked in a huff. "We Sing the Themes Atar gave us, He showeth us a Vision of what we Sang and...."

"That is it!" Irmo exclaimed suddenly.

"What is it?" Yavanna demanded crossly.

"A Vision," Irmo answered, sounding excited, his blue-green aura brightening with spikes of yellow. "Do ye not see? Atar showed us a Vision of what we Sang, not the actual thing. I think He meaneth for us to bring the Vision into Reality."

"In that thou art correct, young one," Manwë said, his tone one of amusement. "It matters not if Atar hath created other... er... playgrounds for our brethren. This is the playground of our choosing and, as Irmo pointed out, it is our task to bring the Vision of Eä into being and prepare it for the coming of the Children."

There was a pause as all contemplated Manwë’s words. Finally Aulë spoke. "A lot of work," he said musingly. "We will have to bring all forth from nothing."

"In a sense, then, we will have to start all over again in Singing the Themes," Námo said.

"I am not sure I could repeat what I Sang completely," Vairë murmured and others nodded in agreement.

"I doubt any of us could," Manwë replied. "We will just have to do our best, knowing that that is all Atar requires of us."

There were several sighs at that, and some of the younger Ayanumuz appeared daunted at the thought of what they must do. "Where do we even begin?" Nessa enquired.

"Well, for a start," Varda replied, her tone brisk, "I think we can do with some light. Ulmo, correct me if I am wrong, but it seemeth to me that we need to create a catalyst in order to get everything moving."

Ulmo nodded. "Correct. I think an explosion of energy with the following parameters should do the trick." He then sent them the mathematics and physics required to create an exploding singularity. "We can adjust the physics as we go along if we need to in order to ensure Eä unfoldeth as it should."

"Canst thou do it, beloved?" Manwë asked, sending her waves of love and encouragement along their bond.

"It will take all of us, the Máyar included," she replied, "but it is doable."

"Then let us ready ourselves," Manwë said. "Gather your Máyar about ye and let us begin... again."

They did as they were bid. Námo called his Máyar to him. Their aurae were as confused and agitated as had been those of the Ayanumuz.

"What is happening, lord?" Maranwë asked. "Where are we?"

"We are in Eä," Námo answered calmly.

"But it is a wasteland!" Tindomerel exclaimed. "There is nothing here!"

"Except us," Námo replied, amused at having to point out the obvious twice. "We have determined that Atar granted us a Vision of what we Sang but hath left it to us to bring that Vision into Reality."

"So, what do we do?" Maranwë asked, still looking confused.

"We are going to Sing the Themes again as best as we can remember them," Námo answered. "Varda and Ulmo are working out the mathematics to create an exploding singularity and it will take all of us to bring Eä into being. Stay close to me; I will not lead you astray."

"Thou art our lord to whom we have pledged our service," Maranwë said humbly. "We will follow thee, lord. Have no fear."

Námo looked upon his Máyar with love and gratitude for the trust that they showed him. "Come. I see Varda and Ulmo are ready. Let us join the others."

Námo led his People to where Manwë, Varda and Ulmo were and found himself beside Vairë who smiled at him, her indigo aura brightening. "Dost thou remember all that thou didst Sing of the Themes?" she asked him.

"Yes," he answered simply, "but I think it is because that is how Atar made me, that I forget nothing."

"I wish I could say the same," Vairë replied, her aura shifting toward green in despondency.

Námo sent her waves of sympathy and encouragement. "Thou wilt do well enough, Vairë, I have every confidence of that. Sing as thy heart dictates. Sing for love of Atar and the Children who are to come and thou wilt do well."

Vairë sent him a shy look. "I thank thee, Námo. Thy words are wise."

"We are ready to begin," Manwë said at that moment, thus saving Námo from having to respond to Vairë’s praise. "Here are the parameters that will bring about the singularity." He sent them the necessary information, and when all there indicated that they had memorized it, he spoke again. "And so, let us make our Vision a Reality for the glory of Atar and the love that we bear for the Children to come."

"Let us even so," the others exclaimed in assent and thus, with Manwë and Varda orchestrating them, the Ayanumuz and the Máyar took the Vision of their Song from the Timeless Halls and Sang Eä into being. When the singularity exploded into existence, they rejoiced and watched in awe and wonder as the history of Eä began to unfold.

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Eä: (Quenya) The Universe. The plural would most likely be Eäi, so as not to confuse it with the word eär ‘sea’. This is based on the fact that in Primitive Quenya words ending in _a_ originally made their plurals by adding _i_. Later, the Noldor would introduce _r_ as the plural marker for words ending in _a_.

Ayanumuz: (Valarin) Plural of Ayanuz: Vala.

Máyar: Plural of Máya: Older Quenya form of Maia, as there is no attested Valarin word for these beings.

Atháraphelun: (Valarin) Arda.

Note: Cosmoi is the Greek plural of cosmos.

Waiting for Elwë

Summary: Ingwë and Finwë wait impatiently for Elwë’s arrival in Aman, unaware of the events unfolding in Beleriand. Inspired by the Middle-earth Express prompt #1, ‘Lost’.

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"Has there been any news?" Ingwë asked Finwë.

They were overseeing the construction of their city, which they were calling Tirion on Túna. It was slow going, for none of the Quendi had any experience in constructing buildings. At Cuiviénen they had built rude huts from fallen tree limbs or had sheltered in the caves dotting a nearby hillside, but they had not really built anything with any permanence. It was seeing the city of the Powers that had inspired the two kings to create a city for their own people. The Valar had kindly raised the great hill on which the city would be built, there in the midst of the Calacirya, and Lord Aulë and his People were even now instructing the Quendi on how to build with stone.

Finwë shook his head. "Nothing," he said somewhat morosely. "There has been no news. I even went through the cleft and stood upon the shores hoping to speak to Lord Ulmo or even Lord Ossë, but neither appeared. I have sent entreaties to both Lord Ulmo and the Elder King to have our sundered kin come to us, but so far...."

Ingwë sighed. "I wish we could have all come to Aman together," he said. "Would that the Nelyai had not tarried so."

"They were the largest of our clans," Finwë pointed out. "Elwë had to have his brother, Olwë, lead a part of them and then Lenwë refused to cross the mountains with many of the Nelyai."

Ingwë nodded. "True. Perhaps we should have lingered longer on the Thither Shores," he opined. "Perhaps we should have waited."

"Lord Ulmo was most impatient to see us hence," Finwë replied with a snort. "He couldn’t get us here fast enough, to my mind."

Ingwë smiled. "So I thought as well." He shrugged. "Well, hopefully, Elwë will come soon. I truly miss him."

"As do I," Finwë said, now looking sad, his gaze moving down the green sward of the Calacirya, his thoughts upon the dark waves of the Sea, wondering what was keeping their dear friend.

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Several Minglings of the Trees later, the two kings were huddled together with a couple of Lord Aulë’s Maiar — Auros, who was Aulë’s Chief Maia, and Curumo. They were explaining to the Quendi the science of constructing arches which the Quendi had decided would be the main feature of their homes, allowing for easier access to the gardens that would surround them.

"You can see that such a construction is a bit more complex than square lintels," Curumo was saying, pointing to the model which the Maiar had constructed as a teaching tool, just as another Maia made his presence known.

"Forgive the intrusion," Eönwë said with a bow as the other Maiar and the Quendi looked up. "I have a message from Lord Manwë to Ingwë and Finwë."

"What message, lord?" Ingwë asked in surprise.

Eönwë smiled warmly. "News has come from Lord Ulmo that he is bringing the Nelyai to Aman."

Both Quendi stood up in delight, smiles wreathing their fair faces. "Elwë is coming at last!" Finwë shouted.

"When will they arrive?" Ingwë enquired.

"Not for some time," Eönwë said. "I will inform you when they are nigh. Lord Manwë wished for you to know now so you could prepare a warm welcome for them."

"Oh, yes," Finwë said, his eyes shining, "We should plan something wonderful for them. It’s been such a long time."

"Won’t Elwë be surprised when he sees our city," Ingwë exclaimed and the two Quendi hugged each other in delight at the thought.

Neither of them, in their happiness, noticed the sad look Eönwë gave them before fading from view. Auros and Curumo exchanged grave looks before turning to the ellyn. "Why don’t we finish our lesson?" Auros said, speaking gently and the two kings nodded, though their conversation often wandered from the subject of arches to whether there should be plans to expand the city to include the new wave of arrivals. The two Maiar made vague comments of the ‘wait and see’ variety, and the ellyn had to be content with that.

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The city of Tirion was nearly completed with only the Mindon Eldaliéva still to be built, when Eönwë came to Ingwë and Finwë to inform them that their kin were at last coming. "The island has been sighted," he told them, "and will be arriving soon."

"Then we should go to the shore and welcome them," Ingwë said with a smile and together he and Finwë gathered their people and led them down the Calacirya to await the coming of the last of the Quendi.

"We ought to change their name to Teleri," Finwë quipped as they made their way to the shore. "They have taken their time getting here, after all."

Ingwë laughed. "Elwë won’t be amused, but I think it’s an apt name for these laggards."

Thus, the two kings waited on the starlit shore of Eldamar with their people, impatiently looking out to Sea, and then—

"Look!" someone yelled. "I see the island! They are here!"

There were glad cries all around and excited voices recalling old friends and wondering what they would think of the city that had been built. There had been some talk lately among the Minyai of leaving Tirion and moving closer to Taniquetil. Ingwë, especially, much desired to sit at Lord Manwë’s feet and learn all that he could from the Elder King.

"This will make room for our sundered kin when they come," Ingwë had said to Finwë when the subject of the Minyai leaving Tirion was broached.

Finwë had not been happy about the idea, and there was naught that he could do to persuade Ingwë not to leave. "We just finished building our city together," he had protested, "and now you wish to leave it?"

Ingwë had looked sorrowful. "I know, but there is something within me that desires this. I cannot explain it any better than that. But come. Let us not dwell on it. I do not intend to leave immediately. We will have to build our own city first and that will take time."

So, the matter was dropped. Now, however, with the island in sight, many were wondering where the new arrivals would be housed, for in the end, Tirion, as initially planned, was not expanded to allow for the new arrivals. Still, it was a minor point of contention between the two clans and the joy of knowing that their kin were finally come overrode any doubts.

Then, something unexpected happened. The island ceased to move and now sat in the midst of the bay, too far away for any to swim to it.

"What does this mean?" Finwë exclaimed in consternation. "Why has the island stopped?"

Ingwë just shook his head. Many cried out in surprise and dismay when they saw that the island was no longer moving. "How will we be able to greet our kin?" was the question on everyone’s lips. "How do we reach them?"

Almost at once there was a disturbance in the waters and Lord Ulmo rose out of the depths. The Quendi gave him their obeisance and Ingwë spoke to him. "Lord, why has the island stopped? How do we greet our long sundered kin?"

Ulmo looked upon the Quendi gravely. "I stopped the island on the pleas of those that now dwell there," he answered.

Both Ingwë and Finwë gave the Bala looks of surprise. "But why would they not want to come all the way to shore?" Finwë asked, his tone one of confusion.

"Long did your sundered kin dwell upon the Thither Shores and learned much of the ways of the Sea," Ulmo replied. "They have fallen in love with the starlight on the waves and desire not to come to Aman as yet. My fellow Bali are not pleased with me at the moment," he added with a hint of humor in his sea-green eyes, "but I felt it wiser to let those on the island have a say as to where they would live."

Both kings sighed in dismay. "Do they not wish to greet us, then?" Ingwë asked in dejection. "We have spent much time preparing for their welcome. Does Elwë not wish to see us anymore?"

Ulmo’s expression was compassionate. "I will do this much for you," he said. "I will cause the waters of the bay to recede so you may cross to the island if you so wish and visit with your kin. I doubt me that any there will wish to cross to the mainland, so it will be best if you go to them."

"For how long will you hold back the sea, lord?" Finwë asked.

"For as long as you need, child," the Lord of Waters said gently. "Take all the time you wish to visit, but when you are ready to return to your own homes, I will call back the waters."

"Will we be able to visit them again?" Ingwë asked hopefully.

Ulmo, however, shook his head. "This one time I will grant you this gift. The Elder King will not allow me to do so again. Yet, despair not. I think, in time, the Light of the Trees will draw your kin to these shores. When they so desire it, then a way will be found to bring them here. Until then, though, you will have to content yourselves with this one visit."

Ingwë and Finwë nodded. "We thank you for this gift, lord," Ingwë said with a bow and Finwë joined him in his thanks.

Then Ulmo lifted his mighty conches and blew on them, the sound of the horns wild and free. At once, three Maiar joined him and the kings recognized Ulmo’s Chief Maia, Salmar, as well as Ossë and his spouse, Uinen. Together the three Maiar strode into the water, motioning with their hands as they made their way across the bay with Salmar moving to the left of the island while Ossë and Uinen went around to the right. Even as they went, the Quendi could see the waters receding until there was naught by wet sand between them and the island.

"Walk carefully, my children," Ulmo said, "for the sands can be treacherous, but you should be able to reach the island safely enough."

Ingwë and Finwë bowed to Ulmo again and then signaled their people to follow them across the sands. Even as they did so, they noticed several Quendi on the island making their way down the headland where many had gathered so as to meet them on the beach below.

"Do you see Elwë?" Finwë asked Ingwë, desperately scanning the beach as they came nearer the island.

"No," Ingwë answered, then pointed, "but look, there is Olwë."

Almost as soon as he spoke they could see the ellon racing down to the beach and heading for them. Ingwë and Finwë ran as well and the three met some distance from the shore of the island and their greetings were joyous.

"But where is Elwë?" Finwë demanded, looking towards the island for his beloved friend. "Why has he not come to greet us?"

"And why do you not wish to come unto Aman?" Ingwë asked almost at the same time.

Olwë’s demeanor became sad and his expression haunted. Ingwë and Finwë looked upon him with dismay and confusion.

"Where is Elwë, Olwë?" Ingwë asked quietly.

"I do not know," Olwë answered in a whisper, unable to look the other two ellyn in the eyes. "He wandered away from us and never returned. Long did we hunt for him, but he is lost to us, for we never found him."

Ingwë and Finwë stared at the ellon in horror. "How can this be?" Finwë asked.

"And what of Elmo and Olwen?" Ingwë enquired, speaking of Olwë and Elwë’s younger brother and sister.

"They would not leave," Olwë replied, tears glittering in his eyes. "They would not give up the search. I wanted to stay as well, but...."

"You were needed here," Ingwë said compassionately.

Olwë nodded. "Lord Ulmo came to us and commanded that we come. Those who were willing chose me as their leader."

"And there is none who know what has happened to Elwë?" Finwë asked.

"None," Olwë answered with a deep sigh. "When I asked Lord Ulmo, he would only say that my brother lived, but other than that...." He gave them a despondent shrug and the two kings took turns hugging him.

"Well, you are here," Ingwë said at the last. "We have waited a long time for your coming. Will you not lead your people to Aman while the waters are held back?"

Olwë shook his head. "No, not at this time," he said. "My... my people do not wish to leave the island as yet, nor do they wish to forsake the stars for the Light of the Trees."

"Lord Ulmo said that in time you will desire to leave," Finwë said.

"Perhaps," Olwë conceded, "but that time is not now."

"Then let us use the time given to us and rejoice in your coming," Ingwë declared. "See, our people approach and we would make merry with you and yours."

Olwë gave them a wistful smile. "I just wish Elwë could be here."

"Perhaps someday he will be," Ingwë said. "Someday, the Bali willing, we will all be together again."

"You know," Finwë commented slyly as the three made their way onto the shore, "this island looks a bit lonely sitting all by itself in the middle of the bay."

Olwë gave him a wry smile. "Perhaps we should name it Tol Eressëa, then. All along the way many of us pondered on a name for the island but none of us could agree on one, but now...."

"Tol Eressëa it is, then," Ingwë said with a light laugh.

Then they reached the beach and there was much rejoicing among them all as old friends greeted one another and long sundered kin were reunited at last. Unseen by them, Ulmo and his people stood by, keeping the waters at bay, watching the Children celebrating their reunion and they were glad.

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Quendi: Plural of Quendë: The original name the Elves gave themselves. Eldar is a name given to them by Oromë.

Nelyai: ‘The Third Ones’, the original name of the Third Clan which would later be known as the Teleri, a name that means 'those at the end of the line, the hindmost'. In this early period of elvish history, the other two clans are Minyai ‘The First Ones’ (Vanyar) and Tatyai ‘The Second Ones’ (Noldor).

Ellyn: Plural of ellon: Male Elf.

Bala (pl. Bali): Vala (pl. Vali/Valar). According to the Etymologies [see The Lost Road, HoME V], in the early period of the Elves’ language, this is the form that the name for the Powers took.

Notes:

1. This story is slightly AU. While the description of Tol Eressëa being anchored in the Bay of Eldamar and the reason for it is from the Silmarillion, the parting of the waters to allow Ingwë, Finwë and their people to visit those on the island is my invention. In the Silmarillion it is intimated that only after the Teleri left Tol Eressëa nearly a century later to found Alqualondë did Finwë and the Noldor meet up with them. I find this to be highly unlikely, given how anxious Finwë and the Noldor were to meet up again with their friends (Ingwë is never mentioned in this regard, but given his own history with Elwë, it stands to reason that he, too, would want to see his friend again). Some way would have been found for the Elves to meet one another even if ships were not yet available and the receding of the waters so they could cross over to the island would be a logical means of doing so.

2. According to Tolkien’s Timeline of the Silmarillion, approximately 172 solar years pass between the time the Vanyar and the Noldor begin building Tirion and the Teleri under Olwë arrive.

3. Elmo was the brother of Elwë and Olwë in earlier versions of the Silmarillion. His fate is unknown but it is assumed he died fighting against Melkor’s people. Olwen is my OC, first mentioned in Elf, Interrupted: Book One: Glorfindel Redux, chapter 138, 'The Reborn Archer's Tale'.

Morituri...

Summary: As Gondolin falls one Elf has a final comment. Written for the ALEC challenge ‘Last Words’, for which it received an honorable mention.

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Gondolin was burning with Amon Gwareth crowned now with flames. Where once Turgon’s Tower had soared into the sky, the highest landmark in the city, there was nothing but black smoke and fire. Glorfindel spied Tuor as the Mortal gathered Idril in his arms and made his way toward them. They stood with the others who had fled the city, huddled at the tunnel’s opening which looked out onto a large basin where once water had lain, but now all was covered with thick bushes. Voronwë, Tuor’s most faithful friend, was nearby, stalwart and silent in his grief, surrounded by Tuor’s surviving warriors of the House of the White Wing. He saw Galdor, Lord of the House of the Trees, standing with one of his people, Legolas Greenleaf, whom Glorfindel knew to be night-sighted and one of their best scouts. The ellon knew the plain of Tumladen and all that lay therein as no other in Gondolin. The Lord of the House of the Golden Flower nodded in satisfaction. Legolas’ talents might well tip the scales in their favor, for his eyes would be needed as they attempted to flee into the mountains.

Tuor happened to glance Glorfindel’s way and gave him a relieved smile, which he returned, giving him and Idril a respectful bow as he approached. "That’s the last of them," he said. "My people brought up the rearguard and sealed the entrance into the secret way. No one will be able to come this way even if they wished." His expression was carefully neutral though inwardly he grieved, not only for Turgon, but for his closest friend, Ecthelion, Lord of the House of the Fountain. Glorfindel cast his gaze about. "Where is Eärendil?" he asked, feeling suddenly sick at the thought that Turgon’s heir was not among the living.

It was Idril who spoke, her tone one of deep distress. "He is not here. I sent him ahead with some of my guards, but there is no sign of them."

Glorfindel took her in his embrace and kissed her. "We’ll find him, child. Which way were they to go?"

"Toward Cirith Thoronath," Tuor answered.

"A folly to go that way, I deem," Galdor said as he and Legolas joined the group. "We and they will be out in the middle of the plain ere the sun rises. It is almost seven leagues to the mountains in that direction. Perhaps we should make our way to Bad Uthwen. That is only half the distance and those among us who are weary or wounded may hope to win thus far if no further."

"Nay," Idril said. "We should trust not to the spells of hiding that my adar set there, for what power of shielding can we trust if Gondolin is fallen?"

Glorfindel closed his eyes against the grief that suddenly took him. He knew that Idril in speaking of Gondolin meant Turgon, for in many ways they were one and the same and it was impossible to separate the city from its founder in the minds and hearts of the people, himself included.

"At any rate," Tuor added, "Eärendil and his guards are heading north as ordered, I deem. We will go that way even if none follow us."

But many debated the wisdom of this and in the end a large body separated from Tuor’s group, declaring they would make for Bad Uthwen, much to Glorfindel’s disgust. "You do not go with them," he heard Tuor say to Galdor, "even though you suggested going that way." Glorfindel could see the sorrow in Tuor’s eyes as the Mortal watched the band head south.

The Lord of the House of the Tree shook his head. "My oaths keep me here with you and the Lady Idril," he said. "I merely offered the suggestion, but I will be led by you, for you are now our lord, for I fear Turgon has fallen."

"As do I," Glorfindel said grimly. "We should away if we are to get as far from the city and Morgoth’s army as we can ere the sun finds us. I and my people will take the rearguard to assure there are no stragglers."

"And I will send Legolas with the vanguard," Galdor said, "for he is the most far-sighted of us all."

"Yes," Tuor said, "and for that reason alone I am glad you decided to come with us. I fear we will all need to keep our wits about us. Until we cross over Cirith Thoronath, we cannot look to hope that we will escape undetected."

And so they made their way out of the basin toward the mountains, hoping against hope that they would escape detection. They made good time in spite of their weariness, for Glorfindel and his people allowed none to straggle. So it was that in the pearly dawn they were far out in the valley and Tuor called a halt. Glorfindel cast his gaze about him in surprise, for he could now see that the plain was full of mists.

"What marvel is this?" he muttered to no one in particular, but none had an answer, for never had any mist or deep fog come upon the valley before and all wondered if this was an omen of the Valar or something else entirely.

After a brief pause, Tuor gave the signal for them to continue, and so they did, faring safely under cover of the fog even as Anor rose, though they could not see her. Thus, by this unlooked-for miracle they traveled until they were too far away for any to descry them from the ruined city. Then, the mists began to lift, though luckily they still hung heavily over Gondolin, shielding it from sight.

"Look!" Glorfindel heard Tuor cry and gazed in the direction in which the Mortal was pointing.

He could see a small knot of warriors, perhaps no more than eight or ten and sitting on the shoulders of one of them was Eärendel. He gave a sigh of relief, but it was short lived for suddenly Idril cried out in terror and Glorfindel rushed forward to better see what was happening. He felt his blood go cold as he saw what appeared to be huge wolves ridden by Orcs. They were harassing the ellyn attempting to protect Eärendil. Then, Tuor was by his side. "Come with me," he said, and he called on Galdor and Legolas and nearly fifty other warriors who appeared the least weary and they followed him across the plain, hoping to reach the others before they were brought down. It was a race against time and Glorfindel could see that some of the guards were attempting to flee, though where they thought to go, he could not guess.

"Hold!" Tuor shouted as he ran, "and flee not, for you only give these wolfriders better targets."

Now, only a half dozen guards remained and Glorfindel was pleased to see them obeying Tuor’s words. Then, he had no more time for thought, for they had reached Eärendil. Glorfindel saw the lad sitting on Hendor’s shoulders and smiled at the sight, for Hendor was a devoted servant of Idril and Eärendil could not have been in better hands.

"Form a crescent," he heard Tuor order and Glorfindel joined the others in a single rank bent on destroying the Orcs and their wolves. It was a good plan, to envelope the riders so none might escape and it mostly worked though two Orcs, sorely wounded and on foot, managed to elude the Elves.

Then Glorfindel watched as Tuor and Eärendil greeted one another, smiling at the lad whom he could see was desperately trying to be brave. Hendor gave his lord a brief bow even as he handed Eärendil over to Tuor. Glorfindel heard the lad speaking to his adar.

"It gladdens me, Ada," the lad said, "that Maeglin died as he did, for he would set arms about Nana and I liked him not, but I would travel in no tunnels for all of Morgoth’s wolfriders."

Tuor smiled and set his son upon his shoulders while the others chuckled. As the main company, led by Idril, reached them, however, he set his son down so he might greet his naneth and their reunion was joyful and tearful at the same time. Idril tried to carry him but he refused, looking rather affronted. Glorfindel hid a smile and rejoined his warriors in the rear even as Tuor gave the order to continue.

Sunset saw them in the foothills below the Cirith Thoronath, two leagues further up along a narrow and treacherous path. Tuor had set a grueling pace and even Glorfindel was feeling it, wiping the sweat from his brow as he took a swig of water from a waterskin that one of his warriors handed him. He glanced back the way they had come and he could see Aman Gwareth still engulfed in flames and billowing smoke. Of the walls of Gondolin there was no sign. He closed his eyes against the sight and turned resolutely forward even as he heard Tuor give the signal for them to continue.

The climb through the shoulder of the hills was long and wearying. Grass faded to be replaced by stony outcroppings and even the pines and firs grew sparse. Glorfindel continued to urge the stragglers on, gently admonishing the ellith and elflings and those suffering various wounds. Yet, ever in his heart he felt that something was wrong, that some evil stalked them. He glanced up through the cleft where the path wound ruggedly up to the pass. There was little to see now that the sun was set, but he could not shake the feeling that they were somehow walking into a trap. Yet, what other choice did they have? He shook his head to clear it of dark thoughts and concentrated on the climb. The way rose above the treeline and now they encountered snow and the wind howled around them, sending drifts swirling about them so that they were nearly blinded.

"Haldir," Glorfindel called to the nearest of his warriors. "Go you to where Lord Tuor is midmost of the line and tell him we are too spread out. We must come closer together or we here in the rear will be unable to defend those in front."

He saw Haldir nod and bend down to give Gwilwileth, his wife of only a few years, a quick kiss before moving ahead. Yet, even as the ellon made his way forward, there was a surge of people moving back and cries of terror sounded and resounded among the crags.

"Damn!" Glorfindel muttered and watched in horror as rocks from above careened down the side of the cleft. One of the larger ones hit Haldir squarely and the ellon was close enough to the edge that before anyone could react he fell without a sound into the chasm that yawned on their left.

"Haldir!" Gwilwileth screamed and Glorfindel grabbed her before she could go to her husband.

"It’s too late!" Glorfindel cried even as he felt tears running down his face. Too many deaths and he feared Haldir’s would not be the last. He handed the weeping Gwilwileth off to one of the other nearby ellith and started to issue orders for those of his House to protect the others from the rockfall with their shields. Yet, even as he spoke there came a roar from behind him and turning he saw a number of Orcs rushing toward them and there in their midst was a Balrog, who suddenly leapt on high rocks that stood near the path on the left side upon the lip of the chasm into which poor Haldir had fallen. Then, with yet another leap, he was past Glorfindel and his warriors. Screams of terror and pain echoed off the walls of the cleft as the Balrog came into the midst of the ellith and the wounded, lashing its whip of flame.

Chaos ensued and for a brief moment Glorfindel merely stood there, an island of calm in the midst of the carnage, watching as Ithil lifted his face over the eastern flanks of the mountains, shining down upon the scene of horror and death. Further up the pass he could see Tuor trying to make his way back down with some of his own warriors, their winged helms glittering strangely in the moonlight. Glorfindel knew that they would be too late.

"Pui-en-orch," he muttered, half in disgust and half in resignation as he pulled his sword from its sheath.

And then, he leaped.

****

Words are Sindarin unless otherwise noted.

Morituri: (Latin) ‘We who are about to die’.

Ellon: Male Elf. The plural is ellyn.

Bad Uthwen: Way of Escape.

Adar: Father. The hypocoristic form is Ada.

Nana: Hypocoristic form of naneth: Mother.

Ellith: Plural of elleth: Female Elf.

Pui-en-orch: Orc-spit.

Author’s Note: Much of the detail of the flight from Gondolin is based on the fuller description given in ‘The Fall of Gondolin’, Book of Lost Tales 2, HoME II, rather than from the Silmarillion.

A Slight Miscalculation

Summary: Glorfindel lands in more trouble than he bargained for when a jest goes wrong. Inspired by the Middle-earth Express prompt #58, ‘Prank’.

****

“What’s over there?” Glorfindel asked Aragorn, pointing to another building set back from the rest. He and several others were touring the Citadel of Minas Tirith with the new King of Gondor and Arnor acting as his guide. Elrond and his sons, along with Erestor, Celeborn and Haldir were with him.

“The Royal Prison,” Aragorn said with a wry grin.

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow and there was a glint of mischief in his eyes as he looked at the unprepossessing building. There was no hint from the outside that it was indeed a prison, save perhaps the two guards standing on either side of the door. He cast a glance at the others in their group. “Shall we take a look?”

Elladan gave him a jaundiced stare. “Whyever would we want to look at a prison?”

Glorfindel just shrugged and turned to Aragorn who stood there with a bemused expression on his face. “Will you show us, Estel?”

“If you wish,” the Man said slowly, clearly puzzled by the Elf-lord’s request. “It’s not very interesting.”

“Humor me,” Glorfindel said.

“Don’t I always?” Aragorn couldn’t help replying, giving a sardonic twist of his lips.

The twins laughed and even Elrond smiled at his foster son’s words. Celeborn and Haldir exchanged knowing looks between them. Erestor merely snorted.

“We all humor Glorfindel,” he said with a smirk.

“Well, in that case,” Aragorn said, “I guess we can visit the prison. I warn you though, that if there are any prisoners, you will not be allowed to see them. I will not have them gawked at.”

“That goes without saying,” Elrond said equably. “We would not intentionally cause even such unfortunates as they embarrassment.”

“I would like to see what a typical cell looks like, though,” Glorfindel said.

Aragorn shrugged as he led them to the door. “We’ll have to ask the Warden.”

The guards saluted smartly and one of them opened the door for them. Inside, they found themselves in a short corridor where another guard sat behind a table. He looked up in surprise at their entrance, but quickly rose to his feet and gave them his obeisance.

“We wish to see the Warden,” Aragorn said quietly and the guard nodded.

“Please wait here, sire, and I will bring him.” With a nod from Aragorn, the Man left, moving down the corridor to a door on the right. Giving it a single knock, he entered and a few seconds later he returned followed by another Man.

The Elves looked upon him with mild interest as he made his obeisance to his king. “My lord, how may I be of service?” the Warden said.

Aragorn smiled and gestured at the golden-haired Elf. “Lord Glorfindel is interested in seeing what a typical cell looks like. Is there one that is empty, one that does not require us to pass any cells that are occupied? I would not wish to disturb any prisoners here with our presence.”

The Warden smiled. “Luckily, there are few prisoners here at the moment, and all are housed in one wing. I can show you an empty cell in another wing.”

Aragorn indicated his approval and they trailed after the Man who led them further down the corridor past his office and up a flight of stairs to the next floor. “Here, my lords,” the Warden said, fishing out a key from the ring on his belt and unlocking the first cell that they came to. “This is pretty much how all the cells look.”

They took turns glancing in, most only for a second or two, not really interested, but Glorfindel lingered by the door, his expression curious, his eyes missing nothing.

“Why are you even interested?” Erestor asked his friend as he stood next to him, glancing into the room.

Glorfindel gave him a wistful smile. “Just comparing it to my own cell,” he said.

Several eyebrows shot up. Erestor stared at his friend in disbelief. “Your own cell!? What do you mean? You were never a prisoner.”

Now the Elf-lord laughed and it was gay and unforced. “Indeed I was, for a whole month.”

Now they were all staring at him in shock. Elrond shook his head. “How long have I known you, Glorfindel, and only now I learn of this?”

The golden-haired ellon shrugged. “It never came up in conversation,” he said and there were several snorts of laughter from the others.

“Until now,” Aragorn said.

“Until now,” Glorfindel replied with a nod.

“So, how did you end up in prison?” Elladan asked.

“And where?” his twin added.

Glorfindel sighed. “It’s a long story. Perhaps some other time....”

“Oh no, my friend,” Celeborn said, giving him a stern look. “You’re not getting out of it that easily. Come. Let us find a place where we may relax and perhaps have some wine while you tell us this most fascinating tale.”

The others nodded. The Warden spoke then, somewhat hesitantly. “Perhaps my office?” he offered.

Aragorn smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “An excellent suggestion, thank you.”

Thus, they all retreated back to the Warden’s office where additional chairs were brought in. Aragorn had one of the guards sent to the buttery for some wine and in a short time they were all settled, the Warden insisting that Glorfindel sit in his own chair.

“So, you were saying,” Aragorn said with a teasing smile on his lips as he sipped his wine.

Glorfindel scowled. “It was nothing really, just a slight miscalculation....”

****

“So, how does it feel?” Ecthelion asked, looking through the grille at his friend.

“How does what feel?” Glorfindel muttered, giving Ecthelion a scowl. He was sitting on the stone floor, his back against the wall opposite the door through which Ecthelion was looking, his arms around his knees. The room he was in was small, barely large enough to hold a cot and a clothespress which doubled as a table on which sat a single lamp, a pitcher of water and a wooden goblet and some small personal items. A chamber pot sat under the cot, though Glorfindel was allowed the use of a privy during the day so long as he was escorted by a guard. There was no window, for originally this had been a storage room which Turgon had ordered converted into a temporary prison cell, seeing as how there had been no need for one before this.

“Being locked up, of course,” Ecthelion replied, sounding somewhat exasperated.

Glorfindel stared at the Lord of the House of the Fountain for a moment and then gave him an evil grin. “Why don’t you come in and find out for yourself?” he said.

Ecthelion snorted. “Had I allowed you to talk me into joining you in your jest, I would probably be in the storeroom next to yours right now. I warned you, Glorfindel. I told you Turgon would not take kindly to you playing this particular jest on him.”

“Yes, yes, I know, and no doubt you will continue telling me so for the entire month that I’m stuck in here.”

“Me and every other visitor,” Ecthelion said with a short laugh.

Glorfindel scowled. “I told Turgon I would accept no visitors save you and him,” Glorfindel said, giving his friend another scowl. “Last thing I need is to have half of Gondolin trooping through here to gawk at the great Lord of the House of the Golden Flower behind bars.”

“Who’s taken over the lordship during this month?” Ecthelion asked.

“No one,” Glorfindel said with a shrug. “This is much the same as when we’ve been exiled from the city for a time. Gilmir will bring me any reports that I need to see and manage the household in the meantime.”

Ecthelion nodded. “Gilmir will keep things running smoothly while you’re here. He’s very capable.”

“Which is why I made him my steward shortly after taking over the lordship of the House,” Glorfindel said.

Ecthelion sighed then and shook his head. “This should never have happened, Glorfindel. You were a fool to follow through with your jest. I was as shocked as everyone else when I learned of it, for I thought that without me you would not dare to attempt it.”

“It would have worked if Idril had cooperated,” Glorfindel muttered, staring at his knees.

“Why would she have?” Ecthelion demanded in surprise. “You kidnapped her, after all.”

“But if she had agreed to it once I told her, things wouldn’t have turned out so badly.”

Ecthelion shook his head in disbelief. “Idril is her adar’s daughter, my friend. I’m surprised she didn’t pitch you over the Caragdûr.”

“Not for lack of trying, I assure you,” Glorfindel said.

“So what exactly happened?” Ecthelion asked. “I never did learn all the details, for I returned from patrol after the trial.”

Glorfindel gave him a sigh. “I made a slight miscalculation....”

“Slight miscalculation!?” Ecthelion exclaimed in disbelief.

Glorfindel cringed at his friend’s tone. “All right, maybe not so slight,” he acceded.

Ecthelion eyed his friend with narrowed brows. “So, what happened?” he repeated.

For a long moment, Glorfindel did not answer, staring at the floor. Finally, he looked up. “If you want to hear the story, you might as well get comfortable.”

Ecthelion nodded and turned to look at the guard standing nearby. “Open the door and then lock it after me,” he ordered and the guard complied. In the meantime, Glorfindel had risen to sit on the cot, pouring some water into the goblet. A quiet word from Ecthelion had the guard running to fetch another goblet for him and soon the two friends were sitting side-by-side on the cot, sipping their water.

“I had it all worked out,” Glorfindel said once the guard had locked the door and moved away to give them some privacy. “It was really quite simple, actually....”

****

The plan was simplicity itself, Glorfindel thought. Earlier that day he had gathered certain herbs to make a sleeping potion. In the years before Turgon spirited his people away to Gondolin, Glorfindel had had several occasions to be acquainted with such potions while being ministered to by the battle healers. Curiosity drove the young lord to ask the healers how such potions were made and how long a certain dosage would keep a person under. Now that knowledge would come in handy.

At some point during the evening meal he offered to refill Idril’s goblet, surreptitiously adding the potion to it. The wine was strong enough to mask any aftertaste from the potion. After a few minutes Idril confessed herself weary and excused herself from the gathering, taking one of her maids with her. Turgon had frowned with worry, but his daughter assured him that all was well, that she only felt tired and desired to sleep. Glorfindel, meanwhile, switched his empty goblet for hers when all eyes were on Turgon and Idril, then slipped away just long enough to rinse the goblet out, pouring wine into it and rejoining the others. An hour later, when Ecthelion desired to leave, for he would be going on patrol the next morning, Glorfindel went with him, saying he wished to take a walk before retiring. He walked with Ecthelion to the ellon’s house and bade him a good night, assuring him that he would see his friend off in the morning, which Ecthelion appreciated.

That was the easy part.

He returned to his own house and went to his study where he took out certain items that he had hidden in a secret drawer of his desk: a scrap of cloth, several strands of dark hair, and some rope that he had fashioned himself using fibers other than hithlain, for he did not wish for the rope to be seen too soon and the natural glow of hithlain-made rope would be visible in the dark. By this time the middle watch had settled in and he stole out again into the night, heading for the lowest section of the city. There, he made his way to the parapet, leaving the scrap of cloth and the hairs wedged into the stonework before swinging the rope to the outside of the wall, climbing down and deliberately making a boot print in the ground. He then reclimbed the wall, leaving the rope behind, sure that it would not be noticed by anyone strolling by while it was still dark. He then strolled along the parapet, idly singing. Twice he was stopped by the watch, identified and bade a good evening by the guards before moving on, eventually making his way down the wall and up to the king’s house. He avoided the guards and entered through one of the private gardens. There was a secret way from the garden that he knew of that would lead him to Idril’s room without being seen. Turgon had shown it to him and others whom he trusted implicitly, ‘just in case’. At the time Glorfindel had thought the secret passage a needless affectation, that Turgon was taking the concept of ‘hiddenness’ a bit too far. Now, though, it would serve his purpose well.

When he entered Idril’s room he found her soundly asleep. Even her eyes were closed. He carefully covered her from head to foot with a blanket and lifted her up over his shoulder. She never stirred. Then he retraced his route back down to the garden and out, using the twisting alleys to make his way back home, which was situated in the upper end of the third level of the city. He had made a point of making sure that none of his household were around at that hour and brought the elleth to his own room, laying her gently down on his bed.

So far, so good.

Connected to his rooms by a small sitting room was another suite of rooms that had originally been meant for the lady of his House, were he ever to wed, but it remained unoccupied by any elleth. He had sealed the door of the suite leading to the hallway, so that now one could only enter it through the sitting room, which, in fact, Glorfindel had converted into an armory. He went into the lady’s suite, which consisted of a front parlor, bedroom, bathing chamber and privy, lighting candles. He had made sure that all windows were sealed in such a way that Idril would not be able to escape through them, nor would any lights be seen from the outside. She would have to do with candlelight for the time he planned for her to be there.

Once the candles were lit, he returned to his own room and brought Idril to the other bedroom, slipping her between the covers and gently kissing her on the brow, as he had often done when she was an elfling. The strength of the sleeping potion would ensure that she would sleep until nearly midmorning, so he felt confident that he would be able to return from seeing Ecthelion off before she woke.

Indeed, it was nearly time to go, for Ecthelion would leave just before dawn. He made his way back to his own room, bolting the door to the lady’s suite, changed his clothes and made his way out of the house down to the main gate, where Ecthelion and his people were already gathered, readying their horses. Ecthelion looked up at his approach and smiled. They gave one another warm hugs in greeting.

“Stay out of trouble while I’m gone,” Ecthelion said.

Glorfindel laughed. “I’ll try, but I’ll be leaving soon myself,” he reminded his friend, for Glorfindel would be taking the southern patrol while Ecthelion was going north. The northern patrol was a longer route than the southern one so Glorfindel would not need to leave until three days later.

“I’ll meet you at Bad Uthwen, then, a week from today,” Ecthelion said.

“I’ll be there,” Glorfindel replied and then Ecthelion and his troop were away and Glorfindel went back to his house, ordering breakfast which he declared he wished to eat in his rooms as he had much to do to prepare for his own patrol. Such a request from the lord of the House was not unusual and the cooks thought nothing of it, but brought a tray laden with dishes to him in short order. Glorfindel, of course, had no intention of eating any of it, though he did steal a slice of bread to munch on as he brought the food into Idril’s suite and placed it on a table in the parlor, then went into the bedroom and sat beside the bed, waiting for the elleth to awaken, which she did about a half an hour later.

“Good morning,” Glorfindel said as he saw her stir and blink open her eyes.

Idril sat up quickly, clutching the covers around her, her eyes wide with shock as she took in the room which was not hers, finally looking at Glorfindel who sat there smiling.

“Where am I?” she said. “Why am I here? What are you doing here, Glorfindel?”

“Don’t be alarmed, Idril,” Glorfindel said soothingly. “No harm has come to you and you are safe. You are in my own house.”

Idril’s eyes narrowed. “And why am I here and how did I come to be here?”

“Ah... well, as to that, why don’t you freshen up first and I will explain over breakfast.” He quickly pointed out where the bathing chamber and privy were, explaining that unfortunately, he had no clothing fit for ellith, but he had provided her with some of his own tunics.

She eyed him with grave suspicion, but in the end went into the bathing chamber, closing the door decisively behind her, coming out about a half an hour later dressed in an ankle-length tunic of forest green. Glorfindel, meanwhile, had gone to the outer parlor and she joined him there, though she refused to eat, demanding an explanation instead.

“It’s a jest, Idril,” Glorfindel said. “I do not mean to keep you here for long, just long enough.”

“Long enough for what?” Idril asked.

“Long enough for Turgon to turn the city upside down in search of you.”

“And how is this supposed to be amusing?” the elleth demanded.

“Well, it won’t be amusing to anyone but me,” Glorfindel replied, “which is the whole point.”

She sat there for a long moment digesting what he had said before speaking. “And is Ecthelion a part of this?”

Glorfindel shook his head. “No. He wanted no part in this. Indeed, he told me I was insane to even think of it. That’s why I waited until he left for patrol, because he would have realized what had happened immediately.”

Now Idril’s eyes were blazing with fury. “And you expect me to go along with you in your madness?”

“Please, Idril,” he begged, “just for a little while. Soon it will be discovered that you are not in your rooms nor can you be found anywhere. I have no doubt Turgon will call upon me and others to scour the city for clues of your disappearance. I intend to lead them on a merry chase with a false trail already laid out.”

“You have odd tastes in entertainment, Glorfindel,” Idril said. “Don’t think I’m going to sit here meekly while you have your way in this.”

Glorfindel sighed. “I’m sorry. I had hoped you would agree to help me pull this off.”

“Perhaps if you had come to me first with the idea I might have done so,” Idril replied, “but as it is....”

There was a sudden flurry of footsteps running down the hall past the parlor and then pounding on the door to Glorfindel’s suite. Glorfindel smiled. “Ah... I suspect that’s Gilmir come to inform me that Turgon has called for me.” He stood, giving Idril a short bow. “Please make yourself at home, my lady. I will return when I can. Yell all you want. These walls are thick and none will come into this wing if I leave orders for them not to.”

Without giving her time to reply, he strode out of the room, locking it behind him, and then hurried to the door of his own parlor, opening it and effecting a disgruntled look. “Yes, Gilmir, what is it?” he demanded of his steward.

“Forgive the intrusion, lord,” Gilmir said, looking flustered. “The King has asked that you attend on him immediately. Something terrible has happened.”

“What?”

“Lady Idril is missing,” the steward exclaimed and Glorfindel evinced a look of shock.

“I’ll leave immediately,” he said and, grabbing his cloak, he did just that, giving orders that the maids who usually cleaned his rooms were not to do so at this time. “For I am in the middle of cleaning my weapons,” he told Gilmir and the steward nodded. Whenever his lord was cleaning his weapons, no one entered his rooms. Glorfindel made his way quickly to the king’s house where he found all in chaos. Turgon was beside himself and ordered Glorfindel and several others to start searching for his daughter.

“Where could she have gone without anyone seeing her?” someone asked. “Could she have been taken by someone against her will?”

“Who would have taken her?” another chimed in. “Indeed, why would anyone do so?”

No one had any answers and then a guard approached Turgon announcing that the watch had found a spot on the lower wall where someone had apparently used a rope to leave the city undetected. “We found some strands of hair and a bit of cloth,” he said, handing the items to the king who looked at the strands and went pale. Glorfindel was right beside him.

“What is it?” he asked solicitously.

“Idril,” Turgon said stonily. “These are Idril’s.” Then he looked at the guard. “Show me where you found these.”

Thus, they all trooped down to the lower city and were shown where the rope was still dangling from the wall. Turgon eyed the evidence and stared out across the vale to the mountains in the distance. “If whoever took my daughter kept to a straight path they would come to Bad Uthwen.”

“Do they mean to take her out of the valley then?” someone asked. “How do they hope to pass the guards there?”

Turgon shook his head. “I do not know, but I plan to find out. The Valar help whoever has done this. If any harm comes to my daughter....” he left the threat unspoken.

Galdor, who was the Lord of the House of the Tree, then spoke. “I’ll send Legolas after them. He is the best scout we have and knows every leaf and stone in the valley.” Turgon nodded and they all went back up through the city, while Galdor went to find Legolas Greenleaf who was of his House. Glorfindel offered his own people to help in the search. Turgon agreed and so Glorfindel returned to his home and informed the household of what had happened, ordering his troops to join in the search. “I will remain here beside the King to give him comfort,” he told them and no one thought that odd, for all knew how close their lord was to the king and his daughter.

That effectively emptied his house for the most part. Pretending that he needed to arm himself, he retired to his own rooms and then made his way to where Idril was, unlocking the door and entering the parlor. He was just barely able to avoid the heavy tray that Idril was attempting to smash over his head as he did so and grabbed her before she was able to escape.

“Now, now,” he said jovially, “how unsporting, hiding behind the door like that.”

“Let me go, Glorfindel,” Idril yelled. “I promise I won’t let Ada hurt you too much.”

“Please, Idril, just one more hour,” he begged as he held her. “Just long enough for Legolas to reach Bad Uthwen and then I will let you go, if you promise to tell your adar that you were in on the jest.”

“Whyever would I do that?” she demanded, writhing in his embrace, trying to bite him.

“Because if you do, I’ll train you in swordfighting,” he replied. It was the one bribe he knew she would accept, for she had been pleading with both Turgon and Glorfindel to learn the art of the sword. Turgon had been reluctant to let her and Glorfindel had not attempted to dissuade him from his decision, but now....

Idril stopped her squirming, giving him a calculating look. “How will you convince Ada to let me train?” she asked.

He smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I will use the excuse of this jest to point out the need for you to know how to defend yourself. Your ada will see the wisdom of my words.”

“You mean it?” she asked.

“Yes, but only if you promise to go along with this.”

Idril gave him a reluctant nod. “Very well,” she said.

He released her with a sigh of relief. “Then, let us seal our bargain with a kiss,” he said, opening his arms to her.

She smiled and went into his embrace. He never expected the knee in his groin. He gave a strangled gasp, clutching the spot where she had struck him, falling to his knees as she slipped out of his grasp. The pain of the tray smashing over his head was not as great as the pain in his groin but it effectively knocked him out....

****

“And then when I came to, it was to find Turgon standing over me with a wicked grin and Idril by his side, looking smug,” Glorfindel said with a rueful sigh as he finished his narrative.

Ecthelion shook his head. “Serves you right.”

“I really thought Idril would go along with it,” Glorfindel stated. “She promised....”

“Oaths to one’s captors are not binding,” Ecthelion said. “I would think you would have known this.”

“Well, I do now,” Glorfindel retorted with a snort.

“So, what happens next?” Ecthelion asked.

Glorfindel shrugged. “Nothing really. I’m in here for the next month, then Turgon has ordered me to start training Idril in swordfighting, as I had promised.”

“Hmm... so she gets what she’s always wanted out of this anyway,” Ecthelion commented with a smirk.

Glorfindel nodded, looking glum. Ecthelion patted him on the shoulder. “Cheer up,” he said. “Just think of all the mischief you can dream up while you’re in here.”

“Oh, I think I’m done with mischief for a long while,” Glorfindel said with great feeling.

“Pity,” Ecthelion said, feigning sorrow, “as I came up with a good jest while I was on patrol, but if you’re not interested....” He made to rise and Glorfindel pulled him back down onto the cot, his expression turning cunning.

“Tell me,” he said and Ecthelion smiled knowingly....

****

Aragorn and the others stared at the Elf-lord with expressions ranging from amazement to amusement as Glorfindel finished his tale.

“You never learn, do you?” Elrond said with a shake of his head, smiling wryly.

Glorfindel gave him a smirk. “What’s the fun of that? Besides, the jest that Ecthelion came up with was aimed at one of the minor lords who was an irritating bore and was constantly on both our nerves. Even Turgon laughed when he learned what we did to him after I was released from prison.”

“You said you made a slight miscalculation in this jest involving Idril,” Aragorn said. “Just what was it?”

Glorfindel gave him a jaundiced look. “Estel, were you not paying attention? The miscalculation was Idril herself. As Ecthelion pointed out, she was her adar’s daughter.”

“Ah...” Aragorn said with a nod.

“So what mad scheme did Ecthelion dream up?” Erestor asked. The others all nodded their heads, letting it be known that they, too, were interested in hearing about it.

Glorfindel gave a chuckle and began to describe what he and Ecthelion had done to a certain minor lord whom no one on Turgon’s council could stand. As he spun his tale, the laughter of the others was loud and long. The few prisoners and the many guards who heard it found themselves smiling for no particular reason.

****

All words are Sindarin.

Adar: Father. The hypocoristic form is Ada.

Caragdûr: The precipice on the north side of Amon Gwareth, which is the hill on which Gondolin was built. Eöl would be cast over it for the death of Turgon’s sister, Aredhel.

Ellon: Male Elf. The plural is ellyn.

Hithlain: Elvish rope, literally, ‘mist-thread’.

Elleth: Female Elf. The plural is ellith.

Bad Uthwen: Way of Escape.

Eönwë Among the Edain

Summary: Eönwë has been chosen to teach the Edain who will go to Númenor what they need to know to succeed in their new life, but he’s not too happy about the assignment. Written for the 2009 SWG ‘Akallabeth-in-August Project’.

****

‘Eönwë came among them and taught them; and they were given wisdom and power and life more enduring than any others of mortal races have possessed.’ — Akallabeth

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Second Age, Year 2:

“I’m a Maia, not a... a cememmótar,” Eönwë muttered to himself as he gazed upon the several Atani looking at him expectantly. Most of them were handling the farming implements that had been handed out to them as if they were weapons of war. Eönwë winced when one hapless Atan nearly decapitated his fellow with the scythe he was trying to wield.

*You are a pëantar,* Lord Manwë bespoke him from Aman, mildly reprimanding him, *and farming will not be the only thing you will teach these Children.*

*I still do not understand why I have been chosen for this mission, lord,* the Herald of Manwë said. *Did I do something wrong?*

*Wrong!?* Manwë exclaimed. *This is not a punishment, Eönwë, but an honor, or so I hope you will see it in time.*

*An honor to watch these Children stumble all over themselves trying to be what they are not?* Eönwë asked in disbelief, watching with dismay as Elros Eärendilion tried (unsuccessfully) to bring the group of Atani to order. *Even Elros is less than sterling as a leader of these people.*

*He is still very young,* Varda pointed out. *Give him time. Give them all time.*

*But why me?* Eönwë groused. *Would it not make sense for those Maiar who are versed in specific crafts to teach them what they need to know? Or, failing that, the Eldar? I know nothing of farming or animal husbandry or anything else for that matter except fighting.*

*Gil-galad and his people are too busy with the construction of Lindon,* Manwë said patiently, *and Círdan has his hands full with all the ships that have to be built, not only for the Elves who wish to now sail West, but also for the Atani who will go to Andórë. As for why you and not another, that is very simple. These Children know you. You are the Captain of the Host of the West and they trust you. You may call upon your brethren at any time for help, but they will remain unclad. You are the only one these Children will see and with whom they will interact.*

Eönwë sighed. What his lord said was true enough, but he still had his doubts. Yet, watching as young Elros cast him a sheepish grin as order of a sort was finally won, he couldn’t help but feel anything but love and compassion for them. They had fought (and died) so valiantly and none had come away from the war unscathed. Yet, the survivors, at least those who had indicated a desire to go to the new land which even now the Valar were raising out of the ocean and making habitable, were so eager and excited about this new life of theirs that Eönwë couldn’t help smiling at their enthusiasm.

“Right, then,” he said smartly, effortlessly switching from Quenya to Sindarin, putting aside all doubts for the moment. “These implements are not weapons, but tools, tools to help you in the growing and harvesting of crops. Now, I need a volunteer to help demonstrate the proper method of using a scythe.”

It was no surprise to the Maia that Elros was the first to raise his hand. “Very well, Elros,” he said, resisting a sigh, gesturing for him to step forward. He eschewed using any titles that these Children might have for themselves, wishing to treat them all equally without any favoritism, but Elros made it difficult, always volunteering. Still, the lad was supposed to be their leader, so he made allowances for that.

“Now, hold the scythe like so,” he instructed. “Keep your feet comfortably apart to maintain balance. You’re going to use a swinging motion, like this.” He pretended to be holding a scythe, mentally following the instructions of Lady Yavanna’s Chief Maia, Cemendillë, as he ‘saw’ her make the appropriate movements. “Got it? Good,” he said with a smile at Elros’ nod. “Now, let’s give it a try.”

He pointed to a field of tall weeds and grasses which they were using for practice. Elros raised his scythe and started his swing, twisting just right and coming down at the proper angle. Eönwë felt a momentary rush of paternal pride at this scion of both Elves and Men, but then watched in disbelief as the lad inadvertently let go of the scythe, sending it winging directly towards him.

He had just enough time to go incorporeal before the blade would slice him open. The scythe then continued on its trajectory, crashing into a nearby oak tree, lopping off one of its limbs in the process before falling to the ground. Eönwë could tell that the tree was less than pleased by it all.

“Oops,” he heard Elros say as he reformed his fana. He heard Cemendillë laughing hysterically and even Lord Manwë snickered in a most unlordly manner.

He sighed at the chagrined expression on Elros’ face. “Let’s try it again... slowly.”

****

“Lord Eönwë?”

Eönwë looked up from the notes he was making on the ‘soaring scythe incident’, as his fellow Maiar were calling it, and smiled. “Come in, Elros, and sit.”

The Perelda entered the Maia’s pavilion which was set up on the outskirts of the tent ‘city’ where the Atani were living until such time as they left for Númenor. The ‘city’, irreverently referred to by many of the Atani as Estolad Edwen, was perched on a headland in Harlindon, overlooking the Gulf of Lhûn.

“I’m sorry about earlier, my lord,” Elros said quietly as he took a seat.

“That’s all right, child,” the Maia said. “Your enthusiasm is appreciated but you need to temper it with a modicum of sense. You’re trying too hard.”

Elros sighed. “I know,” he said. “It’s just that... I feel I need to prove myself to the other Edain, show them that I’m worthy to be their leader.”

Eönwë gave him a piercing look. “Prove to them or to yourself?”

Now Elros blushed and would not meet the Maia’s eyes. “Both, I guess.”

The Herald of Manwë nodded. “You are still quite young....”

“I’m sixty!” Elros protested. “By the standards of the Edain, I’m... I’m middle-aged.”

Eönwë could not help but laugh at the affronted look on the lad’s face. “But by the standards of your elven heritage, you are barely out of elflinghood.”

“Yet, I’m no longer counted among the Eldar,” Elros said.

“In terms of your eventual fate, no,” Eönwë conceded, “but you still have the physical attributes of the Firstborn which you inherited from both your parents. That has not changed regardless of your choice.”

“Then why do I feel so inept?” Elros complained.

“Because, as I said earlier, you are trying too hard,” the Maia explained gently. “Elros, you’re not expected to become a wise and able ruler overnight. It will be years, decades even, before you and your people can leave for Númenor. Take that time to grow into your new role.”

Elros sighed, looking dejected. Eönwë smiled fondly at him. Elros had already begun to adopt the fashions preferred by the Edain, his dark hair cut short around his shoulders. He recalled how Elrond had looked askance at his brother when he appeared with his locks shorn at their last meeting before Elrond left with Gil-galad to found Lindon on the north coast of the Gulf. It had not been an amicable parting between the brothers and the Maia grieved for them both, but knew he could do naught to ease the hard feelings (mostly on Elrond’s part) that lay between them. Hopefully, in time, Elrond would forgive Elros for what he deemed a betrayal by his brother.

“I’ll try better next time, lord,” Elros finally said.

“And that is all that is ever asked of us,” Eönwë said, “that we try. Do not seek perfection, for it cannot be found. Seek instead to be the best you can be within the limitations of the abilities given you by Eru. And perhaps,” he added, “you might let someone else volunteer for a change, hmm?”

Elros blushed and nodded. “Yes, lord.”

Eönwë smiled. “Good. Now, off you go. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Elros stood and gave the Maia his obeisance before exiting the pavilion. The Maia sat for some time staring at nothing in particular, deep in thought, then sighed and went back to his notes.

****

Eönwë looked at the group comprised primarily of women with a few men, including Elros, in the mix. During the past month or so as the Maia continued to teach the Atani the agricultural arts, Elros had heeded Eönwë’s advice and had stopped volunteering for everything, for which the Maia was thankful. He could not fault the lad for his enthusiasm, but he had to admit that things had gone more smoothly over the following weeks. Eönwë was actually beginning to enjoy his role as a teacher.

Of course, there was that incident with the runaway horse, but Eönwë could hardly blame Elros for that. Alatar, Lord Oromë’s Chief Maia, had been a bit bored with his assignment of helping Eönwë teach the Atani horse husbandry and had decided to have a little fun at the Atani’s expense. The Maia had induced the placid gelding that Elros was just about to mount to suddenly buck and go running off with Elros still clinging to the reins. It took some time for them to calm the horse down with Eönwë scathingly dressing down Alatar to within a inch of the Maia’s life. Luckily, no one was seriously injured, but Elros was mortified before the other Atani, for he was justifiably proud of his abilities to handle any horse with all the innate confidence of his Elven kin. He had become despondent and it had taken Eönwë several days of cajoling and two bottles of Gil-galad’s best wine to bring him around and see the humorous side of the incident. Not that there had been, Eönwë reflected, then almost laughed out loud, remembering the aftermath. Lord Oromë had not been pleased with his Maia and Alatar had been reassigned — ‘temporarily demoted’ as Roimendil, one of Lord Oromë’s other Maiar, described it — to cleaning up after Nahar. According to Roimendeil, Nahar was making sure that there was a lot to clean up.

But today the lesson was about the medicinal properties of certain plants. Eönwë would have preferred Elros’ brother to come and give this particular lecture, but he knew that Elrond would have felt very uncomfortable with the idea. Instead, Nielluin, Lady Estë’s Chief Maia, was standing unclad beside him, her flowery scent unnoticed by the Atani because of the many fragrant herbs that were on the table before them.

“Today,” Eönwë said without preamble, “ we will begin studying some of the plants that will be found on Númenor that will be of benefit to you. As you are Mortal and prone to illnesses and disease which do not touch the Eldar, it is important that you understand what medical properties these plants have that will help alleviate pain, bring down fevers, stimulate blood flow and so on.”

He paused at the grimaces and looks of resignation on the faces of many of his students and gave them a compassionate look. “There is no shame in who and what you are, my children,” he said gently. “You are as Ilúvatar made you, and though your lives are brief compared to the Eldar and fraught with maladies that they do not know, you have great strengths within you to overcome much of the adversities that touch your lives.”

“Except death,” one of the women answered.

Eönwë nodded. “Yes, Melgileth,” he said to the woman. “It is Ilúvatar’s Gift to you, though you do not believe this. I tell you truly, in time, even the Valar and Maiar will envy you as the long ages become wearying to us who have existed from before Time and Eä were ever created.”

Eönwë allowed a few minutes for them to digest his words before continuing. “Now, knowing this, it is to your benefit to learn how to combat the illnesses and diseases that may assail you.” He reached out and picked up a plant with a dark brown coral-like rootstock and purplish flowers. “Does anyone recognize this plant?” he asked.

There was a brief pause and then Melgilith answered, “Lhûgamp, we call it, but it’s very rare. I’ve only seen it once before myself.”

Eönwë smiled. “Do you know what it can be used for?” There were several shakings of heads. “The rootstock is used as a sedative and for reducing fevers,” the Maia explained. “It is indeed rare, so it is often combined with other plants.” He picked up another plant consisting of white flowers. “I’m sure you all recognize this.”

Now there were many enthusiastic noddings of heads. “Nimêg,” Elros volunteered. “Though my brother says it’s called something else in Quenya.”

“True,” Eönwë replied. “It is usually called tarassë, though you will sometimes hear people refer to it as pinehtar or even pipinehtar. At any rate, nimêg is also a good source of a sedative, whether you use the flowers or the fruit. Combined with lhûgamp you have an effective sleeping potion for those who may suffer sleeplessness. Juice from the nimêg’s fruit can be given to restless children to help calm them. Now, these plants combined with one more make for a stronger sedative that can be used on patients to keep them asleep when you must perform a procedure on them.” He reached over and picked up another plant that gave off a fetid smell that set everyone’s noses wrinkling in disgust.

“Yes, this is dúathostol,” Eönwë said with a smile.

“But that’s a poisonous plant, lord!” one of the men protested.

“Indeed, it is, Brandir,” Eönwë acknowledged, “but using the proper dosage, mixed with the lhûgamp and nimêg, it will only produce a deep, dreamless sleep.”

“Could we not use ololoth, instead?” Elros asked. “I know Elrond used it often enough during the war when treating the wounded.”

“You could,” Eönwë said with a nod, “but ololoth has certain side-effects that you might wish to avoid. Elrond used it because the flower is plentiful and easily harvested. Even so, he limited its use. The combination of these three plants, however,” he pointed to the lhûgamp, nimêg and dúathostol, “does not produce unwanted side-effects. Care must be taken, of course, that the dosage of dúathostol is strictly monitored. Too much and your patient will indeed sleep and never wake.”

There were understanding nods from the group.

“Good,” the Maia continued briskly, pleased at the responses of these students. Some, he knew, would eventually go to Lindon and study under Elrond for a time, but for now, it was important that they learn the basics. “Now, we will divide into groups of three. You will see that several tables have been set up with all the necessary equipment and supplies needed to create this deep-sleep potion. So, Melgileth, why don’t you, Brandir and Elros work together. Haleth, you, Mitheryn and Andreth....”

Soon all of them were ranged around the tables, diligently preparing the sleeping potion under Eönwë’s directions, or rather under the silent directions given by Nielluin. The Chief Maia of Estë kept a close watch on all the Atani, alerting Eönwë when she noticed where there might be a problem. There were many complaints about the smell of the dúathostol and Haleth came in for some gentle teasing when she began sneezing at the lhûgamp and had to switch places with Mitheryn who was working with the nimêg, but on the whole, the lesson was going well and Eönwë breathed a sigh of relief when all the potions were successfully produced.

“Well, now,” he said with a teasing look. “The proof is in the pudding, so they say. I would like one of you to volunteer to take this sleeping draught so that the rest of the class can observe its effects. Is anyone up for a nap?”

There were nervous titters from the women but otherwise no one came forward.

“Er... how long a nap, lord?” Brandir finally asked. “Whoever volunteers will miss out on the rest of the lesson.”

“I realize that, Brandir,” Eönwë admitted. “Whoever drinks this will most likely sleep until early evening, but you will not miss that much. I only plan to introduce you to the other plants that I’ve collected and briefly tell you about their medicinal properties. We won’t actually work with them until tomorrow. Whoever takes the potion, I will go over this part of the lesson with them when they awaken.”

There was a brief pause, and then Brandir nodded. “Then, I volunteer, lord,” he said.

“Thank you, Brandir,” the Maia replied. “Come over here and lie down.” He motioned to where a cot appeared under a spreading oak near where they were holding the class. Brandir complied and was soon downing the potion. The other students gathered around and watched as the man began blinking and yawning.

“Don’t fight it, Brandir,” Eönwë said gently. “Just allow yourself to go to sleep.”

Within five minutes Brandir was snoring away, much to everyone’s amusement. Eönwë covered him with a blanket and silently asked Nielluin to watch over the Atan. “Now, why don’t we continue the lesson?” he said to the others and soon they were gathered around the main table while Eönwë began telling them about the other plants, quizzing them on what they already knew. Nielluin was able to supply him with the information he needed even from her position under the oak tree, keeping a clinical eye on the sleeping man.

“So, here we have mîdhaer,” Eönwë said, coming to the last of the plants, “which has a lovely smell and....”

There was a moan and then a dull thud as a body hit the ground. Everyone turned in surprise to see Elros lying unconscious where they had been making the sleeping potion. Eönwë was by his side immediately, examining his vitals, wondering what could have happened to the lad, until he noticed the empty cup next to Elros’ hand. With a sinking feeling he rose and went along the various tables, noticing that each cup in which the sleeping potion had been concocted was empty.

“Oh for the love of Atar,” he mumbled in disbelief as he watched Mitheryn futilely shake her king in an attempt to waken him. Elros, however, continued sleeping.

*I will just call up another cot, shall I?* Nielluin said to her fellow Maia, trying unsuccessfully to keep the amusement from her voice.

Eönwë sighed. *Make that two cots,* he said. *I feel a headache coming on.*

Nielluin merely snorted.

****

Eönwë looked up from the report he was reading when he heard Elros stir and watched dispassionately as the youngster struggled awake. In the end, they had taken him to his own pavilion and made him comfortable. Nielluin waited until the Atani were gone before incarnating in order to check Elros’ condition. She shook her head.

“It’s a wonder he isn’t dead,” she said.

*Well, if he does show up on my doorstep,* the two Maiar heard Lord Námo say, *I’ll throw him back out, after we’ve had a... little chat.*

Eönwë had shivered in sympathy. Lord Námo’s chats were legendary even among the Maiar. Bets were made among the Maiar as to how long the lad would sleep. Eönwë smiled thinly as he ‘heard’ some groans from some of his fellow Maiar who had guessed wrong.

Elros blinked up at him in confusion and then sighed as he came to the realization of what had happened. “How long have I been out?” he asked as he leaned back on his pillow, closing his eyes.

“Four days,” Eönwë answered.

“What!?” Elros fairly leaped out of bed in shock.

Eönwë smiled. “And every Mortal female from twelve-years and up volunteered to tend to you and see to your... er... personal needs while you slept.”

The Perelda collapsed back on the cot with a groan, his head in his hands. “I’m doomed,” he muttered.

“Not yet,” Eönwë said with a smirk. “Don’t worry. Brandir, when he awoke, and Haldan,” naming one of the other men in the herbal medicine class, “agreed to tend to you.” Elros sighed with relief and then Eönwë spoke again. “So, do you want to explain yourself?”

Elros gave him a sheepish grin, though the Maia saw nothing amusing about the situation. The lad seemed to realize this and his mien became more sober. “I was curious,” he replied.

“Curious!? Curious about what?” Eönwë demanded, just barely holding his temper. “Do you realize your curiosity could have proven fatal? Then where would the Edain be if their king was dead without an heir?”

“I’m sure they would have found someone else for the role,” Elros retorted angrily. “It’s not as if I’m that important. Others are equally capable of leading the Edain, and probably they would do a better job of it than I anyway.”

The Maia stared at the youngster in disbelief while Elros sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, his expression rueful.

“He warned me,” Elros said suddenly, speaking low.

“Who?”

“Elrond. He warned me that eventually I would weary of... of ‘playing with the Edain’, as he put it, and regret that I had made the choice that I did.”

Now Eönwë was getting a glimmer of what was truly motivating the lad. “So you’ve set out to prove your brother wrong. You’ve decided to show him that you are more Adan than the Edain and that you will never regret your choice.”

Elros looked up and gave him a shrug. “I guess,” he said.

“So why did you drink the potions? What were you trying to prove, other than the fact that you can be as stupid as the next person?”

Elros winced at the acerbic tone of the Maia’s words. “You said I still retained the physical attributes of the Eldar,” he stated and Eönwë nodded. “I was surprised at how quickly Brandir succumbed to the potion.”

“Well, that’s the general idea,” Eönwë said with a faint smile. “It wouldn’t do to have to wait an hour or so for your patient to finally fall asleep before you can treat him.”

“Yes, well, I figured that,” Elros said with a snort. “Yet, I was curious to know just how much of the potion I would need to take before I, too, fell asleep.”

“Quite forgetting my lecture on the dangers of overdosing on the dúathostol,” Eönwë reminded him. “The other two plants, together or separately, would not have been too dangerous no matter how much you had taken, though you might still have found yourself incapacitated for a time, but the amount of dúathostol that you imbibed would have killed any lesser Mortal.”

“But I’m not Mortal, you said so,” Elros protested.

“Physically, you possess the attributes of the Firstborn,” Eönwë said, “but do not forget that you also have Mortal blood running through your veins. You are not pure Elda, but neither are you pure Adan. There lies your dilemma, does it not? For all that you’ve chosen the fate of the Mortals, you do not feel completely one with them and thus, you do not feel that you are the king they need or want.”

Elros nodded, though somewhat reluctantly. Eönwë leaned over and placed a comforting hand on his knee. “Child, for better or for worse, you are the logical choice to lead these people. You know that you and Elrond are Gil-galad’s heirs and if he had not survived the war, all else being equal, your brother would now be High King of the Noldor in Ennorath.”

“Yes, I realize that,” Elros averred, “and Elrond would make a good king. He has a natural flair for leadership. I do not.”

“Ah....” the Maia said and then went silent, thinking things through. Finally, he nodded to himself, and gave Elros a friendly pat on the knee. “Why don’t you go bathe and have something to eat? We’ll talk about this again later.”

Elros sighed and rose from the cot, grabbing clean clothes and a towel and headed for the communal bathing area while Eönwë continued sitting in contemplation.

****

Two days later, Elros received a surprise visitor — Círdan of Mithlond.

“So, what brings you to Estolad, Uncle Círdan?” Elros asked, giving the ancient Elf-lord a kinsman’s kiss in greeting.

“You do, lad,” Círdan said, returning Elros’ hug and giving him a warm smile. “I was telling Eönwë that I’m in sore need of someone to help me.”

“Help you how?” Elros asked, his expression one of great puzzlement.

“I’m swamped with work,” the Sinda said. “I need someone to help me with the logistics of getting all these ships built. I have a number of Edain who expressed interest in learning the art of shipbuilding but they are a bit undisciplined and I was hoping you would come back to Mithlond with me and help me out with them. They need someone to guide them. I recall you were pretty handy around a ship. These Edain would benefit from your expertise.”

Elros gave him a jaundiced look. “Cannot the Elves who are there do that?”

“My people are teaching them what they need to know in terms of building a ship,” Círdan replied, “but only you can give them what they truly need.”

“And what is that?”

“A sense of purpose,” Círdan replied. “As I said, they lack discipline. They know that the ships they are helping to build will eventually be used to transport all of you to Númenor, but that is years away, decades even, from what I’ve been told. For the Mortals, it’s too long a time and too vague a timetable for them to really appreciate just how much effort it is going to take to get all in readiness for your eventual migration. That’s where you come in. As their king, you have their respect and they will follow your will where they will not follow mine.”

“I’m not much of a king,” Elros said softly. “Lord Eönwë can tell you.”

“Hmm... so I’ve heard,” Círdan said, giving him a measuring look. “Then, perhaps, you will benefit as well. You give your people the proper incentive for building the ships and I will give you pointers on how to be a more effective leader. After all, I’ve been at it a lot longer than you and I’ve picked up a few tricks here and there along the way.” He gave him a wide grin. “So, what say you, lad?”

“What about the people here in Estolad? I cannot be in two places at once. They need me as well.”

“Rather say, they will need you in the future,” Eönwë interjected, “when you are settled in Númenor. In the meantime, I would accept Círdan’s offer. He is one of the oldest of the Firstborn here in Ennorath and has had millennia of experience in leading his people successfully. You could learn a lot from him.”

“I know,” Elros said with a nod. “Well, if you think you can do without me for a time....”

“I will look after your people, Elros,” Eönwë said. “They will be well.”

“Then, I will go with you, Uncle,” Elros said.

Círdan gave him a huge smile and a hug. “That’s my elfling, then.”

“I’m not an elfling, Uncle,” Elros said with a grin, “not even close, not any more now that I am counted among the Edain.”

“Lad, no matter what you choose to be, you’ll always be an elfling to me,” Círdan said with a laugh, giving Elros another hug.

****

Eönwë and Elros’ subjects watched as the ship taking their king to Mithlond sailed up the Gulf, everyone waving farewell. Brandir sighed with relief as the ship disappeared around a headland and gave Eönwë a lopsided grin. “I hope he never finds out that, while he was sleeping off that potion, the rest of us had decided to send him to Lord Círdan for a time.”

Eönwë gave the Adan a fond smile. “He won’t hear it from me, but in truth, I had been thinking of sending him to Círdan before this.”

Melgileth nodded. “It’s good that he wanted to learn the things we are learning,” she said, “but he was learning all the wrong things and making it difficult for the rest of us. Now he has the chance to learn the things he needs to learn in order to be the king we need and deserve.”

“And he in turn needs and deserves the very best from us,” Brandir added, “so, shall we continue with our own lessons, my lord?”

Eönwë nodded and gave them all a smile. “Yes, let us even so.”

****

Thirty years later:

Eönwë stood apart watching the ships that would take the Edain to Númenor sail down the Gulf towards the ocean. It had been an interesting time, he reflected, and smiled as he spied Elros in the lead ship, standing at the wheel, an excited look on his face. Elros had spent most of the last thirty years by Círdan’s side and had matured remarkably during that time. Whenever he came to visit his people in the Encampment, Eönwë could see the wisdom and competence growing within him. He had no fear that Elros would not prove an effective and capable king, just as he had no fear for his subjects. He had taught them all the necessary skills they would need to be successful in their new lives; the rest would be up to them.

He nodded in satisfaction as the last of the ships disappeared into the blue and looked over to the headland where a lone figure stood. He sighed at the sight of Elrond who stared out to sea with a great hunger in his eyes. He had not joined the other Elves in farewelling the Edain but had kept apart. Eönwë felt sorry for the ellon, but knew that Elrond would have to come to terms with his brother’s decision on his own. Then, feeling eyes upon him, he turned to see Círdan and Gil-galad staring at him, their expressions of concern nearly identical. Eönwë knew that their concern was more for Elros and what the future would bring him than it was for Elrond at this moment. He gave them a nod and a reassuring smile and then, with a single thought, faded from their view.

****

Words are Quenya unless otherwise noted.

Cememmótar: Farmer, literally ‘earth-toiler’ [cemen ‘earth, soil’ + móta ‘to labor, toil’ + -r ‘gender-neutral agental suffix’].

Atani: Plural of Atan: Mortal, Man; the Sindarin form would be Adan (pl. Edain).

Pëantar: Giver of instructions [pëanta ‘give instructions to’ + -r ‘gender-neutral agental suffix’].

Andórë: ‘Land of Gift’, another name for Númenor.

Fana: The raiment in which the Valar and Maiar presented themselves to physical eyes, the bodies in which they self-incarnated.

Perelda: Half-elf; the Sindarin form would be Peredhel.

Estolad Edwen: (Sindarin) Second Estolad, literally, ‘The Other Encampment’. The original Estolad was the land south of Nan Elmoth where the Men following Bëor and Marach dwelt after they crossed the Blue Mountains into Beleriand.

Ellon: (Eldarin) Male elf.

****

Note on the plants mentioned in this story: The real world properties with which these plants are associated are well known among herbalists. The combining of these plants to produce the desired result mentioned in the story is purely fictional. The names are Sindarin.

Nimêg: Hawthorn (Crataegus oxyacanta),also called ‘Whitethorn’ [nimp (nim-) ‘white’ + êg ‘thorn’].In early Qenya sources, Tolkien gives us tarassë, pinektar, and pipinektar In later Quenya he decided that the consonant cluster -kt- (or -ct-) became -ht-.

Lhûgamp: Coral Root (Corallorhiza ondontorhiza), also called ‘Dragon’s Claw’ [lhûg ‘dragon’ + gamp ‘claw’].

Dúathostol: Henbane (Hyoscyamus niger), also called ‘Fetid or Stinking Nightshade’ [dúath ‘nightshade’ + present (active) participle of thosta- ‘stink’]

Ololoth: Opium Poppy (Papaver somniferum) [ôl (olo-) ‘dream’ + loth ‘flower’; In early Qenya sources, Tolkien gives us fúmella or fúmellótë ‘flower of sleep’. In Third Age Quenya, fu- tended to become hu-. As there is no attested word for ‘sleep’ in Sindarin, I have used the associative word ‘dream’ instead.

Mîdhaer: Rosemary (Rosemarinus officinalis),‘Dew of the Sea’ which is the actual meaning of the plant’s name.

Tenn’ Ambar-Metta

Summary:  Elrond receives a final letter from his brother. Written for the 2009 SWG ‘Akallabeth in August Project’. MEFA 2010: Second Place: Races: Elves: Noldorin Elves.

****

Lindon, Second Age 600:

Elrond Peredhel was just finishing up binding the ankle of an elfling who was not much older than thirty and who had had the misfortune of slipping on the wet deck of a ship, when Erestor entered the examining room. The Half-Elf looked up in surprise at his friend. Erestor’s mien was carefully neutral, but Elrond could see that he was somewhat upset.

“Erestor! Is there something wrong?” he asked.

“Gil-galad requires your presence, Elrond,” was all Erestor said.

Elrond frowned. “Has something happened to the king?”

“No,” Erestor said, giving a shake of his head, “but he does need to see you now.”

“Very well.” Elrond turned to the elleth sitting on the examining table and smiled. “You’ll need to stay off this ankle for a couple of days, Merillos,” he told her, then glanced over to where the elleth’s parents were standing, looking concerned. “It’s only a bad sprain, nothing torn or broken, but she will need to be kept quiet for a few days. Bring her back on Orgilion.”

Merillos’ parents nodded, looking more relieved as Elrond finished putting away his supplies before following Erestor out. As they headed across a courtyard which separated the Houses of Healing where Elrond spent most of his days towards the king’s residence, Elrond pondered what could possibly be wrong. He had never seen Erestor this upset before.

“Are you sure there is naught wrong with Gil-galad?” he asked as the two ellyn made their way up a flight of stairs that led to Gil-galad’s study which was at the top of one of the towers overlooking the city of Lindon.

“No, Elrond,” Erestor said, giving his friend a brief smile. “Gil-galad is fine, but... well, it’s best if you let him tell you.”

Elrond resisted a sigh and only nodded as they climbed the stairs. When they came into the king’s study, he was surprised to see one there whom he did not expect — Círdan. He could not help smiling at the sight of the Shipwright.

“Círdan, what a pleasant surprise,” he said, going over and giving the Lord of Mithlond a warm greeting.

Círdan smiled, though Elrond could detect an aura of sadness surrounding his old friend and mentor. “It is good to see you, too, elfling,” the Shipwright said.

Elrond gave him a jaundiced look and just barely stifled a groan. “Are you ever going to call me anything other than ‘elfling’?” he demanded.

Now Círdan’s smile was more genuine. “Lord Elfling?” he replied with a sly wink and Elrond couldn’t help laughing. The others joined in.

When they were calmer, Elrond turned to Gil-galad, giving the king his obeisance. “Erestor said you needed to see me. Is something amiss?”

The king looked upon the young healer with a kindly, though sad, expression and handed him a message tube. “Círdan brought this,” he said gently. “It came from Númenor.”

A frisson of dread spread through Elrond’s fëa as he took the tube from Gil-galad and stared at it for a moment or two before opening it. Rolled up vellum covered with seals slipped into his hand. Elrond examined the seals carefully, noting that one was of a crown with a single star above it. He felt something tighten within him and found it difficult to swallow. Gil-galad silently handed him a thin-bladed knife to cut the seals. Unrolling what turned out to be several sheets, Elrond began to read.

            My beloved brother,

            By the time you read this, I will be gone....

“Elrond!” he heard Erestor shout and felt his friend grabbing him as the vellum sheets dropped from nerveless fingers and he started to crumple to the floor. Even as Erestor gently led him to a chair he was vaguely aware of Gil-galad bending down and picking up the scattered sheets while Círdan went to a sideboard and poured some wine into a cut-crystal goblet, handing it to Erestor, who encouraged him to drink. When he happened to look up he noticed that Círdan’s expression was unreadable, while Gil-galad’s was one of deep sorrow and sympathy.

Elrond drank the wine in two gulps and found his world steadying. He felt tears running down his face and he sat there, staring out a window that ironically looked onto the sea. The words of the letter rang through his mind: I will be gone... I will be gone....

Gil-galad placed the letter in his hands, but all Elrond could do was sit there, his eyes seeing nothing, his mind frozen in shock. He felt rather than saw Gil-galad kneel before him, his expression one of deep compassion. “Would you like one of us to read this for you?” he asked quietly.

Elrond nodded mutely and looked to where Erestor knelt on his other side, handing him the vellum sheets. He was not sure why he wanted Erestor to read the letter rather than Gil-galad or even Círdan. Perhaps it was simply because he and Erestor were close friends while Gil-galad and Círdan were his mentors. Erestor gave him a sad smile and nodded, moving to sit in a chair next to Elrond. Gil-galad motioned for Círdan to find a seat even as he sat on Elrond’s other side, placing his hand on the ellon’s arm to offer him comfort.

When all were settled, Erestor looked at the letter, scanning the words for a moment, then sighing before beginning to read, his voice low and gentle.

“‘My beloved brother, By the time you read this, I will be gone from the Circles of Arda. Before I go I wanted to take this opportunity to speak to you one last time, even if only through the medium of ink on vellum. I know we parted with some bitterness and it has been my deepest regret....’”

****

Númenor, Second Age 442:

Elros Tar-Minyatur, once Peredhel, now counted among the Edain, sat at his desk and pondered the words he knew he must write. His time was short, but he could not return the Gift of Life to Ilúvatar until he had done this last thing. He glanced over at the neat pile of letters which he had already written, one to each of his children and one to each of his close friends. This would be the last letter, and it was the hardest to write. He sighed, picking up the quill, dipping it into the inkwell and resumed writing.

‘.... my deepest regret. I do not know if the years have softened your heart towards me. I can only hope and pray that you have forgiven me for what you must have deemed a betrayal. I assure you it was never that. My choice was one that could not be other than it was and I do not regret it.

‘O hanar nîn! You cannot know the joys and sorrows I have experienced in these years since bringing my people — Yes! They are my beloved people — here to Númenor. The early years were a struggle as we strove to build a civilization, one that I hope will continue to flourish in the ages to come. You should see the city that we built. It is called Armenelos and I think it is quite fair, though perhaps to elven eyes it will seem a paltry thing. Yet, we Edain — and yes, I think of myself as one — built it with our own hands, though admittedly we had some help. You recall that there was little time for any to learn the finer arts and crafts of civilization while fighting against Morgoth. You know that Lord Eönwë spent many years with us while we were waiting for the ships to be built that would take us to our new home, teaching us what we needed to know in order to thrive as a people, discovering or perhaps rediscovering our heritage as Edain. And we have been blessed with the presence of Elves from Tol Eressëa who occasionally sail into our harbors bringing fair gifts of flowers and trees with which to beautify our land. We welcome them gladly and they have taught us much. I even like to think that we may have taught them a thing or two along the way, as well.

‘I know that you will read these words in disbelief, believing that I could never have found happiness in my life, having forsaken my elven heritage. Yet, are we not also of Mortal blood, you and I? Should we disdain the blood of Beren or Tuor that runs through our veins? I think not. Indeed, I hope that you do not. But do not think that, though I chose to be counted among Mortals, that I in turn disdained the blood of my elven ancestors, for I did not. If anything, I think I have honored my elven heritage by becoming Mortal, for in doing so, I have given my children and my children’s children something of that heritage. And as they marry, that elven heritage will be infused into the blood of later generations, thus ennobling the Edain even more than they were simply by their association with the Eldar.

‘I remember how excited I was when we at last took ship to our new home, excited and frightened. Oh, yes, my brother! I, Elros Eärendilion, knew fear. Even as I write these words I can see you shaking your head in disbelief, but it is the truth. I recall what Gil-galad told me when I told him how frightened I was, unsure if I could lead my people wisely and well, for I was still young as the Eldar account such things, and I knew well my inexperience.

‘“Remember, Elros, thou mayest be accounted young in the eyes of the Eldar, but if thou rememberest all that Círdan and I taught thee, thou shalt do well. Forget not that, though thou hast chosen to be counted among the Edain, thou art still of the House of Finwë. I am very proud of thee....”’

****

Elrond looked up at Gil-galad in surprise. “Did you really say that?”

Gil-galad gave him an understanding smile. “Yes, Elrond, I did, and I meant every word. I was very proud of Elros for making the choice that he did, no less than I was proud of you for your choice. Neither of you had an easy decision to make. As much as I grieved at losing your brother to Time I knew that he could not have chosen other than he did. It was his destiny.”

Elrond grimaced. “That is what he told me, that it was his destiny to join the Edain even as it was mine to cleave unto the Eldar, but all I knew was that my only brother was deserting me as all have deserted me.” The utter sorrow and despair that laced his words pierced the hearts of his friends.

“We have not deserted you, elfling,” Círdan said. “And though you have lost your brother in truth, you have found another to be the brother of your heart.” He gestured to Erestor. “Do not disdain such a precious gift which Ilúvatar has given you.”

“Nor do I,” Elrond said with a sigh, “yet, I cannot help but feel as I do, that my family, one by one, has deserted me, leaving me to fend for myself.”

There was silence between them. Elrond noticed the look of hurt and sorrow on Gil-galad’s face and realized that in his grief he may have hurt one who was of his family in Ennorath. “I’m sorry,” he said with chagrin, “I did not mean to....”

“It’s all right, Elrond,” Gil-galad replied. “I knew what you meant. We are, after all, distant cousins. It’s not the same thing.”

Elrond nodded, then turned to Erestor. “Pray continue,” he said and the ellon  complied, taking a moment to find his place.

“‘In the intervening years, whenever I despaired of having made the right decision, these words have brought me great comfort....’”

****

Elros paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts, smiling slightly as certain memories flitted across his mind. He could not possibly relate them all in this one letter. “I should have thought to write a book to send to Elrond,” he said aloud to himself, chuckling at the thought. He had decided against sending his brother his diaries, for he felt it more important that they remain in Númenor, for much that was written within them pertained to life among the Edain and he did not think Elrond would have found the little doings of Mortals of any interest.

Or perhaps he would have, but it was too late to make copies now and so this letter would have to do. He dipped his quill into the ink and continued writing.

‘The early years were the hardest, yet, I think, they were also, for me, the happiest. It was during that time that I met the woman who would capture my heart. Her name was Emeldir and, like her namesake, she, too, was of the House of Bëor, so we were very distant cousins. You will never know how nervous I was when I proposed to her. I practically fainted from relief when she said yes. She’s been dead now for over a century.

‘You would have liked her, brother, for she was very strong-willed and quite the scholar, founding several schools and the royal library. She gave me several beautiful children. The oldest, Vardamir, takes after his naneth, for he is a loremaster and we nicknamed him ‘Nólimon’ for his love of ancient lore. He has already told me that he will not accept the scepter once I am gone but abdicate in favor of my grandson, Amandil, for he is already three hundred and eighty-one years old and has no desire to rule. He is too in love with his books! But Amandil is only half my age and is quite ready to take on the mantle of kingship. I have no fear for the future of my people with him as king.

‘And so it comes to this: though I have retained the physical attributes of the Eldar, in choosing mortality, I find that I am grown weary and in this last year I have felt a need to ‘seek else-whither’ as some of the Eldar have called it when referring to the chief characteristic of Men. Also, I miss my beloved Emeldir and would fain be with her once again.

‘Oh, Elrond, how I wish I could share with you all the triumphs and tragedies of my life, for yes, there have been tragedies, though the triumphs far out-weigh them. I have missed our long talks at night when we lay under the stars dreaming about what our lives would be like once the war was over. Little did either of us imagine the reality. Still, though I will soon be gone from the world, I do not fear my passing. Indeed, I am looking forward to it and see it as one more adventure. You know how much I always craved adventure. Ah! I can see that smile on your face.

‘Be well, my brother, and be happy. May the Valar bless you even as I have been blessed. I do not know when you will ever receive this letter, though I have faith that you will someday read my words. To that end, I will place this in a message tube and I have left instructions with my children and grandchildren that if ever a ship of Númenor makes its way to Ennorath, this letter will go with it to be delivered into your hands....’

****

Elrond glanced at Erestor when the ellon stopped reading, giving him a quizzical look. “Is there not more?” he asked, reaching out for the letter. Erestor gave him the sheets of vellum and Elrond read the last part to himself.

“‘Tye-meluvan ilumë, hánonya, tenn’ ambar-metta ar pella,’” he whispered, reading the words on the page. He looked fondly at the name that was scrawled afterwards, tears flowing freely. He idly glanced at the words following the signature and felt his breath hitch. “The date of the letter,” he exclaimed, looking up at his friends in anguish. “He died a hundred and fifty-eight years ago and I only just learn of it!”

Gil-galad stood and took him in his embrace, giving him comfort. “Be glad that you have finally learned of it, child,” he said quietly. “If it were not for the ones who braved the wide ocean to bring you this letter, you would never have learned of it.”

Elrond pulled back, giving Gil-galad a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

It was Círdan who answered him, though. “A ship arrived this morning, a ship out of Númenor,” he said. “Its captain told me that he is the first to venture so far from the island since it was founded.”

“I... I wondered how this letter came to be here,” Elrond averred.

“When Círdan brought the captain to me,” Gil-galad said, “we thought it prudent to have you read this letter before meeting him, for he says he would fain greet you. Would you like to speak to him? He will be able to tell you something of your brother and his descendants. I understand Elros’ great-grandson now holds the scepter of Númenor.”

Elrond nodded, wiping away tears. “Yes. I would like that.” Then, he turned to the others, giving them a shy smile. “Thank you. Thank you for being here for me.”

“You are most welcome, Elrond,” Erestor said with a smile of his own, giving the ellon a brief hug. “After all, that is what friends are for.”

“And we will be here for you in the days to come, Elrond,” Gil-galad said, “for I think you will need time to properly grieve for your loss, but for now, put aside your grief for a time and listen to what this good Man has to say.”

Elrond nodded and Gil-galad turned to Erestor. “Will you bring Captain Vëantur here, Erestor? I think we would all like to meet him.”

Erestor bowed and left even as Elrond resumed his seat, reading his brother’s letter to himself as they waited for the Númenórean’s arrival.

****

Elros finished the letter and after spreading sand across the final page to dry the ink, he carefully rolled the pages together and placed the royal seals on it before shoving it into the waiting message tube. He sighed, gazing out the window, enjoying the view of the sun setting behind the Meneltarma. It would be his last sunset. He stared at the message tube still in his hand, wishing idly that he could have given his brother more than a few words on vellum, but he knew this was the only gift he could give him, other than the gift of his love.

“Be well, my brother,” he whispered. Then he went to the door and opened it to find his family and friends and members of the court waiting for him in the anteroom to his study. He handed the message tube to Vardamir. “You will see that my brother gets this?” he asked.

Vardamir nodded, not even bothering to wipe the tears from his cheeks. “Yes, Ada. I or another who comes after me will make sure Uncle Elrond receives this. I promise.”

Elros nodded, then gave them all a wistful smile. “Come, then. It is time,” he said, as he accepted the scepter that his grandson, Amandil, had been holding for him. They made their way through the corridors of the palace in silence with Elros in the lead and Vardamir and Amandil flanking him. Guards opened the main doors of the palace, giving Elros deep bows, and he could see the multitude waiting silently for him in the plaza. He paused for a brief moment and then, taking a deep breath, the first king of Númenor walked out to greet his people for the last time.

****

Words are Sindarin unless otherwise noted.

Tenn’ Ambar-Metta: (Quenya) ‘Until World’s-Ending’

Peredhel: Half-Elf.

Elleth: (Eldarin) Female Elf.

Orgilion: Star-day, the first day of the Eldarin week.

Ellyn: (Eldarin) Plural of ellon: Male Elf.

Fëa: (Quenya) Soul, spirit.

Hanar nîn: My brother.

Tye-meluvan ilumë, hánonya, tenn’ ambar-metta ar pella: (Quenya) ‘I will love thee always, my brother, until world’s-ending and beyond’.

****

Notes:

1. Accepting that Gil-galad is the son of Orodreth, who is the son of Angrod, as Christopher Tolkien states was his father’s final decision regarding Gil-galad’s parentage (see Peoples of Middle-earth, HoME XII, ‘The Shibboleth of Fëanor’), Elrond and Gil-galad are third cousins once removed. Even if you accept the genealogy given in the Silmarillion instead, Gil-galad is still two generations ahead of Elrond and they are first cousins twice removed.

2. ‘When six hundred years had passed from the beginning of the Second Age Vëantur, Captain of King’s Ships under Tar-Elendil, first achieved the voyage to Middle-earth. He brought his ship Entulessë (which signifies “Return”) into Mithlond on the spring winds blowing from the west; and he returned in the autumn of the following year.’ — Unfinished Tales, ‘Description of the Island of Númenor’. Tar-Elendil was the great-grandson of Elros, born in the year 350.

3. The name of Elros’ wife is non-canonical. The original Emeldir was the wife of Barahir and mother of Beren and was herself descended from Bëor the Old.

4. The description of Elros’ son and grandson is derived from ‘The Line of Elros: Kings of Númenor’, found in Unfinished Tales. Elros was born fifty-eight years before the end of the First Age and lived until the year 442 of the Second Age, thus he was five hundred years old when he died.

The Ban of the Valar

Summary: The Valar meet to discuss how to prevent the Númenóreans from seeking the Undying Lands. Written for the 2009 SWG ‘Akallebeth-in-August Project'.

****

“The Atani have reached the Star Island,” Ulmo told the assembled Valar as they met in conference in the main throne room of Ilmarin. “Already they are eagerly building their first settlement on the eastern shore and have named it Rómenna. Elros has sent many to explore the island as thoroughly as possible, either overland or by ship, mapping the coastline. I understand that he has decided to build his capital further inland close to the mountain they have named Meneltarma.”

The other Valar smiled in approval. “They will be busy for many years then, settling in,” Manwë said with a nod. “Yet, a time will come when they will be secure enough in their new home to begin looking outward and we should address this matter now rather than later.”

“What matter exactly are we talking about?” Nessa asked.

“The matter of their mortality,” Námo answered gravely. He gave Manwë a steady look. “You know that I was uneasy with the fact that you chose to raise Númenor so close to Valinor. I think in the long run it will prove an ill choice, though I cannot see it.”

“Your foresight tells you nothing?” Manwë asked, his eyes dark with concern.

Námo shook his head. “No, it does not. Yet, I am uneasy.”

“I considered your feelings before I made the decision,” Manwë said, “but in the end, I decided that your unease was too vague to act upon.”

Námo nodded. “I realize that, and blame you not for your decision. It has been made and we will have to live with it and whatever may follow. I pray that my unease is unfounded and all will be well with the Númenóreans.”

“Yet, what can we do to safeguard them and us?” Oromë asked. “I, too, wondered that we brought forth the island so close to our own lands. There is a danger, I deem, that those whose sight is keen will be able to see the spires of Avallónë and its harbor were they to stand upon the crest of the Meneltarma and desire to come there.”

“And what prevents them from doing so, since they are possessed of ships capable of sailing to Tol Eressëa?” Yavanna asked.

“That is what we must discuss,” Manwë answered. “Nothing physical prevents them from doing so, and as we have already given our permission for those of Tol Eressëa to sail to Númenor if they so desire, it would not be possible for us to erect a barrier, for it would prevent the Elves from sailing east as surely as it would prevent the Atani from sailing west.”

“How, then, do we allow the one but not the other?” Varda stated.

“We could take away their ships,” Tulkas said with a sly smile and laughed at the looks of disbelief on some of his brethren’s faces.

Námo gave him an understanding smile. “That might work in the short run, but eventually they will build other ships. Must Ulmo and his People constantly sink the ships whenever they are built?”

“Well, maybe after the third or fourth such sinking the poor dears might get the message,” Vairë commented with a smile of her own, “or they might see it as a challenge and keep on building their ships until they either run out of wood or we run out of patience.”

There were several amused snickers at that and Eönwë, standing between the thrones of his lord and lady, laughed. “I would put my money on the Atani myself. They are a stubborn lot, even more so than the Eldar.”

“Well, sinking ships, however fun it might be for some people, is out of the question,” Manwë said, stealing a glance at Ulmo, who was seated on his left, while the Lord of Waters merely snorted in good-natured amusement. “We need a better solution. I do not wish for these Children to seek the Undying Lands, desiring to overpass the limits set to their own bliss which Atar has granted them, becoming enamored of the immortality that is ours and the Eldar’s by virtue of our inherent natures.”

They were silent for a time, each with their own thoughts. Finally, Námo gave Manwë a considering look. “Perhaps we should simply tell them that they may not sail so far west that the coasts of Númenor cannot be seen, but allow them to sail as they please in any other direction.”

“Yet, would they hold to such?” Aulë asked. “I can see young Eärendilion agreeing to this but what of the others? Will they willingly submit themselves to our Ban?”

“They are honorable and trustworthy, my lord,” Eönwë said. “I dwelt among them long enough to know that they hold the Valar in great reverence and if such a decree comes to them from you, they will obey it. Elros will see that it is enforced, he and his descendants.”

“Well, short of having one of my steadier Maiar stand forever sentinel between here and Númenor, shooing back any ship that strays, there doesn’t seem to be any other option,” Ulmo said.

“Do we all agree, then?” Manwë asked. “We will inform the Númenóreans of our Ban, allowing them to sail whither they will east, north and south, but to the west they may go only so far as they can see the coasts of their island.” He cast his gaze at each of the others, as one-by-one they each gave him a single nod.

“So be it then,” Manwë intoned. “Eönwë will convey our message unto them, for they know him as my Herald, and will respect him and his words.” He turned to the Maia. “Go to Elros and ask him to call forth an assembly of his people that you may speak the words of our Ban before all.”

Eönwë bowed low to his lord and faded from their sight. Manwë sighed as he turned back to the others. “Let us hope that our Ban will be enough and that the Children will heed us in this.”

“Násië,” Námo whispered, more to himself than to the others, his eyes dark with a foreboding to which he could put no name. They all heard him, however, and their own expressions were equally solemn.

****

Násië: (Quenya) ‘Amen, so be it’.

Mavoinë

Summary: On a lonely hill overlooking Andúnië, an Elf watches his mortal friend build a tower and is filled with grave misgivings as to its purpose. Written for the 2009 SWG ‘Akallabeth-in-August Project’.

****

Author’s Note: This story takes place in the early years of Queen Telperien’s reign. As she is unmarried at this time (and indeed never marries), her younger brother Isilmo is her heir. At her death, Isilmo’s son becomes the next King of Númenor, taking the throne-name ‘Tar-Minastir’, for ‘he built a high tower upon the hill of Oromet, nigh to Andúnië and the west shores, and thence would spend great part of his days gazing westward’ [UT, ‘The Line of Elros’]. So, for purposes of this story, I have given him the birth-name ‘Isildil’. His son, who will take the throne-name Tar-Ciryatan, is here named ‘Telemnar’. At the time of this story, Tar-Minastir (Isildil) is 160 years old, and Telperien is 314. She has been Queen for the last 78 years.

****

Second Age 1634:

“What are you doing, my friend?”

Isildil looked up from laying the next stone of his tower and glowered at the Elf. “What does it look like I’m doing, Arminas?”

The Elf gave him a wintry smile. “Forgive me, I misspoke. What I should have said was, Why are you here? Is not your lady wife about to give birth to your firstborn?”

Isildil shrugged. “My being in Armenelos at this time will only be seen as a hindrance. Better that I while my time doing something more constructive than pacing before the birthing chamber making everyone else’s life miserable.”

Arminas raised an eyebrow at that, but did not comment. Instead, he sighed, gazing westward from the hill where the two of them stood. He could see Andúnië in the middle distance, the ships of the Númenóreans plying the waters beyond the harbor. His own ship was anchored at Eldalondë, further south, to which the Elves of Tol Eressëa were wont to sail. The Elf glanced over to where his Mortal friend was busy directing others in the building of his tower. The sight of the stone edifice troubled him, though he could not say why. He felt a frisson of foreboding as he watched Isildil place another dressed stone upon the growing wall. Whatever one might say about the son of the Heir, he was willing to get his own hands dirty instead of leaving it to others to do all the work for him. Still, this was the last place Isildil should be, Arminas thought with a mild shake of his head at the strange ways of Mortals.

He walked over to where Isildil was lifting yet another stone, and gently took it out of the Mortal’s hands, giving him a piercing look. “You do not belong here, my friend,” he said quietly. “Your wife gives birth to your firstborn, to your heir. You should be in Armenelos, not here, building a tower. And for what? What purpose will it serve?”

“Purposes of my own,” Isildil growled and then looked chagrined at the hurt expression on the Elf’s face. “Forgive me,” he said. “I fear I am not in the best of moods. I build this tower because I must and no other reason will I give you or anyone else.”

“Fair enough,” Arminas said, laying the stone down. “But you have others who will continue with its construction while you are elsewhere. Come. I have horses waiting. If we are lucky we will reach Armenelos before your son is born.”

Isildil sighed but relented, issuing orders to Beregar, who was the foreman of the crew working on the tower. Satisfied that the man would follow his directives, Isildil then allowed Arminas to lead him away and soon they were riding eastward towards Armenelos.

****

“Where have you been?”

Arminas watched with hidden amusement the interplay of emotions flitting across Isildil’s face at the sight of Lord Isilmo glowering at his son. He and Isildil had made their way to the apartments in the palace set aside for the Heir and his family as soon as they had arrived in Armenelos after nearly a week of hard traveling.

“Has she given birth, yet?” Isildil asked, avoiding giving his father an answer.

Isilmo snorted. “Niélë went into labor last night,” he said.

Isildil gave his father a disbelieving look. “But, it’s mid-afternoon already! Surely it doesn’t take that long to birth a child.”

Now Isilmo actually smiled and Arminas couldn’t help snickering at his friends expression. “You took two days, as I recall. The first birthing is usually the hardest on the woman, or so I am told.”

“Who is with her?” Isildil asked.

“Your mother, her mother and my sister, as well as the midwife and several ladies of the court,” Isilmo answered. “All others are unwanted and unneeded.”

“It is different with us Elves,” Arminas said, giving Isilmo a brief bow in greeting. “The father must be present at the birth to help sustain the fëa of his wife, for much of her own fëa has been given over to sustaining the child within her and she often has no more strength left for the birthing.”

Isilmo nodded. “So I have heard. At any rate, among the Edain the birthing chamber is forbidden to the menfolk, never mind that we had something to do with creating the child that is being born.” He gave them a sardonic look and Arminas chuckled.

“How long do you think it will take, Ada?” Isildil asked, now looking concerned. Until that moment, Arminas suspected he hadn’t really thought about what his wife might be going through with the birthing.

Isilmo put a comforting hand on his son’s shoulder and gave him a sympathetic look. “It will take as long as it will take, son. Niélë is in the best of hands. Do not worry until and unless there is need to do so.”

Isildil sighed and gave Arminas a rueful look. “You see why I prefer to be in Oromet building my tower.”

“You should be concentrating on building your family, mellon nîn,” Arminas countered. “A tower for no purpose is of less importance than your wife and child. They should be your focus.”

“I don’t understand this need for you to build such a tower where none is needed, either,” Isilmo said with a shake of his head. “What purpose will it serve?”

“From its crown I hope to see the sails of the elven ships coming from Tol Eressëa and perhaps even the island itself.”

“And why would you want to do that?” Isilmo demanded.

Isildil shrugged, looking mulish. “I just do.”

Before either Isilmo or Arminas could respond to this, the door opened and a serving-woman entered, giving them a deep curtsey. “My lord Isildil,” she said, “your lady wife has finally given birth. Will you come to greet your son?”

Isildil went suddenly white and both Isilmo and Arminas had to grab him, Isilmo’s expression one of fond amusement. “I... I have a son?” Isildil whispered.

“Did I not say so, mellon nîn?” Arminas whispered back, his eyes dancing with delight. “Come. Let us not keep your beloved Niélë or your son waiting.”

Isildil nodded and Isilmo and Arminas led him to the Queen’s apartment. At the entrance they were met by Telperien herself, the queen looking as regal as ever in spite of the fact that she had never gone to bed the night before. She gave her nephew a considering look. “It is well that you are here, Isildil,” she said, “else I would have had to call out the guard to haul you back to Armenelos and that would never have done.”

“You can thank Arminas for my being here, Aunt,” Isildil said meekly enough. “He practically had to drag me back.”

Telperien shook her head. “I have to wonder whom you love more, Nephew, your lovely wife or the Elves.”

Isildil blushed at the sting of her words. Arminas kept his thoughts to himself, though he was in complete sympathy with Telperien over Isildil’s actions of late. He loved the Mortal dearly as a friend and brother, but he did not like what he was seeing in the young Man. It was not healthy.

“May I see her?” was all Isildil said.

Telperien nodded. “She’s been asking for you for some time now. I’ve had to assure her that you were nearby. Glad I am that I was not proven a liar.”

“Yes, Aunt,” Isildil said.

Telperien gave a light snort and stepped aside. “Go greet your wife, Isildil, and your newborn son.”

Isildil turned to Arminas, giving his friend a shy look. “Will you come with me and give my son your blessing?”

Arminas raised an eyebrow in surprise and glanced at the other two Mortals, gauging their reactions to Isildil’s request. Isilmo gave him a slight nod and Telperien’s expression was one of approval. “I would be honored, my friend,” he said with a bow and followed Isildil into the chamber where Niélë lay in the Queen’s bed, demurely covered as she fed the writhing bundle in her arms. The Elf watched with some amusement at the awed look on Isildil’s face as the young Man came closer to his wife and son, oblivious to anyone else in the room.

Niélë looked up at her husband and gave him a weary smile. “My lord,” she said in a soft voice, “wilt thou greet thy son?” She lifted the bundle towards him and Isildil hesitantly took his son in his arms, his mother, Almiel, standing beside him, showing him the proper way to hold the babe.

Isildil gazed down upon his firstborn with wonder in his eyes. “What name will you give him?” Arminas asked as he came to stand on Isildil’s other side, looking down at the wrinkled face of the newborn with a gentle smile.

“Telemnar,” Isildil said without hesitation, turning to the Elf and holding the babe out to him. “Will you not give him your blessing, mellon nîn?”

Arminas glanced at Niélë who gave him a smile before taking the babe from Isildil. He hid his own smile at the careful looks of the Women to make sure he knew the proper way of holding a newborn. Turning his attention to the babe, who was still fussing, he crooned a lullaby and gently rocked him until he became quiescent, sticking a fist in his mouth and closing his eyes. “Telemnar you name him,” Arminas said softly, his eyes going blank as foresight came upon him just then, “but I see a different name, one to do with ships. I think he will be as great a mariner as his forefather, Aldarion, and equally as restless.” Then he blinked a couple of times as the foreseeing left him, ignoring the looks of awe and concern on the faces of the Mortals around him. “Nai le cuivuva alya, pityaquen,” he whispered as he bent down and kissed the babe on the forehead before handing him back to his mother.

“Art thou pleased with thy son, my lord?” Niélë asked shyly as she accepted the sleeping bundle.

Isildil nodded, sitting on the edge of the bed to run a calloused finger down Telemnar’s cheek. “Yes, Niéliccilis, I am well pleased with him and with thee,” he said, then leaned over and planted a loving kiss on her brow. “Tye-melin, meldanya,” he whispered.

Lady Almiel then gestured for everyone else to leave them and Arminas followed them out, casting a backward glance at the little family and sighing, wondering if Isildil would calm his own restlessness by concentrating on his wife and newborn son and leave the tower at Oromet to languish.

****

That hope failed within two weeks after the birth of Telemnar. No sooner was the celebration for the naming ceremony done with than Isildil began speaking of returning to Oromet to see how his tower was coming along. The royal family was gathered in the queen’s closet where Telperien was holding court. It was a small, intimate room off of her bedroom where the family often met when they wished for privacy. As an honored guest, Arminas had been invited to join them. The Elf noticed the looks of anger on Telperien’s and Isilmo’s faces at his friend’s announcement. Almiel looked resigned, but it was the hurt look in Niélë’s eyes that struck him as she sat in a rocking chair nursing her son who suckled with oblivious bliss to everything else but his own gratification.

“Your son is but two weeks old and you are all ready to hie to your precious tower?” Telperien demanded, her voice imperious and her eyes flashing with barely suppressed fury. “And if I were to forbid it, what then, Isildil? Will you defy your queen?”

There was a tense silence for several long minutes before Isildil answered. “Yes,” he said softly, keeping his eyes to the floor.

Telperien snorted. “Typical. Your father was much the same when he was your age. I don’t know why I am surprised.”

That got a bark of laughter out of Isilmo, though Arminas did not detect any real humor. “Your aunt is correct, my son,” the Man said. “Your place is here with your wife and son.”

“Why do you want this tower built, Isildil?” Arminas asked. He truly could not fathom the reason behind it. There was no strategic reason for it that he could see.

Isildil sighed. “For years there has been a great longing within me.”

“A longing for what?” the Elf pressed.

Isildil grimaced. “To be immortal,” he whispered.

“What!?” Telperien nearly screamed in disbelief, thereby upsetting little Telemnar who suddenly began to cry. Niélë tried to hush him but to no avail. Finally, calling for one of the maids waiting nearby in case the family needed anything, she directed her to take the child to the nursery. When the din of the baby’s crying faded into the distance, Telperien turned to her nephew with disgust.

“What nonsense do you speak, boy?” she asked scathingly. “You are Mortal and there is nothing shameful in that.”

“Indeed, there is not,” Arminas interjected, giving his friend a hard glare. “Your ancestor, Elros, never regretted his choice. He lived every day given to him fully and with gratitude. You should do the same.”

“Gratitude?” Isildil retorted with a scowl. “Gratitude for what? For having to die? Why should we be grateful for that?”

“Because it is Eru’s Gift to you and it should neither be despised nor rejected,” the Elf said with some exasperation.

“Easy for you to say, Arminas,” Isildil said. “You will continue to live while my bones turn to dust.”

Arminas’ expression became immediately unreadable to the Mortals around him. When he spoke it was so softly that they had to strain to hear. “Child, you will never know the grief I bear within me for all the Mortal friends I have lost over the years, including Elros. It is a grief the likes of which you cannot ever comprehend. Do not envy us too much, child. It will only lead to sorrow.”

“Elros should never have chosen as he did,” Isildil said, his expression still angry.

“If he had not, Isildil,” Arminas said, his voice now cold, “neither you nor any of your family would be alive today. For that gift of life alone, you should be grateful and show your gratitude by living each day of your life fully and completely, instead of pining for what can never be yours.”

“Lord Arminas is correct, son,” Isilmo said. “You have a wife who loves you, who has given you a son. You should be content with what Eru has given you.”

“You owe it to Niélë and to Telemnar to stay here and be with them,” Telperien said, not unkindly. “Your tower isn’t going anywhere and with winter nigh there will be little if any construction.”

“The children of Men grow so quickly, mellon nîn,” Arminas interjected, his tone more conciliatory. “Would you truly want to miss his first steps or his first words? Those moments will never be repeated and to miss such moments in your son’s life would be a shame.”

For a long moment silence stretched between them as they waited for Isildil to speak. Finally, Niélë, who had remained quiet all this time, spoke up, her eyes and her voice pleading. “Please, Isildil, for your son’s sake, if not for mine, abide with us for a time.”

Isildil sighed and nodded. “For your sake, as well as for our son’s, will I stay here in Armenelos... for a time.”

****

Arminas watched in the ensuing days and weeks as Isildil tried conscientiously to be attentive to Niélë and little Telemnar and it seemed that the Man was beginning to settle down. Yet, every once in a while, the Elf caught his friend staring at him wistfully, or standing on the parapet of the palace looking westward and feared that Isildil would never find peace. Autumn was nearly done and the brilliant display of color faded to brown dead leaves. Arminas had been contemplating staying on through the winter. He was fascinated by Telemnar, watching as the babe learned to crawl and explore his little world. His special delight was when he was permitted to hold the boy and when the child fussed he would sing one lullaby after another as the night deepened while his parents slept.

His plans changed, however, on a day when Isildil could not be found. A quick search and several enquiries among the servants informed them that Isildil had left during the night, riding along the west road out of Armenelos. When he heard the news, Arminas looked down at Telemnar lying in his arms cooing and gurgling in innocent delight at the Elf and felt a deep sadness. A sudden longing for his own family smote him and he knew it was time for him to leave and said as much to Telperien and the others.

Most were distressed to hear that he was leaving them and Isilmo even begged him to reconsider, but Telperien merely nodded. “I think it best that you go, Lord Arminas,” she said with a sigh, “considering that my nephew has seen fit to desert, not only his family, but his guest.”

Niélë placed a hesitant hand on his arm and he gave her an encouraging smile. “Wouldst thou do me one favor, lord?” she asked. “Wouldst thou go to my husband and... and tell him that his wife and his son will still be here when he is ready to return.”

Arminas held her face between his hands and gently kissed her brow. “I would be happy to do such a favor for you, child.” Then he turned to the others and gave them a respectful bow. “Namárië,” he said and left to make ready for his departure.

****

The tower, he saw, was complete, overlooking the land around Oromet, its walls shining white in the sun. Arminas made his way up the hill and found the entrance to the tower, climbing the spiral staircase that hugged the wall and making his way to the top. He had spied Isildil looking over the parapet staring westward. The Man never glanced around at his approach.

“If you’re here to take me back,” he heard Isildil say just as he reached the top, “you’re wasting your time.”

“Furthest thing from my mind, my friend,” Arminas said. “In fact, I am here to say farewell.”

Isildil turned to face the Elf. “You’re leaving?” he asked in shock.

“Why are you surprised?” Arminas countered. “You leave me behind in Armenelos without saying a word. You may do that to your family, but not to a guest.”

Isildil had the grace to look chagrined. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I tried, Arminas, I really did, but I... I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t stop thinking of what it must be like to live in the Undying Lands and never die.”

“Isildil, the Undying Lands are undying only because the undying abide there,” the Elf retorted with some exasperation. “The land itself does not imbue one with immortality. That is intrinsic to the Valar and the Firstborn. If you were to go to Tol Eressëa you would eventually die, for that is your doom.”

“My doom! My doom!” Isildil suddenly raged. “One that I was given no choice over.”

“Nor have I been given a choice, nor have any others,” Arminas pointed out.

“Except one,” Isildil rejoined. “Elros had a choice and he chose wrongly.”

“No, child!” Arminas insisted. “Elros chose wisely. Do you think it was easy for him to choose as he did? I assure you it was not, but when the choice was made, he embraced it with all his heart, with all his soul. He accepted the Gift which Eru has given to Mortals for himself and his descendants.”

“Meaning me,” Isildil said with a scowl.

“Your wife asked me to give you a message,” Arminas said then, deciding to change the subject.

“What message?” Isildil asked, his expression suddenly wary.

“She asked me to tell you that she and your son will be there when you are ready to return.”

Isildil sighed and turned away to look west again. Arminas came to stand beside him. His elven sight allowed him to see the white shores of Tol Eressëa just at the horizon. He very much doubted his friend could see them. “Go home, Isildil. Go home to your wife and son. Live your life. Do not waste it staring at the horizon. Your destiny lies eastward in Armenelos, not west. That way is forever closed to you.”

Isildil turned to look at him. “I love you, Arminas, as my brother, but I envy you as well and I think I always shall.”

“And for that I am deeply sorry,” Arminas said, embracing the Man and giving him a kiss in farewell. “I think it is well that I leave. I fear my presence has darkened your spirit and I would not wish to be the cause of such grief as you are experiencing.”

“Will I see you again?” Isildil asked and Arminas sensed the sorrow and regret in the Mortal’s voice.

“I do not know,” he answered honestly. “All is as Eru wills.”

“Namárië, then,” Isildil said, then turned his attention back to the west.

Arminas sighed, wanting to say more but knowing his words would fall on deaf ears. Without another word he turned and made his way back down the tower. He never looked back.

****

Eönwë opened the door leading to one of the audience chambers in the Elder King’s mansion in Valmar. “Lord Arminas of Tol Eressëa,” he announced, then stepped aside to allow the Elf to enter before shutting the door behind him.

Arminas saw that all the Valar were present and gave them his obeisance. Lord Manwë gestured him forward. “Be welcome, my son,” he said. “To what do we owe your visit? What news do you bring us?”

“Disturbing news, my lord,” Arminas said sadly. “I have just returned from Númenor and I fear....” He paused, not sure how to explain the foreboding in his heart.

Manwë gave him a sympathetic look which was mirrored by the other Valar. “Sit and tell us what you will,” the Elder King said kindly.

Arminas complied and after being handed a goblet of wine, began to speak of his concerns for his Mortal friend. “The tower he has built serves no other purpose but for him to gaze across the waters to Tol Eressëa, pining for what can never be,” he ended his tale, giving a sigh before taking a sip of wine.

For a long moment, there was only silence as the Valar contemplated his words. Finally, Manwë spoke. “You did well to come to us, Arminas, and tell us this. Rest assured we will address this situation. You have our thanks and our gratitude. I know it was difficult to come here and tell us about your friend and your concerns.”

“I almost did not come,” Arminas confessed, “for I did not want to impose....”

Varda shook her head. “It is not an imposition,” she said. “We are glad you came to us.”

“Go now,” Manwë said gently. “My brethren and I have much to discuss.”

Arminas rose and gave them his obeisance just as Eönwë returned to escort him from the room. When the Elf had left, the Valar sat in silence until Manwë finally nodded and spoke aloud. “This malaise I think will not be limited to just Isildil,” he said, “for where there is one suffering such a malady, there are bound to be others. Isildil’s tower is merely the most visible manifestation of this.”

“What, then, do you propose?” Námo asked for all of them.

“I think I will send messengers to the people of Númenor reminding them of the Ban and their oaths to us,” Manwë replied.

“They should be reminded also of the Doom which is theirs,” Námo said. “They are Mortal and must abide by the limits set for them by Ilúvatar.”

Manwë nodded. “It is a pity that we must do this, but I think that too much time has passed for these Children and they have forgotten much that their ancestors knew and accepted.” He then dismissed the other Valar, wishing for a time to be alone. Eventually, he thought himself to Ilmarin and stepped out onto the balcony that overlooked the Pelóri. By now, it was night and Isil had risen. Casting his mind outward to Númenor, he concentrated his thoughts on a single tower where a lone figure stood staring out to sea, a hunger and a longing darkening his eyes. Isil’s light touched upon the tower, casting a long shadow that stretched ominously towards Valinor. Manwë shook his head in dismay, then sent his thoughts further east to Armenelos. There, in another tower, sat a young Woman, rocking a babe and gently singing a lullaby, her eyes sad and wistful, looking out the window that faced, not west, but east.

****

Mavoinë: (Quenya) Great Longing.

Fëa: (Quenya) Spirit, soul.

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

Mellon nîn: (Sindarin) My friend.

Niéliccilis: (Quenya) Little Niélë. Both the name and the endearment are attested.

Nai le cuivuva alya, pityaquen: (Quenya) ‘May you lived blessed, little one’.

Tye-melin, meldanya: (Quenya) ‘I love thee, my beloved.’

****

Excerpted from ‘The Line of Elros: Kings of Númenor’, Unfinished Tales:

X: Tar-Telperien

She was the second Ruling Queen of Númenor. She was long-lived (for the women of the Númenóreans had the longer life, or laid down their lives less easily), and she would wed with no man. Therefore after her day the sceptre passed to Minastir; he was the son of Isilmo, the second child of Tar-Súrion....

XI: Tar-Minastir

This name he had because he built a high tower upon the hill of Oromet, nigh to Andúnië and the west shores, and thence would spend great part of his days gazing westward. For the yearning was grown strong in the hearts of the Númenóreans. He loved the Eldar but envied them....

XII: Tar-Ciryatan

He was born in the year 1634, and ruled for 160 years; he surrendered the sceptre in 2029, and died in 2035. He was a mighty King, but greedy of wealth; he built a great fleet of royal ships, and his servants brought back great store of metals and gems, and oppressed the men of Middle-earth. He scorned the yearnings of his father, and eased the restlessness of his heart by voyaging, east, and north, and south, until he took the sceptre. It is said that he constrained his father to yield to him ere of his free will he would. In this way (it is held) might the first coming of the Shadow upon the bliss of Númenor be seen.

To Stand Fast Against the Night

Summary: Tar-Palantir makes a decision upon receiving the Sceptre of Númenor, a decision that does not meet with universal approval. Written for the 2009 SWG ‘Akallabeth-in-August Project’. MEFA 2010: Second Place: Men: General.

****

A Note on Names: Tar-Palantir was known as Inziladûn before he ascended to the throne. For purposes of this story, his nephew, who would take the throne-name Ar-Pharazôn ‘The Golden’, is here given the birth-name Gimilkhôr ‘Flame Lord’ (cf. his grandfather’s name, Ar-Gimilzôr ‘Silver Flame’). Ar-Pharazôn’s father’s name, Gimilkhâd, is attested. I have given Tar-Palantír’s wife’s name as Belzimra ‘Jewels of Light’ (cf. Ar-Belzagar ‘Sword of Light’). Númendil, Lord of Andúnië at this time, his son, Amandil, and Amandil’s son, Elendil, are addressed by their Adûnaic names: Númendil (Adûnazîr), Amandil (Aphanuzîr), Elendil (Nimruzîr). Aphanuzîr and Nimruzîr are attested. Adûnazîr is constructed based on what is known of the language [See ‘The Notion Club Papers’, Sauron Defeated, HoME IX].

A Note on Language Use: Generally, everyone in the story is speaking Adûnaic, however, when alone with either his mother, wife or daughter, Tar-Palantir will speak Sindarin. This is also the case when speaking to his cousin Númendil and the other Faithful, so long as others are not present, and then they will switch to Adûnaic, since it is still forbidden for the Elvish languages to be spoken in public.

A Note on Ages: Inziladûn (Tar-Palantir) is 140 and his brother, Gimilkhâd, is 131. Amandil is 150. Míriel, Gimilkhôr (Ar-Pharazôn), and Elendil are within one year of each other, with Míriel being the oldest at age 58 and Elendil the youngest at age 56.

****

Armenelos, Second Age 3177:

“If father had had his way, my brother,” Gimilkhâd said with a scowl as he lounged in a chair, sipping some wine, “I would be the one holding the Sceptre, not you.”

Inziladûn gave his brother a slight frown as he stood statue-still to allow his body servants to dress him in the regalia that now was his. “Father always favored you over me, though I was his heir.”

“You were always mooning about the Elves and the good old days when they came to these shores,” Gimilkhâd said dismissively, “and going to Andúnië to climb our ancestor’s tower. What did you hope to see, standing on the parapet, looking to the West?”

“Sails,” Inziladûn said with a heavy sigh. “Sails out of Tol Eressëa.”

“Bah! The Elves have not been seen much in these lands for over two centuries now and never since Father issued his Decree,” Gimilkhâd replied. “Good riddance. They were ever a nuisance.”

Inziladûn couldn’t help smiling. “Odd for you to say something like that, you who have never set eyes on any of the Firstborn. How can you know if they were a nuisance or not?”

“Simply by the fact that Father issued his Decree forbidding them from ever darkening our shores,” his brother answered with a smirk.

“That was ill done, I deem,” Inziladûn said with a shake of his head, thereby distressing the servant who had been about to place the gold circlet upon his head. Inziladûn gave the man an apologetic smile and the servant sighed, putting down the circlet to reach for a comb.

Gimilkhâd shrugged. “It was well done, I say,” he declared, “for they were ever reminding us of our fate as Mortals and harping on the Ban of the Avalôi.”

“That Ban is there for a good reason,” Inziladûn said, dismissing his servants with a soft word of thanks and a smile now that he was dressed. They bowed low to him and exited the sitting room where the two brothers were speaking. Inziladûn went to a sideboard and poured himself some wine. “We are indeed Mortals and Amatthâni does not belong to us.”

Gimilkhâd’s scowl deepened. “Perhaps,” he muttered, taking a swig of his wine.

Inziladûn pretended not to hear him. Instead, he went over to gaze out the window that looked upon the Court of the White Tree and contemplated the view. “We’ve fallen away from our first glory,” he said, taking a sip of wine. “We’ve neglected the old ways. Father, I think, was the worst, refusing even to pay lip-service to the Avalôi and never going to the Hallow of Êru. Even the White Tree has been neglected in the years of Father’s reign. I would fain see it honored again as it once was.”

“It’s just a tree, brother,” Gimilkhâd sneered. “Just because the Elves are tree-lovers....”

Inziladûn turned around to face his brother, his eyes dark with something that Gimilkhâd could put no name to and therefore feared. “I tell you truly, my brother, that our fates are bound to the fate of Nimloth. Should ever the White Tree fail, then shall the Line of Kings also perish.”

“Rubbish,” Gimilkhâd retorted, though his tone was tinged with doubt. “It’s just a tree.”

Before Inziladûn could reply, there was a knock on the door. “Enter,” he commanded and the door opened to reveal his nephew Gimilkhôr standing there in his formal attire. The lad gave his uncle a perfunctory bow and frowned in disapproval at his father. “Attô, you’re not even dressed.”

Gimilkhâd gave his son a sardonic look. “Unlike your uncle,” he said, rising from his chair and draining his goblet before placing it on a nearby table, “it will not take me as long to dress in my own robes of state as it has taken him.” Inziladûn snorted good-naturedly.

Even as Gimilkhâd and Gimilkhôr began to leave, three others joined them. “Ah, I see the ladies have come to see how you fare, brother,” Gimilkhâd said. “I will leave you to their tender mercies, then. Ammê, Belzimra, Míriel,” he addressed them, giving them a bow and the three women gave him their own curtsies.

Gimilkhôr gave his own bow to his grandmother, aunt and cousin, his gaze lingering on Míriel’s fair form a little longer than propriety dictated, causing her to blush in confusion. He gave her a leering smile as he followed his father out of the room.

Inziladûn frowned at his nephew’s retreating form, his eyes dark with foreboding, but then he dismissed the young man from his mind, smiling at his wife and daughter and holding out his arms to welcome them. “And how are my two Jewels this day?” he asked as they went into his embrace, planting a kiss on each of their brows.

Míriel giggled and his wife smiled fondly at him. “We are well, mell nîn,” she said. “We are more concerned for you. How do you fare?”

Inziladûn shrugged. “Well enough,” he replied, releasing them to go to his mother, giving her a kiss in greeting, which she returned, lovingly brushing a hand against his cheek. “I will be glad when this ceremony is over with and I can divest myself of all this regalia. It is very wearying on the body.”

“You look very regal, Ada,” Míriel said with a smile.

“And you and Nana and Daernana are most beautiful,” he replied, giving her another brief kiss on her brow.

“Do you still mean to follow through on your plans?” Inzilbeth asked, giving her firstborn son a look of motherly concern.

Inziladûn nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“They will not love you for it,” his wife said, “nor will they understand the need.”

“Yet, what else can I do?” Inziladûn pleaded. “I fear that if we do not do something now it will be too late for us.”

“It may already be too late, Ada,” Míriel said soberly.

Inziladûn gave her a considering look, one tinged with sadness. “Do you think I should forget this, then? Should I accept the inevitable and allow our people to diminish themselves even more?”

“No, Ada,” Míriel said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “I only warn you not to expect too much. Only the Faithful will love you for what you would do.”

Inziladûn nodded. “No doubt,” he averred, “and yet, if only some of our people return to the old ways, reverencing the Belain and Eru, then I will consider it a victory.”

“You have not told your brother what you would do?” Belzimra asked.

“No, love, I have not,” Inziladûn answered, giving her a sardonic smile. “Let him be as surprised as everyone else.”

Whatever comment Belzimra might have made was lost to a knock on the door. Inziladûn sighed. “Enter,” he called out and when the door opened it was to find that his Chamberlain was there.

“Forgive the intrusion, Sire,” the man said with a bow.

“What is it, Ulbar?”

“Bârî Adûnazîr, Aphanuzîr, and Nimruzîr crave an audience with you,” the Chamberlain answered, his expression neutral though his tone was somewhat disapproving. “I told them that you were too busy....”

“Nonsense, Ulbar,” Inziladûn said firmly. “I am never too busy for my cousins. Bid them to enter.”

Ulbar bowed and showed the Lord of Andúnië and his son and grandson in. The three lords gave the royal family their obeisance. “Linakhahê, bârî ’n ni, ka...” Inziladûn began to say formally as Ulbar closed the door and then switched effortlessly into Sindarin once they were alone, “mae govannen, gwenyr.” He went to them and gave them a warm greeting, giving each a kiss as among kinsmen, which they returned. “I am glad you were able to come, Númendil, you and your family.” he added fervently.

The Lord of Andúnië smiled. “Should I not be here to see my beloved cousin take the Sceptre of Elros Minyatur, you who are perhaps the last hope of the Faithful?”

Inziladûn sighed. “You speak truer than you know, Cousin,” he said, “for I fear that if the tide does not turn, we will all drown in darkness.”

Númendil gave him a measuring look. “Is this your foresight speaking, or only your fear.”

Inziladûn shrugged. “Perhaps a little of both, I am not sure.”

“We can only trust in the Belain that all will be well with us,” Amandil said. “The Faithful are behind you, Sire, of that you should have no doubt.”

Inziladûn smiled. “Nor do I, but I thank you for your words of encouragement nonetheless, Amandil.” Then he turned to Elendil, who towered above them all. “Perhaps, child, you would be kind enough to escort Míriel to her place in the procession,” he said. “Let Ulbar know that we will be there soon.”

Elendil gave him a bow. “It would be my pleasure, aran nîn,” he said, then held out his hand for Míriel to take, which she did, though first she gave her father a kiss.

I love you, Ada,” she whispered.

“As I love you, child,” he answered, kissing her as well.

The two cousins left and for a moment silence stretched between those who remained. Finally, Inzilbeth went to her son and gave him a fond kiss. “I am proud of you, my son.” She then motioned to Númedil, who offered her his elbow and then they, too, left, with Amandil trailing behind, leaving Inziladûn alone with his wife.

He took her hand and smiled gently at her. “Well, Calamirë,” he said, using the Quenya form of her name, something he only did when they were truly alone, “here we are at last.”

She smiled, the smile she reserved just for him. “You will make a fine king,” she said.

He nodded, though he was not so sure as she. “Shall we?” he asked, holding out his elbow, which she took and then they exited the room to join the procession that would make its way to the front portico of the palace where every king since the days of Elros Minyatur had received the Sceptre of Númenor in the presence of the people.

The ceremony was interminable under the late autumnal skies. Inziladûn was grateful for the heavy robes of state that he was forced to wear, for the day was cold and cloudy and in the wind that blew there was a hint of a coming frost, here at the doorstep of winter. Everyone was huddled in warm cloaks. Finally, though, came the part of the ceremony he had been anticipating and dreading, when the Sceptre would be placed in his hands and he would declare to the people his throne-name,  and then he would speak to them for the first time as their king.

He stood and waited as they brought a finely wrought coffer in which had been placed the Sceptre after Ar-Gimilzôr’s funeral. Lord Imâr, the Master of Ceremonies, opened the lid and brought it forth, bowing low to Inziladûn and handing it to him. Even as he was taking it in his hands, Lord Imâr straightened and addressed him. “By what name wouldst thou be known, Sire, from this day hence?”

“Tar-Palantir,” he said firmly and loudly so all would hear. He hid a smile at the stir of commotion among the spectators and even among the nobles ranged around the dais on which he stood. Stealing a glance at where Númendil and his family stood he saw the Lord of Andúnië smile knowingly and then wink. Inziladûn was hard pressed not to start laughing.

Lord Imâr’s only reaction was a slight lifting of an eyebrow as he kept his own expression neutral. With another bow to Inziladûn he turned to the crowd to speak. “Let it be known that he who was born Inziladûn shall henceforth be known as Ar-Êphal—”

“Nay,” Inziladûn said forcefully, startling Imâr, who turned to him with an expression of confusion. “I wish not to render my throne-name into Adûnaic. I will be known only as Tar-Palantir.”

Now Imâr looked nonplused and he was not the only one. Inziladûn noticed out of the corner of his eye his brother scowling at him, while Gimilkhôr gave him a wary look. Inziladûn nodded at the Master of Ceremonies. “Continue, good my lord,” he commanded.

Imâr nodded and cleared his throat. “Let it be known that he who is Ar-Inziladûn will be known henceforth as Tar-Palantir.”

Inziladûn resisted a sigh, knowing it was too late to change the man’s words. He could not truly fault him, for it had been too long since any king had gone by their Quenya names; they had all been expecting him to give them his name in Adûnaic. Only the loremasters bothered with the Quenya version of a king’s throne-name for their records.

Then, it was time to step forward and address the people. He stole a glance at Belzimra and Míriel standing to one side, his mother between them. All three women smiled encouragingly at him and Míriel went so far as to blow him a kiss, making him smile in turn. Then he turned to the expectant crowd.

“Today,” he declared, “is a momentous day for us all. My father, the late king, left us with a legacy of neglect, neglect for the old ways when we revered the Avalôi and Êru and welcomed the Nimîr to our shores. Since the Decree of Forbiddance, which has barred the Nimîr from our land, our lives have become poorer and less bright. I hereby rescind the Decree and I hope that somehow word will reach those of Tol Eressëa that they are welcome once again to Yôzâyan. Along with the Decree I also rescind the prohibition against speaking the Eldarin tongues or teaching them to our children.”

There was a stir among the listeners and Inziladûn raised his hand and waited for silence, which was slow in coming. “I will also go to the Hallow of Êru tomorrow as was once the custom and offer prayers to the Creator as is meet for the health and well-being of our people and our land. Let us repent of our insolence and intransigence and return to the ways of our forefathers, remembering our first king, Elros Tar-Minyatur, and how he reverenced the Lords of the West and welcomed the Firstborn who were ever our friends and helpers. Let us repent, my people, ere it is too late and our fair land falls under shadow and a night without end.”

There was a scattering of applause from where those from Andúnië were standing, but against the sea of stony silence that greeted his speech otherwise, it sounded paltry and pathetic. Inziladûn looked to Númendil and gave his cousin a wistful look. Númendil returned it with a slight nod of his head, giving him his approval. Then Gimilkhâd broke all protocol to come to his brother’s side, his expression blank with fury.

“Are you mad, brother?” he hissed. “Why are you doing this?”

Inziladûn gave him a steady look. “Ni du-abrazâ nûluvada,” he said softly.

Gimilkhâd stared at him for a second in disbelief. “Ki-na nûph!” he exclaimed softly before returning to his place.

Inziladûn closed his eyes, already feeling defeated. Yet, he could not have done other than he did. He opened his eyes again and stared at his people, now coming out of their shock to begin murmuring their dismay and confusion at his words. He could almost hear them as they whispered to one another — ‘Nûph an Avalôi’ they were calling him, he had no doubt. So be it. Perhaps he was a fool. It did not matter. He had spoken and his words would define the tenor of his reign for good or ill. Perhaps in time his people would see the wisdom of his course and follow him. Perhaps....

He sighed and when Belzimra and Míriel came to stand beside him he gave them a rueful look. They were his two precious Jewels for whom he lived and, in the end, only their opinion of him mattered. Míriel, standing on his right as his heir, gave him a loving smile. “You were splendid, Attô,” she said, reaching up and kissing him on the cheek.

Belzimra, who was on his left, nodded. “I am very proud of you, zirân,” she said softly and there was something in her eyes that promised a different kind of affirmation from her when they were at last alone.

“Thank you,” he whispered, bending down to give both wife and daughter a kiss. “Thank you, both of you. You make this all worth while.”

Lord Imâr, meanwhile, came to him, his expression one of distress. “Is that all, Sire? Will you not speak further to the populace?”

“No, Imâr,” Inziladûn said with a shake of his head. “I have said all I wish to say at this time. Let us adjourn to the coronation feast, for see you, the day wanes and we have been standing in this cold wind long enough.”

The Master of Ceremonies bowed and then turned to address the spectators, speaking the ancient words. “The reign of Tar-Palantir begins. Let all rejoice. Long live the king!”

“Long live the king,” the people dutifully echoed, but even as he turned to lead the procession of nobles back into the palace, Inziladûn could sense that there was no warmth in their acclamation. He felt Belzimra give him a squeeze on his arm and he looked at her.

“I love you,” she whispered, giving him the smile that she reserved just for him.

He smiled back. It was enough.

****

Words are Adûnaic unless otherwise noted.

Avalôi: The Valar.

Amatthâni: The Land of Aman.

Êru: The Adûnaic form of the Sindarin Eru.

Attô: Father.

Ammê: Mother.

Mell nîn: (Sindarin) My beloved.

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

Nana: (Sindarin) Hypocoristic form of Naneth: Mother.

Daernana: (Sindarin) Hypocoristic form of Daernaneth: Grandmother.

Belain: (Sindarin) The Valar.

Bârî: Plural of Bâr: Lord.

Linakhahê, bârî ’n ni, ka...: ‘Approach, my lords, and....’.

Mae govannen, gwenyr: (Sindarin) ‘Well met, kinsmen’.

Nimîr: Eldar.

Yôzâyan: Númenor, literally “Land of Gift’.

Ni du-abrazâ nûluvada: ‘I would stand fast against the night’. There are a couple of words for ‘night’ in Adûnaic. In this case, nûlu has evil connotations.

Ki-na nûph!: ‘You are a fool!’

Nûph an Avalôi: The Valar’s Fool.

Zirân: Beloved.

Sun-in-Eclipse

Summary: When the first solar eclipse occurs, the Valar must decide how to explain it to the Elves. Written for the ALEC challenge ‘Sun and Moon’, for which it won second place (tied with Larner).

****

‘But Tilion went with uncertain pace, as yet he goes, and was still drawn towards Arien, as he shall ever be;... it will chance that he comes so nigh that his shadow cuts off her brightness and there is darkness amid the day.’ — ‘Of the Sun and the Moon and the Hiding of Valinor’, Silmarillion

****

“They will think it is a sign,” Námo said to the other Valar foregathering at the mansion of the Lord of Mandos and his Spouse in Valmar. The Valar were sitting under an arbor in the garden overlooking the Ezellohar and the Máhanaxar, taking their ease on this Valanya, listening to the sound of the bells of the Mindon Nyellion wafting through the air as they sipped on miruvórë. The weekly audience in Ilmarin with Ingwë and his family was over and, as was their custom, they had come to Valmar to spend the rest of the day. They took turns hosting each other and this week it was Námo and Vairë’s turn.

Manwë gave him a slight smile. “Perhaps it is,” he said teasingly.

“A sign of what though?” Oromë asked.

“A sign of our displeasure, perhaps,” Námo ventured with a shrug, “or a sign of Melkor’s victory over their kin in Endórë. Who knows?”

“Well, if the latter, it would only be a temporary victory,” Nienna said with a snort.

“It’s a natural astronomical phenomenon,” Aulë said dismissively. “It was bound to happen, given the parameters we gave to Isil’s orbit.”

“Yes, yes, but they don’t know that,” Námo replied. “So, what do we do about it?”

“Do?” Tulkas asked, giving his brother Vala a puzzled look. “What do you mean? We’re not going to change the orbit to prevent it, are we?”

“No, Tulkas,” Námo said with a laugh. “That’s not what I meant. I meant how do we prepare the Children for this.”

“Should we even bother?” Nessa said with a shrug. “Should we not allow them to come to conclusions on their own?”

“They’ll come running to us for answers, regardless,” Varda said with a knowing smile.

“Perhaps Aulë or Ulmo can quench their curiosity by boring them with the mathematics and physics of celestial orbits that will occasionally cause Isil to eclipse Anar,” Oromë said.

There were sniggers all around. “I can just see their eyes glazing over as Aulë expounds on the subject with his usual enthusiasm,” Námo said, giving Aulë a wink.

“You know they are not quite ready for that,” Yavanna replied, giving her husband a fond smile.

Aulë’s expression was sheepish. “I’m not that bad, am I?”

Now there was actual laughter. “Even my eyes would glaze over,” Manwë exclaimed, “and I actually know what you’re talking about.”

Aulë made a rude sound, sticking his tongue out at the Elder King, which set them laughing again.

“Getting back to the subject at hand, though,” Námo said once they calmed down, “you know there will be panic in the streets of Eldamar. The Children have just gotten used to having the ‘Great Lights’ as they call them, and if, even for a few minutes, Anar’s light is darkened, they will wonder at it and fear the worst, thinking that Darkness has once again conquered the Light.”

The others nodded. “True,” said Ulmo, “and we should alert the Maiar to stand ready to quell any real panic, but I truly do not see what else we can do. To go and explain to them what will happen beforehand will most likely confuse them, yet to wait until afterwards may cause many to lose faith in us, thinking our powers have grown so weak that we can no longer control our own People.”

“Tilion and Arien would find it amusing to think so,” Oromë said with a grin and Vána nodded, equally amused, for the two held the allegiances of those particular Maiar.

“Or even worse,” Irmo stated, “believe that we no longer have the strength to keep the Darkness at bay.”

“It is a sticky situation, to be sure,” Manwë said. “Perhaps we should inform the kings of what will happen and let them decide how to handle it.”

“That might work,” Námo said, giving Manwë a shrewd look. “Perhaps the two of us....”

Manwë nodded. “It is time, I think, to reveal to the Children the meaning of your emblem,” he said, pointing at the Sun-in-Eclipse pendant that Námo wore.

Námo smiled. “I know they have long wondered at it, but none have dared to ask me or any of my People about it.”

“And what answer would you have given them if they had?” Vairë asked, giving her husband a knowing look.

Námo chuckled. “I would have given them my gravest Lord-of-Mandos stare and in as cold a tone as I could manage I would have said, ‘Pray, my children, that you will never find out.’”

There was a split second of silence and then laughter rang out, the sound floating up the Landamallë Valion. The Maiar who were tending to their own business paused to listen and smiled at one another.

****

Ingwë frowned at the two Valar, stealing a glance at Arafinwë and Olwë standing on either side of him. Neither of them looked any happier than he felt. “Is this another of those natural consequences,” he asked, “like the waning and waxing of the amount of daylight throughout the year?”

“Exactly like,” Manwë said with a pleased look. “There is naught to fear, but we wanted to alert you three to what will happen so you may prepare your people. We do not want a panic.”

“No, of course not,” Ingwë said with a sigh. He gave the Elder King and Lord Námo a rueful look. “Are there any other such... er... consequences of the creation of Anar and Isil of which we should be aware, my lords?”

*Sunspots? Solar flares?* Námo bespoke to Manwë, keeping his expression neutral.

*Behave!* Manwë shot back, barely able to keep a straight face. He shook his head. “No, Ingwë, there are no other consequences. You have my word.”

The three kings looked a little less worried. Olwë spoke next. “The question is, how do we explain it so it makes sense? Indeed, I’m not really sure I understand it myself.”

Námo pointed to his pendant. “Have you ever wondered at this emblem?” he asked.

“Of course, lord,” Arafinwë answered. “I do not know an Elf who has not. The emblems of the other Valar are recognizable and nameable but yours....” He gave the Vala an apologetic shrug.

Námo nodded. “I know. I have waited for someone brave enough to ask me about it, but so far, none have.”

“Were we supposed to?” Ingwë asked, giving the Valar a worried look.

“No, Ingwë,” Námo said with a gentle smile. “but knowing the inquisitive nature of the Eldar, I thought perhaps someone might at least approach one of my Maiar, if not me. Even Fëanáro never did. At any rate, my emblem is an exact representation of what will happen in a few weeks.” He held the pendant up so the kings could have a closer look. “Tilion will pass directly before Arien, blocking out much of her light save the corona that you see here. We call this phenomenon ‘ithirdushamanúthan’ in Valarin.”

Arafinwë stared at the pendant and frowned in thought. “I watched as you launched Isil and then Anar and I know that Tilion’s vessel is much smaller than Arien’s. How can he block out her light?”

“Ah,” Manwë said with delight. “A most astute question. If you will, my son,” he said to Arafinwë, “hold your hand out at arm’s length with your palm facing me, as if you were bidding me to halt, keeping it before your eyes.” Arafinwë did as the Elder King commanded and Manwë continued. “When you put your hand, which is smaller than my head, in front of you like so, what happens?”

“Certainly a small portion of your face is now blocked,” the Noldóran answered. Ingwë and Olwë copied him and both nodded in agreement with Arafinwë’s words.

“You probably have experienced this in your daily lives without giving it any thought,” Manwë said, “but it is similar to what will happen between Tilion and Arien. Distance is the key.” He gave Arafinwë a nod. “Go over to the door and put your hand up as before. Is my head hidden from your view?”

“Yes, lord,” Arafinwë answered. “Indeed, much of your hröa is blocked from my view.” He lowered his hand and at a gesture from Manwë he returned to stand with his fellow kings.

Manwë nodded. “And so it will be with Arien. Tilion is much closer to Arda than she and thus, when he passes in front of her, it will appear to us who are here as if he is blocking her light even though, as Arafinwë pointed out, Tilion’s vessel is much smaller than Arien’s.”

“And that is all you need to say to your people,” Námo added. “Tilion will pass between us and Arien and it will only seem as if he is swallowing her light. The phenomenon will last only for a few brief moments and then you will see Tilion moving westward again and Arien’s light will shine forth as before.”

The three kings gave each other considering looks. Olwë spoke to Ingwë and Arafinwë. “If we caution our families and our courtiers to maintain a calm front it will go a long way towards keeping the populace from panicking.”

The other two Elves nodded and then Ingwë turned to Námo. “Your emblem has been known to us since we first came to Aman, lord,” he said, “yet only now do we understand its significance. Does this mean that you knew all along that the Two Trees would be destroyed and that Isil and Anar would be created?”

Námo stared at the Elf for some time before answering and Ingwë paled under his regard. “No, Ingwë, I did not know for sure,” he finally said, speaking softly. “When we first created our thrones that form the Máhanaxar, something compelled me to carve on the back of my throne this image. It was something I had seen before in another part of Eä long before Arda was ever brought into existence.”

The three kings gave the Vala looks of surprise. Then Arafinwë’s expression became more thoughtful. “Ithirdu-dusham-dushamanúthan,” he muttered, stuttering over the strange sounds of the Valar’s own language, a language which the Elves had not tried to master.

“The word means ‘overshadowing’,” Manwë said helpfully.

Arafinwë nodded. “Halië, then,” he said with a decisive nod.

“As good a word as any to describe what happens,” Námo said with a shrug.

“I agree,” Manwë said. With that, the audience seemed to be over and the three Elves made their obeisance before being escorted out by Manwë’s Herald, quietly discussing between them how they would handle the news to their people.

“Well, that hopefully solves that problem,” Námo said with a smile. “I wonder how Melyanna will explain the eclipse to the Children in Endórë.”

Manwë gave a snort. “I doubt she will begin teaching them celestial mechanics.”

Námo barked a laugh even as he faded from Manwë’s view.

****

Melian, Maia Queen of Doriath, sighed as she looked upon the stricken faces of the Children who were her subjects. Even her lord husband seemed nonplused as he gazed upward at the sight of Ithil overtaking Anor. How to explain it as simply as possible?

“Ah,” she said brightly, coming to a decision, “Tilion still pines for Arien, I deem. See you how he is drawn to her, his very shadow cutting off her brightness. But I do not think she will let him get too near to her, for look, even now he flees from her wrath. Tilion has ever loved Arien, all know this, but Arien has eyes only for another and she loves Tilion not. Tilion has always been a fool where Arien is concerned.” She shook her head in what she hoped was a believable expression of amusement at the foibles of her fellow Maia.

Those surrounding her and Elu continued staring at the drama unfolding in the heavens above them, quietly commenting to one another on the Queen’s explanation. She watched as Finrod exchanged glances with Galadriel and Celeborn, both of them giving him a shrug, as if unsure how to take her words. Lúthien, she noticed without surprise, was dancing under the eerie shadowy light, apparently unconcerned by the strangeness of the situation. Elu Thingol lowered his gaze from the heavens to frown at his wife, while she plastered an expression of serene indifference on her fair countenance. Then he glanced at Finrod, giving him a questioning look, as if his Noldorin kinsman’s opinion was the only one that mattered.

Finrod glanced pensively at Melian and she suspected that he did not believe a word she had spoken. She gave him a brilliant smile, daring him to contradict her. His eyebrows went up and there was a slightly amused look on his face, as if he recognized the game she was playing, but when he turned to Elu his expression was more sober and he shrugged. “Works for me.”

****

All words are Quenya unless otherwise noted.

Ezellohar: The Green Mound of the Two Trees, adopted and adapted from Valarin.

Máhanaxar: Ring of Doom, adopted and adapted from Valarin.

Valanya: ‘Powers-day’, the last day of the six-day week of the Eldarin calendar used in Aman at this time.

Mindon Nyellion: Tower of Bells. They would go silent at the Mingling of the Light of the Trees.

Landamallë Valion: Avenue of the Valar that runs between the mansions of the Elder King and the Lord of Mandos [landa ‘wide’ + mallë ‘street, road’, Vali ‘alternate plural of Vala’ + -on ‘plural genitive suffix’].

Hröa: Body.

Noldóran: King of the Noldor, an attested word.

Ithirdushamanúthan: (Valarin) Literally, ‘Light Marred’, which is the closest I could come to ‘eclipse’, given the few words we have of the Valar’s language. Cf. Atháraphelun Dushamanúthan ‘Arda Marred’. Manwë’s translation is obviously very free.

Halië: ‘The Hiding’ or ‘The Overshadowing’; gerundial form of the verb halya- ‘to veil, conceal, screen (from light), overshadow’. Cf. the adjective. halda ‘veiled, hidden, shadowed’. See ‘Etymologies’, s.v. SKAL-, The Lost Road, HoME V, and Vinyar Tengwar 46, ‘Addenda and Corrigenda to the Etymologies — Part Two’, page 13. ‘Overshadow’ is a synonym of ‘eclipse’, whether as a verb or a noun.

Beyond the Galvorn Door

Summary: The last Elf has been Reborn, the last ship has sailed. Nothing more for Námo to do but ferry the Mortals from the Circles of Arda... or is there? Inspired by the Middle-earth prompt #160 ‘Blood’. A story for Halloween (sort of). MEFA 2010: Honorable Mention: Genres: Horror: General.

Warning: Rated R for graphic description of vampirism.

****

Sometime during the Last Age of Arda:

Námo, Lord of Mandos, walked the empty Halls of his domain. The last of the Elves to be Reborn had gone. All the Elves who would die, had. The last ship had sailed from Mithlond with Círdan aboard. There would be no other ships to take the Straight Road ever again. Only the Houseless who had refused the Call remained wandering lost in Middle-earth, but they were not his concern. Eru would deal with them as He would in His own time.

He walked through each of the Halls, the Mardi Envinyato and the Mardi Winiron. All empty. All silent. He had an urge to check behind every column and inside every sleeping chamber for errant fëar playing hide-and-seek and wondered if he should also turn off the lights as he went. In his mind he felt a whisper of laughter from his beloved Vairë at the thought and he smiled.

He would miss them, he knew. He would miss the laughter and the singing and the occasional upsets as fëar adjusted to being children again. They had seemed like his own children while they were under his care. He chuckled at that thought and Another laughed with him.

*Are you sorry to see them all go, my son?* came the gentle inquiry from the depths of his Being.

Námo shook his head. “Nay, Atar. I rejoice that they have all rejoined their loved ones in Life. It is as it should be. You know how I have looked forward to this day.”

*I do. You have served me faithfully and with joy. It will not go unrewarded.*

“My reward is knowing that I have pleased you in my service, Atar. And my work is far from over. I will still continue to shepherd your other Children into your Presence until Arda is Renewed.”

*That is true, but I will reward you nevertheless, my child, for I am well pleased.*

Námo mentally bowed in acquiescence, and smiled in anticipation, wondering what reward Ilúvatar had in store for him. His smile left him as he came to one more door.

It was made of galvorn, black and unadorned, reflecting nothing. There was no knob on this side. Indeed there was none on the other as well. Only he had the key to open it, and he rarely did. He did not now, but passed through it as if it were not there.

Beyond the door it looked much the same as the other side. He was in a Hall, beautiful in its own way, full of light and peace, its walls covered with exquisitely woven tapestries. It was not, however, empty. Námo glanced around. He was glad that this Hall was smaller than the others, that only a few handfuls of Elves dwelt here.

The Mar i-Estellóraron. The Hall of Those Without Hope. He could see them, though none saw him. Indeed, none had ever seen him. They came to this place blind to all else but themselves. They stood or walked unseeing and unseen by the others who dwelt there. They slept not nor found any solace. No judgment had been offered them, no forgiveness, for they desired it not. They were alone, without even hope to sustain them. And Eru intruded not upon their solitude.

The Lord of Mandos sighed. Somehow these had made their way here, heeding a Call they could not hear. They were not counted among the Houseless, but neither could they be counted among those destined to be Reborn. Life, for them, was not an option. And he always felt as if he had somehow failed them.

*Nay, my best beloved, the failure was never on your part.* Námo felt comforted by these words.

He looked about. Yes. There stood Fëanáro, staring at a tapestry, though perhaps not really seeing it. It was one of Námo’s favorites, woven by his beloved Vairë, showing Eärendil offering the Silmaril to Yavanna before the thrones of the Valar when first he had come to Valmar to plead for the Elves and Men of Middle-earth. When Námo had decided to hang it in this Hall, Fëanáro had gravitated to it immediately like a lodestone, and had never moved away, rooted forever before it, but what he saw or thought was anyone’s guess.

Four of his sons were also there, each oblivious to the others or anyone else. Macalaurë, of course, had long since returned to the Undying Lands, seeking forgiveness and dwelt now in Aman, though not in Tirion. The twins had not gravitated to this Hall after their death, but had allowed themselves to suffer Judgment. They, too, had been released and dwelt now with their older brother. Námo was glad that Amrod and Amras had chosen Judgment, had allowed the Valar to cleanse them of the Marring. This Hall should not have been needed, he thought sadly. No one should have to be here.

*But they are, my son,* came Eru’s reply. *And the real tragedy is that there are those who are here by choice.*

Námo nodded as he spied one who truly should not have been there.

Finwë.

He had entered this Hall by choice when Fëanáro arrived, wishing not to be separated from him. The once King of the Noldor sat against a pillar of light, waiting for his beloved Fëanáro to recognize him. He saw the Lord of Mandos, but did not acknowledge him, his fëa solely intent upon his son.

Námo stopped long enough to lay a hand on Finwë’s shoulder. “Patience, my child. Someday he may yet know you.”

Finwë only nodded, incapable of words. In the silence of the Hall he had been the only one aware of his surroundings. At first he had spoken constantly to his son and later to his grandsons, hoping to reach them, bring them back from whatever darkness held them enthralled. But after millennia of unmitigated silence, save for the occasional visit by the Lord of Mandos, Finwë had stopped speaking at all. It hadn’t seemed worth the effort. He could have left the Hall at any time, but chose not to, not wishing to be parted from his beloved son. In that, Námo knew, Finwë had suffered a failure of hope, had allowed despair to enter into his heart, unable to trust in Eru’s ultimate mercy for his family. In his own way, Finwë was just as lost to hope as the others there.

Námo shook his head as he left Finwë and wandered through the Hall. Others were there. Eöl. Maeglin. Traitors and murderers both. Sadly there were even a few ellith. These Children were the last. It grieved him that any of them were there at all.

*As it grieves me, my son,* came Eru’s soft thought.

Námo nodded and then stopped before one particular soul. It was an ellon, once a lord among the Noldor-in-Exile who had died in the sack of Doriath, as Námo recalled. Like the others he stood unseeing, lost in his own version of hell. But something was different...something was not as it had been....

The Lord of Mandos stood there stunned. Could it be? He reached out a tentative hand and stroked the ellon’s face, wet with tears, tears that had not been there when last he’d walked this Hall a thousand sun-years ago.

“Cassalcarin?” Námo queried, his voice barely above a whisper.

Slowly, the ellon blinked, as if waking up.

“Cassalcarin?” Námo called again, a little louder.

The ellon blinked again and then his eyes focused directly on the Lord of Mandos. They widened and his lips trembled, his expression one of deep anguish. Námo could only stand there, a frisson of shock running through him.

“Wh-where am I?” Cassalcarin whispered hoarsely, speaking for the first time since he had died.

“You are in the Halls of Mandos, my son,” Námo said gently.

“I-I’m dead? How?”

Námo nodded. “Do you not remember?”

Cassalcarin shook his head, looking bereft. Námo longed to embrace him, to comfort him, but he knew now was not the right time. He steeled himself for what he knew must come next.

“Do you want to remember?”

Cassalcarin gasped, put a hand before his mouth and stepped away from Námo, shaking his head, his eyes pleading. “I-I’m afraid.”

“I know you are, child,” Námo said sorrowfully. He knew only too well how afraid the ellon was. He also knew that Cassalcarin would know even greater fear before the end. “But you need not face it alone. Will you let me help you?”

Winter was fleeing before a Spring creeping towards Summer in the outer world before Cassalcarin was able to summon the courage to nod. Námo had waited patiently, would have waited eons instead of the few short months of the Sun that had passed, before the ellon gave his answer. He smiled gently, hoping to reassure the Elf.

“W-will it hurt... to remember, I mean?”

Námo nodded. “Yes, it will hurt.”

“And after?”

The Lord of Mandos shook his head. “What comes after will be up to you, child. Judgment must be rendered.”

The ellon paled and backed away some more until he was against one of the pillars, his expression stricken. “I... I don’t know if I can...” he started to say and then began weeping, hiding his face in his hands.

Námo went to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve come this far, Cassa,” using the pet-name by which the ellon had been known as a child, “let me help you the rest of the way.”

For an answer, Cassalcarin collapsed into Námo’s embrace, weeping inconsolably, fear filling him. Námo stroked his hair and rubbed his back.

“Shh. I will not leave you.” He bent down and kissed the Elf on his brow. “Á enyalë sí!” he commanded, the force of his words echoing throughout the Hall like an earth tremor.

And Cassalcarin screamed, though he was unaware that he had....

****

They found him deep in the bowels of Menegroth and even these battle-hardened warriors were sickened by what they saw. The rape of Doriath had been glorious and they had sated themselves on the terror of those who fled before them, all deserving of death for denying their lords the Silmaril that rightfully belonged to them. They had shown no mercy, but what they discovered afterwards gave even them pause. They fled, never knowing that in the fleeing lay their salvation.

When the survivors of Doriath’s destruction found him sometime later their rage knew no bounds. The horror of finding this Noldo surrounded by the eviscerated corpses of their children as he greedily drank their blood was such that all reason fled.

Cassalcarin himself was past caring or knowing what he was doing, lost in the dark pleasure of his bloodlust. He had gotten a taste of blood during the First Kinslaying as he followed Lord Celegorm and the other Fëanárioni into exile. He had sworn no Oath but he had given them his allegiance. He had willingly slain the Teleri in Alqualondë and the rush that he had felt the first time he tasted someone else’s blood on his lips had driven him near to frenzy.

Over the centuries, though, he had managed to curb his appetite, contenting himself with the blood of the occasional deer or wolf, or sometimes the children of the Secondborn. But when he entered Doriath behind Lord Celegorm....

They took him and they killed him, but the dying was slow and exquisite in pain. He screamed and screamed, not really understanding what was happening or even why. He had felt so good before as the warm blood had coursed down his throat....

****

Cassalcarin continued screaming, writhing in Námo’s embrace, and then he stopped with a gasp and the Vala nodded, knowing that the memories had reached their end. The ellon moaned deeply and Námo allowed him to collapse to the floor. He looked down at him dispassionately and waited.

“I... I di-did that?” Cassalcarin finally asked, never looking up, the horror of the memories of what he had done, what he had been, nearly overwhelming him. When Námo did not respond, he looked up and quailed. The Vala’s implacable gaze was dark and dreadful and Cassalcarin nearly retreated back into the abyss from which he had managed to drag himself, though he did not know he had done so or that it had taken him nearly eight hundred yéni to do so.

“H-how long have I been here?”

Normally Námo did not bother to answer such a question. Nearly all his charges had asked him that, wondering if the length of their stay in Mandos was indicative of some personal failing on their part. This time, however....

“A long time, Cassalcarin. Six ages of the Sun have fled while you have been here.”

Cassalcarin shook his head in disbelief, his eyes wide. “Six...six...” but he could not complete the thought. He swallowed and slowly stood up. “Wh-where have I been all that time?”

Námo smiled, but it was not a pleasant one and Cassalcarin shuddered at the sight. “You have been here, child, locked away from all, unwilling to allow even Ilúvatar admittance to your imprisoned fëa.”

“I-I don’t understand... locked away where?”

The Vala reached out with his right index finger and touched a spot between the ellon’s eyes. “Á cenë!” he commanded and Cassalcarin gave a shuddering gasp. He suddenly realized he was not alone. Others were there, standing or walking or sitting. They seemed to pay no attention to him or the Vala. He saw Lord Celegorm and started to go to him, but Námo stopped him.

“Nay, child, you cannot go to him. He is not here.”

“What...?” the ellon started to say, confusion in his face, for he could plainly see his liege lord.

Námo shook his head sadly. “He is not here. You see only an echo of him as he wanders this Hall, unaware of anything or anyone but himself. He can neither see nor hear you... or me, for that matter.”

Cassalcarin looked about, seeing what the Lord of Mandos meant. He turned back to Námo and swallowed. “Th-this is...th-the...”

“The Mar i-Estellóraron, yes. What the Mortals of this time would call the Nómë i-Rácineron, though that is not strictly true.”

Cassalcarin gave a shudder. He was damned. He knew that, beyond all hope of redemption, he was forever cursed, no less than Fëanáro. He knew despair and wondered why he had sought to free himself from his self-imposed prison, a prison he so richly deserved.

“Perhaps because you seek that which you think is beyond your reach,” Námo said softly, watching the interplay of emotions sweep across the ellon’s face, divining his thoughts. “Perhaps you seek forgiveness.”

Cassalcarin shook his head. “Wh-what I did...it was unspeakable. It could never be forgiven. Eru would not allow it and He would be right not to.”

“Perhaps,” Námo conceded, “but that is not for you to decide. Your only task at this point is to decide if you want forgiveness. I must warn you, the cost to you will be high, higher than you can ever imagine. If you truly seek forgiveness freely given, you will be forever lost.”

Cassalcarin gazed at the Vala fearfully. “L-lost? Am I not already lost?”

Námo actually smiled. “No, my son, merely misplaced.” Then his expression darkened and he held out his hand. “Take it,” he commanded and the Elf moaned, his hands to his mouth, his body trembling, tears falling, blinding him.

He reached out with his right hand and at the lightest touch of fingers his mind went blank as every part of his fëa screamed with pain. But it wasn’t his pain he was feeling, it was the pain of every one of his victims — the pain, the fear, the horror, the utter despair that was their last conscious thought before all thoughts fled to Mandos’ Halls, or beyond. He collapsed to his knees, his hand still in Námo’s grip and then he was vomiting, or thought he was.

Waves of nausea hit him and his fëa responded in kind. He leaned over and gagged and it seemed as if great gobs of darkness spewed out of his mouth in uncontrollable spasms that lasted for an eternity. When he finally came to himself, he saw that nothing stained the floor beneath him. He looked up at the Lord of Mandos, pain and wonder warring in his eyes.

“You are beginning to experience the cost of your redemption, Cassalcarin,” Námo explained. “You are reacting to what you were, what you became in the end. That you are sickened by what you have experienced here is all to the good.”

“I-is it over, lord?” the Elf asked with some hope.

Námo smiled sadly and shook his head. “Nay, child. It has only just begun.” He knelt down to place a comforting hand on the ellon’s forehead. “Rest now for a time.”

“No... no, please, my lord... let it be finished now,” Cassalcarin cried, his weeping making his words hard to understand. “I am damned... I know I am... not even Eru... I don’t deserve to be forgiven... I can’t....”

He continued crying and Námo let him, stroking his hair but otherwise offering no other comfort. He knew what must come and he ached for this Child, soon to be forever lost. He felt his Atar’s loving embrace, supporting him, giving him encouragement to see this through to the end. He felt, too, how tenderly Eru held Cassalcarin, though the Elf was unaware of it.

“Very well, Cassalcarin,” Námo intoned as he stood up. “If it be thy wish, we will continue.” Then his voice grew cold and implacable. “This is my Judgment and Eru’s Will. Forgiveness thou hast sought, but it is not for thee. Mercy shall be thy doom instead.”

He grabbed the ellon’s hands and held them tightly. For a moment the ellon looked up in confusion where he knelt at the Vala’s feet and then his eyes widened as he saw beyond sight what was approaching. He screamed, a visceral primal scream that ripped through his fëa.

The Noldo screamed again, and again, struggling to free himself from Námo’s grip. The Lord of Mandos never let go. The Elf writhed with terror born of understanding of what price was to be paid for his sins. He had thought he wanted forgiveness, though he feared what he deserved was punishment. He was right about that, but wrong about the nature of the punishment. Forgiveness would not be his, but Mercy would be.

There could be no forgiveness he realized at the last, for Forgiveness implied Judgment, Judgment implied Restitution, and no amount of restitution could ever satisfy his debt. No judgment, no forgiveness and no restitution. Only Mercy was left, though it be merciless in the execution of its authority.

As implacable as a summer storm, and as relentless, it approached. Mercy, terrible in its beauty, came leaping across the Ages and the Abyss to embrace him. It washed over him in a dark green wave and he drowned in a sea of Love that was so deep he could never reach its depths nor find its heights. He screamed and screamed and screamed, every shudder destroying him over and over again, reshaping and rebirthing his fëa a thousand times over. Eru would have his due and it would be nothing short of his very Self. He was indeed lost, as Námo had warned. Lost. Irretrievably lost. And his final thought, before his mind shut down completely, was that he was glad....

****

The screaming finally died away, but Námo did not let go his grip until the final shudder swept through the ellon’s fëa and he became still. Then, he gently lifted Cassalcarin into his arms and strode to the galvorn door. For the first time since the Great Journey of the Eldar, Námo spoke a single Word and the great door opened, then silently closed behind him as he went through. No one within the Hall even noticed.

He made his way to the Halls of Healing and entered one of the sleeping chambers and settled into a rocking chair with the still unconscious ellon in his arms. Then he waited and as he waited he pondered what had taken place. He knew that forgiveness was forever out of reach for this Child, for any of those who dwelt in the Mar i-Estellóraron. What they had done, each in their own way, had been unforgivable, or so they thought. Forgiveness was out of reach, not because Eru decreed it so, but because they could not accept its consequences for themselves. Yet, while forgiveness was no longer an option for them, mercy was ever close at hand, if they only knew it.

Or perhaps they did and feared it more than mere forgiveness and judgment would entail, for mercy was undeserved and freely given, while forgiveness implied a need for punishment deserved. Cassalcarin had thought he wanted forgiveness. In the end, what he received instead was something far more terrifying.

“What will become of him, now, Atar?” Námo asked. What had happened, had never happened before. He was as much out of his depth as was Cassalcarin. He closed his eyes at the enormity of it all.

*That is for you to decide, my son. His fate is now in your hands.*

“But he can never be reborn while Arda lasts. Is he to be condemned to roam these empty halls alone until Arda is Renewed?”

*He will not be alone, child. You will be there, and your beloved spouse, as will your Maiar servants. Olórin, for instance. I think he would enjoy the challenge.* There was a hint of laughter in the Other’s tone.

“What challenge?” Námo asked, feeling perplexed.

*The challenge of helping you raise your son.*

“My what?” He opened his eyes in surprise.

Now the laughter was obvious. *Congratulations, best beloved, you’re an atto. Say hello to your newborn son.* And Námo looked down to see Cassalcarin staring up at him.

Or rather, someone was staring up at him. Námo realized with a start that the personality that had been known as Cassalcarin was no longer there and he felt inexplicably saddened by the loss.

*Do not be sad, my love. He whom you knew as Cassalcarin was never meant to exist, as you well know. That person was born in blood and terror on the shores of Valinor under the Darkening of the Trees. That person came into being beside the body of his first kill; the real personality, shattered by the horrors he had witnessed and participated in, was ruined beyond all recalling. Until now.*

Námo gasped at the implications. “You mean...?”

*My Other Children, in their innocence, would label poor Cassalcarin as having a ‘multiple personality disorder’, little understanding the true nature of what that means. The real Cassalcarin was lost during the Kinslaying at Alqualondë. I have simply retrieved him.*

Námo looked upon the ellon lying in his arms. The person who stared up at him was young. He smiled at the ellon. “Mai omentaina, yonya. Ni attotya ná.”

“A-atto?” the voice quavered and Námo guessed the ellon could not be more than six or seven years old, if that.

“Yes, yonya, I’m your atto.”

“I ’fwaid Atto,” and tears began to fall from the ellon’s face.

“Hush now, my best beloved, there is nothing to fear.”

“A-atto?” the ellon said through his tears.

“Yes, child?”

“Wh-what’s my name?”

Námo stifled a gasp. Had this Child been robbed even of his name? It was the one thing that every Elf who underwent Judgment retained, though they remembered nothing else about themselves.

*It is usually the custom for the atar to name his children*, came the amused voice of the One.

“But...”

*Hush, now, my love. A newborn deserves a new name, don’t you think?*

Námo considered Eru’s words. “This is my reward, isn’t it?”

*And are you not pleased, my child? You’re an atto now. Yours is the responsibility of raising your son up in the way that he must go, yours and Vairë’s. And perhaps someday he will have siblings.*

“But why...?”

*You thought your work was finished, that the only task left for you was to ferry the souls of my Other Children beyond the circles of Arda. Yet, as honorable a task as that might be, you felt that you had lost any real purpose and feared I would have no need for your service again, did you not?*

Námo nodded, closing his eyes. He had thought that way, if only a little, and was ashamed that he had faltered in his trust in the One, but Eru laughed and the Vala felt only love and understanding emanating from the Source of his Being.

*But now you see your true task has just begun, to help those trapped in the Mar i-Estellóraron to find their way past the galvorn door, one fëa at a time, beginning with this precious one in your arms. They can never leave Mandos until Arda is Remade, but if they can find their way into the Halls of Healing where Hope ever dwells that is not necessarily a bad thing, is it?*

“No, Atar, it is not. Thank you. Thank you for the gift of my son.”

Eru laughed with great delight. *Don’t thank me yet, yonya. Wait until he becomes an adolescent.*

Námo chuckled, then opened his eyes to see Vairë kneeling beside him, smiling upon his son. Their son. He felt the other Valar taking a peek at the ‘new addition to the family’, as Varda was describing the ellon, while Manwë laughed and offered them his congratulations.

The ellon shrank against Námo’s arms as he saw Vairë, unsure who this person might be. She stroked his cheek and gave him a kiss.

“Mai omentaina, hinya. Ni emmetya ná.”

“E-emmë?”

“Yes, my best beloved,” Vairë. said, trying to comfort him with a smile, but it was obvious to them both that the ellon was still uncertain.

He looked up at Námo. “A-atto?”

“Yes, my little one, this is your emmë.”

The ellon started crying again, disconsolate. “Wh-who am I, Atto? I not m-member my name.”

*So what are you going to name your son?* The query came from Ilúvatar, but Námo could sense the other Valar waiting impatiently for his answer.

“Hush, now, sweetling. There’s no need for tears. Your name is Estel.” It was the first name that came to mind, the Word he had spoken to unlock the door to the Mar i-Estellóraron.

Little Estel stopped crying and looked up at his atto with a teary smile. He snuggled further into Námo’s embrace. “E-estel... I Estel?”

“Yes, best beloved. You’re our Estel and Atto and Emmë love you very much.” He kissed the ellon on the forehead and rocked him gently. Vairë drew forth a chair to sit beside him, stroking her child’s hair as she and Námo sang an ancient lullaby until their son fell into a healing sleep for the first time in over a hundred thousand years.

****

All words are in Quenya unless otherwise noted.

Mardi Envinyato: Halls of Healing, reserved for those destined to be Reborn.

Mardi Winiron: Halls of Children, where the fëar of Elf children who die grow into adulthood before they are re-embodied.

Atar: Father.

Arda: The world; actually, our solar system.

Galvorn: (Sindarin) A black metal made from a meteorite devised by the dark Elf Eöl.

Mar i-Estellóraron: The Hall of Those Without Hope, reserved for those Elves never destined to be reborn until Arda is Renewed [estel ‘hope’ + -lóra ‘-less, without’ + -ron ‘plural genitive suffix’]. The name does not imply that there is no hope for those who dwell therein, only that those who do dwell there have lost all hope.

Ellith: (Sindarin) Plural of elleth: Female Elf.

Ellon: (Sindarin) Male Elf.

Cassalcarin: ‘Glorious helmet’ [cassa ‘hemet’ + alcarin ‘glorious’].

Á enyalë sí!: ‘Remember now!’

Fëanárioni: Sons of Fëanor.

Yéni: plural of yén: an elvish century of 144 solar years. The actual amount of time was 782 yéni or 112,608 solar years from the fall of Doriath in First Age 507.

Á cenë!: ‘See!’

Nómë i-Racineron: The Place of the Damned, literally ‘The Place of Those Who Are Cursed’.

Atto: Hypocoristic form of atar: Father.

Mai omentaina, yonya. Ni attotya ná: ‘Well met, my son. I am your papa’.

Mai omentaina, hinya. Ni emmetya ná: ‘Well met, my child. I am your mama.’.

Emmë: Hypocoristic form of amillë: Mother; variant of ammë.

Estel: Hope.

Daughter of Fate

Summary: On the eve of the departure of the Noldor from Aman, one member of the House of Finwë is having trouble convincing the rest of her family that she should not be left behind. Inspired by the ALEC challenge ‘But You’re a Girl!: The Tolkien Feminine Twist’, in which you were to choose one of the following scenarios: 1) Have one of the Fellowship be female; 2) Fëanor has 6 sons and 1 daughter; or 3) Have an important male canon character be female. I chose the second scenario.

.****

Author’s Note: For the sake of this story, I have decided that the youngest son of Fëanáro and Nerdanel should be their daughter. Thus, Telufinwë ‘Last Finwë’, whose mother-name was Ambarussa ‘Top-russet’, has become Eryafinwiel ‘Sole Finwë daughter’(father-name) and Russafindiel ‘Red-haired daughter’ (mother-name), known to the rest of the family as ‘Russa’. A note on the Quenya names of characters mentioned in this story who are better known by their Sindarin names can be found at the end.

****

"Why can I not go with you?" Russafindiel whined. "Artanis is going and so is Írissë."

Fëanáro scowled. "How the sons of Indis order their households is their affair. I am your atar and I say you’re not going with us."

"Besides," Pityo said with a supercilious sniff, "you weren’t there when we made the decision to go."

Russa glowered at her twin brother. "That’s because I was here with ammë mending your stupid socks."

Her brothers all smirked, even Cáno, and Russa felt betrayed, for he had always been her favorite brother and her champion. She had thought that he, at least, would support her desire to go with them. He must have realized what she was feeling, for his expression became wistful and he gave her a hug, though she tried to resist.

"You have to stay behind, Russa, and take care of Ammë for us," he said quietly.

"Your brother is right," Fëanáro said with a nod. "Stay here and look after your amillë."

"I am quite capable of looking after myself," Nerdanel exclaimed as she entered the private courtyard attached to the royal apartments where the argument was taking place. "Though, mind you, I would fain have one of my children with me."

"You see," Nelyo said, "even Ammë wants you to stay."

"No, dear," Nerdanel said with a gentle smile at her first-born. "I said I would fain have one of my children with me, but I will not choose between any of you."

"Then, you actually agree with Russa that she should go with us?" Turco asked, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

"I do not agree that any of you should go, including your atar," Nerdanel replied with a hint of anger. "This entire affair is ludicrous." She turned to her husband. "Whatever possessed you to make such a rash decision, dragging our children into it, not to mention your brothers and their families?"

Fëanáro turned red with growing wrath. "The decision was mine alone. I had nothing to do with any others who decided to join me. The sons of Indis...."

"Honestly, dear," Nerdanel interjected with a huff, "when are you going to start calling your brothers...."

"Half-brothers," Fëanáro growled.

"... your brothers by their names," Nerdanel continued as if she hadn’t heard. "They may be the sons of Indis, but they are your atar’s sons as well."

"Bah!" Fëanáro exclaimed, waving a hand in dismissal. "That is neither here nor there." He turned to his youngest child and only daughter. "You’re not going, Eryafinwiel, and that’s final!"

Russa burst into tears and ran from the courtyard, ignoring Cáno calling after her. She ran through the hallways and out into one of the palace gardens, heedless of her path, nearly colliding with someone who grabbed her to keep her from falling.

"Whoa there!"

Russa looked up at the person, wiping the tears from her eyes. She started to apologize and stopped, staring at the ellon in surprise. He was the most gorgeous ellon she had ever seen with bright golden hair and brilliant blue eyes. Even in the present darkness under which they were now living his hair glowed. He reminded her somewhat of her cousin, Findaráto, save that Finda’s hair had hints of silver and his eyes were more grey than blue. But still....

The ellon was dressed simply in a plain tunic with little embellishment, yet it was obvious to Russa that this was no mere gardener or other servant of the palace. For one thing, he was far too handsome and aristocratic looking to be a commoner.

"Whatever is the matter, lady?" the ellon asked solicitously. "Has someone done you an injury?"

"What?" Russa responded somewhat stupidly, still staring at the gorgeous specimen of ellon-kind. "Oh, no. Nothing like that. I... it’s just that Atto won’t let me join him and my brothers and it’s so unfair. My cousins, Artanis and Írissë, are going, so why can’t I?"

"Ah," the ellon said. "Well, I understand the Lady Amarië is not going either."

"She’s not?" Russa asked in surprise. "Why not?"

The ellon shrugged. "She has decided to remain behind. I think Lord Findaráto is relieved that she is not accompanying him."

"Hmph. Well, I’m not surprised," Russa retorted disdainfully. "She’s a Vanya after all. They have no sense of adventure."

The golden-haired ellon laughed and Russa nearly melted at the sound of it, so merry and joyful. She wanted him to laugh forever and never stop, but, of course, he did, giving her a considering look. "Do you really want to go?" he asked.

She nodded. "More than anything."

"Well, it just so happens that I will be going as well."

"Truly?" she said and he nodded. She sighed, casting her eyes down in dejection, now feeling suddenly bereft. She had begun to think that staying behind wouldn’t be so bad if this particular ellon were there, but if he was going too and she had to remain behind....

The ellon put a hand under her chin and lifted it so she was gazing into his lovely blue eyes. His smile was just shy of being absolutely wicked. "If you are truly determined to go with us, I think I can see a way for you to do it without anyone knowing."

Her eyes widened. "How? And who are you, anyway? I don’t recall seeing you about before."

The ellon gave her a graceful bow. "My name is Laurefindil," he said. "I am distantly related to Lady Indis."

"Oh," Russa said, not sure what else to say. Her side of the family never spoke of or to her anatar’s second wife.

Laurefindil gave her a knowing smile. "Does that make me your enemy?"

"What?" she exclaimed, giving him a slap on his arm. "Don’t be ridiculous. Now tell me what this plan of yours is."

The ellon laughed and proceeded to do just that.

****

"I have decided you are right, Atto," Russa said to Fëanáro a few days later. "I should stay behind with Ammë."

Fëanáro gave his daughter a suspicious stare. "And what brought about this sudden change of mind?" he enquired.

Russa shrugged. "It’s obvious that you will not consent to my going, so there’s no point in arguing about it. So, I’ve decided to do the mature thing and accept your decision."

"Hmmm...." was Fëanáro’s only comment as he cast a glare at Nerdanel, who merely raised an eyebrow at her husband.

"She came to this decision on her own," she said. "As I said before, I would prefer that none of the children accompany you, but I am glad that at least one of them will stay with me."

Russa tried not to cringe, knowing how hurt her ammë would be when she discovered her gone, but she was determined to go. Why should Artanis and Írissë go and not she? It was just unfair. Sometimes she wished she’d been born an ellon. Life would have been so much easier. Having six brothers who continually reminded her that she was ‘just an elleth’ was too annoying. Well, she would show them.

Her atar gave a sigh. "Well, I am glad you came to your senses, Erya," he said with a nod.

"Yes, Atto," she said meekly.

When her brothers learned that she had finally agreed to remain behind, most of them smirked in triumph. Cáno was the only one who didn’t. Instead, he hugged her and gave her a brotherly kiss. "It is a wise decision, nésanya," he whispered in her ear.

Russa just sighed, keeping up the act of being resigned to remaining behind, all the while, secretly gleeful at the ruse she would play on them all.

****

Russa kept up her act of being resigned to staying behind, though she was careful not to overdo it. Her atar still gave her a suspicious glare every now and then and she thought perhaps he was aware that she was only pretending, but as he never said anything, she felt she was safe enough. She even went so far as to offer to mend any tunics and trews for her brothers before they packed, which offer they accepted readily enough. Not even Cáno, always the most perceptive of her brothers, questioned her sudden willingness to help. Nor did they seem to notice that not all their clothes were returned to them. Russa hid them under a pile of blankets in her clothespress.

Finally, the day arrived when her atar and her brothers were to set out. Nerdanel had already made the decision not to see her husband and sons off and had returned to her own atar’s home. That suited Russa just fine, for it gave her the same excuse not to be present. "I am resigned to not going," she said to her atar, "but that does not mean I like it. I would prefer not to see you leave, so I will go and stay with Amarië instead."

Fëanáro gave her a suspicious look but finally nodded. "I think that would be best," he said, then relented slightly to give her a fatherly hug and a kiss. Her brothers followed their atar’s example and gave her their own hugs and kisses. Then, she left them, apparently to go to find Amarië but instead she went to her rooms and took out the clothes she had hidden away, exchanging her gown for a pair of Moryo’s old trews, for they fitted her the best. She then donned a tunic belonging to Nelyo and an old pair of knee-high boots that Pityo had thrown out. One of Curvo’s cloaks went about her. He was the tallest of her brothers, so his cloak covered her well. Then she undid her braids and brushed her hair out, rebraiding it with the house braid that would identify her as belonging to Laurefindil’s household. The rest of her clothes and other items were then quickly packed in a haversack.

She then sneaked out to the garden where she had first met Laurefindil and found him waiting there as promised. He smiled when he saw her. "Excuse me, I’m looking for an elleth by the name of Russa. Have you seen her?"

Russa giggled. "Do I really look like an ellon?" she asked shyly.

"Close enough," Laurefindil said. "Come. We will be traveling with Lord Turucáno’s group."

"Hmm. Cousin Turucáno," she said with a frown. "He might recognize me even though our side of the family has had nothing to do with Uncle Ñolofinwë’s family."

"We’ll stay far to the back of the group," Laurefindil stated. "Besides, traveling as we will by starlight, it’s doubtful anyone will notice. Did you decide on a name for yourself?"

Russa nodded. "I have decided to keep it simple and easy to remember," she replied. "So, my name is now Umbarto." When Laurefindil raised an eyebrow at that, she hastened to explain. "Umbartiel was my amilessë before Atto changed it to Russafindiel."

"Hmmm... very well, then. I will introduce you as Umbarto, a young ellon of my household. Come. We must not tarry here."

He grabbed her haversack and together they made their way to the Court of the White Tree where everyone was gathered. Russa could see her atto and brothers taking the lead, setting off once Uncles Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë arrived with their people. Laurefindil made his way to where Turucáno’s standard could be seen in the light of the torches and quietly introduced her to those of his household who were there. It took some time for everyone to head off and they were one of the last to leave the silent and desolate city.

Russa took one last look behind her as they passed through the eastern gate of the city, her expression both troubled and wistful. Laurefindil leaned down and whispered in her ear. "You can always go back," he said. "There is still time."

She shook her head and turned her face resolutely to the east. "No. I will not go back. My destiny lies before me."

Laurefindil did not say anything, just taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. She squeezed back and the two shared a brief smile between them.

****

"What are they doing?" Russa cried as she saw the flames reaching skyward, with many of the swan ships of Alqualondë burning and, even more horribly, bodies of Elves lying on the strand, unmoving. Russa couldn’t imagine why they were just lying there and then she saw one of the Noldor raise his sword against the fishing spear of a Teler and run it through the hapless ellon. There was a horrible scream and then the Teler was falling to the ground, as lifeless as all the others lying there.

"No!" she screamed and Laurefindil had to grab her and hold her back when she would have gone to the Teler’s aid.

"Do nothing to attract attention," the ellon hissed. "You cannot help him. His fëa has already fled to Mandos."

Russa attempted with great difficulty to stem her tears. She allowed Laurefindil to lead her from the killing grounds as they continued following Turucáno’s banner, for her cousin had expressly forbidden any in his retinue to enter the fray. She had a very sick feeling that it was her atar who had begun the killing for some reason. Great waves began to swamp the ships that were now making their way northward and she watched in horror as some were dragged under, their Noldorin crews lost. She turned away, not wanting to see any more.

For a brief moment she wondered if it were too late to turn back, but then she squared her shoulders and stiffened her resolve. No, she would not turn back. More than ever she desired to go only forward to whatever fate was awaiting her. Laurefindil said nothing, his own visage grim, but during the long trek northward he never left her side and even his silence was a comfort to her.

****

Russa stood and watched her Uncle Arafinwë turn away and begin issuing orders for the return journey back to Aman for those who would follow him. She was almost tempted to run to him and reveal herself and beg to be allowed to return to Tirion and her ammë. Laurefindil, standing beside her with an unreadable expression on his face, bent down to speak softly to her. "You can go back if you desire it," he said. "I will not hold it against you if you do. Indeed, I think it might be wise if...."

"No," she said adamantly. "I will not leave you. We go together, either onward or back to Tirion. You choose."

For a long moment Laurefindil said nothing, merely staring upward at the rock on which the dark figure still stood, impassively watching them. They had all shuddered at the sound of that one’s voice speaking their Doom. Even now, Russa felt herself growing weak at the thought, and she shuddered again at the memory of her atar and her brothers repeating that appalling oath. She could not understand why her brothers would allow themselves to be swayed into such folly, especially Cáno whom she always considered the most sensible of her siblings.

Laurefindil shook his head and looked down at her. "We go on," was all he said and, taking her hand, they went to join the rest of Turucáno’s retinue now beginning to set out again.

This time, Russa refused to look back... or up.

****

The Grinding Ice was a hell she had never thought to experience. By now she had forsaken her ellon disguise. Her atar and her brothers had deserted them and she decided it was no longer necessary to hide. No one realized though that the elleth who stayed close to Lord Laurefindil was in fact the youngest child of Fëanáro. She gave her name out as Umbartiel and only Laurefindil ever called her Russa and then only when they were alone, which was hardly ever. As far as everyone else around them was concerned she was the daughter of a minor noble who had forbidden her to leave Tirion but had sneaked away with Laurefindil’s help. Those most acquainted with the young lord accepted this as something that he would typically do. However, she still kept as far from Turucáno and her Uncle Ñolofinwë as she could, just in case.

Over the course of their journey, Russa began to have feelings for Laurefindil that went beyond mere friendship and she suspected that he had similar feelings for her as well, though he was ever careful to hide them, even from her. Truly, this was neither the time nor the place for such things as they struggled just to survive, but she hoped that a time would come when they could declare their feelings for one another openly. She only hoped they both managed to survive to do so.

Right now they were attempting to cross an ice field towards firmer ground. She glanced away from the hole where three people had gone under, including Lady Elenwë. Already the hole was closing over and she shuddered. Laurefindil held her close as she averted her gaze, giving a sob that was half fear and half sorrow.

"I’m here," he whispered to her and the sound of his voice above the howling of the wind and the wailing of those around them was as a balm to her fëa.

****

"You will not go."

Russa looked up from her loom to see Laurefindil, or rather, Glorfindel, standing there, his golden hair a bright nimbus with the sun behind him. It was less a question and more a statement but she shook her head anyway.

"No. I have no desire to sit with my brothers, or to reveal my presence to them at this time," she answered. "But you must go, for you are the lord of your House and your not being at the feast will be thought a snub at Uncle Ñol— I mean, Uncle Fingolfin’s attempt at reconciliation between us and the Fëanorians."

"It’s been fifty cyrnanor," Glorfindel said. "Surely in that time...."

She shook her head. "No. I will never forgive them for what they did," she retorted angrily.

"What your adar did," he rejoined. "They only followed his will. You know Maedhros even thought that the ships would be returned so the rest of us could cross over."

"Instead, he and my other brothers stood there and let our adar set the ships on fire," she countered, then sighed. "No. My mind is made up. I will not go to the Mereth Aderthad. I am sorry. I know I am a disappointment to you...."

He was across the threshold in an instant, pulling her into his embrace and kissing her fiercely, a kiss which she returned. When they finally stopped he nuzzled her neck. "Never a disappointment. You are my beloved and I thank the Valar that we met in the royal gardens so long ago."

"As am I," she whispered back. Then they separated. "You should go," she said. "I will be here when you return."

"Russa...."

"Amarthiel," she corrected with a gentle smile. "How many times must I remind you?"

He smiled back and then without another word he exited the house which was theirs. She stood there for the longest time, fingering her marriage ring. They had plighted their troth shortly after arriving in Beleriand. It had been a private ceremony with only their closest friends and her lord’s household as witnesses. Now they were married and by rights she should have accompanied her husband to the feast as the Lady of the House of the Golden Flower but she could not bring herself to do so. Too much had happened. She shivered as she thought of what the Enemy had done to her oldest brother. If it hadn’t been for Fingon....

Well, it was past, but still she could never forgive her brothers for deserting them, for deserting her, though she knew that they had no idea she was even here. She sighed and went back to her loom.

****

"Gondolin?" she asked.

"So Turgon has named it," Glorfindel said with a nod.

She looked down at their son, their first-born, whom she was nursing. They had named him Glóredhel for his hair was a darker gold than his adar’s with reddish highlights inherited from her, but his eyes were his own, a curious shade of green that were presently half closed in contentment as he continued to suckle. She looked back up.

"When will we leave?" she asked.

"Soon," her husband answered as he leaned down to brush a gentle finger down his son’s cheek. "We will be leaving at night and quietly in small groups over a period of a week or so in order not to arouse too much suspicion."

"Gondolin," she muttered. "A hidden city." She looked down at her son and held him a little closer to her breast. "Do you hear that, my love? We’re going to live in a hidden city where we will be safe. Safe." Yet, even as she spoke the word, a tremor of premonition swept through her and she wondered if there was indeed any place in Ennorath that was truly safe. She brushed the foreboding from her mind and gave Glorfindel a smile. "Yes, safe," she repeated. Little Glóredhel simply continued suckling, caring for nothing else.

****

They were almost through the pass at Cirith Thoronath when the Balrog appeared. Russa screamed as Glorfindel leapt upon the monster, her two sons, Glóredhel and Lindir, holding her back, while her daughter, Lóriel, clutched at her and wept. Russa could not cry, refusing to let the tears come. Not then, not now. There was too much despair for tears. She watched in numb bemusement as Thorondor came swooping down and then he was raising her husband’s charred body and gently placing it in Tuor’s arms. She allowed Glóredhel and Lindir to lead her on to where Tuor was ordering a cairn raised by the side of the pass. She watched them pile the stones over her beloved Glorfindel’s body and she wanted to flee her own body and join him in Mandos, but she would not do that. She was the Lady of the House of the Golden Flower and Glóredhel was now its Lord. He would need help in the coming days and she alone could give it. Only when Idril handed her the final stone to place upon the cairn did she allow herself to weep and it was some time before any of them could convince her to leave her husband’s grave.

****

She was visiting Galadriel and Celeborn on the Isle of Balar with her three children when news of the attack on the Havens reached them. They set out at once to offer aid, but by the time Círdan’s people got there it was over: Elwing was gone with the Silmaril and her two sons were missing, though survivors mentioned seeing Lord Maglor swooping them up and taking them away. She viewed the body of her twin brother dispassionately.

"Fool!" she hissed at the corpse. "You are all fools! See where your damned oath has brought you."

When Gil-galad asked her what she wished done with her brother’s body, she gave him a scathing look. "Burn it, along with the other Kinslayers." And then, she walked away, never looking back.

****

She walked through the encampment with her three children by her side. The War of Wrath had claimed many victims but at least her children were alive. She briefly thought of her beloved Glorfindel, wishing he, too, were here to see the final victory over Morgoth. Then she shook the thought away. She had more important business to deal with. Somewhere in this hodgepodge of tents were her two remaining brothers and knowing them as she did, she had no doubt as to what they were planning. She meant to stop them if she could. She hoped to save them from themselves.

"There," Glóredhel said, pointing to one of the tents. "Uncles Maedhros and Maglor are there."

Even as her son was speaking she saw two figures emerging from the tent and hurried forward to intercept them, her three children keeping up with her.

"Well, brothers," she said just loud enough for them to hear her without attracting attention from any who might be nearby. "I would like to say it is good to see you, but then, I would be lying."

She had the satisfaction of seeing both of them stare at her with their mouths hanging open and gave them a sardonic grin.

"Ru-russa?" Maglor finally stuttered, speaking Quenya. "Wh-what are you doing here? How are you even here?"

"I’ve been here all along, Cáno," she replied in the same language. "I snuck away with the help of a friend and joined the exodus from Tirion, keeping far away from all of you so you never knew I was there."

"But... but where have you been?" Maedhros demanded.

"Gondolin," she answered. "Where I married the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower." She smiled as they both started at the title, recognizing it. Both ellyn glanced at her children and she nodded. "Our children," she said. "Glóredhel, who is now the Lord of our House, or what is left of it, Lindir and his twin sister, Lóriel."

The sons of Fëanor stared at them for a long moment before Maedhros cleared his throat. "Well, it was nice meeting you again, sister," he said, switching to Sindarin, "but you caught us at a bad time. Maglor and I have someplace...."

"You mean to steal the Silmarils, don’t you?" Russa interrupted her brother and she had to force herself not to laugh at the shocked looks on both her brothers’ faces.

"What do you know about it?" Maedhros finally spat out, sounding angry, no doubt to hide his fear.

"I know you," Russa said. "I know that even now you are being fools to think you can get away with sneaking into Lord Eönwë’s tent and stealing the Silmarils right from under his nose." She gave them both a look of disdain. "He’s a Maia. Have you forgotten what that means, my brothers?"

"Our oaths...." Maedhros started to say but Russa uttered a curse word that even had her children staring at her in disbelief.

"Your oaths!" she snarled. "Your oaths got our brothers killed. Is that what you want? Because I can assure you that death will be your reward when you are found stealing the Silmarils."

"We won’t be stealing!" Maedhros nearly shouted. "It is others who have stolen from us. The Silmarils are ours!"

"They were never yours, Nelyo!" Russa hissed, using his old pet name to underscore her point. "They were not even adar’s. The Silmarils belong to us all and to the Valar especially. Adar did not create the light of the Silmarils. That light came from the Valar."

"Bah!" Maedhros exclaimed, sounding so much like their atar it was almost uncanny. "You’re just an elleth. You don’t understand anything. Come, my brother. Let us away from here." Maedhros started to turn away, grabbing Maglor with his left hand, but Maglor pulled away.

"No," he said in a soft whisper. "No."

"What are you saying, Maglor?" Maedhros hissed. "We have our oaths...."

"No," Maglor repeated a little louder. "I am sick and weary of it all. My crimes are many and unforgivable but I will not add to the list. Russa is correct. It’s madness to think we could ever steal the Silmarils from the Maiar. As for the oath, I renounce it."

"You cannot!" Maedhros insisted.

"But I have and I will go before the Valar and say so," Maglor retorted. "My brother, please, do not do this. Russa...."

"Russa should not even be here!" Maedhros shouted. "She should be back in Tirion darning socks!"

Russa gasped at her brother’s words and flashes of memory swept before her eyes: Laurefindil helping her across the Grinding Ice, building their first house together in Vinyamar, cradling their first-born son while her husband looked upon them both with joy, their life together in Gondolin where they did not know fear, the terrible day when all that ended and her husband’s lifeless body was laid under a cairn. The long years of struggle to survive.... Her brothers had no idea what she had endured all those years. The very injustice of Maedhros’ words stung her and before she could stop herself, she stepped forward and gave him a hard slap across the mouth.

"Is that all I am to you?" she cried, tears running down her cheeks. "I assure you that I am more than just a darner of socks."

For a long moment there was an uncomfortable silence between them all and then Maedhros turned and walked away into the darkness. Maglor started to go after him but Russa stayed him with a hand on his arm. "No, Cáno. Let him go. You renounced your oath and any claim to the Silmarils." The anguish and pain on her favorite brother’s face was almost too much to bear, but bear it she did. "Please, hanno," she whispered in Quenya, wrapping her arms around him. "If not for my sake or the sake of my children, then for ammë’s sake. Don’t go. She deserves to have more than one of her children returned to her."

Maglor suddenly burst into tears and she held him closer, rocking him gently while her three children closed in around them. Lost as they were in their own world, they barely registered the sounds of someone screaming, nor did they see Maedhros, his one hand burned to the bone when he tried to grab the Silmaril, dropping it as he ran head-long into a burning chasm. Nor did they see the warrior Maiar ringing them to protect them from the ire of others when the attempted theft was discovered. Only when Eönwë appeared, bearing both Silmarils, did they take note.

"Your brother is dead," the Maia said softly. He held out the Silmarils. "Take them," he commanded of Maglor and Russa.

All five Elves took a step back, unsure what was happening. Maglor shook his head in denial. "I dare not. My hands are stained with the blood of the innocent."

But Eönwë simply stood there with the Silmarils shining in his hands. "Take them," he said again. "Consider this the final test, Children of Fëanáro."

For a moment no one moved and then Russa placed a hand on her brother’s arm. "We will take them at the same time," she said, "and suffer the same fate."

Maglor nodded, though he was decidedly unhappy about it. Still, slowly, hesitantly, they both reached out to take one of the Silmarils. Russa was surprised to find how cool it felt in her hand in spite of the blazing light. She glanced at Maglor who also was holding his Silmaril with a look of wonder on his face.

"It... it doesn’t burn," he whispered.

Eönwë allowed himself a small smile. "You renounced your oath, son of Fëanáro," he said.

Maglor looked up, his expression now becoming puzzled. "That’s all it took, the renouncing of an oath?"

"Oh that is but the first step towards redemption, child," the Maia said not unkindly. "The fact that you can hold the Silmaril without harm is proof that you have finally chosen the correct path and you have your sister to thank for that."

Maglor turned to Russa and she gave him a tremulous smile which he returned. Then, he suddenly thrust the Silmaril out to her. "Here. You take it. You deserve it more than I."

Russa gave him a startled look but when she saw Eönwë nod, she held out her other hand and allowed him to place the Silmaril in it. Then, Eönwë spoke. "Guard them well, daughter of Fëanáro, for to thee has been given the charge of being the Guardians of the Silmarils until such time as they will be needed once again."

Without warning, there was a stir in the air and everyone gasped at the sight of Vingilot coming ever closer. They could see Eärendil at the wheel with the Silmaril bound to his forehead. As the ship came to a halt before them, Eönwë smiled at the five Elves. "Here is the ship that will take you home. All of you." He gave Maglor a significant look. The ellon simply stood there looking stunned.

Then Eärendil was leaning over the side of the ship to offer them a hand up and before they knew it, they were all aboard and sailing away. Russa clutched the two Silmarils in her hands, afraid to move. For the first time that night, Maglor turned to her with a smile, his eyes clear, his voice steady.

"Home, Russa," he said with a sigh. "We’re going home."

Russa nodded, and the sudden joy that she felt at her brother’s words was almost overwhelming. She swallowed a couple of times, ignoring the tears running down her cheeks as she glanced at her children, their expressions one of amazement. "Yes, we are," she finally said and decided there was nothing more to be said after that.

****

"She did it," Námo said with a triumphant grin.

Manwë nodded. The two were standing on the eastern balcony of the main throne room in Ilmarin, watching the events that were unfolding in Middle-earth. "She was well named by her amillë," the Elder King said. "For all that Fëanáro attempted to change her destiny with a change of her name, she was indeed fated, fated to fulfill the will of Eru."

"And so the Silmarils are saved and at least one of the sons of Fëanáro has been brought back to the Light," Námo commented.

"Yes," Manwë said. "Macalaurë must still come before us to be tried for his crimes, but in truth, I think he has been punished enough. It is time for the healing to begin, for all of them."

Námo nodded. "Glorfindel will be very proud of his wife when he is finally released from my care and learns what she has done this day. I’m glad we were able to... er... inspire him to take that walk in the garden when he did."

Manwë flashed him a knowing smile. "So are we all, my brother. So are we all."

****

Words are Quenya unless otherwise noted.

Atar: Father. The hypocoristic form is atto.

Ammë: Hypocoristic form of Amillë: Mother.

Ellon: (Eldarin) Male Elf. The plural form is ellyn.

Anatar: Grandfather.

Elleth: (Eldarin) Female Elf.

Nésanya: My sister.

Umbartiel: ‘Daughter of Fate’. Telufinwë’s original mother-name was Umbarto ‘Fated’, which Fëanáro found ominous and changed to Ambarussa ‘Top-russet’. The Sindarin form of this name would be Amarthiel.

Amilessë: Mother-name.

Fëa: Soul, spirit.

Cyrnanor: (Sindarin) Plural of Cornanor: Sun-round.

Ennorath: (Sindarin) Middle-earth.

****

Note: The Quenya names of characters mentioned in this story and their Sindarin equivalents:

The sons of Fëanáro (Fëanor) and Nerdanel:

1. Nelyafinwë (Nelyo): Maedhros

2. Canafinwë (Cáno): Maglor

3. Turcafinwë (Turco): Celegorm

4. Curufinwë (Curvo): Curufin

5. Morifinwë (Moryo): Caranthir

6. Pityafinwë (Pityo): Amrod

Other characters:

1. Artanis: Galadriel

2. Írissë: Aredhel, sister of Turgon and Fingon

3. Findaráto: Finrod

4. Laurefindil: Glorfindel

Instruments of Love

Summary: A crate of mysterious instruments given to Elros by Eönwë will prove important to the new king’s future, though not in the way he thinks. A Valentine’s Day inspired story.

****

"Ethiro!"

But the warning came to late and before Elros knew it, he had crashed into someone and sent both their crates and themselves to the ground, scattering books in one direction and precious (and breakable!) instruments in another. Landing on his tailbone didn’t help matters and he let out an oath as pain shot up his spine, making him see stars that had nothing to do with those shining down on him.

"Why weren’t you looking where you were going, you orc-brained oaf!"

That was the other person and Elros, once his vision cleared, saw an elleth — no, he corrected himself, a young woman of the Edain — scrambling about on her knees attempting to collect the scattered books. She was not looking at him. He turned his head to see where his own crate had gone, fearing that the instruments that Lord Eönwë had gifted him, instruments of measuring that would help him found his capital city, were broken beyond repair. The crate in which they had been in had been large and awkward and he’d been unable to see around it, plus it was dark. He should have had others helping him but he did not want this particular crate out of his sight for too long.

"Why didn’t you?" he snarled as he crawled over to where he could see one of the instruments, hoping against hope it was undamaged. He picked it up gingerly, not even sure what it was for, only knowing that the Herald of the Elder King had given it to him along with the other instruments as a final parting gift.

"They will help you in building your new life," the Maia had said as he handed the wooden crate over to him. "Guard them carefully," he had added. "They are, for now, more precious than mithril."

They were more precious than anything as far as Elros was concerned if only because Lord Eönwë had given them to him. For that very reason alone, they were a treasure beyond price. He tried to ascertain in the light of flickering torches what the instrument was and what it might be used for and if it was damaged in any way, but he could not tell.

"Well, don’t just sit there," spat the young woman. "Help me with these books and scrolls. They’re very precious."

"To Angband with your books and with you!" Elros yelled, cradling the precious piece of metal and wood as he stood to see if he could find the rest of Lord Eönwë’s gift. "Books! Bah! What’s so precious about them? If these instruments are damaged beyond repair...." And that stopped him cold. What if they were? What would he do? How would he be able to build without these instruments? Lord Eönwë would not have given them to him on a whim. They were important, more important than books that apparently suffered little damage in their tumble.

Elros turned towards the woman — no, girl — for now that he was actually looking at her he could see that she was quite young even by Mortal standards, barely out of childhood, though her figure was definitely womanly. His eyesight was superior to those of most Mortals with his elvish blood and even in the near total darkness he could see that she was really quite beautiful... or she would be if she weren’t crying, her face getting all puffy with tears.

He suddenly felt ashamed of himself for his outburst. The child didn’t deserve it. "I’m sorry," he muttered. "I didn’t mean it. It’s just...."

"Elros! Your Majesty! Are you all right?"

Elros looked up to see Brandir, his close friend and councillor, come running, a torch in his hand, the man’s expression one of alarm. Others were also running towards them. He noticed with amusement the look of dismay on the girl’s face as she realized who he was.

"I’m fine, Brandir," he said, "but I don’t know about these instruments." He held out the one in his hands. "I hope they weren’t too damaged. Lord Eönwë gave them to me. He said they would be important in helping us build."

"Don’t worry, Elros," Brandir said. "I’ll see to these." He thrust his torch into the hands of another man whom Elros did not know and gingerly took the instrument out of the king’s hands, giving orders as he did so. "Bring more torches and find the other instruments. Do not attempt to pick them up but mark where they are and call me. You two, check the crate and bring it along."

"Wh-what about my books?" the young girl asked hesitantly, clutching one of them to her as a mother would hold a babe to protect it.

"Your books can keep, girl," Brandir said, not unkindly. "The king’s instruments are more...."

"I’ll help you," Elros interjected, seeing the look on the child’s face. He realized with a start that for her the books were as precious as the instruments were for him and he hated to see her looking so bereft and lost. "It was my fault anyway," he admitted. "I should have gotten others to carry the crate."

"Why didn’t you?" the girl demanded as she swiped angrily at the tears on her cheeks and then looked abashed at her brashness. "Sorry... your Majesty," she muttered, keeping her eyes on the ground before her.

"What is your name?" Elros asked.

"Emeldir, Sire, daughter of Belegund of the House of Bëor."

"Ah, then I suppose that makes us distant cousins," Elros said with a smile.

Emeldir looked up, giving him a puzzled look.

"Never mind," he said. He looked around and spied one of his other friends. "Mitheryn, bring that torch over and help us find the books."

Mitheryn came readily enough and when she saw the girl she introduced herself. "Hello, I’m Mitheryn.".

"Emeldir," the girl said shyly.

"I see you’ve met the king," Mitheryn said with a wicked grin for Elros.

"Rather, our crates met," Elros replied with a chuckle. "Come. We still have much to unload." He bent down to retrieve a couple of scrolls and a small leather-bound book and the two women followed suit with Emeldir righting the crate and repacking the books.

"I don’t know why we couldn’t have waited until the morning to do this, Elros," Mitheryn said with some amusement.

Elros blushed and was glad it was dark so no one could see. "I guess I was so excited about finally coming here, I just couldn’t wait."

He glanced skyward and saw Eärendil’s star shining above them, giving into a small smile. He barely remembered his adar, just an impression of strong arms holding him, the smell of sea salt all around and a booming laugh, but nothing else. Seeing his adar’s star shining ever before them as they had sailed across the Sundering Sea towards their new home had kept them all, even Elros, from despairing that they were lost in the midst of Lord Ulmo’s realm. It had been a comfort to him personally to know that even though he would never see his adar again, Eärendil would continue watching over him, him and his people for all time.

"Elros."

The peredhel blinked a few times, bringing his gaze to bear upon Mitheryn, another good friend and councillor, realizing somewhat sheepishly that she had been calling his name for some time.

"Sorry," he muttered. "You were saying?"

Mitheryn gave him a sympathetic smile. "We’ve found all of Emeldir’s books."

"Oh, yes... ah... here." He thrust the two books he was still holding towards Emeldir who took them carefully with a smile and placed them inside the crate. "Here, I’ll carry that," he said, stooping to lift the crate, which was even heavier than the one he’d been carrying earlier. His peredhel heritage allowed him to lift it easily though. "This is quite heavy," he said with an admiring look at Emeldir. "How did you manage?"

Now the girl was looking rueful. "Not very well," she replied. "That’s why we... er... crashed into one another. I was struggling to get a grip and I stumbled over something at the same time. It was my fault more than yours that we ran into one another."

"Hmph," was all the response Elros was willing to give at that moment. Perhaps they had both been at fault, refusing to ask for aid in carrying their respective loads. "Where were you taking this?" he asked.

"Over there," she pointed towards a tent in the midst of their camp and the three set off towards it. It was not a large tent, and normally it would sleep two people, but when Emeldir pulled back the flap to let him in, Elros saw that there was only one cot. Nearly the rest of the space was taken up with crates similar to the one he was carrying. He gave the girl a surprised look.

"These are all books?" he asked as he carefully placed the crate on top of another of similar size.

Emeldir nodded. "Mostly," she answered. "There’s one crate that has my personal belongings." She suddenly blushed and Elros gave her a knowing smile.

"Where did you find all these books?" Mitheryn asked. "Surely during the war there was no time for reading?"

Both Elros and Emeldir gave Mitheryn disbelieving looks, but when they saw the gleam of amusement in her eyes they both chuckled. "No, there was no time during the war," Emeldir said, "but there was plenty of time afterwards. My adar loved books. They were his passion and he passed that passion on to me. As soon as we knew we were coming here he began collecting as many books and scrolls as he could find that he thought would be of use to us in our new life. Most of these are actually copies made of books belonging to King Gil-galad or Lord Círdan."

Elros eyed the young woman speculatively. "Your adar...." but he did not finish his thought for he could see Emeldir fighting tears. "I’m sorry," he said softly, guessing that Belegund had not survived to take ship with his daughter.

"He was wounded during the war," Emeldir began explaining, not really looking at them. "He met my naneth in the refugee camps where she was helping the healers. They fell in love and married just as the war was ending. It took him a long time to recover from his injuries and he never truly recovered. His health remained poor. Two winters ago... you remember how harsh it was that year?" The other two nodded soberly. "Well, Ada caught a chill that went to his lungs. He... he died."

The baldness of the statement sent shivers down Elros’ spine. He knew about death, had seen many comrades from the war die, knew, at least intellectually, that he too would someday die and pass beyond the Circles of Arda, having made the Choice, but it was still something that he did not fully grasp for himself, though he suspected that in time he would. "I am sorry," he repeated, not knowing what else to say.

"And your naneth? Did she....?" Mitheryn started to ask, looking sympathetic.

"Oh no!" Emeldir responded with a bright smile. "She is very much alive. About three months before we sailed, though, she remarried. She and Ragnor have the tent next to mine."

Elros could not sense any resentment from the woman at the mention of her naneth’s new husband and was glad of that. "You are an only child, then?" he asked.

Emeldir shook her head. "I have two younger brothers, Ecthelion and Eärnur. I suppose they’re around here somewhere. I haven’t seen them since we landed." She gave them a shrug as if to say that the doings of her brothers were of no concern of hers.

"What do you intend to do with all these books?" Elros asked.

"Why, build a library, of course," Emeldir retorted in a tone that suggested that he had just said something incredibly stupid. Then she realized to whom she was speaking and blushed. "Forgive me, Sire. I meant no disrespect."

Elros waved away her apology, more amused than anything. "Do not concern yourself, my lady," he said formally. "No offense was taken. It was a rather stupid question, wasn’t it?" He grinned at her and she grinned back.

"Elros," Mitheryn said then, "we really need to go. There is still much...."

"Yes, there is," Elros said. He gave Emeldir a bow. "Perhaps we may meet again in a few days and you can show me your books. I am interested in knowing what your adar deemed important."

"I would like that," Emeldir said shyly, giving him a curtsey.

Elros nodded and then he and Mitheryn left. "Let’s find Brandir," he said to her as they walked back towards the ships. "I need to find out the condition of those instruments."

****

They found Brandir with Haladan, both men carefully examining the instruments set out on a hastily constructed trestle in front of Elros’ pavilion. The men looked up as Elros and Mitheryn approached. Brandir spoke before Elros could ask his question.

"The instruments all appear to be fine, Elros," he said, hiding a smile at his king’s sigh of relief, "but we’ve been trying to figure out what they are and how they are to be used, and neither of us have a clue."

Elros frowned as he glanced over the instruments. In the torchlight the instruments — he counted ten — were vague in shape, ranging in size from a hand’s length to a couple of feet. "We’ll wait until morning and take a look," he said. "You found nothing else in the crate, nothing to indicate what these instruments were or how they should be used?"

The two men shook their heads. "Nothing," Haladan answered. "What did Lord Eönwë tell you about them?"

"Only that they would be needed to help us build our cities," Elros replied, sighing. "Surely there must be someone among us who has knowledge of building and the use of these instruments."

The others all nodded. "Well, nothing that we can do about tonight," Mitheryn said in a reasonable tone. "Tomorrow you should have your heralds go through the camp asking for those who are builders and engineers. They will likely know what these instruments are."

Elros nodded. "Repack them," he ordered the two men, "and bring them inside my pavilion. We’ll sort it all out tomorrow. I had better go see how the rest of the unloading is doing." With that he gave them a short bow and left.

****

The next morning, their first in their new home, Elros was up before dawn to greet the day and to survey their camp. The ships had sailed into a deep narrow harbor that lay between the east and southeast peninsular promontories that helped make the island’s star-shape. Elros, now that it was daylight, could see that it was a good place and thought that this would most likely be their main harbor. He needed to start organizing survey teams to begin mapping the island in greater detail than the map that Lord Eönwë had given him, which showed only the barest details of mountains and rivers and such. It would be years, he knew, before there was a settled city, his capital, but they needed to start now in ascertaining the best place to build. He had a suspicion that the instruments given to him would prove important in that determination.

He spied Brandir, Haladan, Mitheryn and a few others making their way towards his tent and he waved at them. "Fair morning!" he called in gladness and it was indeed a fair morning as Anor rose majestically out of the ocean, bathing them all with streamers of red and gold. Elros was almost certain he heard a glad song of welcome as the sun rose, greeting them all, but then dismissed it as his imagination and concentrated on his friends approaching. They gave him their own greetings.

"So, what is on today’s agenda, your Majesty?" Brandir asked.

Elros gave him an amused look. "You never call me ‘your Majesty’ unless you want something from me, Brandir."

The man laughed as did the others. "Too true, Elros," Brandir admitted. "Actually, we were wondering about those instruments. You said you wanted to see if anyone knew what they were for."

Elros nodded. "Indeed I do. I already instructed my heralds to go through the camp asking for anyone with building and engineering knowledge to come to me. Let us set up the instruments so they can be properly examined."

They followed Elros back into his tent and Brandir and Haladan carefully lifted the crate and brought it out and began unpacking the instruments, laying them on the trestle that had been put up the night before. In the clear light of day, Elros examined the instruments more carefully. They were both beautiful and functional and Elros thought that perhaps they were of Elvish design yet there was something about them that made him think that perhaps not.

"Is that Dwarvish?" Mitheryn asked as they examined the instruments. "It doesn’t look quite Elvish."

Elros nodded. "I was wondering the same. Ah... here comes somebody."

They looked up to see a couple of men approach. They bowed to Elros who nodded in acknowledgment. "You are builders and engineers?" he asked.

"Annrod of the House of Hador, your Majesty," one of the men replied, "and this is my brother, Faerod. We are Masters of the Guild of Engineers."

"Perhaps you could look at these instruments and tell me what they are for."

The two men came over to the table and began examining the instruments. Elros noticed their looks of surprise and delight as they carefully handled the various items. Yet, the longer they examined them the more puzzled they looked. Finally, Annrod, who seemed to be the elder of the two, looked up. "I must confess, Sire, that I am at a loss to say just what these instruments are for." Faerod nodded in agreement.

"But Lord Eönwë assured his Majesty that these instruments would be important in building our cities," Brandir protested. "Surely as engineers and builders you use similar instruments."

The two men nodded. "Indeed, we do," Faerod answered, "but these instruments are not anything we have ever seen before. They do not even resemble the types of measuring tools that we engineers use and we got our knowledge from the Elves who taught us all that we know about constructing cities. My brother and I helped in the building of Lindon, you see."

Now they were all looking puzzled and Elros felt a stab of fear. If they did not learn the use of these instruments, how could they hope to build? And yet, Faerod had just told him that they already had the instruments needed for that. Then for what purpose were these instruments crafted?

"Is there anything you can tell me about these?" he asked quietly.

The brothers consulted with one another in quiet tones before Annrod answered. "The only thing we can say for sure, your Majesty, is that these instruments were crafted neither by Men nor Elves or even Dwarves."

Elros raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

Annrod nodded. "Oh, there are similarities of design of course, yet, I assure you that none of the races of Middle-earth constructed these instruments."

Haladan gave Elros a shrewd look. "You said Lord Eönwë gave you these," he stated and Elros nodded. "Do you think that these were crafted by... by Maiar?"

Now everyone gave a gasp of surprise. "Yet, why would the Maiar need such instruments?" Mitheryn asked.

Elros shook his head. "I do not know. I only know what Lord Eönwë told me, that these instruments would be needed to help us build and that they were more precious even than mithril." He sighed, then turned to the two engineers. "Thank you for your time, gentlemen. I will be calling upon you and your guild in the near future. We need to start mapping this island."

"We are at your Majesty’s command," Annrod said as the two brothers bowed and departed.

"What should we do with these, then?" Brandir asked, gesturing towards the instruments.

"Put them back in the crate for now," Elros said. "I have other duties to which I must attend before I can think about these again."

****

It was, in fact, nearly a month before Elros had the time or the energy to think about anything beyond ensuring that the building of a more permanent city was well underway — a city they had decided would be called Rómenna — sending out survey parties to map the island and its coasts, and overseeing the administrative aspects of any government, even one that was conducted at the trestle that sat outside his pavilion. He had, in fact, completely forgotten about the crate of instruments until one morning he happened to spy Emeldir making her way across the camp, a book clutched to her breast. The memory of their meeting rose in his mind and he had a sudden thought.

"Lady Emeldir," he called as he veered from his original course to intercept her. "Fair morning to you."

Emeldir stopped and dropped a curtsey. "Fair morning to you, Sire," she replied. "I trust those instruments of yours suffered no hurt."

"Ah, you remember!" Elros laughed. "Actually, it is about them that I wish to speak. My engineers tell me they have no idea what the instruments are for."

Emeldir gave him a surprised look. "How odd."

"Yes," Elros nodded. "Very odd. They also tell me that none of the races of Middle-earth crafted them."

Now Emeldir’s jaw dropped. "But... but that’s... I mean... then who....?"

"My reaction as well," Elros said with a glint of humor in his eyes. "I have to confess that I have not actually given them much thought of late, for I have been too busy overseeing everything, but when I saw you, I had a sudden thought that perhaps an answer might be found in one of your adar’s books. You said he collected books he thought might be of use to us."

"That is true," Emeldir said. "But, Sire, do you truly think that there is an answer to be found in books written by the Elves when you just said that the instruments were not crafted by them?"

Elros shook his head. "I said that they were not crafted by any race in Middle-earth, but what about Valinor?"

Emeldir’s eyes widened. "But the Valar and the Maiar would have no need...."

"There are the Eldar of Aman, though," Elros interjected.

"The Noldor are known for being loremasters and craftsmen," Emeldir said with a nod, her brows furrowed in thought. "I know that some of the books Ada collected or had copied came from the libraries of the Noldor. Perhaps...."

"Exactly," Elros exclaimed.

"Then I will search for an answer, lord," the young woman said, then paused, looking somewhat embarrassed. "There are many books and scrolls," she added. "It will take time."

"I will help," Elros replied and smiled at Emeldir’s look of disbelief. "I do know how to read," he added and laughed at the girl’s look of embarrassment. "Why don’t you come and I will show you the instruments. You’ll need to know what they look like in order to recognize any mention of them in the books."

She nodded and together they returned to Elros’ pavilion where he opened the crate and took out the instruments. Emeldir handled them with care and studied them closely. "They are very beautiful, more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen before."

Elros nodded. "Yes, they are. I just wish I knew what I was supposed to do with them."

"If you will trust me with these, Sire," Emeldir said, "it would be helpful to have them taken to my tent so I can compare them with any descriptions I might come across."

"That sounds reasonable," he replied. "I will have these brought to your tent and then when my duties allow, I will come and help you in your search."

"That would be fine," Emeldir said and in a few moments the instruments were repacked and taken to her tent. Elros assured her that he would come in the evenings after the nightmeal to help her and she agreed.

****

They had little luck in the days and weeks of their search. Elros was amazed at the number of books and scrolls that had been collected and said as much.

"Ada spent every coin he had in finding these, or having copies made," Emeldir told him. "As I said, books were his passion and he firmly believed that we would need these to help us with our new life."

Elros nodded and picked up one of the smaller volumes, opening it to find that it was a collection of nursery tales, ones that he remembered his foster-father, Maglor, telling him and his brother. He smiled at the memory and unconsciously settled himself on a camp stool to read them, quite forgetting the real purpose of his visit.

"Did you find anything?" Emeldir asked after a few moments of silence and Elros started, looking chagrined.

"Sorry, I got caught up with reading these tales which I remember from when I was a child," he said.

Emeldir gave a light laugh. "I know. I find myself getting caught up in what I am reading and forgetting what my real purpose is. What tales are those?"

Elros gave her the book and she scanned the pages. "How odd. I don’t recall ever hearing these tales."

"They are stories of the Noldor," Elros explained, "brought with them from across the Sea. My foster-father told them to me and my brother when we were small. They were particular favorites of ours and Maglor could spin a tale as only a master bard can do."

Emeldir gave him a strange look and then handed the book back to him. "So, which one is your favorite?" she asked and Elros raised an eyebrow in surprise, but he readily flipped through the pages until he found a particular story and began reading it aloud. "When Ithil had yet to rise and Anor had yet to shine, there was an elleth who was as fair as any Maia...."

When he finished reading the tale, Emeldir rifled through some of the other books until she found one bound in red leather. "Here is one of my favorite stories from when I was little," she said with a shy smile and, opening the volume, she began to read aloud. "Once upon a time there was a young man who had no family...."

****

Elros wasn’t sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, he began to have feelings for Emeldir as they spent the evenings searching through her collection of books looking for some answer to the puzzle of the instruments. Most of the time they actually spent sharing their favorite stories or discovering new ones together. They talked of books and the future. Elros began to appreciate the foresight of Emeldir’s adar in the types of books that he had collected and was thankful for it. There was a wealth of information that they would need in the coming days, months and years as they slowly began to build their civilization.

But more than that, he appreciated Emeldir’s quick wit and fiery passion. She spoke of building a library and schools, of creating a guild of scribes who would keep the flame of knowledge alive for all their people. He found himself growing excited as well and they spent more and more time talking about the future of their people and the hopes and dreams they both had and less and less time fretting over the mysterious instruments and their purpose.

He also found that he was looking forward to his evenings with Emeldir and had ceased to worry that they were no closer to finding an answer to their problem than before. It was enough now to just sit and enjoy her company surrounded by her books. And when duties prevented him from spending such time with her, he fretted and fumed and could not keep his mind on the business at hand. His friends noticed and smiled knowingly among themselves and, without his knowledge, endeavored to see to it that their king had the time free to be with Emeldir.

And so the weeks passed and every book was searched for any clue but they found nothing. When the last crate had been opened and the last book read, the two sat together staring at one another morosely. "This makes no sense," Emeldir said in exasperation. "Why would Lord Eönwë give you these instruments if they are of no use to us?"

"I do not know," Elros replied. "They were to be used to build our cities and...."

"Are those his exact words?" Emeldir asked with a frown. "We were to use them to build our cities?"

Elros furrowed his brow, trying to recall the Maia’s exact words and shook his head, looking rueful. "No. His exact words were that they would help in building a new life. I am afraid that I jumped to the conclusion that he meant they would help in building our cities and such."

"A reasonable assumption," Emeldir said with a nod. "I am sorry, your Majesty, that my adar’s books were of no help."

"But they were," Elros exclaimed, "or, at least, you were." Emeldir gave him a puzzled look and Elros suddenly felt shy and uncertain. "I have enjoyed our time together, Emeldir. The burdens of kingship often weigh heavily upon my shoulders, but for a few hours when I was with you I could cease to be king and just be Elros and for that I will always be grateful. I... I think I... love you, Emeldir," he whispered at the end.

For the longest time there was only silence between them. Elros wondered if he had somehow offended the maiden and despaired that she would send him away empty-handed. Then, she gave him a tremulous smile. "And I think that I love you... Elros."

It was the first time she had ever said his name, even though he had insisted that she could use it when they were private. But no, she had always addressed him with titles of respect. "But you only think," he couldn’t help saying.

"As you do," she retorted.

Elros nodded, smiling broadly. "Then perhaps we should explore these feelings more deeply to see if we can change thinking to knowing."

"I would like that," Emeldir said with a shy smile, but then she sighed, looking distraught. "What about these instruments, though? They apparently serve no purpose that any of us can determine. Why did Lord Eönwë give them to you then?"

Elros shook his head. "I do not know, but it really no longer matters," he said. "We may never know their true purpose, but one thing I do know about them."

"What is that?" Emeldir enquired.

"They were... er... instrumental in bringing us together."

Emeldir’s eyes widened at Elros’ wicked leer and then she started laughing and groaning at the same time and Elros joined her.

****

"Did it work?" Eönwë asked Lord Manwë, giving him an anxious look. The two were strolling through one of the gardens surrounding the Elder King’s mansion in Valmar.

The Elder King nodded and smiled. "Oh, yes, it worked very well," he answered. "They announced their betrothal this morning before all the people and there was much rejoicing."

The Maia sighed in relief, then grinned. "I confess, I did not think it would work, not at first."

"I can appreciate that," Manwë said. "Yet, we felt it necessary to... er... nudge these two together. The rest was up to them."

"Having them look for an answer to a puzzle that had no answer seemed to do the trick," Eönwë said with a laugh.

"Indeed," Manwë averred. "They will never know that those instruments were created out of thin air and have no actual use. Aulë enjoyed making them."

"Indeed I did," Aulë said with a laugh as he joined them in fana. "Elros thought the instruments would help them build their cities, never realizing that what you told him was the truth, that they would help build a new life for him, and only indirectly for the rest of his people."

Manwë nodded. "Yes. There sole purpose was to help bring those two Children together in the hope that they would fall in love."

"And if they did not?" Eönwë asked.

Manwë shrugged and rewarded his faithful Maia with a smug smile. "We had other ideas in case this one didn’t work."

Eönwë gave the two Valar a surprised look, for Aulë was nodding in agreement with Manwë’s words. "I see," he replied carefully, realizing that his masters were even more devious than he had given them credit for. He would not make that mistake again. "So... what do you think they’ll do with those instruments?"

"Ulmo told me that Uinen overheard Elros saying something about displaying them in public and holding a contest to see who could come up with the best idea for names and purposes for the instruments," Manwë replied. "It will be amusing to see what the Children come up with."

Eönwë laughed. Amusing indeed. He had had his doubts when Lord Manwë had told him his plans but now he knew better. Elros would never know that the life those instruments were truly meant to build was his own, that they were meant solely to bring him and Emeldir together who might never have met. And now the line of kings was secured with their betrothal and for that Eönwë was glad. He had grown quite fond of the Second Children when he had lived among them, teaching them what they needed to know. He looked forward to seeing how they continued to build their civilization, knowing that in some small way, he, too, had been instrumental in giving them a good start on their new life.

"So, what do you plan to give as a wedding gift, lord?" the Maia asked innocently.

Manwë gave his Herald a startled look and then started laughing along with Aulë as the three continued strolling through the gardens coming up with one outrageous gift after another.

****

Words are Sindarin unless otherwise noted.

Ethiro!: ‘Watch out!’

Elleth: Female Elf.

Edain: Plural of Adan: Mortal, Man.

Adar: Father. The hypocoristic form is ada.

Naneth: Mother. The hypocoristic form is nana.

Fana: (Quenya) The ‘veils’ or ‘raiment’ with which the Valar and Maiar clothe themselves.

Note: The name of Elros’ wife is non-canonical. The original Emeldir was the wife of Barahir and mother of Beren and was herself descended from Bëor the Old. Elros’ wife is mentioned in my Vairë’s Loom story ‘Tenn’ Ambar Metta’.

The Exilic Noldo’s Guide to Coping with Post-Helcaraxë Stress Syndrome (or PHSS)

Summary: Sometimes even Elves need a little psychological help and who better to offer it than someone who’s ‘been there and done that’? Inspired by the Middle-earth Express prompt #94, ‘Snow’, as well as a conversation about this very subject with Ellie. Dedicated to all the snow-weary souls longing for spring. Hang in there and keep telling yourself : ‘At least it’s not the Helcaraxë!’ *LOL*

MEFA 2010: Honorable Mention: Races: Elves: General.

Note: This early in the history of the Exilic Noldor in Beleriand, they are still speaking Quenya and they have not yet adopted Sindarin names for themselves. A list of character names and their Sindarin equivalents can be found at the end.

****

Vinyamar, Year of the Sun 1:

"Damn snow! I hate it!"

Laurefindil looked up from the accounts book he was working on to stare at Cehtelion with some consternation. The ellon was standing by one of the embrasures of Laurefindil’s study morosely staring out into a wall of white.

"It is only snow," the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower said in a reasonable tone, returning his attention to the ledger to record an item in the household accounts. It was something that his steward should be doing, but Laurefindil had decided he wanted to understand better the workings of his household and was happily making his way through the ledger. His closest friend, the Lord of the House of the Fountain, had come earlier to visit and until now had been content to sit beside the fireplace and read while Laurefindil finished up the accounts. His outburst had been unexpected. "It is not as if thou hast never seen it before."

Cehtelion jerked his head around to stare at him in disbelief. "Only snow!" he fairly yelled. "It is the damn Helcaraxë all over again. Will they never leave us alone!?" He turned back to the snow and raised his fists above him. "Leave us alone, damn you!" he angrily screamed. "Leave us alone! Have we not suffered enough? Will we never be free of you damn...."

Laurefindil rose in alarm at the very first shout and went to his friend, turning him away from the offending sight and holding him closely. Cehtelion started weeping as he collapsed into his arms.

"But it truly is only snow," Laurefindil whispered into Cehtelion’s ear as he rocked his friend to comfort him. He gazed past the ellon’s shoulder to stare out of the embrasure. His study overlooked the Sea. The snow fell silently in great sweeps of white, disappearing into the greyness of the landscape surrounding Vinyamar, Turucáno’s city, which was still being built. Laurefindil’s present home was merely a humble stone cottage of four rooms hastily constructed on one of the cliffs above the city. A larger home within the city proper was even now being built that would accommodate his entire household, though construction was temporarily halted when the snows began to fall. He glanced down at the Sea which was the color of pewter, and only the sullen motion of the waves breaking against the seawall told him where it was, for sky and Sea had become one with the storm. He was unsurprised that Cehtelion was feeling irritable and depressed. The snow had been falling for four days straight and there had been no sign of Anar during all that time.

"It is not the Helcaraxë, meldonya," Laurefindil said soothingly. "Not even close."

Cehtelion pulled out of his embrace, his expression one of disbelief. "How canst thou be so calm about it?" he demanded. "How long did we trudge across the land bridge, half blinded by the storms that never seemed to end, fighting not only the elements but the monsters that lived there? How many of us never made it? Hast thou forgotten Ornendur or Indiliën? Hast thou forgotten our own lord’s wife?"

"Never!" Laurefindil retorted, now getting angry. "I will never forget Elenwë or any of the others who died. I see their faces before me every night. Do not presume to think I would ever forget...."

Now Cehtelion looked abashed and he quickly hugged his best friend. "Forgive me," he said softly. "I never meant... Valar, Laurë! Will this nightmare never end?"

"Only if we do our very best to put it behind us," Laurefindil answered solemnly.

Cehtelion gave him a quizzical look. "How?"

Now Laurefindil smiled and motioned for his friend to join him as he looked out at the snow. Nothing had changed in the view outside, though perhaps the snow was falling less heavily than before. "We put all the horror behind us by seeing the beauty that surrounds us," he stated.

"What beauty?" Cehtelion asked, glaring at the snow. "I see no beauty."

"But it is beautiful," Laurefindil insisted. "Look thou! Seest not the icicles hanging off the eaves? Their crystals are exquisite in the gentle complexity of form, each one the same yet different. And hast thou not seen the frosting of ice in the pool of water that thou hast before thine own house which is actually a mass of complex geometric shapes? And remember the subtle shadow of moonlight on the snow when Isil was at his fullest? It was lovely to behold, was it not? And the way the snow sparkles like diamonds in the bright light of Anar. I find even the Sea in all its leaden greyness beautiful in its own way."

Cehtelion stared at his friend with growing dismay. "Art thou well, Laurë? I have never heard such... such nonsense come forth from thy lips before."

Laurefindil cast him an amused glance. "It is not nonsense. Look beyond the Grinding Ice, Noldo."

Cehtelion gave Laurefindil a hard stare which the ellon returned with equanimity. There was something in his friend’s eyes, some light of acceptance that did not dismiss the pain and sorrow that lay behind the light but transmuted it. It was not exactly joy but it was something like. He turned his head and stared out at the falling snow, trying desperately to see the world as Laurefindil saw it. At the moment it all looked so dreary and his fëa was burdened with memories of endless white and death. "I just wish it would stop," he finally said in a soft, sad voice.

And, as if in response to that sentiment, the snow began to let up and the clouds started breaking apart. Even as they watched in bemusement, Anar appeared behind the grey veil, her light creating a glittering world of diamonds and sapphires. Cehtelion sucked in a breath in amazement. Laurefindil merely smiled.

"Seest thou, it is not so dreary looking now, is it?" he said, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

Cehtelion gave him a wry smile. "Methinks thou shouldst write a book."

"A book?" Laurefindil exclaimed. "What sort of book wouldst thou have me write?"

"Something that helps others to see the beauty around them," Cehtelion replied, sweeping a hand out to encompass the snow-covered landscape. Even the Sea no longer looked sullen and grey but now sported shades of blue and indigo. "I do not know how thou doest it, frankly. We suffered so much misery...."

"Mostly of our own making," Laurefindil said with a shrug. He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. "Our experiences, whether benign or horrific, shape us and make us who we are but we must never let them dominate us. That way lies only madness."

Cehtelion nodded. "Perhaps thou art right."

Laurefindil laughed, the sound of it ringing joyously. "I am always right, didst thou not know?" Cehtelion joined him in laughter. "In truth, though," Laurefindil continued more soberly, "I know no one who seems to be suffering this hatred for snow but thou. I think such a book would be wasted effort."

Cehtelion shook his head. "I think not. I think more are suffering than thou knowest. For all that word hath reached us by Aran Findaráto that this snow is temporary and that a warm season will follow, I deem many of us are finding it difficult to believe this and are falling into deep depression, losing ourselves in our memories of the Helcaraxë. We need a new perspective, one that thou seemest to have found for thyself without much effort."

"Nay, meldonya, in that thou art mistaken," Laurefindil protested. "Much effort on my part went into seeing the beauty of snow and ice that now surrounds us, for I have suffered from my own nightmares. Yet, I have faith in Aran Findaráto’s words, words that he sayeth come from the lips of Tári Melyanna herself. She is a Maia, after all. We would be fools to doubt her word."

"All the more reason to write the book, meldonya," Cehtelion insisted. "Thou hast suffered as have we all, but thou hast found a way through and beyond that suffering that others, myself included, have not been able to find. Such a book, I deem, may be the saving of many whose fëar are overburdened with too much sorrow and pain."

"Well, I will consider thy suggestion, if I see evidence that such a book would be welcome," Laurefindil said. "But look! Let us abandon this dreary place and frolic in the snow. See, young Itarildë and other elflings are already outside playing."

Cehtelion looked down onto the beach below the city and smiled at the sight of their golden princess running through the drifts with other elflings, their childish voices ringing with laughter, and nodded. The two left the study and donned cloaks before stepping outside, making their way along the snow-shrouded path leading to the city.

"So what title do you think I should give this hypothetical book of thine?" Laurefindil asked as they walked briskly on top of the snow.

"How about ‘Beyond the Helcaraxë — An Exile’s Perspective’?"

"Hmm... I’ll have to think about it. I am still not convinced that there is such a need."

They reached the bottom of the cliff and made their way through the half-built city until they were near the seawall that looked down upon the beach where the elflings were playing. Turucáno and other courtiers were already there. The two gave their king their obeisance, which he barely acknowledged, for he was scowling down at the children.

"What ails thee, aranya?" Laurefindil ventured to ask. "Why hast thou such a glum face on this lovely day?"

Turucáno turned to him, scowling even more. "Lovely! What’s so lovely about all this damn snow? I hate it! Why won’t the Valar leave us alone? How can my daughter play in it when her ammë fell through the ice and died? It’s obscene. I should order her and her friends to cease their play."

Their king’s outburst surprised them all and there was an uneasy silence among them. Cehtelion gave Laurefindil a knowing look and nodded. Laurefindil sighed. Mayhap his friend was right. Perhaps he should write the book. It would save having to repeat himself to everyone he met suffering from this malady. Hmmm.... I wonder what we should call it? he thought to himself. Post-Helcaraxë Blues? He shook his head. He would have to think about it later. Right now, he needed to minister to his king.

"But, aranya, it is quite lovely," he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, refusing to look Cehtelion’s way, for out of the corner of his eye he could see his friend grinning. "Look thou! Seest not the icicles hanging off the eaves of the buildings behind us? Their crystals are exquisite in the gentle complexity of form...."

****

Ellon: Male Elf.

Helcaraxë: Grinding Ice.

Meldonya: My (male) friend.

Fëa: Spirit, soul. The plural is fëar.

Aran: King. Aranya: My king.

Tári: Queen.

Ammë: Hypocoristic form of amillë: Mother.

Quenya names and their Sindarin equivalents:

Laurefindil: Glorfindel

Cehtelion: Ecthelion

Turucáno: Turgon

Findaráto: Finrod

Melyanna: Melian

Itarildë: Idril

Estel en-Aderiad

Summary: A group of Elves journey to Mordor at the end of the Ring War to find closure and something else. Inspired by the Teitho contest ‘Leavetaking’ and the randomly generated prompts: Galadriel/Mordor/Tavern. A story for Easter.

****

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Celeborn frowned at his wife, not sure of her motives. "And more importantly, do you need to do this?"

Galadriel merely smiled the same irritating smile she usually reserved for underlings who were being difficult. It was all the answer he needed.

"I will come with you," he told her and he spoke in a tone he knew she would recognize and had learned long ago not to defy. "We should leave soon, though. King Éomer will be returning in a couple of weeks for Théoden’s body and we will need to be back in time to leave with the funeral cortege."

"As you will," she said stiffly and then gave him a mischievous look. "Perhaps we should make it a family affair."

Celeborn raised an eyebrow at that. "Everyone?" he asked, automatically calculating the logistics of traveling with the newly made High King and Queen of Arnor and Gondor, along with Elrond and the Twins. Naturally, Glorfindel would insist on coming and he had no doubt that where Estel went, Legolas was sure to follow and now that the Dwarf was his friend... and then there were the Periain, though he seriously doubted any of them would wish to make this journey.

Galadriel’s smile was more genuine. "Nay, husband," she answered. "I think we can safely leave out the Periain."

"Which means Estel will not leave them," Celeborn commented with a nod. His granddaughter’s husband was too much the healer to leave Iorhael and Perhael and the Belain knew if the city would even be standing when they returned if the two younger Periain were left to their own devices.

Galadriel nodded. "Arwen will not come," she said.

"The Twins?"

Now his wife laughed, a light unforced laugh that never ceased to delight him. It was one reason he had fallen in love with her. "Oh, I am sure they will welcome the chance to show off."

He snorted in amusement. "Given half the chance," he said in agreement. He loved his grandsons dearly for he saw in their high-spirited antics his own beloved Celebrían’s delight in jests and pranks. "Elrond will come if only to satisfy his own curiosity as a loremaster," he added, "so that means Glorfindel will accompany him. Anyone else?"

His wife shook her golden head. "The Mortals will not come," she said. "This is just for us."

Celeborn nodded, agreeing with her. "I will let Haldir know," he said. "He will want to coordinate with Glorfindel over guards."

"Naturally," Galadriel replied with a slight shake of her head. "I will inform the rest of the family of our decision." With that she left their apartments in the Citadel of Minas Tirith.

Celeborn refrained from retorting that it had been her decision from the start, knowing how futile it was. Galadriel always gave him equal credit (or equal blame) for any decision she unilaterally made. It had been so from the very beginning of their relationship. It was another thing he loved about her, though he was at a loss to say why.

Love is very strange that way, he had said to Elrond once when the younger ellon had asked him about it shortly after his own marriage to Celebrían. And indeed, it was, but he decided not to pursue that line of thinking any further. It was too fraught with emotional pain right now. He had promised himself he would not break down before the Mortals. They had both made their decisions as to what they would do now that Sauron was finally defeated. He understood his wife’s choice and indeed rejoiced in it, but he was not sure she understood his. He wasn’t sure he did either, but the choice had been made and he would abide by it... for now.

Meanwhile, he needed to find his chief guard and inform him of the upcoming ‘picnic’. He smiled at the thought of what Haldir would not say in front of him about that.

****

Aragorn, when he was told the particulars, suggested that those intending to go should congregate at a particular tavern on the First Circle at dawn. Much of that part of the city was still in ruins but ‘The King’s Rest’ was now operating. The Elves gave the new King of Men enquiring looks.

"I’m sure we can find our own way out of the city, Estel," Glorfindel said with a supercilious sniff, though his eyes were twinkling with amusement.

"Trust me," was all Aragorn would say and Elrond, deciding for them all, nodded.

"We always have," he said and the matter was dropped.

In the end, besides Elrond, the Twins, Glorfindel and Haldir, ten guards — five each from Imladris and Lothlórien — joined Galadriel and Celeborn in the courtyard fronting the tavern while the sun was still rising behind the Ephel Dúath, though the sky was already blue. The summer morning was already warm and the day promised to be hot and muggy. The Elves, of course, paid little attention to the weather.

The proprietor of the tavern, a quiet man with haunted eyes, was already up, competently supervising his wide-eyed staff, who went about shyly passing out sticky buns, fruits and cheese, as well as cooled cider to the Elves. Celeborn, Galadriel and Elrond contented themselves with just the cider. Celeborn noticed with amusement that the rest of their party were eagerly devouring everything in sight and realized that they were only acting as any warrior would who was unsure of when his next meal might come. Even Galadriel had not objected to their presence, for Ithilien was still dangerous and there were reports of roving bands of orcs and Easterlings haunting the lands east of the Anduin. In fact, all of them were armed, even Elrond, who had long ago foresworn the wielding of a warrior’s sword for that of the healer’s knife.

"How long must we wait?" Haldir asked his lord impatiently even as he was downing another sticky bun. "Why did Aragorn insist we meet here?"

"My son keeps his own council," Elrond answered equably for his father-in-law. "I have no doubt he has his reasons."

As if the mention of his name had conjured him, Aragorn suddenly appeared in the courtyard with Arwen on his arm. Faramir was with him, as were Legolas and Gimli, but the Periain and Mithrandir were conspicuous by their absence. All, that is, save young Peregrin Took, standing behind Aragorn, stifling a yawn as he adjusted his black tunic with the white tree stitched on it. It was apparent that he was on guard duty this morning. All the Elves smiled indulgently at the sight of the young Perian, indulgently, but with grave respect for this child-warrior, for Peregrin was still accounted as a child in the eyes of his own people.

Aragorn smiled at them, giving them a slight bow of acknowledgment. "I have made arrangements to hasten your journey. If you are ready...."

"We were merely waiting for you, Estel," Glorfindel said with a smirk.

"Forgive me," Aragorn replied. "I’ve been at the Houses of Healing most of the night helping a Woman who was experiencing a difficult birthing. Luckily, both mother and child survived and are doing well."

"iMelain egleriennin!" came the heartfelt response of many of the Elves there.

"Then we forgive you for making us wait," Glorfindel said by way of apology. Aragorn just smiled, used to the Elf-lord’s ways.

"You should have called me," Elrond said with a frown. "I would have come with you, Estel."

"You were already occupied with Frodo and Sam, Ada," Aragorn said quietly, casting a glance at the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien. They and Elrond nodded, for they too had been awake most of the night tending to the Ringbearers, both of whom had been experiencing nightmares.

"Well, at any rate, I am interested in knowing in what manner you intend to speed us on our way," Celeborn said, bringing the conversation back to the original subject.

Aragorn smiled, as did Arwen. "If you will follow me, I will show you." With that, he turned to the tavernkeeper and gravely thanked him for his hospitality for his elvish kinsmen. "My lady wife and I have yet to break our own fast," he said. "Perhaps when we have seen our kinsmen on their way we may return here to breakfast. Those sticky buns look absolutely delicious."

"And they taste even better," Elrohir quipped and the other warriors added their own approbations.

The tavernkeeper bowed, his expression one of joy. "I and my people would be honored to serve you, my king," he said. "All will be in readiness for when you return."

"Thank you," Aragorn said and then with only a nod to the Elves he strode away, Arwen still on his arm, Peregrin gamely keeping up, while Faramir, Legolas and Gimli mingled with the Elves as they made their way along the Lampwrights’ Street where the tavern was located toward the Great Gate, or where the Great Gate had once stood. 

"Here to see us off, elfling?" Elladan asked Legolas.

Legolas gave him a scowl. "Actually, if Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel will permit it, I would accompany you."

"And... your friend?" Haldir asked, pointedly not looking at the Dwarf stomping beside them.

"Ho! Fear not, Master Marchwarden," Gimli said. "I’ve no intention of horning in on your picnic. Besides, Aragorn’s going to need help keeping those four Hobbits out of trouble, so someone has to stay behind while you Elves go tree-hugging or whatever it is you’re planning on doing." He waved his hand in dismissal. Some of the elvish guards, not familiar with Dwarves, and certainly not familiar with this particular Dwarf, gave him unhappy scowls but Legolas merely laughed.

"Tree-hugging is not the only thing we Elves do," he protested.

"Could’ve fooled me," came the soft reply, not from Gimli, but surprisingly from the Perian who kept his eyes on his king’s back and pretended the others weren’t there.

This time all the Elves laughed and the tension eased between them and the Prince of Mirkwood’s strange friend.

"At any rate, I would come with you if I may," Legolas reiterated and then gave them a shy look. "For my adar’s sake."

There were nods all around and none objected. By now they had passed through the makeshift gate leading out of the city. Their horses and gear had been seen to earlier and were waiting for them along one side of the city wall, tended to by grooms. As the Elves mounted, Celeborn gave Aragorn a considering look.

"And what is it you would show us, Estel?" he asked.

For an answer, Aragorn merely pointed towards the Harlond where the Elves could easily see a ship in dock. "That ship will take you to the landing stage for Cormallen. From there...."

"So that is your surprise," Galadriel said with a smile. "And a welcome one at that. Thank you, Estel. It will indeed hasten our journey."

"The captain has instructions to wait for you," Aragorn said.

The Elves gave the King of Men their farewells and set off for the harbor, waving good-bye to those remaining behind. Soon they were making their way aboard the ship, which turned out to be one of the captured Corsair ships, renamed iVeril Gondor, her captain a competent looking Man of nearly pure Númenórean descent who introduced himself as Captain Aldamir. Once everything was stowed away the ship was launched and they were heading north.

The journey, which took two days, was spent mostly watching the land slip by. All the Elves gazed upon the green lands of Ithilien, drinking in the redolent air. Elrohir, Elladan and Legolas pointed out particular landmarks and spoke of their time in that fair land.

"For fair it remains, in spite of the spoiling done by Sauron’s orcs," Legolas said at one point. "It is my hope to convince Ada to give me leave to return here with some of my people and set up a colony. Aragorn has already given me his approval of the plan and Faramir has been pouring over maps to see where the best locations might be."

"A worthy goal," Celeborn said. "It would be good to know that Elves dwelt in this land, if only for a little while." The others all nodded.

They reached the landing stage for the Fields of Cormallen that had been constructed when Aragorn had removed his army there after the destruction of Barad-dûr. Captain Aldamir assured them that his ship would be waiting for them when they returned.

Thus, they made their way northeast, crossing the fields until they approached what had once been the Morannon, the Black Gate, leading into Mordor. Before them stretched the killing ground of the Dagorlad and beyond that they could see the Dead Marshes, dead looking indeed with its sere stalks of yellow-green sedge, though some of the more far-sighted thought they detected healthy hints of green among the yellow sedge. However, their main attention was to the south, into the heart of the Enemy’s demesne.

The gates were gone and the towers as well. There was a deep crater before them with fissures spreading out from where the Dark Tower had once stood, making it all but impossible for any to navigate through the land. Further beyond they could make out the still active volcano that was Mount Doom. Though it had quieted in the months since the Ring had gone into its fiery depths, they could see a sluggish river of molten lava still flowing down one side of the gaping wound where the mountain had exploded, where the Sammath Naur, the Chamber of Fire, had been. Ash, grey and white and dead, covered every little nook and cranny of the landscape, lying in some cases several inches thick. It was as desolate as it could be, though the stench of evil that had permeated the air was no longer evident.

Silence reigned about them as these ancient beings contemplated the long and seemingly fruitless years and ages of their struggles against the Dark, each of them lost in their own thoughts and memories. Celeborn was not even thinking about Sauron, but of Morgoth and the destruction of Doriath. Elrond remembered the long trek back to Imladris after the last war, soul-weary and grieving for his king and benefactor who had died on the slopes of Orodruin. Glorfindel was reliving the night of his death. Legolas was wondering what his adar was feeling now that the Shadow was lifted from them. Galadriel recalled how the Light of the Two Trees died and all that flowed from that. Haldir was recalling the long struggle to keep safe the borders of Lothlórien. The others, warriors who had fought and survived many battles, both big and small, remembered their comrades who had died in their arms and wondered if their sacrifices had really been worth it.

"Círdan should be here," Elrond suddenly spoke, startling everyone, "and Gil-galad."

"Adar, too, and Daeradar," Legolas whispered, his expression haunted.

"My brother, Finrod," Galadriel added sadly, tears streaming down her face.

Before Celeborn could respond to that, Glorfindel gave her a brief hug. Oddly, and to everyone’s surprise, she did not resist. "He is here, Galadriel," he said with calm assurance. "He is here, as are all of them, because we are here to be their witnesses."

She nodded and as he released her, she turned and held out her hand to her husband who took it gratefully. In some small ways she still needed him and for that he was glad.

"Look!" Elrohir cried as he bent down to pluck something from the ground. They all gathered around the ellon who held up his find for all to see.

It was a stringy looking plant, a weed, actually, with small pinkish-white flowers and narrow lancet-shaped leaves with brown spots.

"Naub e-Heryn," Elrond quickly identified it, taking it from his son to examine it more closely. "A rather invasive plant, though it has some medicinal uses."

"There was only the one," Elrohir said.

Elrond shook his head. "Where there is one, there are others."

"A weed," Glorfindel said with slight disdain.

"A living plant," Elrond corrected him. "A sign of life and where there is life there is hope."

"Can anything ever grow here again, though, and not be tainted?" Elladan asked doubtfully.

"This weed looks normal enough," Elrohir opined.

"Still, in all this desolation, how can a weed be a sign of hope?" Legolas asked.

"The Rohirrim have a word," Elrond told them in his loremaster’s voice. "Æristhyht. It is difficult to translate, for I have never come across the concept in any other Mannish language, nor in the languages of the Elves. As close as I can come to it in Sindarin it means ‘Estel en-Aderiad’."

"But it is only hope, not certainty," Galadriel pointed out.

Elrond nodded, twirling the spindly weed between his thumb and forefinger. "Yet, is that not the way of things? We are only ever offered hope, never certainty, that all will be well. Why do you think I named my brother’s grandchild Estel? It was all I could give him and the Dúnedain."

Celeborn reached out to take the plant from Elrond, holding it in the palm of his hand, contemplating this one small plant, a weed that most would ignore or trample in their disdain. He noticed the roots were still intact. Wordlessly, he knelt on the ashy ground and dug a hole, making it deep enough to hold the plant. Someone thrust a waterskin at him and looking up he saw it was Glorfindel. He smiled at the ellon and carefully watered the plant. Returning the waterskin to Glorfindel, he stood, not even bothering to brush the dirt off his knees.

The others stood silently, staring at the little plant, its pink flowers a bright and cheerful contrast to the grey landscape. Then, suddenly, one of the Imladris Elves began singing a well-beloved hymn to Yavanna and everyone joined in, their rich ethereal voices filling the dead air with life and it seemed the little weed took heart and grew an inch or two, or perhaps it merely stood a little straighter, buoyed up by the power of the Elves’ singing. When the last note of the hymn died away, they remained silent for a time. Then Galadriel bowed to the weed and the others echoed her.

"May you be a sign of hope and the possibility of restoration," she said, then she looked at those around her and smiled. "I think it is time we returned to Minas Tirith."

"But what about our picnic?" Elrohir asked with an ingenuous smile.

The others chuckled. "Why don’t we wait until we are back in Cormallen and share our bounty with the good captain and his crew?" Celeborn suggested and to that the others heartily agreed.

"I’m glad I came," Legolas said to no one in particular. "I think I needed to see that little weed growing so bravely in the midst of all that destruction. The sight of it fills my heart with hope that my own Forest is even now recovering from the twisted evil that plagued it for so long."

The others nodded in agreement. Celeborn, taking a final look back, saw that indeed, as Elrond had said, there were other weeds growing here and there among the rocks. Yes, young Legolas was right. We all needed to come here and be a witness to that little plant. He knew that the first thing he would do when they returned to Minas Tirith was to tell Estel and Arwen about what they had found.

As if she had read his mind, Galadriel took his hand and smiled. "We will tell them together."

Celeborn nodded. Yes, in small ways she still needed him and that alone gave him hope.

****

Words are Sindarin unless otherwise noted.

Periain: Plural of Perian: Halfling, Hobbit.

Iorhael: Frodo’s name rendered in Sindarin.

Perhael: Samwise’s name rendered in Sindarin.

Belain: Plural of Balan: Vala.

Ada: Hypocoristic form of Adar: Father.

Ellon: Male Elf.

iMelain egleriennin!: ‘The Valar be praised!’

iVeril Gondor: ‘The Rose of Gondor’.

Daeradar: Grandfather. In this case, Oropher, who died in the War of the Last Alliance along with two-thirds of the Elves of Greenwood the Great (the later Mirkwood).

Naub e-Heryn: Persicaria or Lady’s Thumb (Persicaria maculosa), an invasive European perennial weed having clusters of very small pink, white or red flowers. In the Language of Flowers persicaria means ‘restoration’. Medicinally, it is used against diarrhoea and infections. Fresh leaves can be used to staunch bleeding and its leaves and young shoots can be eaten as a palatable and nutritious leaf vegetable.

Æristhyht: (Old English/Rohirric) Hope of Resurrection. Estel en-Aderiad is the Sindarin version [ad ‘again’ + eriad: gerundial form of eria- ‘to rise’; cf. aderthad ‘reunion, reuniting’. The word resurrection is late 13^th c. Anglo-French, derived from the Latin past participle of resurgere ‘to rise again’. The word replaced the Old English æriste ‘rising, rising up, resurrection, awakening’.

A Mystery at Long Lake

Summary: An unexpected find, long hidden under the waters of the Long Lake, brings two curious and surprising visitors to its shores. Inspired by the Middle-earth Express prompt #3, ‘Riddle’, and the randomly generated prompts: Círdan/Esgaroth/Ship.

****

Esgaroth, Third Age 2463:

Gorlas, Master of Esgaroth, stared nervously at the two distinguished visitors standing before him in the town’s council chamber, fumbling with some papers on his desk to hide his surprise and confusion. What was he to do, he wondered, a rising sense of panic beginning to take over. One of the visitors was known to him personally, though he had had so few dealings with him that he might as well be as much a stranger as the other, about whom he had heard only rumors, and what rumors! These two were legends and he had no idea how to deal with legends. And their request! It made no sense. Why ever would they...? He swallowed, and paled, realizing he was keeping these two personages waiting for his answer.

"It’s only a boat," he said almost pleadingly. "Why would you want to visit an old wreck, m-my lords?"

Círdan the Shipwright gave him a slight smile. "Call it professional interest," he said mildly. "I have traveled a long way to see this... wreck, as you call it."

"And I am curious as well," King Thranduil said. "I have heard that no one can identify it."

The Master nodded. "It is true. It is a boat like no other that we have ever seen or crafted for ourselves." He sighed, running a hand through his greying locks. "Very well, my lords. I will take you to the site myself."

"You need not do that," Círdan assured him. "We only require the use of one of your people’s boats and someone to guide us to the site."

Gorlas gave them a mirthless grin. "No. I insist on accompanying you, my lords. As it is, I have yet to see this wreck for myself. I’ve been far too busy with administrative details to do so. Your coming here merely gives me the excuse I’ve been looking for to escape my duties for a time."

The two visitors chuckled appreciatively and bowed in acceptance. "Then we will welcome your company, Master," Thranduil said.

"I’ll make the necessary arrangements," Gorlas said. "We can leave tomorrow morning. In the meantime, if you have not made other arrangements, I would like to invite you to stay with me during your visit."

"Thank you. We would be most grateful." The two Elf-lords gave him respectful bows.

Gorlas nodded, wondering how he was going to break the news to his wife as to whom they would be entertaining this evening. Well, he would worry about that later. First, he had to make the arrangements for them to visit the wreck.

****

Dawn was only a hint on the horizon when the Master of Esgaroth and his two guests made their way to the quay where a sailboat was waiting for them. The day promised fair and the lake was calm as glass, though there was a breeze that would allow them to use the sails rather than rowing. As soon as they were aboard, the orders were given and the sailors removed the moorings and set off. They headed south from the town, angling slightly to the east.

"It’s not far," Gorlas said. "In fact, it’s amazing that no one has ever found it before this, but this drought we have been having the last three years has brought the waters to a dangerously low level. If we don’t have rain soon, and lots of it, it will go ill for us."

"The rains will come," Thranduil said with calm assurance. "Have no fear of that. But it is well that this drought has happened, else this remarkable find would never have been discovered, no?"

Gorlas couldn’t argue with that and nodded. The rest of the trip was done in silence as the sun rose and bathed the lake with her welcoming light, turning the water from ebony to purple and then blue. The two Elf-lords sat calmly in the middle of the boat, gazing about with great interest, ignoring the furtive glances of the sailors as they went about their duties. Neither seemed inclined to chat and Gorlas had to keep himself from fidgeting.

After about a half hour, one of the sailors, who was acting as look-out, cried out, "There it be, Master." He pointed and everyone craned their necks to see.

"Bring us as close as you can," Gorlas commanded and in short order they were coming beside the hulk. Gorlas and his visitors rose for a better look, Gorlas with less grace than the other two.

The Master glanced down at the wreck, taking in its form, but not really seeing it, for he was more intrigued by the reactions of his guests at the sight. The two Elf-lords wore different expressions as they gazed at what lay below. King Thranduil’s was mainly one of surprise, but Lord Círdan...

Gorlas had to look away, the light that seemed to come from the ancient Elf’s eyes was too bright for him to endure and the look of awe on Lord Círdan’s face made Gorlas feel as if he had somehow intruded upon a very private moment for the Elf and he felt himself blushing, embarrassed without knowing why. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he returned his attention to the wreck and as he looked at it more closely, he began to understand what the two Elf-lords must be feeling.

Even to the casual eye this had once been a thing of grace and beauty far surpassing anything Mortals could ever hope to craft. In fact, it still was in spite of it being sunken. Gorlas was no expert, for his family had never been involved in shipbuilding, but this boat was exquisite, her lines clean. He had no doubt that seeing her ply the waters of the Long Lake would have been a grand experience. And to ride her!

And then he noticed something, something odd about the boat, or rather several somethings and he felt a shiver through his spine. In spite of having been underwater for untold years, there was no algae marring the clean lines of the ship and the anchor chain appeared to still be intact, its metal bright with no signs of rusting. Indeed, the boat could have sunk only yesterday, for the silver-grey timbers had suffered no rot during the long years of its drowning. And were those sails!? It was difficult to see through the murk but Gorlas was sure that sails still hung from the single mast and they did not seem to have rotted in all these years. Yet, that was impossible, wasn’t it?

He shook his head, shying away from that thought and its implications. Instead, he took in more details of the boat and noticed that the timbers seemed to glow with a soft light. At first he thought he was merely seeing the sunlight reflecting off the waters, but when the light suddenly dimmed around them as a cloud hid the sun, Gorlas could see the timbers still glowing with a soft silvery light of their own and he felt himself shivering again with awe.

Some of the planks were oddly shaped he noticed and Gorlas was puzzled by them, not sure if he was seeing them correctly through the shifting light and the distortion of the waters. Looking towards the prow he could just make out that it was carved in the shape of a swan’s neck and head and he suddenly realized with a rising sense of excitement that those oddly shaped planks along the sides were actually meant to be wings. The ship was carved in the shape of a swan!

There was no evidence that he could see that the hull had been breached, so why did it sink? And why in this spot? There weren’t even any rocks in this part of the lake that she might have run into. As he contemplated that mystery he realized that the two Elf-lords had been speaking softly in their own language. He followed the conversation with some difficulty, for though he spoke Sindarin well enough, he would be the first to admit that he was far from fluent in it.

"What do you think?" Thranduil asked, allowing himself to sound as excited as he was feeling.

Círdan smiled knowingly at the younger Elf. "It is one of ours," he said. "No Mortal built this boat."

"Obviously," Thranduil replied, now sounding impatient. "The question is, what, by all that is holy, is it doing here?"

"A better question is, why is it even here in the first place?" Círdan retorted, stroking his silvery-grey beard, frowning slightly. He felt himself unsure in the face of this mystery and the presence of an elven ship where one should not have been was an affront to his sensibilities. Master Gorlas was incorrect to call it a boat. What lay below them was definitely a ship, one that would not have looked out of place plying the waves of Belegaer along side his own grey ships.

Thranduil gave the Shipwright a searching look. "It is not, by any chance, one of your ships, is it?"

Círdan shook his head. "No. It is not. We never came this way when we made the Great Migration and I never built any ships like this one until I settled on the shores of Beleriand."

"Then who built it?" the Woodland King asked, looking troubled. "Certainly none of the Evair. They would not have the skill."

"Are we so sure of that?" Círdan retorted. "What do we truly know of them save that they refused the Powers’ Call? In all the ages that have separated us from them, who can truly say what they were able to accomplish?"

Thranduil glanced worriedly at the ship lying beneath them, pondering its significance. "How long do you think it’s been lying there?"

The Shipwright shrugged. "Difficult to say." He then turned to Gorlas, speaking to him in the Common Tongue. "Are there any legends of Elves plying ships on this lake?"

Gorlas furrowed his brow in thought. "We of Esgaroth are relative newcomers to this area, as you may know," he said at last. "My great-great-grandsires came originally from Dale. There are legends which speak of a time when Men first arose in the East somewhere." He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the sun. "Legends in which it is told how we met with another race, a race of beings of great beauty who lived in the deep forests who called themselves Cwin..er...um... Cwendai or something like."

"Quendi," Círdan supplied softly, ignoring Thranduil’s surprised look.

Gorlas nodded. "They were supposed to have taught the first Men much about the world, teaching them language and art and such." He gave them a self-deprecating shrug. "Nursery tales with no real basis in fact. We don’t even have any details to latch onto, only bits and pieces of legends of a time so far in the past as to be meaningless to us."

"And none of these legends and scraps of tales speak of ships such as this being plied on this lake?" Círdan asked.

"I do not know, lord," Gorlas said apologetically.

"It’s amazing that the ship’s form is almost identical to those you craft, Círdan," Thranduil ventured. "I well remember seeing your grey ships plying the waters between the Isle of Balar and the Havens of Sirion during the War of Wrath. If you had not said otherwise, I would have sworn this was one of your making."

"Yet, it is not, I assure you," Círdan said. He stooped over the bow for a closer look, then glanced up at his companion without rising. "Do not your people have stories?"

"When my sire and I came to the Great Greenwood, we were surprised that the Silvan Elves did not utilize boats for all that this lake was within their territory," the King of the Woodland Realm answered. "They fished from the river but they avoided the lake entirely. We were at a loss as to why." He chuckled, his fair face breaking out into rare humor. "You should have heard the furor from some of Adar’s councillors when he announced that he was willing to make trade agreements with the Mortals who were just beginning to build Esgaroth. It took some doing to convince them that we really did want Dorwinion wine and this was the easiest way to obtain it."

Círdan smiled as he straightened, remembering the irascible Oropher. Gorlas just stared at the two Elf-lords with something close to awe as he realized that they remembered something that was to him only history or even worse, legend.

"Did you ever learn the reason for their aversion to the lake?" Círdan asked.

"Only that something terrible happened under the dark of the stars," Thranduil replied. "They would not speak of it to us... outsiders." He cast them a wry grin. "To this day, I have never heard the tales that supposedly are whispered when we Sindar are nowhere near. Perhaps, when we return to my realm we should make enquiries."

"It would be interesting to see what we can learn, if anything," Círdan acknowledged, "but perhaps it will always remain a mystery, and is not life full of them?"

"It looks as if it has only just sunk," Gorlas ventured. "The wood isn’t even rotted and look how bright the anchor chain is. Why there’s not a speck of rust anywhere. How is that possible?"

Círdan merely shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. "It is after all an elven-built ship, Master Gorlas." He gave the Mortal a thin smile.

Gorlas blinked a number of times, not sure how to respond to that. Instead he asked a different question. "What should we do with it, lord?"

Círdan gave him an uncomprehending look. "Do? Why nothing, Master Gorlas. Let it lie where it is for all time. The rains that will come soon will drown it once again and return it to its watery grave. I would hesitate to do anything with it without Lord Ulmo’s permission."

"Perhaps you should ask him then," Thranduil said with a mischievous smile, and only Círdan knew his fellow Elf was half jesting.

Gorlas, however, wasn’t so sure. He blinked, trying to understand the Elf-lord’s words. He had a brief image, quickly suppressed of Lord Círdan standing there in the boat speaking to the Lord of Waters as that one rose out of the depths of the Lake. No. Perhaps it would be best not to ask Lord Ulmo’s permission.

"So we just leave it," he said, his tone wistful. Seeing it for the first time, he had gazed upon the wreck with no little awe, realizing that no Mortal hand had had the crafting of it. He felt an itch in the back of his mind, a desire to somehow salvage the wreck and bring it back to Esgaroth for study. Yet, the practical side of him realized that his people did not have the wherewithal to raise the hulk from its watery grave.

Círdan, at least, seemed to understand the Master’s mood. He smiled gently at him. "Save for the drought, we would never have known of its existence. Let us at least be thankful for that. Not all mysteries are meant to be solved. They give a depth of wonder to our lives that they might otherwise not have. My advice to you is to organize as many trips as you can for your people, especially your young ones, to view this marvel. Let them be touched by mystery and wonder and know that even we Elves do not have all the answers."

Gorlas nodded, feeling mollified. "I will do that," he said. "And I will have a pole set here to mark the place so that when the waters rise again we will still be able to tell where it is and as we ply our own boats up and down the lake we will see that pole and for a brief moment we will stay our course and wonder."

Both Elves nodded enthusiastically. "An excellent idea, good Master," Thranduil stated, then turned to Círdan. "And now, we must return to Esgaroth and the Woodland Realm. The others will be waiting for us and I left Legolas in charge of hospitality."

Círdan gave his fellow Elf a wry look. "And that’s a bad thing?"

"No, not really," Thranduil said with a chuckle, "but he’s young still, you know. He only turned five hundred a couple of decades ago."

Gorlas tried not to gawk at the two Elf-lords who thought five hundred years was ‘young’. It boggled the mind.

"I was surprised that Elrond, especially, did not wish to make the journey to see this," Círdan stated as he and Thranduil returned to their seats while Gorlas gave orders for the sailors to return to Esgaroth. "You would think that someone who claims to be a loremaster would be the first one on the site."

Thranduil nodded. "When I asked him why he did not wish to join us, he simply gave me that smile of his, you know the one I mean."

Círdan nodded, rolling his eyes. "Only too well."

Thranduil smiled in sympathy. "And then he said something rather curious," he continued.

"And what did he say?" Círdan enquired.

"He said, and I quote, ‘It is sometimes best not to enquire too closely into the past. It can be very perilous to those not ready to accept the truth of what they find."

"Curious, indeed," Círdan remarked, stroking his beard, "especially coming from one who’s very life’s blood is exploring the past and keeping it and its lessons ever before us." He sat for a moment in deep thought and then snorted in aggravation. "And then Mithrandir and Radagast have the nerve to say that when you’ve seen one wrecked ship you’ve seen them all."

Thranduil shrugged, as if to say he could not fathom the motives of others, nor did he wish to. "Now that the Watchful Peace has been broken, the opportunities for us to travel to each other’s realms will become even rarer than they already are," he said with a sigh. "I think we can convince them to come see this remarkable find after we’ve had our council. I, at least, will bring Legolas and his sisters and anyone else who is curious. What say you, good Master Gorlas? Will you be willing to make the necessary arrangements for a parcel of Elves who will descend upon your fair city clamoring for boats and guides to see this wreck?"

"For a modest fee, yes, of course," Gorlas replied with a sly smile and the two Elf-lords threw back their heads and laughed, the sound of it echoing over the waters. When they were calmer Thranduil and Gorlas spent the return trip hammering out the deal while Círdan sat and watched with detached amusement.

Every once in a while, though, his gaze wandered back to where the wreck lay, now lost from sight, and his expression became sad and pensive.

****

Words are Sindarin unless otherwise noted.

Belegaer: The Great Sea.

Evair: Avari, i.e. those Elves who refused to leave Cuiviénen.

Cwendai: Constructed plural of Cwenda: Elf, based on the fact that early Eldarin had plurals in ‘i’ rather than ‘r’. This is, according to Tolkien, the Naneldarin or East Danian form of the word which in Quenya would be Quendi and in Sindarin Penidh (sg. Penedh), although Edhil (sg. Edhel) is the more common form [see The Lost Road, HoME V, ‘The Etymologies’, sv KWEN(ED)-].

Adar: (Sindarin) Father.

Note: According to the Tale of Years, the Watchful Peace began in 2063 and ended in 2460. Three years later, the White Council was formed, though Tolkien does not say where it was held. For the purposes of this story, I have it held in Thranduil’s realm, since his kingdom was the one being threatened with Sauron returning in strength to Dol Guldur.

What We Do for Love

Summary: Sometimes love may demand more than we’re willing to give. Written for the ALEC challenge ‘I Would Do Anything for Love, But I Won’t Do That’, for which it won second place.

****

"No," I said with a rising sense of horror as I stared in disbelief at my beloved. "Please do not ask me to do this."

"But...."

"You’re asking the impossible, my love." I started backing up... slowly... hoping to make a fast retreat. Where, I wasn’t sure. I began mentally cataloguing all of my favorite hiding places, the ones my beloved hadn’t yet found. Perhaps I would be able to hide in one of them long enough for her to give up on her mad notion.

"Not even for me?"

I sighed, suddenly feeling guilty. My love was as capable as any female of giving me that hurt look, as if I’d just killed her kitten. Very good for making the male of the species feel like a cad even when he hasn’t done anything wrong. "My love, I would do anything for you, but I will not do that. What you are asking... I have an image to maintain. You know that."

"Yes, I do, but...."

"And they will all be laughing until the day after the Renewing."

"Is that what you are afraid of? Being laughed at?" she asked, sniffing disdainfully.

All right for her to sniff, but she wasn’t the one who would suffer the humiliation. I sighed again, wondering what had possessed her. "Why do you want me to do this?" I asked, curious as to her motive.

Now she paled and then blushed and wouldn’t look me in the eye. I blinked in confusion. Was she... embarrassed? Never had I ever known her to suffer from that particular emotion. Anger, yes. Contrition, sometimes. But... embarrassment? Just what was going on?

"Beloved?" I tried to keep the suspicion out of my voice, but I couldn’t quite. I narrowed my eyes, giving her the Look, which never fazed her. She usually just laughed at me.

Not this time, though. This time, she wilted and then....

"Oh no! Not with the tears," I exclaimed in dismay. "You know I hate to see you cry."

There must be an unwritten rule somewhere: If you can’t get them with logic, weep. Works every time, too. Now I did feel like a cad: I’d made my beloved cry. Never mind that it was probably just a ploy on her part. That she had to resort to it meant that I had failed her in some way and that was unforgivable. I took her in my arms and held her tightly.

"Please, love, don’t weep. I’m sorry, truly I am."

"Does that mean you’ll do it?" she asked, still wetting my favorite tunic with her tears. She must have been practicing with my sister, who is a great one for using tears to get what she wants.

"First tell me why," I prevaricated, refusing to commit myself to this ridiculous notion of hers.

She sighed, making it sound as if she were suffering from a major respiratory attack. "It... it was a bet."

"Excuse me?" not quite believing what I was hearing. My beloved... betting!?

"I lost."

So, she lost the bet and the stakes were... humiliating me? That didn’t seem fair.

"What was the bet?" I asked.

"Not important," she waved a hand in dismissal.

Maybe not to her! I, on the other hand....

"What was the bet?" I repeated a bit more firmly.

She sighed, refusing to look up. So unlike her. I was really getting worried, forgetting that it could well be a ruse on her part to garner my sympathy.

"It was during the tournament," she finally answered. "Some of us were betting on who would win. Your sister and I made a bet." She shrugged, a slightly embarrassed smile on her face. "I lost."

"And the stakes? What would my sister have had to do if you had won?"

"Oh, she would have had to tell a funny story in public. You know how she hates to do that."

"Hmmm...." I replied, not too convinced but deciding not to pursue the matter further. "So why did you make me the victim?"

"I didn’t!" she protested. "It was your sister’s idea."

"Naturally," I said with a grimace, thinking of all the ways I might get back at her. I looked at my beloved and sighed. She was obviously regretting taking the bet but there was no honorable way out of it. Like it or not, I was the sacrificial lamb to her impulsiveness in accepting my sister’s conditions.

"Yellow," I said with a grimace, shaking my head in disbelief. "Why yellow?"

She shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips, her eyes brightening, though whether in triumph, knowing that I was about to capitulate, or just at the humor of the situation, I wasn’t about to examine too closely. "You have to admit that it’s the last color anyone would expect you to wear."

"With my coloring, I’ll look like one of Yavanna’s damned bumble-bees!" I protested, waving a lock of my blue-black hair at her.

Now she laughed out loud, hugging me, and I could not help but smile, however reluctantly, for her laughter was gay and unforced and quite infectious.

"I was thinking more of a deep dark gold," she replied.

"I’ll still look ridiculous," I said.

"No you won’t," she insisted. "You’ll look splendid, as you always do."

Flattery will usually get you whatever you want, but....

"Can’t I just wear a token of the color? Say, a band of gold on the hem?"

She shook her head. "Nienna insisted the entire outfit had to be yellow."

"I’m going to kill her, then throw her into Melkor’s old cell," I muttered through gritted teeth.

Vairë just smiled, knowing I didn’t really mean it.

"Did she also stipulate when and where I was to show myself off?"

"No, she did not."

Ah! So maybe there was a way to lessen the humiliation on my part. As long as the Children didn’t have to see me... Last thing I needed was to have half the Elves of Eldamar die of shock, or more likely laughter, at the sight of me. I didn’t even want to think of the paperwork that would entail. Maranwë would most likely quit in disgust and then where would I be?

I said as much and Vairë just laughed, giving me a hug. "The summer solstice is coming up," she reminded me. "Why don’t we plan the... unveiling then? It’ll just be the Valar. We won’t even invite any of the Maiar. That will satisfy the conditions of the bet since Nienna didn’t say you had to appear in a public venue where the Children would see you. It’ll just be a private showing."

I nodded, still not happy about it, but what could I do? "Well, that still gives us a few weeks. And seeing as how I’m the one who has to wear the blasted thing, I think I should be the one to pick out the fabric." I figured at least that way I could choose a shade that wasn’t too awful and with which I could live.

"Oh," Vairë said, looking dismayed.

I cast an enquiring look at her and she blushed. "I already took the liberty of choosing the fabric," she admitted, giving me a knowing smile. "In fact, I’ve already made the outfit. I knew you’d come around eventually."

I raised my hands in defeat. Naturally! "So do I get to see the outfit?"

She shook her head. "Not until it’s time. I don’t want you to find an excuse not to wear it."

I sighed. "I promise, my love, I will not renege on this however embarrassing it will be. That’s how much I love you."

"I know," she said, sliding into my embrace and resting her head on my chest. "But I prefer that you not see it just yet."

"Very well, Vairë, we’ll do it your way."

"Don’t we always?" she retorted slyly and I could not help but laugh. Indeed!

****

Mid-summer:

I stared at myself in the mirror and grimaced. "I still look ridiculous."

"No you don’t," Vairë countered. "You look splendid as always. I think it’s a very good color for you."

"Hmph...." was my only comment. I gave my image a closer look. In truth, Vairë had done a good job in her selection of materials and colors, as usual. It being Mid-summer, she had eschewed velvets. The shirt and breeches were of fine lawn dyed a pale green-gold. The sleeves of the shirt were full and gathered at the wrist while the neck was banded with gold ribbon on which small emeralds were sewn. Over this was a sleeveless surcoat of a dark gold figured silk that reached just below the knees and was slit on the sides to the hips. The hem, slits and neck were trimmed with intricate embroidery of purple flowers and dark green leaves entwined. Over this was an ankle-length robe open to the front made of the same material as the surcoat, lined with green-gold silk. Its sleeves were slit from wrist to shoulder and allowed to hang, thus showing off the shirt’s sleeves underneath. The surcoat was beltless and my feet were covered with ankle-boots of soft suede dyed green with gold ribbon trim. On my head I wore, at Vairë’s insistence, a circlet of old gold with a single emerald cabochon in the center. I also, at Vairë’s insistence, undid my braids, allowing my hair to flow free of restraints. The only jewelry I wore was a gold and onyx pendant with my emblem of the Sun-in-Eclipse.

"Are you ready?" Vairë asked.

I glanced at my beloved. Her outfit, unsurprisingly, was a match for mine: a dark gold sleeveless gown, with a high waist and flowing skirt. Under this she wore a linen chemise dyed green-gold. Her hair was wound in an intricate braid, crowned with a garland of malinavandil and purple helinyetilli entwined. I smiled, understanding the message she was attempting to convey and nodded.

"No time like the present," I said and with a single thought we were away to the main throne room in Ilmarin.

"Ah, I see we are all present," I heard Manwë say as Vairë and I reformed ourselves in fana, we being apparently the last to arrive. "Welcome... er...."

I had the satisfaction of seeing Manwë’s eyes go wide when he saw how I was dressed and the rest of the Valar staring at me in disbelief. Even Tulkas looked taken aback and I could see he was unsure if he should laugh or not. For his sake, I hoped he didn’t. I put on my most forbidding expression, daring any of them to make a snide comment. Naturally, Oromë, standing near us, ignored it.

"Hey, Vairë! Where’s Námo?" he asked, looking all around, pretending he couldn’t see me.

I reached out and slapped him on the side of his head.

"Ow! Hey, Námo, there you are!" he said with an unrepentant grin. "Why are you in disguise?"

"The better to sneak up on you and smack you one," I answered. Naturally, he just laughed.

"That’s an interesting look for you, Námo," Ulmo said, his tone carefully neutral. "Is there a reason for this... um... transformation?"

"I’ve decided Maranwë deserves a promotion, so I’m stepping down as Lord of Mandos to become Manwë’s court jester."

Vairë punched me on the arm and shook her head. "It was a bet," she said, sounding regretful.

"And she lost," I added, "or rather, I lost, even though I wasn’t the one betting." I turned to face my sister who was busy trying not to laugh. "Next time, Nienna, leave me out as the prize."

"But I thought you were supposed to be dressed in yellow," Oromë said, pointing to my outfit, "and that's gold."

I turned my attention to him, my eyes narrowing in suspicion. "How did you know that?" I demanded, my tone dangerously soft.

"Oh, well... um... I suppose... it was... well...."

"Oromë."

"It was my idea," he admitted, gulping.

I stood there trying to figure out the convolutions of this plot. Nienna made the bet with Vairë but it was Oromë who came up with the stakes. Interesting.

"What are you thinking, Námo?" Manwë suddenly asked.

I turned to face the Elder King. "I’m thinking I need to make an addition to Melkor’s old cell. It’s going to get a little crowded." I glared at Oromë, who looked suitably abashed, and Nienna, who merely sniffed in disdain, unimpressed by her younger brother’s threats.

"How did you manage to convince him to wear this outfit, Vairë?" Nessa enquired. "I didn’t think anything would move him to agree to wear it."

"She didn’t have to convince me," I said before my beloved could speak. "When I learned that all this was because of a foolish bet she made with my sister, I knew I was honored-bound to accept the conditions of the bet, even though to do so would obviously make me look foolish in the eyes of others."

"Well, I have to admit, it is certainly a different look for you, Námo," Manwë said.

"Well, Irmo," Aulë said with a sigh, shaking his head, "it looks like you won the bet."

"Bet? What bet?" I demanded. "Were all of you in on this?"

"I told everyone that you would wear the outfit," Irmo replied, giving me a smile, "and that you would do so because you loved Vairë and would do anything for her. I was right, wasn’t I?"

I glanced at Vairë, who was looking as surprised as I felt. So. She was unaware of this particular bet. That made me feel immensely better. I smiled at her and took her hand, brushing it with my lips. "She is my beloved. I could do no less."

"More than I would do," Tulkas said with a booming laugh. "You are obviously besotted of your wife if you allowed her to dress you as she has."

Nessa gave him a glare and punched him in the arm. Naturally, he just laughed louder, and the other Valar, though not the Valier, were openly snickering. All well and good for them, but the truth was as Irmo had said: I loved my wife and I would do anything for her however foolish it made me look in the eyes of others. The only eyes that mattered to me were hers and I knew that I would never look foolish in them.

"Well, it is nearly time to greet Ingwë and the Vanyar," Manwë said. "Shall we go?"

"Do I get to change first?" I asked. "I don’t think the Children...."

"Now, Námo," Oromë said with a smirk. "What would be the fun of that?"

The others all laughed, all but Vairë, who was now looking angry.

"It’ll be fun to see how hard Ingwë tries not to laugh at the sight of you," Manwë said with a wink, and that got even more laughter from everyone, everyone but Vairë, who now looked stricken at the thought that any of the Children would laugh at me.

"Well, unfortunately, we’ll never know," I said calmly. "Maranwë has just informed me that a number of fëar have arrived in Mandos and I must go and deal with them."

A lie, of course, but they didn’t need to know that. Vairë, apparently the only one to catch on, gave me a small knowing smile and kissed me on the cheek.

"Then you shouldn’t keep them waiting," she said. "Just remember to change first, my love. You wouldn’t want to confuse the poor dears. After all, you do have an image to maintain."

Oromë grinned. "You’re a brave Vala, Námo. Even I would never do anything like this no matter how much Vána pleaded."

The other Valar, except Ulmo, all nodded in agreement; their wives didn’t look too happy about it.

"So what color will Vairë have you wearing at the next solstice celebration?" Oromë then asked. "White?"

"Nay. Chartreuse," Aulë offered off-handedly.

"Vermillion," Tulkas suggested with a snide look.

"Azure," Manwë proposed with a laugh, it being his favorite color.

"Burnt Orange," Irmo chimed in, giving me a wink. He, at least, was not being serious, so I forgave him his jest.

I gave them all a ‘that’s for me to know and for you to find out’ look that set them laughing again. Well, I would have the last laugh. Before I thought myself safely away to Mandos, I bespoke a single word to Varda, Yavanna, Nessa, and Vána on a very private frequency that only they would hear:

*Pink.*

Even as I was fading from their view I saw the four Valier’s eyes widen and then take on calculating looks that did not bode well for their spouses. I smiled. The Winter Solstice should prove very interesting indeed.

****

All words are Quenya.

Malinavandil: Goldenrod. According to the Language of Flowers, it means ‘encouragement’.

Helinyetilli: Plural of helinyetillë: Pansy. According to the Language of Flowers, the purple pansy means ‘you are ever in my thoughts’ as well as ‘heartsease’, which is the meaning Tolkien gives it.

Fana: The ‘raiment’ of the Valar when they take physical form.

The Blue Wizards’ Dilemma

Summary: They were sent to bring help to the tribes of Men who had rebelled from Melkor-worship in Middle-earth. They were doing well in their mission until a fateful invasion put an end to their plans. Now they had to come up with a new one. Inspired by the Teitho contest ‘Crossroads’ and the randomly generated prompts: Blue Wizards/Umbar/Vineyard.

****

Umbar, Third Age 1810:

"This is not good."

"I am so glad you are here to tell me these things," Alatar snarled at his fellow Maia, both now in the guise of Wizards, Sapthîn in the language of these people, as the two ran through a vineyard on an estate belonging to one of the Corsair lords that lay a good league from the city, fleeing, as were many of the citizens of Umbar, from the depredations brought about by the invasion of a Gondorian fleet bent on conquest.

"Wait!" Pallando called out to his friend and companion. "Let us catch our breaths."

Alatar slowed and motioned for his fellow to follow him to where the press was situated under an old fig tree offering them some shade. The two sat heavily on a wooden beam, wiping the sweat from their brows, fanning themselves with their hats.

"All our work ruined!" Pallando complained, casting a glare to the west where the smoke of fires rose in the sky, overshadowing the land and blocking out the light of Anor. "Another decade, perhaps two, and we would have brought all of Umbar over to the Light. But now! Oh, why couldn’t Telumehtar have waited?"

Alatar snorted in disdain. "Mortals are incapable of seeing the broader picture or of thinking in the long-term. Ten years, twenty years, it’s too long for them, even for these sons of Númenor with their longer lifespan. Telumehtar’s impatience will cost him in the end, though, mark my words."

"His impatience is costing us even now," Pallando protested. "So now what are we to do?"

For several minutes the two sat in silence, deep in thought. Alatar scowled at nothing in particular. What Pallando said was true: all their hard work had gone up in smoke, literally. The Corsair lord through whose vineyard they were fleeing had actually been a friend of theirs and they were sure that Lord Gimilzagar would have eventually joined them in their fight against Zigûr as these people called Sauron. Or if not Gimilzagar than perhaps his son and heir Pharaznarâk, an intelligent and likeable lad, given to deep thoughts and canny insights.

But no. Both Gimilzagar and his son lay dead seeking to defend their family and their land and any hope that the Wizards had of bringing the Umbari to the Light was lost with them. Telumehtar might hold onto Umbar in his own lifetime but it was doubtful that that hold would endure for any length of time once this present king of Gondor was dead.

Alatar sighed, grieving for his dead friends and wondering what their next step should be. It had been many lives of Men since he and Pallando had come to Middle-earth at the behest of the Valar. Their mission was simple, or at least, he thought sardonically, it had seemed that way when they had been Maiar in truth....

"Your task is to circumvent the one known as Sauron," Lord Manwë told him and Pallando, speaking solemnly as they stood before the throne of the Elder King to hear his commands. "Bring help to the tribes of Men that have rebelled from Melkor-worship and stir up rebellion if ye can. The forces which Sauron can command far out-weigh those that the Eldar can muster and there are none from the Houses of the Atani who will hearken to Ereinion."

"Will not the Atani of Númenórë come to Ereinion’s aid?" Pallando asked.

"They would if Ereinion asked it of them," Varda answered, "but it is unclear to us that the High King of the Elves in Middle-earth will see the need at this time. We send you two now before the other Istari to pave the way. Your mission is important to the safety of the West. The fewer tribes of Men beholden to Sauron, the greater the Elves’ chances against him."

"So we are to convince these Men to join with Ereinion and the other Elvish kingdoms against Sauron should he ever arise?" Alatar enquired.

"If possible," Manwë replied, "but even if they are convinced simply not to join with Sauron, that will go a long way towards ensuring that the West prevails."....

They had traveled to Middle-earth in the company of Lord Glorfindel when he was sent on his own mission to hearten Ereinion and guard Turgon’s heir. They had not stayed in Lindon long, but had made their way across the wilderness of Eriador to consult with Galadriel and Celeborn in Ost-in-Edhil, and then they crossed the Misty Mountains to speak with Amroth in Lorinand. Eventually they had crossed the Anduin to speak with Oropher in the hidden fastness of the Great Greenwood. Everywhere they went the Elves spoke of a shadow of a threat that they all perceived as rising from the East. It was all very vague and uncertain and rumors were rife, yet, it was obvious that the rumors held a grain of truth, for why else would the Valar have sent them? Only after consulting with the Elves had the two agreed that their path lay to the south of Mordor. It was there in the lands of Umbar and the Harad that Sauron was most likely to hold sway, yet it was their hope that there were Men in that region who wished to throw off the yoke of slavery to Melkor’s lieutenant and fight against Sauron.

It had not been easy, Alatar reflected. Travel through Middle-earth was perilous, for much was wilderness and the rude settlements of Men fraught with dangers of their own. They had, in fact, spent many years of the sun traveling from one Elvish enclave to the next, learning all that they could from the Firstborn Children of Ilúvatar before moving among Mortals. Alatar smiled to himself. It had been interesting to see some of the Noldor whom they had known in Aman still living in exile. Yet, except for Ereinion and Círdan, in whom they had confided, only Arafinwiel recognized them immediately for who they were....

"You are not what you appear to be, my lords," Lady Galadriel said as she and her lord greeted them in their audience chamber. There was no hint of threat in her voice; she was merely making an observation.

"And what are we then, Lady?" Alatar asked with a hint of amusement tinging his words.

"You are more and less than you seem," she answered, pursing her lips and furrowing her brow as if trying to recall an elusive thought. Her lord and husband gave her a considering look.

"Thou knowest these...Men?" he asked, hesitating as to what to call them.

Galadriel shook her head, her eyes brightening with understanding. "Eld Men they seem but Mortal they are not, my beloved," she answered. "These are, or once were, Maiar if my heart deceiveth me not."

Both Maiar bowed. "We are indeed Maiar as thou hast guessed, daughter of Arafinwë," Alatar said. "Yet we have put aside our true natures and have adopted these guises that we might better interact with the Children who abide here in Middle-earth."

Galadriel nodded gravely while Celeborn gazed upon them with no little wonder. Only the two Maiar noticed the glint of mischief in his wife’s eyes when she asked her next question. "So, are ye anyone I know?"

Pallando had raised an eyebrow at that impertinent question, but Alatar had laughed lightly and introduced themselves by their true names....

He smiled again at the memory. It had been Arafinwiel who had coined the word Ithron to describe them and that title stuck, though among the various tribes of Men with whom they sojourned they were given different titles with similar meanings. They were the Ithryn Luin, the Blue Wizards, for they tended to wear robes of that shade. His own were the blue of a rain-washed sky but Pallando’s were perhaps somewhat greyer in tone. To many Mortals they appeared almost identical in looks and some assumed they were twins. That always amused them and it sometimes proved a useful ploy. Most Mortals, they learned early on, were very unobservant.

"Well?"

Alatar blinked a couple of times, his reverie interrupted by Pallando’s querulous tone. "Well what?" he asked.

"Well, what do you suppose we should do now?" Pallando retorted with impatience. "I do not fancy sitting here to wait for the Gondorians to reach us. Getting slaughtered by these misbegotten sons of Númenor does not appeal to me whatsoever."

Alatar gave him a wintry smile. "Your prejudice is showing, brother," he said.

"Bah! You know I’m right. We cannot stay here. I doubt Telumehtar or his troops will be too particular about whom they kill."

"I wonder, should we actually experience bodily death, if we would have to suffer being brought before Lord Námo for judgment like any Incarnate?"

Pallando rewarded him with a disbelieving look. "We’re sitting on the edge of ruin and you’re worried about facing the Lord of Mandos should you be stupid enough to get yourself killed? If so, it will be only what you deserve. As for me, I’m going to do my level best to stay alive and that means getting out of here. The question still remains, where are we to go?"

"Why shouldn’t we return to Umbar once the dust settles?" Alatar suggested.

"I do not think we would be welcome," Pallando answered. "Oh, I have no doubt that Telumehtar would welcome us, but not, I deem, the Umbari who survive this day. They will see us as having betrayed them."

Alatar sighed, nodding. "I fear you are correct, brother. So, where do you suggest we go?"

Pallando shrugged. "There are few choices open to us," he mused. "I have a mind to return to the West and seek out Curumo or Olórin and ask for their advice."

"Assuming we can find them," Alatar said, "though I think I would sooner speak with Olórin than to Curumo for all that he is the head of our Order."

His companion nodded. "I agree."

Even so, something in Alatar cringed at the thought of seeking out their fellow Istari. After all, what advice could they possibly give? Even Olórin, the wisest of them all could tell them little that they didn’t already know in their own hearts. It was so discouraging.

"I think we have company."

Alatar looked up at Pallando’s whisper and saw a bedraggled group of refugees making their way to them. They were mostly women and children with a few older men. None of them were warriors as far as he could make out, save perhaps one. They obviously had seen the two Wizards so it was useless to try and avoid them. He scanned the dirty faces and the haunted eyes as he and Pallando rose to greet them and felt only pity for these poor Children. It was not their fault that their ancestors had turned away from the Valar and the worship of Eru. They were ignorant of their heritage, believing the lies of their ancestors and, more recently, Sauron.

"Are... are you the Sapthîn?" one of the women in the group asked. She was a dark-haired beauty in spite of the dirt and soot covering her face and her torn gown. She had hazel-brown eyes and her skin tone was several shades darker than the norm. Alatar suspected that she must be part Haradi. There was little of Númenór in her blood.

Alatar nodded. "What can we do for you, my children?" Alatar enquired.

"Please, lords, protect us," the woman pleaded, falling to her knees, as did everyone else in the group. "Do not let the Gondorians enslave us."

"They will not enslave you, child," Pallando said in a querulous tone. "Unlike others, the people of Gondor do not take slaves."

"Yet, we would not wish to live under their yoke," the woman stated.

"Then what would you of us?" Alatar asked with a heavy heart.

"Lead us, lord, to a safe haven," the woman demanded. "We are not warriors, save for my nephew here and he is barely old enough to wield a sword. We will not get far without help. Lord Gimilzagar told us...."

"You spoke with Lord Gimilzagar?" Alatar exclaimed. "He lives?"

"Nay, he does not," the woman answered bitterly. "He and his heir lie dead on the quays along with all our valiant men. Yet, before he left for the fighting Lord Gimilzagar entrusted us with his youngest son." She pointed to a boy barely out of babyhood.

Alatar and Pallando exchanged troubled glances. "I know of no other son of the lord," Pallando said, staring intently at the boy who could not have been more than seven. The child had the typical dark hair and grey eyes that marked his Númenórean ancestry, though his skin was darker than was usual among the Umbari and his hair was somewhat curlier than was typical.

The woman motioned the boy forward to present him to the two Wizards. "This is Zimrathôr Gimilzagarôhîn. He is the son of Lord Gimilzagar’s concubine."

Alatar gave her a shrewd look. In all appearance the woman seemed to belong to one of the lower castes, perhaps a high-ranking servant in Gimilzagar’s household but nothing more. Yet, there was something about her manner that denied that charge.

"What is your name, daughter?" Alatar asked.

She hesitated for a second before answering. "Zamîn, my lord."

He glanced briefly between the woman and child and suddenly knew the truth. "You are that concubine and this is your son."

She nodded and prostrated herself to the ground. "I beg you, lords, do not turn us over to the Gondorians. My son will not be permitted to live. He is my lord’s only remaining child."

"But not his heir," Pallando stated.

And that was true enough, reflected Alatar. The fact that the boy had been introduced as Gimilzagarôhîn rather than Gimilzagarthôr meant that the boy’s father had not formally recognized him as his son. Normally, such niceties were ignored in Umbari society. The boy, at the proper time, would have been introduced to Umbari society by Gimilzagar as his son, but that was still at least three years away. With Gimilzagar dead, though....

"And Lady Yôzâyanphel?" he asked, naming Gimilizagar’s wife and the mother of his heir, knowing the answer before he even asked.

Zamîn shook her head sadly. "She, too, is dead, lord. All that remains of Zadan ’n Abrazân is Zimrathôr."

Alatar looked to Pallando, wondering what his fellow Wizard was thinking. Zimrathôr was but a child, yet as the son of one of the most powerful of the Corsair lords, even if not his heir, his life might well be considered forfeit. Certainly if the situation were reversed, the Umbari would have no qualms about wiping out the entire royal family of Gondor, down to the babe born yesterday. That Telumehtar would never think of doing so to the Umbari was beside the point. Zamîn believed otherwise and no amount of words from him would convince her. Pallando just gave him a slight shrug and a shake of his head. He was as much at a loss as to what to do as was Alatar. The Wizard turned to Zamîn.

"And these others?" he asked.

"Loyal to Lord Gimilzagar," she replied immediately and Alatar had the feeling that whatever their true stories were, these refugees would claim that they were indeed loyal to Gimilzagar and his last surviving son.

"We had not planned to leave immediately," Alatar said, stroking his grey-brown beard. "We have our own tasks still to complete here in Umbar."

"Please, lords, I beg of you," Zamîn pleaded. "For the love I know you held for my Lord Gimilzagar, protect us, protect his son. I know he would want you to, you whom he called beloved friends."

And there was the rub. Umbari Corsair or not, Gimilzagar had indeed been their friend and they his. He and Pallando had in fact been friends with Zadan ’n Abrazân for many lives of Men. They had both found it ironic that Gimilzagar’s ancestor had labeled himself "the Faithful", faithful to those who defied the Valar, certainly, even if not one who curried favors with Sauron. Belzagar had, in fact, been a Númenórean who had fled the island of his birth long years before its fall, settling in Umbar even before Ar-Pharazôn had come with his fleet to conquer Sauron. Over the long years, the two Wizards had kept in contact with Belzagar’s descendants, slowly bringing them to an acceptance of the authority of the Valar and the right worship of Eru Ilúvatar. Pallando was correct, Alatar thought. Another decade or two and perhaps....

Well, no sense in brooding over what-might-have-beens. The present moment was what mattered. "What do you think?" he asked Pallando, speaking Quenya, knowing that none among the Umbari would understand them.

For a moment Pallando did not answer, merely staring intently at the small group of refugees as if he could gauge their hearts and minds with his glance. Most could not meet his gaze though Alatar noted with wry amusement that the boy, Zimrathôr, never blinked or looked away when Pallando’s eyes rested on him. Truly his father’s son.

"We have a rather nice dilemma before us, do we not, brother?" Pallando answered, speaking Quenya as well.

"And what dilemma is that?"

"Do we abandon our mission to help these people or not?"

"Is not helping them a part of our mission?" Alatar demanded. "What else can we do?"

"We could leave. Seek passage to Gondor with Telumehtar. He’ll know us as friends of the West and will not deny us. Let us seek council with Olórin and Curumo if we may. Umbar is a lost cause anyway. Time to rethink our strategy."

"Do you really believe that?" Alatar asked somewhat sharply and was pleased when Pallando shook his head and sighed.

"No, I do not," he answered, "but I offered it as an alternative to what I know we will both do." He gazed at the expectant faces of the Umbari and nodded. "Very well. Our first order of business is to gather supplies, for we have a long road before us."

Alatar gave him a surprised look. "Where do we go then?"

"Further east," Pallando answered, giving his fellow Wizard a steady look. "Or further south, it matters not. Only one thing matters. That boy." He jerked his chin in the direction of the youngster standing there. "He is our mission, he and all these others. For friendship’s sake, if for no other reason, I would see Gimilzagar’s son safe. He may not be his legal heir, but he is Gimilzagar’s son, nonetheless. I would not see the House of the Faithful fall."

Alatar nodded. "Then let us gather supplies quickly and be on our way, before Telumehtar’s men find us." He turned his attention to the refugees and gave them a brief wintry smile. "Gather what supplies you can," he ordered them, switching to Adûnaic. "Quickly now. We must leave Umbar for a time but I promise that someday you will return, or your children will. Until then, my fellow Sapthân and I will guide you to safety."

"Thank you, lord," Zamîn said, tears of gratitude running down her cheeks as she clutched his hand to kiss it.

Alatar nodded and bade her and the others to rise. Even as the refugees scattered to gather what supplies they could find, Alatar wondered at the folly of their decision. The wisest thing would be to leave these people to fend for themselves while he and Pallando went west to seek council from their fellow Istari. Yet, the thought of abandoning these poor souls went against the grain. And in the end, what advice could Olórin or anyone give them? No. They would take these people to a place of refuge and see them settled. After that....

Valar! What a mess! But Pallando was right. This was their mission, at least for the time being. The rest would just have to wait. After all, were they not immortals? Time enough to return to their original mission later.

"What’s your name?"

Alatar looked down in surprise at the sound of the boy-child asking his question. He was alone, for Zamîn had gone with some of the other women to find food for them all. He gave the boy a smile. "Your father’s father’s father called me Morinehtar and my friend he called Rómestámo."

The boy wrinkled his nose in confusion. "Those are funny names. What do they mean?"

Alatar smiled and clapped the boy on the shoulder. "We’ll tell you their meaning and more while we are traveling, young lord. For now, why don’t you help us gather some grapes from the vineyard?"

The boy nodded and soon the three were busy stripping the vines of grapes as quickly as they could, all the while the two Wizards urged the others to hurry with their preparations. Even as Anor sank bloodily behind the dark cloud of smoke that was all that remained of the city, the refugees, led by the two Wizards, made their way eastward into lands unknown. They were never to know that they left only a half hour before Telumehtar’s troops reached the estate and burned it to the ground.

****

Words are Adûnaic unless otherwise noted.

Sapthîn: Plural of Sapthân: Wise-man, Wizard.

Gimilzagar: ‘Star-Sword’.

Pharaznarâk: ‘Golden-Eagle’.

Zigûr: Wizard, in an evil sense. Zigûr was the name by which Sauron was known on Númenor.

Arafinwiel: (Quenya) Daughter of Arafinwë, i.e. Galadriel.

Ithron: (Sindarin) Wizard. The plural is Ithryn.

Istari: (Quenya) Plural of Istar: Wizard.

Zimrathôr: ‘Jewel-son’.

Gimilzagarôhîn: Child of Gimilzagor.

Gimilzagarthôr: Son of Gimilzagar.

Zamîn: An attested Adûnaic female name that is not translated.

Yôzâyanphel: ‘Daughter of the Land of Gift’, i.e. Númenor.

Zadan ’n Abrazân: House of the Steadfast. Abrazân can also mean ‘Faithful’.

Belzagar: ‘Sword of Light’.

Morinehtar: (Quenya) ‘Darkness-Slayer’.

Rómestámo: (Quenya) ‘East-Helper’.

Notes:

1. According to the Tale of Years, in T.A. 1810, Telumehtar Umbardacil (reigned 1798-1850), took Umbar by storm and drove out the Corsairs. In that war the last descendants of Castamir the Usurper perished and Umbar was again held for a while by the kings, but subsequent evils soon befell Gondor and Umbar was again lost, falling into the hands of the Men of the Harad. See also Appendix A (iv), ‘Gondor and the Heirs of Anárion’.

2. Besides the narrative of the choosing of the Istari before a council of the Valar found in Unfinished Tales, Tolkien briefly explored the history and purpose of the Istari, and the Blue Wizards in particular, in Peoples of Middle-earth, HoME XII, Chapter XIII, "Last Writings: The Five Wizards". Their names, Morinehtar and Rómestámo are taken from this.

Prayer for an Absent Son

Summary: When Legolas doesn’t return from a mission, Thranduil mourns. Second place in the Gen catgegory for the ALEC challenge ‘I’m Missing You’.

****

Thranduil paused at the door to Legolas’ room, almost hesitating to enter. Then, with a disgusted shake of his head, he stepped across the threshold and glanced around. In spite of the anger and sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him, he couldn’t help smiling. The room was so typically Legolas: the bed was neatly made up, as always, but the rest of the room looked as if an army of Dwarves had set up camp. Or no, more like half the armory had been moved into the room. There were three sets of bows but only two quivers, he noticed. Several different white-handled knives of varying lengths and even a couple of swords, including a scimitar his son had won off an orc that had dared to attack his patrol. Thranduil recalled with a grim chuckle that he’d had to order Legolas to dump the orc’s head into the midden heap, refusing to allow him the ‘keepsake’ as his son had so impudently called it.

He shook his head again, as if clearing his mind of that particular memory, and moved further into the room. Discarded breeches, tunics and an old pair of boots littered the room, nearly hiding the brightly woven rugs that covered the stone floor. He moved to sit in the one chair the room could boast. Looking around he tried to see his son here. He closed his eyes and stilled himself. There was the faintest scent of green, a freshness that often did not penetrate this far inside the Stronghold. It was a scent that he always associated with his son, his ‘Little Leaf’.

He could almost feel him here, almost see his dancing blue eyes and merry smile, hear his gay laugh.

"Ah, Little Leaf," he sighed. "Why did I ever send you to Imladris? I should have sent another, but you felt responsible, guilty even, and nothing I said short of ordering you to stay would deter you from doing what you saw as your duty, and so I let you go."

He felt himself growing angry again. Damn Elrond! Damn the interfering half-mortal Noldo! He stared down at the piece of parchment that he was grasping and re-read the words, the hateful words:

‘....decided to allow your son to join the Fellowship to represent the Elves. He does you honor, Thranduil. He does all our people proud.’

Thranduil snarled. Honor! Pride! There was more to the missive but Thranduil wasn’t interested in reading it. His son, his Little Leaf, was not returning from his mission to Elrond. Instead, he was somewhere in the wilds of Eriador accompanying Mortals on a hopeless quest to destroy the Enemy’s Ring. Oh yes! Elrond was not so foolish as to write that, but Thranduil hadn’t survived the Fall of Doriath, the drowning of Beleriand and the debacle of the Last Alliance that saw his own adar dead and not be able to read between the lines, even those written by a devious-minded arrogant Noldo!

Was Legolas insane? Hare off into the blue with a pack of... of Halflings and a Dwarf? A Dwarf! Hadn’t he taught his son better than that? Thranduil shook his head and re-read the pertinent lines again, snorting as he did:

‘....with him have gone Mithrandir....’ — well no surprise there! — ‘... Lord Boromir of Gondor, Gimli son of Glóin....’ — well he knew that name at least! — and four Halflings, one of whom is Frodo son of Drogo and Bilbo’s heir....’ — Well, Bilbo at least he had a grudging respect for, and if Bilbo had chosen this Frodo as his heir, and that particular Halfling was no one’s fool to be sure, then he supposed things were not as bleak as they appeared. — ‘.... and my Estel....’

Hmph... Thranduil had to admire Elrond for circumspection, at least. Aragorn son of Arathorn was a worthy Man, as he had cause to know, and he now realized why Legolas had felt compelled to join this mad Fellowship. It was more than guilt for allowing that detestable creature to escape, more than guilt that he survived the attack that freed the creature and which killed the guards, his guards, his friends. He was going out of friendship for the Heir of Isildur.

"Damn!" he stood, shouting at the empty room, crumpling the parchment in his fury. "You should be here, Legolas, not going on some mad venture with no hope of succeeding. You’re going to your death, my son! And your people need you here. I need you here!"

He collapsed into the chair, his fury spent. He felt drained, heartsick and despairing. He’d lost so much over the long years of retreat, of fruitless victories and stunning defeats. He did not think he could endure one more loss, not that of his son, not his Little Leaf.

His eyes wandered once more around his beloved son’s room as he tried to accept the possibility that this chamber and what it held would be all he would have left of his beloved child, for he could see no hope in the mission Legolas was on. What they intended to do... it was a fool’s hope. Damn Elrond... and Mithrandir! Then his gaze stopped on the bed and for the first time he noticed that stuck in the far corner, almost hidden by the pillows, was a furry object. Thranduil wasn’t sure what it was at first, but he recognized it as he stood and reached for it.

It was Legolas’ favorite stuffed toy when he was an elfling. Thranduil stared at it in surprise, for he could not imagine why his grown son would still have the silly thing. It should have been put away with all the other toys. What had he called it? Oh yes, Araw, after the Balan who had discovered the Elves. He fondly recalled that Legolas had always loved to hear stories of the time when a Balan had led the People westward. It didn’t matter to Legolas that his ancestors never made it to Dor Rhodyn. The elfling simply loved to hear stories of the adventures of crossing Middle-earth with only the stars to light the way. Such tales would naturally appeal to the adventurous child Legolas had been and, in many ways, still was.

He closed his eyes, clinging to the stuffed toy, acknowledging his fears for his son’s safety, and, perhaps for the first time in his long life, prayed. "Lord Araw, protect my son," he whispered. "Oh, Legolas, my Little Leaf, please come back to me... please bring him home, Lord Tauron. We... I need him."

In the silence that followed there was the sound of someone clearing his throat.

Thranduil opened his eyes with a start, becoming angry at the intrusion, and saw his steward standing at the doorway looking decidedly uncomfortable. The King pulled himself together. "Yes, Galion, what is it?"

"Forgive the intrusion, Sire, but King Dain and King Brand are here to discuss defenses."

"Oh yes, of course," Thranduil said, silently cursing the Dwarf and the Man for choosing now to come, though in fairness to them both, it was he who had asked them to attend him. "I will be there shortly," he added. "Please see that they have all they need for their comfort."

"It need not be said, Aran," Galion replied with a respectful bow and then left.

Thranduil stared down at the stuffed toy, his expression wistful. "I missed you five minutes after you left for Imladris, my son," he said to the toy. "I miss you even more knowing that I may never see you again." He started to put the toy back on the bed, then hesitated, staring at this physical reminder of the elfling that had so brightened his heart and filled his soul with joy.

When he left the room to join Dain and Brand it was with his son’s stuffed toy nestled in the crook of his arm and whatever anyone who saw their king with it thought, they wisely kept their opinions to themselves.

****

Words are Sindarin.

Adar: Father.

Dor Rhodyn: Land of the Valar, Valinor.

Aran: King.

Broken

Summary: Mending a broken toy is one thing. Mending a broken dream is something else. First place in the Teitho contest ‘Five Ingredients: Your Recipe’, in which the following items were to be included in the story: a lame horse, a knocked-over candle, a person with a disability, a missing toy, and a broken musical instrument.

****

The rocking horse was lame. The right runner was missing and the horse, painted white with splotches of black on its hindquarters, was listing against the wall. It still had its saddle, the leather cracked and dusty with age, and a bridle that might have been a gay red but was now only a faded bled-out pink. The mane and tail, made of real horsehair, were straggly and mostly missing.

Faramir smiled at the sight of it, his eyes bright with fond memories. "I called him Spot, for obvious reasons," he said to the man standing next to him, giving him a wry grin.

Aragorn, now known as Elessar to his people, smiled back.

"Boromir and I spent hours riding him," Faramir continued as he pushed the canvas sheet that had covered the rocking horse to one side so they could get a better look.

"How did it get broken?" Aragorn asked as he crouched down to get a better look at the toy. In spite of the damage to the horse, the craftsmanship was exquisite. Denethor had spared no expense at having this particular toy built for his sons.

Faramir gave him an embarrassed look. "I... uh... was rocking too hard and it tipped over, cracking the runner in half. I was nearly knocked out when I banged my head on the floor. Father took it away and refused to have it repaired. Boromir wouldn’t speak to me for nearly a month."

Aragorn gave him a sympathetic smile as he ran a hand over the saddle. It was made of red leather and finely tooled. "How old were you?"

Faramir shrugged. "Four or five, I guess." Then he gave the horse a pat on the nose. "So, do you think it’s worth repairing or will you just have a new one made?"

Aragorn shook his head. "In spite of neglect, the wood is sound. It just needs a new runner and paint. Is the saddle glued to the horse?"

"No, actually, it’s removable," Faramir replied. "That’s what made this such a special toy; we felt we were really riding when we had to put the saddle on first. Even the bridle can be removed."

The king nodded as he rose. "Well, let’s drag it out of here and get it into my workroom before Eldarion sees it."

Faramir complied and together sovereign and steward wrestled with the horse, bringing it out of the attic in the Steward’s wing of the Citadel, through the main corridors and then up a flight of stairs leading to the royal apartments. Guards, servants and the occasional courtier kept their expressions neutral as they witnessed their King carrying the rocking horse, his bright blue tunic now grey with grime and dust. Faramir quickly went ahead down a short side corridor and unlocked a door at the end of it with a key the King had given him. He stepped aside to allow Aragorn to enter what was known within the Citadel as the King’s Workroom, a long, narrow room dominated by a wooden table and shelves filled with books, mostly of a medical nature, and all the paraphernalia associated with the healing arts. It was here that Aragorn continued to engage in that aspect of his kingship, usually with Arwen at his side as they worked to cure the maladies of their people , laboring alongside the city’s healers.

Aragorn set the horse against the wall at one end and slapped the dust off his tunic and hands. Faramir leaned against the door which he had closed behind them. "Will you have Gimli fix it?" he asked.

The King shook his head. "He’s visiting his father in Erebor and won’t be back in time. I’ll have to have someone else repair it. I would do it myself but my duties will not allow me the time I would need."

"And I have no aptitude for such work, or I would volunteer," Faramir said with a wry smile.

Aragorn smiled back. "You have other talents I value more highly." Faramir straightened at the compliment. The king crouched down and worked the straps on the saddle, gently lifting it from the horse’s back. "The saddle is still sound. The leather just needs oiling."

"Who will you get to do the repairs?" Faramir asked.

"Oh, I’m sure I can find someone," Aragorn replied with a sly look as he gestured for Faramir to precede him out of the room, then carefully locked the door behind them. The two men then went their separate ways.

****

Aragorn entered the main suite of the royal apartments to find the household in something of an uproar. Eldarion, one month away from his third birthday, was in tears while Arwen held him in her arms and rocked him in the rocking chair that had come all the way from Imladris. Two of her ladies-in-waiting were rushing about, frantically looking for something.

"What’s the matter?" Aragorn asked, bending down to give his wife a kiss and to stroke his son’s curly locks.

"We lost Legolas," she answered with a knowing smile.

"Ah!"

"I w-want Legwas," the child lisped between his tears, clearly inconsolable at the loss of his stuffed toy, given to him by Prince Legolas on his last birthday. The Elf had been amused that the child had named his toy after him. "Wh-where’s Legwas?"

Aragorn reached down and lifted his son into his arms and held him close. "Don’t worry, iôn nîn," he crooned softly. "We’ll find Legolas, never fear." He glanced around to see the two women searching behind the sofa and under chairs. "Where did you see Legolas last?" he asked Arwen.

"If you mean the bunny," Arwen replied with a sly grin and Aragorn laughed, "Eldarion had it this morning. Sometime between breakfast and now it disappeared. You know he won’t go down for his nap without his favorite toy."

"And where is the other Legolas?" Aragorn enquired with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Right here, Aragorn."

Aragorn looked up to see his Elven friend standing in the doorway leading to the nursery, an amused look on his fair face. He was holding the white bunny in his right hand.

"Legwas!" Eldarion squealed, reaching out with his chubby arms, but whether for his toy or for the Elf was anyone’s guess.

"Where did you find it?" Arwen asked in obvious relief as Legolas sauntered over and handed the toy to the now beaming child. Eldarion clutched it to his chest as if he was never going to let it go again. Legolas smiled fondly at the son of his closest friends and ruffled the boy’s unruly locks.

"Where it is always found," he answered. "Behind the bed."

"But that’s the first place we looked," Arwen exclaimed in exasperation.

"You did not look closely enough," Legolas replied with an elegant lift of an eyebrow. "It was wrapped up in the sheet so you just assumed it was not there."

"Hmph," was Arwen’s skeptical reply as she relieved her husband of his small burden. "Well, thank you for rescuing your namesake," she said with a sly grin as she took the now sleepy child into the nursery for his nap.

Legolas gave her a mock bow. "I live to serve," he said. Aragorn snorted in amusement and quietly thanked the two women for their assistance and dismissed them to their own duties. With the women out of the way, Legolas gave Aragorn a considering look. "So, did you and Faramir find what you were looking for?" he asked softly.

"Yes. It’s in sorry shape but repairable," Aragorn replied. "One of the runners is missing and it needs a good coat of paint. The bridle needs to be replaced as well."

"I would be happy to work on it for you," Legolas said.

"I would do the repair work on it myself, but with this trade commission with Khand still unsettled...."

"I understand," Legolas assured him. "It really does not sound as if it will take that long to repair."

Aragorn shook his head. "It appears sound enough except for the missing runner. Come. I’ll show it to you and you can see for yourself."

****

The rocking horse was removed from the King’s Workroom to an outbuilding behind the royal stables. Legolas insisted that it would be easier for him to work on it there than within the Citadel where Eldarion might find it. "He has your knack for ferreting out things," he quipped when he spoke with Aragorn and his queen about moving the horse.

"Which is why it’s impossible to hide any gifts for him," Arwen said in a teasing voice.

"Who? Eldarion or Aragorn?" Legolas asked, giving them an innocent look.

Arwen laughed. "Both."

The King of the United Realms had the grace to look sheepish and Legolas smirked.

"I’m assigning you someone to act as your assistant," Aragorn told him.

"I do not need...."

"Perhaps not," Aragorn said, "but she does. Her name is Almiel. She will make sure that you eat properly and lack for nothing. I know you, Legolas. You’ll work all hours of the day and night. You won’t eat and you won’t sleep."

"I hardly think it will take too long to fix this horse, Aragorn," Legolas protested.

"Perhaps not, but in the time that it takes you, you will neglect your own needs. Almiel will be there to see that you don’t. And please, do not scare her away."

Legolas raised an eyebrow. "Scare her away? Why would I do that?"

"You’re an Elf, mellon nîn," Aragorn shot back with a smile. "I know how much you value your privacy and don’t like people fussing over you."

"Hmph," Legolas retorted, clearly unconvinced. "I will do my best not to scare her away, then."

"Good. You’ll meet her tomorrow."

****

Legolas was bending over the rocking horse, closely examining it, to assure himself that the wood was sound and that all that was needed was to give it a good coat of paint. The saddle and the bridle had been removed. They were against the wall waiting for the Elf’s attention. He would oil the saddle and make any minor repairs on it later. First thing that was needed was to replace the runner, or rather runners. He decided that it would be best to have them match. He set about removing the remaining runner, intending to use it as a template. A slight sound alerted him that he had a visitor. He looked over his shoulder to see a woman who had not yet reached her middle years, for her honey-brown hair was innocent of grey and her face was unlined. Her hazel eyes, however, seemed old and he sensed much pain and sorrow in them. She was not tall, her head barely coming to his shoulders. She was dressed simply in a gown dyed a russet brown with just the hint of lace at throat and cuffs. The oddest thing about her was the slate that hung around her neck.

"You must be Almiel," Legolas said, straightening to face her.

The woman nodded. "I have been sent to help," she said and Legolas tilted his head at the sound of her voice, for while the words were spoken distinctly, there was a flatness of tone that he did not expect.

He gave a half shrug and turned back to the horse, lifting the runner and stroking the wood to get a feel for it. "Well, you will find I am...."

"Please," the woman interrupted. "I cannot hear you if you turn away."

Legolas blinked and turned around. "Excuse me?"

Almiel nodded. "I am deaf," she explained, "but I can read what you say, so long as you face me and speak clearly." She lifted the slate. "This is for when I don’t understand. Sometimes, I just am not able to read a person’s lips and so I ask them to write what they are saying."

"You are deaf," Legolas said, schooling his expression. He was acquainted with the maladies that were visited upon the Younger Children, but he rarely dealt with those so afflicted. It made him feel uncomfortable for some reason.

Almiel grimaced. "As I said," she replied, "and no, yelling will not make me hear better."

Legolas blinked again. "Why would I yell at you?" he asked, not comprehending her statement.

"You would be surprised how others act when they discover I cannot hear," was her reply, and in spite of the flatness of her tone, he detected much bitterness in it.

"I will keep it in mind," he said. "Now, I must go back to work. Do you have specific duties or will you just be standing there getting in my way?" He spoke lightly and smiled, but in truth he did not want her there. He really did not know what Aragorn was up to by foisting this... this child upon him.

Almiel nodded. "I am to see that you eat on a regular basis and I am to keep the place tidy," she answered.

"And see that I go to bed at a reasonable hour as well, no doubt," he said, lifting his eyebrows and smiling.

Almiel shook her head, though there was the shadow of a smile on her lips. "His Majesty said I did not need to tuck you in at night."

"Well, small favors," Legolas said with a sniff. "I will leave you to your duties then while I work on the horse." He turned his back on her, effectively dismissing her. For a moment he could sense her presence and then there was a soft sigh and the sound of feet receding. He shook his head as he began taking measurements, wondering what Aragorn was up to in assigning her to him.

****

So engrossed was he in his work that he paid no heed to the outside world and so never heard Almiel enter the workroom. The first that he knew of her presence was a shy tap on his elbow. Without thinking, he reached out and grabbed her, bringing her into a hold where he could easily break her neck. She screamed and it took Legolas a few precious seconds to realize what he was doing. He stared into the woman’s bloodless face, the shock in her eyes mirroring his own. He gently released her.

"Goheno nîn, hiril. Avosto! Ú gerithan le úgarth."

"Wh-what... what are you saying? I don’t understand."

It took Legolas a few seconds to realize that he had spoken in Sindarin rather than in Westron. "I am sorry," he repeated. "You must never approach me in that manner. I am afraid my warrior instincts take over."

"I... I called you, but you did not respond," she explained, visibly shaken but already bringing herself under control. Legolas had to admire her courage.

He gave her a chagrined look. "I am afraid I was too lost in my own thoughts to pay any attention. Did you need me for something?"

"Sorry? I can’t see you very well, it’s too dark in here now. Are there any candles?" She started fumbling around the nearby shelves.

He looked about, only just realizing that in the brief moments of their little scuffle, the day had fled and there was only the faintest of light from the dying sun coming through the open door and the two small windows. Not that he needed much light, for he saw well enough under starlight as if it were bright as day, but obviously Almiel could not see in the dark.

"Here, I’ll look for the candle," he said, quite forgetting that she could not hear him or even see him well enough to know that he was speaking. Before he could move, though, she gave a cry of triumph that turned into one of dismay as the fat beeswax candle she had found slipped through her fingers and fell to the floor, rolling away. Legolas was after it immediately, and soon he had it lit, setting it high on a nearby shelf. Almiel found several other candles and it was not long before the room was awash in their warm glow.

"Now, what was it you needed?" he asked her, being sure that he stood so the light reflected his face rather than casting it in shadow.

"I brought dinner," she replied, and went to a side table where she lifted the warming cover off a dish.

"Thank you," he said, "but I am not hungry. I...."

"I was told to make sure you ate at least one meal a day," she said forthrightly. "Please do not make me look incompetent. I need the work. I promise not to bother you except to bring you one meal each evening if you will not eat more regularly. While you eat, I can tidy up." She pointed to the sawdust and wood shavings littering the floor.

Legolas sighed and nodded. In truth, he was feeling some hunger. He tried to remember the last meal he had eaten. Probably dinner with Aragorn and Arwen the evening before. "The broom is over in that corner." He pointed, making sure he did not turn his head so she could not see him, and then walked over to where his dinner sat, finding a haunch of venison, new potatoes, and some greens, as well as a flagon of wine. There were even some slices of bread and cheese. He stood there, chewing on the bread and watched the woman retrieve the broom and begin sweeping. It took him a moment to realize she was humming as she worked.

He went to her to get her attention. She gave him an enquiring look.

"What were you humming?" he asked.

She shied away from him, her expression now one of confusion. "I wasn’t humming," she declared, anger and even panic putting some emotion into her voice.

Legolas nodded."Yes you were, and if you could hear then I would repeat the notes to you. How long have you been deaf?"

Now she was clearly angry as she clutched the broom tightly to her. "Why do you want to know? What is it to you, anyway?"

"I am merely curious," Legolas replied equably. "You obviously lost your hearing only recently, or your diction, I think, would not be as clear."

"Three years ago," she said, looking away. "I lost my hearing almost three years ago."

Legolas had to reach out and touch her to get her attention. "How?"

"It was a fever," she replied, her eyes dark with painful memories. "They thought I would die, even the King."

"Ah! So Aragorn was called in to help you," Legolas said, understanding a little more what the relationship was between his friend and this woman.

She nodded, grimacing. "He saved me, but he could not save my hearing. When I recovered I was deaf. It would have been better if I’d died." Tears began running down her face and she swiped at them angrily.

"Why do you say that?" Legolas asked, lifting her chin so she would see him. "Is not life better than death?" He knew about death, had seen many of his own warriors die in the long endless battles against the Shadow that had turned the Great Greenwood into a place of horror for so many centuries. Yet, death was, for him, as it was for all Elves, an abstraction. It happened but it was not itself an end, merely an interruption. For mortals, though, it was an end indeed, at least in terms of life in Arda, and what lay beyond death was truly anyone’s guess.

For a long moment, Almiel did not answer, her expression turning bleak. When she did speak, she would not look at him, but stared at the rocking horse, its new runners still half finished. "I was a bard, or at least, that was my hope," she said, her voice soft and almost indistinct. "I’d been an apprentice to the guild for many years and was all set to win my mastership when the fever struck." She turned her head to face him. "Do you see why I wish I’d died instead? I was making a lute as part of my test for my mastership, as that was my specialty, being a lutenist. It was nearly completed. But as soon as I recovered from the fever and discovered I’d gone deaf, I smashed the lute and every other instrument I’d ever made and destroyed all my compositions. If I couldn’t hear them, why should anyone else?"

"And so instead you sweep floors and serve people their dinners," Legolas retorted somewhat coldly, though he knew she could not hear his tone.

"What am I supposed to do?" she demanded hotly. "What would you have me do, my lord Elf? The guildmasters were very sympathetic but they made their position clear: if I could not hear, I could not be a bard."

"Do you hear music in your head?" he asked.

She blinked. "I...all the time."

"Is it remembered music or of your own creating?"

Almiel gave him a puzzled look. "Some of it is mine from...before, or songs I remember growing up with, but some of it is just...." she shrugged.

"How do you hear the music?" Legolas insisted.

"You mean, what instruments?" He nodded. "Usually the lute, sometimes the harp. I was never good at writing ensemble pieces. I mostly did solos and I’m no good with lyrics. I usually had one of the other apprentices write them for me. My greatest strength was as an instrumentalist."

"You were humming," Legolas said, going back to the original topic of the discussion. "You can deny it if you wish, but I heard you, and what you were humming was quite beautiful. You may not be able to hear the music with your ears, but I suspect you hear it with your heart. Why deny it? Why deny it to others?"

He gave her a considering look but when she did not respond he shrugged and went back to his now cold meal, his back to her. He did not need to see her leave to know that she had.

****

Almiel did not return to the workshop the next day or the day after. Legolas barely registered that fact as he continued working. The first runner was complete and the second one nearly so. He would stain them first before attaching them to the horse. While waiting for the stain to dry he would work on the saddle and bridle. He also needed to collect some horsehair and to replace the straggly strands of the toy’s mane and tail. The last thing would be to repaint the horse.

Sometime around noon on the third day since Almiel’s departure, Aragorn stopped by to see how the rocking horse was coming along, admiring the Elf’s craftsmanship of something so simple as the runners. "How is Almiel working out?" he asked at one point.

Legolas had to stop and think, having forgotten about the young woman. He shrugged. "I do not recall seeing her for a couple of days now."

Aragorn frowned. "I hope you did nothing to frighten her away, Legolas."

"Why are you so concerned for her, Aragorn?" the Elven Prince asked.

Aragorn sighed. "I guess you can call it guilt," he replied. "I did everything I could to save her life...."

"And you did," Legolas pointed out.

"But not her livelihood," Aragorn retorted. "She is... was a gifted musician."

"She still is," Legolas said. "Being deaf has not stopped her from hearing the music inside her. In fact, I told her as much."

"Which is probably why she has not returned," Aragorn said with a rueful look.

Legolas had nothing to say to that. "I should be done here in a few more days," he said instead and turned back to his work. He heard Aragorn sigh and start to leave. Without turning, Legolas asked a question, speaking softly, almost as if to himself. "What will happen to her now?"

For a moment there was only silence and then Aragorn sighed again. "I do not know. It took her a long time to recover from the fever and I have done what I can to convince her to join the living, to find meaning in her life again, but she drifts from job to job like... like a ghost. I fear for her, Legolas. I fear that someday the despair will overwhelm her and she will do to herself what she did to her instruments. She will do to herself what the fever did not."

Aragorn didn’t stay to hear Legolas’ reply, and in truth, Legolas wasn’t sure what he might have said to that. He sighed, shaking his head and went back to work.

****

He was finishing attaching the runners, idly humming the same tune Almiel had been humming, when he sensed someone standing behind him. He slowly put down his tools and turned, only then noticing that it was almost dark again. In the doorway, silhouetted against the dying light, was Almiel.

"You came back," Legolas said and then swore to himself, having forgotten she probably could not see him clearly enough to know what he was saying. He took several steps toward her. She never moved. She was clutching some papers in her hands.

"You came back," he repeated when he was sure she could see him.

She nodded and silently thrust the bundle towards him. He took them and glanced at the first page. It was filled with musical notations, and so were all the other pages. He looked up. "This is what you hear inside you, isn’t it?"

She nodded, still not speaking.

"Will you play this for me?"

She gave him a frown. "I... I cannot," she said softly. "I destroyed all my instruments."

Legolas nodded. "Then, when I finish with the rocking horse, perhaps you and I can make new instruments together."

Almiel gave him a surprised look. "I do not know...."

"I do," Legolas said firmly. "You will make a lute and I will make a harp and together we will play your music and we will show the Bards’ Guild that just because you can no longer hear does not mean you cannot create beautiful music. You can become a Master Lutenist and Composer... that is, if you want it."

For a long moment she simply stood there and Legolas did not move. The light faded until they were both in shadows. Then, Legolas saw her nod. "Light some candles and I will go get your dinner," she said and turned away before Legolas could respond.

He nodded anyway. "I will do that," he said, then went in search of the candles, carefully placing the sheets of music on the table where the rocking horse waited to be repaired.

****

Words are Sindarin.

Iôn nîn: My son.

Mellon nîn: My friend.

Goheno nîn, hiril. Avosto! Ú gerihan le úgarth: ‘Forgive me, lady. Fear not! I will not harm thee’ (literally, ‘I will not do you an ill deed’).

Breath of Arda

Summary: Not all battles are fought with swords and spears. Some are fought with other weapons.

****

‘There was battle above in the high spaces of the air. The billowing clouds of Mordor were being driven back, their edges tattering as a wind out of the living world came up and swept the fumes and smokes towards the dark land of their home. Under the lifting skirts of the dreary canopy dim light leaked into Mordor like pale morning through the grimed window of a prison.’ — Return of the King, Book 6, Chapter 2, ‘The Land of Shadow’

****

6 Súlimë, T.A. 3019:

Námo entered the main throne room of Ilmarin and resisted a sigh. He was the last one to arrive. All the other Valar, even Vairë, were already assembled on the balcony that looked across the Pelóri towards Endórë. Of course, he had a legitimate reason for being late. Already Mandos was filling with the souls of Mortals dying in this war and he had been coordinating with Maranwë and his other Maiar as to where to put them until they could be dealt with. He took pride in the fact that he had been ready for this for some time, in fact, from the very moment the Halfling Bilbo Baggins took possession of the One Ring. War was inevitable though long in coming as Mortals accounted time. He and his People were quite prepared to handle the influx.

The Lord of Mandos stepped silently beside his spouse, giving her a faint smile, which she returned, slipping her hand into his.

*What has happened?* he asked her, bespeaking to her mind-to-mind.

*Nothing as yet,* she answered. *Melkor’s Lieutenant has thought to blanket all of Arda with a thick cloud through which no light can penetrate. The Children fight under despairing gloom.*

*And the Ringbearers?*

*Samwise has helped Frodo to escape Cirith Ungol and they are even now heading north along the Morgai.*

Námo nodded. *Denethor will come to me this day,* he told her. *He means to bring his son with him, but that is not to be. Denethor will not be able to ease his own death with Faramir’s.*

*I am glad to hear it,* Vairë said.

Námo would have said more but just then Manwë spoke, never turning around. "I’m glad you were able to join us, Námo. Now that we are all here, we must decide what we shall do."

"What do you mean?" Nienna asked sharply. "Do about what?"

"We must decide whether we will interfere in this war or not," the Elder King replied.

"Dare we?" Oromë asked, voicing the concerns of the others. "It seems to me that every time we interfere, things only get worse."

"Or better," Námo couldn’t help countering. "The War of Wrath...."

"Brought about the destruction of Beleriand," Oromë pointed out. "Melkor might have been defeated but I think the cost to the Children was too high. What price will they have to pay this time if we step in?"

"Yet, we cannot stand by and do nothing," Varda insisted. "Too much is at stake. The Ringbearers must succeed in their Quest and we are in a position to help."

"And Olórin could use a bit of assistance as well," Irmo said. "See? He is even now facing down the Lord of the Nazgûl before the ruined gates of Minas Tirith."

"And look!" Aulë pointed. "The Heir of Isildur will not reach the city in time to lift the siege, for with my former servant’s black clouds deadening the air, there is no hope of any wind to billow the sails of Elessar’s fleet and hurry them on their way."

"What then can we do?" Yavanna asked.

"More importantly, what will Atar allow us to do?" Námo asked quietly.

"I still do not think it wise for us to interfere," Oromë said. "Too much is at risk if we do."

"And too much is at risk if we don’t," countered Ulmo somewhat angrily.

Námo cast a knowing grin at Vairë who merely rolled her eyes. It was an old argument between the two. Oromë loved the Children no less than Ulmo, but he had been the last of them to abandon the Outer Lands for Valinor and still grieved over those lands which had been destroyed during the wars against Melkor. Ulmo, of course, had always been more concerned over the fate of the Children and had often aided them even if his fellow Valar had disapproved. It grieved him to see them in such dire straits now.

"Peace," Manwë said and silence reigned on the peaks of Taniquetil.

And then all but Manwë went to their knees in adoration as they felt the Presence of their Atar surrounding them.

"What is thy will, Atar?" Manwë asked, giving a slight bow, for he was the Elder King and vice-gerent of Ilúvatar.

*Greetings, my beloved,* they all heard the One say and more than one of them gasped in delight as a wave of love and approval swept over them. *It is time, my son, for thee to take up the battle against my wayward Child.*

"Yet, how?" Aulë dared to ask as he and the others rose to their feet.

*That is for Manwë to decide,* Atar replied. *To him do I give Authority to act, though ye may assist him if he ask it of you.*

They felt another wave of love encompass them and then Atar’s Presence faded from their senses and they found themselves alone on the mountain. For a moment no one spoke, unwilling to break the spell of Atar’s love, but finally Námo stirred and looked at Manwë.

"What will you do?" he asked quietly.

"Nothing obvious," Manwë said with a small smile, "but it will require all of us acting in concert to effect what I wish to do."

"Then tell us, beloved, and we will do it," Varda said.

Manwë gestured towards the darkness that was covering Middle-earth. "Melkor’s Lieutenant thinks he is lord of all the realms, or wishes he were. I am sure he has forgotten whose realm is the air."

Aulë snorted. "Forgotten, no. I don’t think he’s forgotten, my brother. I think he’s simply too arrogant to care."

Manwë flashed him a smile. "No doubt." Then he turned his attention back to the war in Endórë and his expression was less benign. "Then let us take the battle to him and teach him the error of his ways." He lifted up his right hand, a single pure white feather lying on the palm, and with a gentle, almost negligent, breath, he sent it off. They watched it floating on the wind and then Manwë began to Sing:

"Breath of Arda, hold us together. Be forever near us. Breath of Arda, lighten our darkness. Pour over us your holiness. Breath of Arda...."

At first Námo wasn’t sure why Manwë was addressing the Song to himself, for the Elder King was known as Súlimo, Lord of the Breath of Arda. But then he realized that Manwë was addressing the true Breath of Arda, indeed the very Breath of Eä and their own existence. Manwë was Singing to Atar. Námo listened closely to the words, memorizing them, knowing that this was needful and had no doubt that the others were doing the same.

"Join with me," Manwë said when the last note died away. "Sing with me."

And they did, the Valiër picking up the descant, interweaving the counterpoint with the original melody which the Valar sang, strengthening it, deepening it, until the Song swelled and the winds of the world grew to hurricane force. Manwë then gestured and directed them, bringing them up from the southern reaches of Arda. Slowly, reluctantly, and with much resistance, the noxious clouds of Mordor were driven back and the pale light of morning, not seen in Gondor for the last five days, grew and crept towards the North. The battle for supremacy over the air raged as they felt the Opposition struggling to maintain control. But the dark clouds, with their fumes and smoke, continued to be rent and torn as the Valar Sang, their wills not to be denied. Námo vaguely took note of the vehemence of Aulë’s growling voice, apparently taking much pleasure at foiling his former servant’s plans. Manwë gestured a second time and they brought the Song to a final crescendo of Power before reaching its conclusion.

The silence that followed was almost painful, but Námo ignored it as he watched the events unfolding before his eyes. There was the Lord of the Nazgúl confronting a lone warrior on the Pelennor and he smiled grimly at the jest that was about to be played at the Ringwraith’s expense. He shifted his gaze and saw the black sails of the Corsair ships which young Elessar had commandeered begin to billow in the rising wind and nodded. Yes, it would appear that they would reach the Harlond in time. He cast his gaze even further, into Mordor itself, and watched two small figures crossing the stony bed of a dry and withered stream within the folds of the Morgai, making for a beaten path that would take them north... north and eventually to the destiny that awaited them.

He sighed and shook himself, turning to Manwë. "I must go," he said. "Already Théoden is arriving in Mandos and I promised Théodred that he could be there to greet his father. And then there’s Denethor." He grimaced at the thought, not happy at having to deal with that one. He still was not sure if he would let Boromir know of his father’s arrival. The elder son of the Steward had only just released his guilt over his supposed failure in succumbing to the lure of the Ring and Námo did not want him to take on more guilt, thinking he could have saved his father had he been there for him. The Lord of Mandos had little sympathy for the Steward at this time. Denethor could have done so much good. If only....

Well, that was neither here nor there. He gave Manwë a bow. "Call me if I am needed," he said.

Manwë nodded. "You do the same," he admonished the Lord of Mandos. "Many will die today, and many more in the days to come until this war ends. We are all ready to assist you. You only need to ask."

"Thank you," Námo said with all sincerity.

"I will come with you, brother," Nienna said. "There will be many in need of consolation this day."

Námo gave his sister a smile, glad that Nienna would be there helping. "If you could have some of your People...."

"Already done," Nienna said returning his smile with one of her own, though he could see that her eyes were glistening with unshed tears, tears that he knew would eventually fall for all those who would suffer this day and in the days to come, tears which would be shed only in private. "Tiutalion is coordinating with Maranwë even as we speak."

Námo nodded. "Then, let us go greet our latest guests," he said and he and Nienna shed their fanar and were gone, leaving the other Valar to keep watch over Arda and the war that was raging there.

****

Words are Quenya.

Endorë: Middle-earth.

Fanar: Plural of fana: the ‘raiment’ in which the Valar clothed themselves, the bodies in which they were self-incarnated.

Notes:

1. The idea for this story came from Matthew Dickerson’s excellent book Following Gandalf: Epic Battles and Moral Victory in The Lord of the Rings (Brazos Press, 2003). After quoting the passage which begins this story, he writes:

‘It is significant that Tolkien uses the word battle to describe what is happening. The first thing he shows us here is that the change in winds is not just a coincidence, or good luck, but yet another part of the great war going on in Middle-earth....this is a war going on in heaven, or in the spiritual realm. Certainly no physical being within Middle-earth accomplishes this; these are the winds of Manwë, or of Ilúvatar himself.’ [Chapter 9 ‘The Hand of Ilúvatar’, pg.194]

2. 6 Súlimë corresponds to 15 March. See Appendix B under this date.

3. The Song of Power which the Valar sing is an adaptation of the chorus of the Christmas song "Breath of Heaven".

The Case of the Balrog-slayer’s Second Best Sword

Summary: When Glorfindel’s second-best sword goes missing, Legolas gets blamed. Inspired by the Teitho prompt ‘Whodunit’. This incident is referred to obliquely in chapter 19 of Elf Academy.

Note: This story takes place shortly after the events described in my Tapestry story ‘NOTHING: It’s Just a Scratch’. It is not necessary to have read that story to enjoy this one. You only have to know that Legolas and Thranduil are visiting Imladris for a time and that Legolas is recovering from severe injuries gotten in a fight against orcs.

****

Imladris, T.A. 2484:

Glorfindel stormed through the halls of Imladris looking to kill something... or someone. Those who encountered the Captain of Lord Elrond’s elite Guards took one look at his expression and nimbly stepped out of his way, thanking Elbereth and all the Belain that they were not the object of this one’s ire when he sailed past them without a second glance. He made his way down the central stairway and turned left to enter the library where he knew Elrond was entertaining Thranduil and Mithrandir. Without even knocking, he flung open the door.

"Where are they?" he roared, the light of the Trees and something else, something dangerous, glowing from his eyes.

Elrond looked up, raising a delicate eyebrow at the fuming captain in mild reproof for the interruption. Thranduil merely gawked while Mithrandir rolled his eyes, a half-smile hidden behind his beard.

"To whom are you referring, Lord Glorfindel?" Elrond asked, stressing the ellon’s title just slightly.

Glorfindel either didn’t hear or refused to acknowledge the implied reprimand, only snarling more. "Those sorry excuses for your sons, who else?"

Elrond sighed. "What have they done now?"

"Stolen my second-best sword," Glorfindel exclaimed, "and when I get my hands on them, they’re going to wish Lord Námo was handling their case instead of me."

"And how do you know that Elladan and Elrohir are the guilty parties, Glorfindel?" Mithrandir asked, trying not to laugh. Glorfindel was still being Glorfindel even after all the millennia since being reborn.

The Balrog-slayer glared at the Wizard. "Who else would be so stupid?"

Thranduil cleared his throat, looking slightly abashed. "There’s always Legolas," he said softly.

Glorfindel looked at the Elvenking in surprise, his ire lessening. "Thranduil, your son is many things, impulsive being one of them, but a thief? No, he is too honorable to stoop so low."

"And are you implying that my sons are not?" Elrond asked, his voice still mild.

Now Glorfindel paled slightly as he realized that he may have insulted his lord in the course of placating Thranduil. "You know how they are, Elrond. This wouldn’t be the first time...."

"Yet, what motive would they have?" Mithrandir interjected. "Other than to watch you huffing and puffing and threatening to blow the house down if they didn’t give you back your sword, that is."

"I am not huffing," Glorfindel retorted, sounding affronted, though there was a glint of humor in his eyes. "Besides," he continued in a more conciliatory tone, "who else could it be?"

"Are you sure it’s been stolen and not just misplaced?" Elrond asked.

Glorfindel shook his head, now looking aggrieved. "You know me better than that, Elrond. I would never leave any weapon just lying around. I always put my toys away like a good little elfling."

That evoked startled laughs from the other three and the tension in the room lessened notably.

"Perhaps we should call for the three most likely suspects and ascertain the truth of the matter," Elrond said once they were calmer. He beckoned with a hand to someone standing behind Glorfindel. The captain turned in surprise and chagrin, only then realizing they had an audience, for Erestor was standing at the doorway looking amused.

"Lord Erestor," Elrond commanded, "please find my sons—"

"And mine," interjected Thranduil.

Elrond nodded. "And have them brought here."

Erestor bowed. "I believe they are presently on the archery field, Elrond. I will fetch them at once." He gave Glorfindel a smile as he left, closing the door behind him.

"Well, while we are waiting, I’ll have some more wine, Master Elrond," Mithrandir said, raising his goblet and Elrond chuckled as he lifted the decanter of Dorwinion and poured some for the Wizard.

"An excellent idea," Thranduil said as he allowed Elrond to fill his goblet as well. "Why don’t you have some yourself, Glorfindel? It’ll calm your nerves."

"My nerves are calm, Thranduil," Glorfindel replied, glowering at them all, refusing to budge.

"Then it will calm mine," the Elvenking retorted. "Come. Sit. You are accomplishing nothing by standing there."

Glorfindel relented with a sigh, knowing that Thranduil was correct. Elrond smiled and gestured for him to get a goblet from the sideboard before joining them. When he was seated and sipping on the wine, Thranduil nodded. "Much better."

The four sat in silence as they waited for Erestor to return with Elrond’s sons and Legolas. It was about fifteen minutes before they arrived. The three younger ellyn looked confused as they entered the library and gave them their obeisance. Legolas’ bow was stiff and awkward, for he was still recovering from wounds gotten when he was ambushed by orcs in the Misty Mountains.

"Is something wrong, Ada?" Elladan asked. "Erestor only said you wanted to see the three of us."

"Come in and sit," Elrond commanded, gesturing towards a settee. "Erestor, see that we are not disturbed."

"It will be as you say, Elrond," Erestor said with a bow before exiting, closing the door.

"What’s wrong?" Elladan asked again as he and his brother took their seats. Legolas chose a chair close to his adar, carefully sitting with his recently mended leg stretched out.

"Lord Glorfindel’s second-best sword is missing," Elrond explained. "Perhaps you would like to enlighten us?"

The Twins gave one another significant looks. "It wasn’t us, Ada," Elrohir protested. "Legolas must have...."

"Hey!" protested the son of Thranduil. "Why would you....?"

"Are you accusing my son of being a thief, Elrondion?" Thranduil demanded, his voice low and threatening.

Instead of answering, Elrohir turned to his brother. "Do you remember the last time we entered Glorfindel’s room without permission?"

Elladan nodded, shuddering slightly and looking suddenly grim. "We never made that mistake again," he answered and gave Glorfindel a glare which the captain returned with a knowing smirk.

"So you are saying that you would never have taken Glorfindel’s sword under any circumstances?" Elrond asked.

Both Twins nodded. "We’re not that suicidal," Elladan answered.

"Well neither am I," Legolas declared angrily. "How dare you accuse me of such perfidy."

Elrohir gave the ellon a cool stare. "We saw you admiring Glorfindel’s sword the other day," he said.

"Of course I admired it," Legolas admitted, "but that doesn’t mean I stole it. Why would I? I’m a Wood-Elf, for Araw’s sake! What would I need a sword, any sword, for?"

"He has a point," Thranduil averred mildly.

"But the fact remains that my second-best sword is not where it should be," Glorfindel stated. "Someone took it. I want to know who, and whoever it is will wish they had never been born when I get through with them." He gave the Twins a meaningful glare.

"Threatening us won’t work," Elrohir said with a slight sneer. "This time, we’re innocent."

"As am I," Legolas said, looking hurt. "I thought we were friends," he said to Elrond’s sons, and he sounded very much the elfling everyone accused him of being, for all that he was well over five hundred years old.

The Twins had identical looks of chagrin on their faces. "Goheno ven, gwador," Elladan said contritely. "I’m afraid past experience..."

"Is not necessarily a guide to present circumstances," Mithrandir intervened smoothly. "I find it interesting that you were as quick to accuse Legolas as Glorfindel was to accuse you two." He gave them and Glorfindel a meaningful look.

The three ellyn appeared suitably embarrassed by the Wizard’s condemnation, however mildly given. In the uneasy silence that followed, Legolas cleared his throat and all eyes fell on him.

"You have something to say, Thranduilion?" Elrond asked, his expression neutral.

Legolas blushed. "I... I was just wondering why... well, why does Lord Glorfindel always refer to his sword as his second-best one? As far as I know, it’s his only sword."

Several eyebrows went up at that and Glorfindel gave them a snort of amusement, his anger dissipating like mist before the heat of the day. "Because it is my second-best sword," he replied. "I left my best sword behind in Aman before I came here as a token that I would someday return. It was given to me by King Olwë himself."

Even Elrond looked surprised at that revelation, though Mithrandir did not, taking a sip of his wine as he eyed everyone under his shaggy brows with interest.

"So, King Olwë has it in safe keeping?" Thranduil asked.

Glorfindel shook his head, his eyes glinting with mirth. "No. My sword is in the safe keeping of Lord Námo. He promised to return it to me if I behaved myself. Otherwise he would skewer me with it and stick my sorry fae on a post outside the doors of Mandos as a warning to others if I were ever so stupid as to show up on his doorstep... again."

There was a shocked silence as the others tried to grapple with the image of the dread Lord of Mandos skewering Glorfindel with his own sword and then Elrond actually snickered. "And by all accounts, he would do just that," he said and everyone started laughing, albeit somewhat nervously on the part of the two Sindar and the three Peredhil. Mithrandir merely exchanged an amused look with Glorfindel.

When they were calmer, Glorfindel spoke. "Well my second-best sword is still missing and we’re no closer to the truth of the matter than before."

"But at least you know that neither Elrohir nor I took it," Elladan said.

"Nor I," Legolas chimed in.

"So you say," Glorfindel replied.

"Would you accept Warrior’s Oath on it?" Elrohir retorted a little angrily.

For a moment, Glorfindel did not answer. Then, he nodded once. "I will."

The three younger ellyn breathed sighs of relief.

"So, if neither of our sons took Glorfindel’s precious toy," Thranduil said with a glint of evil humor in his eyes as Glorfindel stirred in protest, "then it still behooves us to find the culprit and restore the sword."

Elrond nodded. "Yet, who here would do such a thing? There does not seem to be a motive."

"And I’ve trained your household very well, Elrond," Glorfindel said with a smirk.

"My people would have no purpose in taking the sword either," Thranduil said. "As Legolas pointed out, we are Wood-Elves and have no need of swords."

"Well it didn’t just get up and walk away on its own," Glorfindel protested. "Who in Imladris would risk my ire by invading my privacy and stealing my sword?"

"Your second-best sword," Elrohir couldn’t help saying with a smirk. Glorfindel merely glowered at him.

"I will have Erestor organize a search of the grounds," Elrond said. "Your sword is here somewhere, my friend. Never fear, we’ll find it."

Before Glorfindel could reply to that, there was a perfunctory knock on the door, which opened to reveal Lady Celebrían standing there. Everyone immediately stood, Thranduil lending his son a steady hand as Legolas struggled to rise. The Lady of Imladris gave them a bright smile.

"So this is where you are all hiding," she said as she entered the room. "Erestor said you did not wish to be disturbed, my husband." She gave Elrond an enquiring look which clearly said, ‘I trust that order did not include your wife’.

Elrond smiled and held out his hand and she went to him gladly. "We are trying to ascertain the whereabouts of Glorfindel’s second-best sword," he explained.

"Hey! Maybe your best sword got lonely and Lord Námo took your second-best to keep it company," Elrohir exclaimed, giving Glorfindel a cheeky grin.

Elladan smacked his brother on the back of his head, giving him a disgusted look. Glorfindel smiled. "Thank you," he said to the older twin. "You’ve saved me from doing it myself."

"Sorry," Elrohir muttered, rubbing the back of his head. "Just trying to lighten the mood a bit."

"That sort of levity only gets you killed," Elladan said scathingly, "or consigned to peeling potatoes for the next three months." And from Elrohir’s expression it appeared that the latter punishment was obviously more feared than the former.

Celebrían’s expression became pensive. "Oh dear," she said very softly.

Her husband, wise to her ways and moods, gave her a considering look. "Something tells me, my love, that you know more about this than we do."

Glorfindel gave his lord’s lady a surprised look. "Celebrían?" he asked.

"It was supposed to be a surprise," she said. "You weren’t meant to know the sword was missing."

"Nana?" Elladan said, looking upon her in disbelief. "Are you saying you stole Glorfindel’s second-best sword?"

"Borrowed," Celebrían said firmly.

"But why?" Elrohir asked.

"Never mind that," Glorfindel said impatiently. "Where is it? What have you done with it?"

Celebrían sighed, looking distraught. Elrond shot Glorfindel a dark look, even as he took his wife into his embrace. "What have you done with the sword, my love?" he asked gently.

"It was supposed to be a surprise," Celebrían repeated. "If you will wait here, I will get it."

So saying, she slipped out of Elrond’s embrace and left the room, closing the door behind her, leaving everyone else standing there staring at one another in confusion and dismay.

"Nana’s a thief?" was all Elrohir could think to say.

"Your naneth is not a thief," Elrond retorted sternly, then he turned to Glorfindel, his expression still hard. "Whatever punishment you were devising you can forget about it."

Glorfindel’s eyebrows went up in shock as he stared at the Lord of Imladris. "I have no intention of exacting any sort of punishment, Elrond. I simply want my sword back."

Elrond stared at his friend and after a moment he nodded, satisfied by Glorfindel’s answer. Mithrandir chuckled. "The last person anyone would suspect," he said with an amused glint in his eyes. "Let that be a lesson to you all."

Before anyone could respond to that the library door opened again and Celebrían entered with Arwen right behind her carrying a bundle wrapped in blue silk tied with a yellow ribbon. From its length, they could tell that it was a sword.

Elrond gave his daughter a considering look. "I take it that you and your naneth are in this together, my child?" he said.

"Yes, Ada," Arwen replied, not looking particularly chagrined.

"So now we know who took the sword," Thranduil said, "but we still don’t know why or even how you accomplished it."

"As to the why...." Celebrían said, motioning her daughter towards where Glorfindel was standing.

Arwen gave the Balrog-slayer a curtsey as she held out the bundle. "Happy Begetting Day, Glorfindel."

For a moment the ellon just stood there staring at his lord’s daughter, who gave him a sly smile. Then he threw back his head and laughed, even as he took the bundle from her. "Why, so it is," he said. "I’d completely forgotten."

"It’s your Begetting Day?" Legolas asked, looking both surprised and distressed. "Why didn’t you tell me?" he demanded of the Twins. "I don’t have a gift!"

The others gave him indulgent smiles, for Legolas was still young enough that Begetting Days (and Begetting Day presents!) were still important. Thranduil put an arm around his son’s shoulders and gave him a hug. "I wouldn’t worry about it," he said. "It looks as if everyone but Celebrían and Arwen has forgotten, including Lord Glorfindel."

"How can you forget your own Begetting Day?" Legolas demanded in disbelief.

Glorfindel laughed. "Because this isn’t really my Begetting Day," he answered.

"Now I’m confused," Thranduil retorted with a snort.

Glorfindel smirked and sat down, and everyone else did the same. "It’s very simple. When the Twins were very small they were upset that I didn’t celebrate my Begetting Day and no matter how much they begged and wheedled I never told them when it was, so they decided to simply pick a day to be my Begetting Day and that just happens to be today."

"Why wouldn’t you tell them when your Begetting Day was?" Legolas asked.

"Because, being a Reborn, I have two Begetting Days," Glorfindel replied with a laugh. "And in truth, it was just another day for me, without any intrinsic meaning. Some things just lose their importance when you die," he added with a shrug. "I don’t think we’ve celebrated my Begetting Day in centuries, not since Arwen came of age."

"Doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be celebrated," Arwen said with a sniff. "So are you going to open your gift?"

"It’s a sword," Glorfindel said. "In point of fact, it’s my sword which your naneth took without permission."

"Actually, I’m the one who took it," Arwen said, looking very pleased with herself.

"You, my daughter?" Elrond exclaimed, looking suitably shocked.

"How did you manage it?" Elladan asked and he and Elrohir gave her what could only be described as looks of professional interest.

"Yes, how did you manage to sneak into and out of my room without anyone being the wiser?" Glorfindel enquired, giving her a frown.

"You have a lovely chestnut tree growing right outside your window," Arwen replied with a smirk and Celebrían hid a smile behind her hand at the nonplused expressions on all the ellyn’s faces as the implication of her daughter’s words sank in. Even Mithrandir looked surprised at that revelation.

"Well, I’ll be...." Glorfindel finally muttered, giving mother and daughter admiring looks.

"So, are you going to open your gift?" Arwen demanded a second time.

Glorfindel nodded and undid the ribbon, shifting the blue silk away to reveal a sword in a beautifully carved leather sheath.

"Hey! This isn’t the sheath to my sword," he exclaimed in surprise.

"It is now," Celebrían said. "That old sheath was falling apart, so I commissioned someone to make you a new one. That’s why we borrowed the sword, to make sure it fit. Arwen was supposed to return it to your room all wrapped up before you noticed it was gone. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen, and so...." She gave a small shrug.

Glorfindel nodded, still admiring the carvings on the sheath. "Thank you," he said. "It’s the best Begetting Day gift I’ve ever gotten."

"That’s what you always say," Arwen replied with a sniff.

"And I always mean it," Glorfindel answered with a smile. Then he turned a more grave expression towards the Twins. "My apologies for accusing you of taking my sword."

"Your second-best sword," Elrohir said with an irrepressible grin, implicitly accepting the apology for himself and his twin.

Glorfindel laughed. "Yes, indeed. My second-best sword. And while I treasure it, I treasure you all even more. Your love and friendship is the best Begetting Day present I can ever have because I have it every day."

At that moment, Erestor appeared at the door, looking anxiously at Glorfindel. "So, do you like your gift?"

Glorfindel gave his friend a shrewd look. "You did the carving," he said and Erestor nodded. "Thank you," he said, handing the sword to Thranduil and stepping over to give Erestor a hug. "It’s beautiful," he added with a smile.

Erestor hugged him back. "Happy Begetting Day, gwador," he said.

****

Words are Sindarin.

Belain: Plural of Balan: Vala.

Ellon: Male Elf. The plural is ellyn.

Ada: Hypocoristic form of Adar: Father.

Araw: Oromë.

Goheno ven, gwador: ‘Forgive us, (sworn) brother’.

Fae: Soul, spirit. The Quenya form is fëa.

Peredhil: Plural of Peredhel: Half-Elf.

Nana: Hypocoristic form of Naneth: Mother.

One Last Journey

Summary: Legolas and Gimli set out on a journey, their last and most important. There is mention of character deaths.  Second place in the Teitho contest 'Journeys'.

****

Legolas Thranduilion looked down at his friend. "Well? What do you think?"

Gimli son of Glóin did not look up. "I think we should have gone to the Grey Havens."

Legolas sighed. "You know why we did not. Círdan is too far away. You would never have survived the journey."

Gimli made a noise of disbelief deep in his throat, but he knew the Elf was correct. His old bones creaked as he shifted his weight, leaning more heavily upon his cane. "Well, if you think I’m getting into that rickety looking tub of yours, you’re sadly mistaken, Master Elf."

Legolas gave the Dwarf an exasperated look. "It is not rickety and it is not a tub."

"It’s rather small," Gimli pointed out, refusing to give up his complaining. "It can’t possibly hold more than one person."

"It is large enough," Legolas retorted. "It will carry us both where we wish to go."

"Well, how do I know it’s safe?" Gimli demanded. "How do I know it won’t sink five minutes after we leave the cove? Hmm?"

"Because I built it," Legolas replied levelly. "I have spent the last six months building it, and the last five decades learning how from the people of Dol Amroth and the shipwrights at Pelargir."

Gimli cast his friend a teasing look. "Fifty years, is it? I always knew you were a slow learner."

Instead of retorting as Gimli expected, Legolas squatted on his heals so that he was at eye-level with the Dwarf, his expression (and Gimli had had ample time to learn all of them) one of concern. "What is it, my friend? Why are you so reluctant? We spoke of this. You agreed with me."

"Aye," Gimli said gruffly, nodding and stroking his now white beard. "Aye, I did." Then he paused, and looked about him. They were alone, the two friends. The small cove that had been Legolas’ home these last six months was south of Emyn Arnen, just north of the confluence of the Erui with Anduin. There was a shack that had served as his residence, though Legolas rarely bothered to sleep there, preferring the nearby trees. The wharf was a slapdash affair, serving only a single purpose: to hold the small sailing vessel that was tied to it. All around in the gathering gloom on this last day of Yavannië were the detritus of Legolas’ labor: hammers and saws and wood shavings, the frame on which he had built the ship. Gimli had not been there for most of it, having returned to Aglarond to settle his affairs, then arranging for supplies for their journey when he returned to Minas Anor. Arwen had already departed and Eldarion was still getting used to the burden of the winged crown that now graced his brow. Gimli had been glad to leave the White City, still in mourning for their beloved Elessar. He had reached the cove only the day before and now it was Cormarë, as the day was called, and he and Legolas would celebrate it one last time on the shores of Middle-earth.

"What is it, Gimli?" Legolas asked again.

Gimli gave the Elf a grimace. "I... I’m not sure I can do this, Legolas," he said softly, hating to sound like a puling babe.

Legolas nodded. "You are afraid...."

Gimli glared at his friend. "Afraid!" he roared. "I fear nothing! Why you pointy-eared little..."

Legolas held up a hand. "Sîdh, mellon nîn. That is not what I meant."

"What did you mean, then?" Gimli demanded gruffly.

Legolas sighed. "I only meant that you have doubts that you will truly be allowed to come to Valinor. You question your right to do so."

"I am a Dwarf," Gimli said. "What am I going to do surrounded by plaguey Elves?"

Legolas smiled somewhat wickedly. "You will happily insult each and every one of them and damn the consequences," he answered.

"Not all of them," Gimli retorted softly, not looking at the Elf-prince.

Legolas’s smile became more sympathetic. "No. Not all." He stood up and looked gravely upon the Dwarf, his friend these last hundred and twenty-odd years. There was no one else left of the original Fellowship. They were the last. Aragorn had returned the Gift of Life to Eru six months earlier and Arwen....

He shook his head, as if to clear it of certain images. He had grieved at the deaths of each of his Mortal friends: Merry and Pippin, Éomer and Éowyn and Faramir, and finally Aragorn. All dead. All gone where he could never follow. All save one: Gimli. He looked at the Dwarf, his expression becoming fond. Dear old Gimli. Stubborn to the end, but as staunch a friend as anyone could hope for. He felt himself blessed beyond the lot of Elves or Mortals for having known the Dwarf. He knew his friend had little time left. At two hundred and sixty-two years of age, Gimli wasn’t the oldest Dwarf to ever live, but his time was nearing.

"I promise you, Gimli, you have naught to fear," he said gently. "The Valar will not gainsay you. Lady Galadriel is waiting for you. You do not want to disappoint her, do you?"

Gimli gave the Elf a quizzical look. "How can you know that I will be allowed to take the Straight Road with you?"

"I know," Legolas replied with all the self-assurance of an Elven Prince. "I would not have us separated on this final journey, my friend."

"We’ll be separated for good once I’m dead," Gimli snorted, and then instantly regretted his words when he saw the pain in Legolas’ eyes. He had been appalled at the sight of his friend when he had arrived the day before. Legolas had lost weight and his eyes had a haunted look to them. The Dwarf knew without being told that Legolas was finally succumbing to the Sea-longing that he had managed to hold off all these years while Aragorn lived. Now that the Dúnadan was gone, Legolas had no more reason to stay in Middle-earth. Gimli was the only one of his friends left.

"I might not make it anyway," Gimli said in apology. "Perhaps I should just stay here where I belong."

Legolas gave him a considering look, tilting his head to the left. Gimli found he could not look the Elf in the eye. "Do you truly wish to die here, Gimli? Alone?"

"I’ll have my kin...."

"Kin!" Legolas spat, showing anger for the first time. "What about me? I cannot stay here, Gimli. Even now it is all I can do to stop myself from jumping into that boat and sailing this very minute. Yet, I would not desert you in your final days."

"I’m not dying yet, laddie," Gimli retorted with an amused snort. "I may be old, but I still have many more years left in me."

"Years that I cannot give you," Legolas said sadly. "Not any more. Yet, if you come with me, then it may be that so near to the Blessed Realm we might have even more years together. And... and if you die along the way, I will at least be there to farewell you." He gave the Dwarf a wistful look. "Please, Gimli," he pleaded. "Let us take this last journey, the only journey you and I can ever take together while you yet live."

For a long moment Gimli said nothing, merely standing there staring at the grey sailing vessel bobbing in the waters of the cove. Then, he nodded, turning to Legolas. "If... if I don’t make it, will you see that...?"

"I will," Legolas promised, knowing to what the Dwarf was referring. "I will see that the Lady Galadriel receives your gift."

"Then, let us be off," Gimli said, suddenly no longer indecisive. "Let us take this one last adventure together."

Legolas’ smile was brilliant and it was as if the Sun herself had suddenly risen. He held out a hand. "Come, then, Gimli."

"What are you naming her?" Gimli asked, ignoring Legolas’s hand.

Legolas lowered his hand and gave him a slow smile. "I thought I would leave that to you," he said.

"My one and only contribution to this enterprise," Gimli snorted.

"Not true!" Legolas retorted with all seriousness. "You brought all our supplies. I’ve not had the time to gather any. So, what name do you suggest?"

Gimli thought about it for a moment or two. "Well, if it’s a name we’re looking for... what about... ‘Legolas’ Folly’?" He gave his dearest friend a sly smile.

Legolas looked at him in exasperation and huffed. "I assure you, this vessel is as seaworthy as anything Círdan has ever built."

"Hmph. That remains to be seen," Gimli muttered, pretending to be unconvinced. Then he gave Legolas a shrewd look. "So, what name did you give her? You’re the one who built her. By what name did you call her as you were crafting her?"

"What makes you think...?"

"I know you, Legolas," Gimli said. "I know you well enough to know that you probably sang to the plaguey thing while you were putting the planks together."

Legolas reddened slightly, giving Gimli an embarrassed smile. "Actually...."

"Yes?" Gimli enquired, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"Elwing," Legolas muttered, not looking at the Dwarf. "I called her ‘Lady Elwing’."

For a moment Gimli did not respond, then he nodded. "A good name." He then turned to the vessel and gave it a profound bow. "Gimli son of Glóin at your service, Lady Elwing."

Legolas cast him an amused look. "I’m sure she appreciates the courtesy. Shall we go, mellon nîn?" He held out his hand again and this time Gimli took it, allowing the Elf to help him aboard and settle him by the rudder, before Legolas went about securing the last of their supplies. Finally, he loosed the ropes, giving the boat a small push before lightly jumping in and unfurling the sails, which immediately fluffed in the breeze and they were away.

"iLend vedui," Legolas whispered as he watched the sails billow in the breeze while Gimli steered the boat into the river’s current.

"What was that?" Gimli called out.

"Nothing," Legolas said without turning around, keeping his eyes to the fore. "We’re on our way at last, Gimli!" And there was a note of excitement in his voice, a rising anticipation that had not been there before.

Gimli laughed. "Yes, we are! The last adventure!"

As the Lady Elwing swept down the Anduin towards the Sea, neither Elf nor Dwarf ever looked back, and only the stars witnessed their going.

****

‘Then Legolas built a grey ship in Ithilien, and sailed down the Anduin and so over Sea; and with him, it is said, went Gimli the Dwarf. And when that ship passed an end was come in Middle-earth of the Fellowship of the Ring.’ — Appendix B, Tale of Years.

****

Words are Sindarin unless otherwise noted.

Yavannië: September.

Cormarë: (Quenya) Ringday, 30 Yavannië (22 September). See Appendix D.

Sîdh, mellon nîn:‘Peace, my friend’.

iLend vedui: ‘The last journey’.

Labyrinth Time

Summary: Hidden in the fastness of Menegroth is a labyrinth. Deep in the woods of Lothlórien lies another. Though separated by time and space, they have a connection, one that lies in yet another wood. Inspired by the Teitho contest ‘Crossing Borders’. My thanks to Ellie for giving me the idea.

Note on the Timeline: The sections of this story which take place in the First Age occur after Beren and Lúthien return to Doriath from their quest and are reconciled with Elu Thingol but before the Hunting of the Wolf, Carcharoth, and the recovery of the Silmaril. In the Third Age, Aragorn has entered Lothlórien but he and Arwen have not yet plighted their troth.

****

Menegroth, Doriath, 28 Gwirith, I 470:

Lúthien smiled at Beren, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes, as she led him further down into the very heart of Menegroth. "It’s not much further, beloved," she assured him.

"Are you sure we should even be here?" Beren asked, looking doubtful. He kept darting his eyes about the dimly lit corridor as if expecting one of Adar Elu’s guards to leap out of the darkness and shoo them back towards the more inhabited areas of the fastness. He moved the stump of his right hand toward where his sword once rode his left hip, only realizing at the last moment what he was doing and was glad that the dimness of the light masked the blush rising on his face, glad that Lúthien was too busy guiding him to have noticed what he was doing. He still was not used to having to use his left hand for everything. And besides, he reflected wryly, I don’t even have my sword on me anyway. One did not go about Menegroth armed, except with one’s eating knife.

Lúthien laughed lightly. "Of course, silly," she said. "This is my home. Why shouldn’t we be here?"

"Should we not be with the rest of the court celebrating Naur Gelair, though? Will they not miss us?" answering her question with his own. He was fairly certain that neither Adar Elu nor Naneth Melian would approve of them sneaking away in the midst of the festival celebrating the midpoint between the Day of Balance between Light and Dark and the Gates of Summer.

"Why would they miss us?" she replied, seemingly in all innocence, though Beren wasn’t entirely sure about that. He wanted to say any number of things to that, but satisfied himself by pointing out the fact that he was a mere Mortal and he pretty much did not think he was allowed to go just anywhere in Menegroth, "Be I your husband or no," he added, and Lúthien just shook her head, her hair cascading down her back like a black waterfall.

"You are with me," she said firmly. "And when you are with me, no door is barred to you. Now, come, my love. We’re almost there."

"Almost where?" he asked, for she had refused to tell him where they were going.

"You’ll see," she answered in an annoyingly teasing voice.

Beren, in his frustration at the lack of answers, wanted to pick her up and shake her, and he knew he could because he’d done it once before, though he had only one hand. She’d shrieked, not in fury, but in delight, when he’d done it, though at the time he wasn’t feeling at all playful. He smiled slightly at the memory. Huan had watched them with canine indifference, as if he knew that Beren was not really going to hurt his mistress, for all that Lúthien had begged the hound to rescue her from ‘this oaf’ as she had called him. Instead, the hound had merely trotted away to hunt for rabbits while they continued wrestling with one another. As the end result had been a bout of lovemaking, he’d been grateful for the hound leaving and giving them some privacy.

"Here we are," Lúthien said and Beren was jerked out of his reverie.

He blinked, noticing that wherever they were, it was much brighter, though he did not see where the light was coming from at first. They had come to the end of the corridor and were now facing a cavern. Unlike the rest of Menegroth, this place had been left in its natural state, the walls and ceiling (what he could see of them) unfinished. Only the floor had been smoothed and there was a strange pattern on it, though he did not recognize it. The pattern was a series of what appeared to be moonstones and fire opals set within the floor, though he’d never seen any so large before. It was the stones that were the source of the light, glowing pale and iridescent, yet with a fiery sheen, and Beren could not for the life of him figure out how they were glowing.

"What is it?" Beren asked in an awed whisper.

"It’s a labyrinth," Lúthien answered, her voice equally low. "Nana created it. She told me once that it is a copy of the labyrinth which the Belain constructed deep in the heart of Lord Glurim’s demesne."

"Lórien?" Beren asked, giving her a surprised look, and Lúthien nodded. Beren stared at the labyrinth, trying to understand why it was there. All he could see was that it seemed to be a spiral of some sort with an entrance leading to a right turn. The path which the stones made was about two feet wide. He tried to follow it with his eyes but failed. He wasn’t even sure what its dimensions were for the light emanating from the stones hid much of the spiral, including its center. There was a sense of the sacred about it all and he felt like an intruder.

"What is its purpose?" he finally asked.

"It is for meditating," Lúthien answered. "You walk the spiral, clearing your mind of your thoughts. It is said that when you reach the center you may be granted a vision."

"Vision? What kind of vision?"

Lúthien shrugged. "Most of the Elves claim to see the past, some the future. Nana claims that when she walks it she gets glimpses of Aman."

"What do you see?" Beren asked curiously.

"Nothing," came the surprising answer. "I have never walked it."

Beren raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Never?"

Lúthien shook her head. He was tempted to ask her why but something in her eyes warned him off and he asked a different question.

"So why have you shown me this?" Beren gave her a puzzled look, trying to fathom her reason for bringing him here.

"I thought you would like to try it," she replied.

"Me!? Whatever for?"

"I think you may benefit from the experience, my love," Lúthien said softly.

For a long moment Beren gazed into Lúthien’s eyes, eyes that shone with the light of stars, and felt the familiar sense of falling into unknown depths. He remembered the first time it had happened. Then, he had feared that he would forever fall and be lost in them, but now he knew that at the end he would be caught and it would be Love that would uphold him.

"What do I have to do?" he finally asked and was rewarded with a brilliant smile that rivaled the light of Anor.

She led him to where a large slab of moonstone marked the entrance. "Clear your mind of extraneous thoughts as you walk along the spiral. Take your time. When you reach the center, pause and reflect on what may come to you. When you are ready, retrace your steps."

That seemed simple enough. He wasn’t sure what he expected to experience, if anything, but he was game. "Will you come with me?" he asked, already knowing the answer before she even shook her head.

"This time is for you, melethron nîn," she said, and then she leaned over and gave him a kiss on his right cheek. "I’ll be waiting for you right here." She released him and took a step or two back, her expression warm and encouraging.

Beren took a deep centering breath and let it out, clearing his mind of all the questions roiling in his brain. He did not understand why she had brought him here, but he trusted her and instinctively knew that she meant him no harm. He idly wondered if her parents were even aware of where they were and why and hoped that they would not get into trouble for wandering where they, or more correctly he, shouldn’t. Married to Lúthien or not, he was still a Mortal and he knew instinctively that some things were only for the Firstborn.

He started walking, taking slow deliberate steps as he followed the curves. At first, it was easy and the absolute silence, save for his own breathing, helped to still his thoughts even further. But then, when he thought he was halfway along he began noticing a slight resistance, as if the air were thickening, becoming a wall to obstruct his movement. It became harder and harder for him to walk and he was tempted to turn around, but then he heard Lúthien call out, though oddly enough, he could no longer see her through the blaze of light that shimmered about him.

"Do not stop, Beren!" she cried. "Go on, my love. Go on to the center."

He nodded, though he doubted she could see him any better than he could see her and leaned forward as if against a gale and plowed on. Sweat trickled down his forehead and his breathing came in harsh gasps. Then, suddenly, there was no more resistance and he nearly staggered to his knees, but caught himself in time. Looking about he could not see Lúthien or even the entrance to the labyrinth, but he could see the center only a few dozen feet and one or two more turns from him and he continued on his way. The center was perhaps twelve paces across and a slab, this one of opal, lay there. He tentatively stood on it and waited, not sure for what or for how long before he would go back. Minutes or hours went by, he was never sure afterwards, and there was nothing, though he felt his breathing begin to slow even more, and his eyes become unfocused as he felt himself drifting. He blinked rapidly a few times to try to keep himself awake, but it seemed like too much effort. When nothing seemed to be happening he decided to leave but then the light that surrounded him shifted somehow and he found himself somewhere else....

****

Caras Galadhon, Lothlórien, 28 Gwirith, III 2980:

Arwen smiled at Aragorn, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes, as she led him among the mellyrn towards a hidden vale deep within Lothlórien. "It’s not much further, beloved," she assured him.

"Are you sure we should even be here?" Aragorn asked, looking doubtful. He kept darting his eyes about as if expecting one of the Galadhrim guards to leap out from behind one of the majestic trees and challenge their right to be where they were. He was not sure if he was truly allowed to wander where he would even with Arwen at his side. He had the distinct feeling that there were some parts of Lothlórien that were barred to him without the expressed permission of its Lord and Lady.

"We should be going back," he said, even as he continued to allow Arwen to lead him onward. "They’ll miss us at the festival." It was Naur Gelair, the midpoint between the Spring Festival of Balance and Mid-Summer’s Day. He glanced up to see the ghostly light of Ithil slipping through the canopy of leaves, their golden color turned silvery. The Moon was at his fullest tonight.

"They will not miss us, I promise," Arwen said. "We’re almost there."

"You still haven’t said where we are going," Aragorn retorted mildly, smiling.

"It’s a surprise," she answered, turning to him with a smile, the Evenstar lying between her breasts glittering brightly in the moonlight.

Aragorn resisted a sigh. Wherever they were going it was not to Cerin Amroth as he had first thought, for they had not even passed through the gates of the city, but had gone northward from the lawn of the fountain where the Galadhrim were all gathered to celebrate the festival. Aragorn had never been to this part of the city and once Arwen took them away from the main path, down a flight of stairs that curved more to the southeast, and then through a leafy tunnel that twisted and turned until he had no idea which direction they were heading, he was thoroughly lost. When they came out of the tunnel, he had instinctively sought for Ithil to gauge their direction, but the best he could say was that they were now heading more to the northeast.

Arwen led him unerringly through the woods with only Moonlight to guide her. There was no broad pathway here, only a forest track and Aragorn wondered how often anyone came this way. He had a feeling it wasn’t that often. Arwen suddenly turned to her right and for a confused moment Aragorn thought she had disappeared, but then realized that she had simply gone down a short flight of stairs, the entrance to which was marked by two linden trees dwarfed by the mellyrn surrounding them. The stairs were cut into the earth and laid with a pale stone that seemed to glow, giving them a spectral light by which to see. Then they came into a dell surrounded by dark tree-lined hills.

Aragorn glanced about him. The dell appeared almost circular from what little of its features he could see. Ithil shone brightly down on them, illuminating the area with his silvery light. Arwen silently led him forward and he now saw that something had been set into the ground. It was a series of translucent and iridescent stones — moonstones, he thought, though he had never seen any so large — set in a pattern that was a rather convoluted spiral, though he could not make out any real details.

"What is this place?" he asked, speaking low. He sensed something of the sacred or the magical, though he knew that Elves did not employ magic but Art.

"It’s called a labyrinth," Arwen replied in an equally low voice. "It is a place of meditation."

Aragorn cast a wry look at his beloved. "Apparently there is little need for it among the Galadhrim then, for the route we took to get here would discourage all but the most determined."

She laughed lightly. "Its location is deliberate, for see, when Ithil makes his way along the southern sky, his light shines fully upon this dell throughout the night."

Aragorn glanced up and realized what she meant. By some trick of geology or perhaps of Elvish engineering, the southern slope of the dell was lower than the rest and the trees were not as high. Ithil would indeed be visible through the entire night.

"So why are we here?" he asked.

"I thought you would like to walk the labyrinth," she answered.

He gave her a disbelieving look. "Why would I want to do that?"

"I think you might find it... interesting."

Aragorn glanced down at the spiral, the stones outlining it glowing with an inner light of their own, augmented by the light of the full Moon. The entrance faced south and he tried to trace the spiral with his eyes, but in the dark and with the shifting Moonlight and shadows, it was difficult to gauge its dimensions. He had the sense that it was perhaps larger than it looked.

"So why do people come here?" he enquired. "You say this is a place of meditation?"

Arwen nodded. "Daernana built it. She said it is modeled on one that Queen Melian created in Doriath that itself was modeled on the labyrinth built by the Belain somewhere in the Gardens of Lórien. It is said that those who reach the center are often granted a vision, sometimes of the past and sometimes of the future. Daernana told me she will sometimes come here and catch glimpses of Aman. She claims to have seen Nana and that she is happy and fully healed."

There was a wistfulness to her tone that tore at his heart. He gently ran a finger down her cheek. "You have never had such a vision yourself?" he asked.

"I have never walked the labyrinth," she admitted, shaking her head.

"Why not?" he asked.

She shrugged and gave him a small smile. "I have never felt the need to do so."

"But you think I should," he stated and she leaned up and gave him a kiss on his cheek.

"Yes," she answered simply.

He hesitated for a second. "What must I do?"

"Clear your mind of extraneous thoughts as you walk the spiral," she replied. "Take your time, do not rush, but walk at a deliberate pace. When you reach the center still yourself as much as possible and wait. You may or may not have a vision but you will know when it is time for you to leave and then you need only to retrace your steps."

Aragorn nodded, still not sure what they were really doing here in this hidden dell, but willing to do as he was bid. He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath which he let out slowly and stepped onto the spiral. At first, he felt a bit foolish, walking along the convoluted path while Arwen watched him from the side, but he kept to a deliberately slow pace and as he made a third turn he began to feel himself calming, his mind shutting down, or perhaps opening up, he was not sure which. He only knew that his thoughts were stilling and his heartbeat slowing until it seemed he was walking in a trance-like state. He had almost forgotten about Arwen waiting for him.

Then, his pace slowed even more but it was because there was something resisting his forward motion. He had to lean into it as if into a gale. Sweat trickled down his face and he was tempted to abandon his walk and turn around, but then he heard Arwen call out as if from a great distance, though he knew she was but a scant two score paces away.

"Do not give up, my love," he heard her cry. "Keep going. Go on to the center."

Her encouragement lent him the strength he needed to continue and step by slow step he inched forward. Suddenly, as if he’d passed through a wall, he stumbled forward with no resistance and found himself only a few paces away from the center. He took a deep breath and moved on. Once he arrived he saw a slab of the white stone inset in the very center of the circle that measured about twelve paces across. He somehow knew he was supposed to stand upon it and did so, waiting for what would happen next.

For a while nothing seemed to happen as he stood there with his eyes half closed, stilling both his thoughts and his heartbeat as much as he could. He was about to give up when it seemed as if the light emanating from the stones brightened and he felt a sense of vertigo. He blinked and realized he was somewhere else....

****

The Gardens of Lórien, Aman:

Beren blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the bright light of day, for he was no longer in Menegroth, but in some kind of grove surrounded by trees he had never seen before with their golden-green leaves and silvery-grey bark and bright yellow flowers. He turned all around in wonder and then noticed that he was still within the center of the labyrinth.

Or rather, a labyrinth.

This one was similar to the one that lay in Menegroth, but the stones which outlined the spirals were alternating azure-blue and apple-green, a combination that was pleasing to the eye and restful to the soul.

Where was he? And more importantly, how was he to get back to Lúthien? He took a few cautious steps away from where he’d been standing, wondering what he should do next.

"Mae govannen."

He turned around, instinctively going for his sword, forgetting for a moment that he did not have one, and gasped at the sight of the man standing there. Like him, he was dark of hair and grey of eye. He was dressed in silver and white, with a cloak of elven-grey, and a bright gem on his brow. More than any king of Men he appeared, and seemed rather to Beren an Elf-lord. His bearing reminded him suddenly of Aran Finrod and he had to stop himself from giving this stranger his obeisance.

"Mae govannen," he replied politely. "I am Beren son of Barahir of the House of Bëor."

The stranger’s eyes widened and Beren noticed him glancing at his stump. He forced himself not to hide it behind his back as he was wont to do among the Elves, for he still felt some shame for his deformity among these perfect beings. Then it seemed to him as if the stranger recollected himself, for he gave him a short bow.

"I am... Estel of Imladris," he said.

Beren frowned. A strange name and he had noticed the slight hesitation. "I have never heard of this Imladris," he said.

Estel smiled. "In your time, it does not yet exist."

Beren startled at that. "My time? Then, you are....?"

"From your future, yes."

For a long moment the two Men, remote kin to one another, stared at each other, taking each other’s measure. Beren saw a man who appeared no older than he, until he looked into his eyes and saw the light of stars shining from them and the depths of experience which darkened them and knew him to be older than he appeared. For all that he was obviously Mortal, Beren couldn’t help wondering if this Estel did not have Elvish blood in his veins. He felt his own blood quicken at the idea. Could it be? Was this perhaps his descendent, his and Lúthien’s? The thought both terrified him and excited him and he could only gaze in wonder at this glimpse of his future.

Aragorn, meanwhile, saw a man who was some decades younger than he, though already his hair was greying and the Chieftain of the Dúnedain knew why. Given the way his many times great grandsire was dressed in elvish grey and blue and the fact that he was missing his right hand, Aragorn knew that he was looking at the Beren who now lived among the Elves, having achieved his quest, but was he the Beren who died and was returned to life or was he still innocent of that experience?

"Do you have any idea where we are, Lord Estel?" Beren asked suddenly.

Aragorn shook his head. "No. How came you to be here, my Lord Beren?"

Beren told him about the labyrinth and Aragorn’s eyes widened. "I, too, walked a labyrinth hidden deep within an Elven kingdom and when I came to the center, I found myself here with you."

"How odd," Beren said, pursing his lips, giving the other man a shrewd look. "You are from my future and I am from your past. Is there a connection then?"

Aragorn hesitated. How much should he reveal to his ancestor? He still did not know why he had not given Beren his true name, but something had held him back and he had learned long ago to trust in his instincts. "There is only one connection that I know of," he finally said, speaking carefully.

"And?" Beren demanded, his expression more amused than irritated.

Aragorn gave him a half smile. "I am your descendant."

Beren felt himself go cold with shock. It was one thing to contemplate the possibility, it was another to actually hear it confirmed from the lips of another. "H-how many generations?" he finally asked, and he wondered that he feared the answer.

Aragorn shook his head. "I do not think it right to tell you," he replied. "Suffice to say that you do indeed have descendants who honor your memory... and Lúthien’s."

"You are Mortal," Beren said, frowning slightly. "Does that mean our children...."

"Choices will be made," Aragorn interrupted. "I can tell you no more than that. And in the end, does it truly matter? Is it not enough to know that the House of Bëor lives on through you?"

"Yes, it is," Beren said. "I will confess to you that since wedding my Lúthien I have wondered what the future would hold for us. Do you... but no, I will not ask, for I know you cannot tell me what is to come."

"Sometimes it is best not to know too much of the future," Aragorn said, giving Beren an understanding smile. "I have the gift of foresight and sometimes that is a heavy burden to bear."

Beren nodded. "It eases my heart to know that my House will still thrive even after I am gone, and I am grateful for this glimpse of the future," he said, and then gave Aragorn a considering look. "Yet, I wonder what need you have to speak with me. I cannot believe that all this," and he swept his left hand to encompass the grove and the labyrinth, "is solely for my benefit. What can I say to you that it is needful for you to hear, Estel iôn nîn?"

Aragorn frowned. What need indeed? He had walked the labyrinth with no clear intention in mind. He had done so because Arwen....

"I love an Elf-maid," he said slowly, not looking at Beren directly, "and I think she may love me. I wish to plight my troth with her, yet I am afraid, for I fear she may reject my suit, and if she does not, then what will become of her when I must pass beyond the Circles of Arda?" It would not do to speak of the Choice of Lúthien, for it was clear to him that that time had not yet come in Beren’s life. And Arwen... could he truly ask her to give up her immortality for him?

"I, too, pondered this very thing," Beren said, unaware of Aragorn’s thoughts. "Indeed, I tried several times to leave Lúthien behind when I was on my quest, for I knew I was going to my death and I did not wish for her to share in it. She, on the other hand, refused to remain behind." He chuckled a bit at the memory. "Even afterwards, when she tended to me and saved me from dying, I feared to love her, knowing that my life with her would be all too brief."

"And yet, here you are," Aragorn said with a smile, nodding at his ancestor dressed as much as an Elf-lord as was he.

"And yet, here I am," Beren echoed. "I gave Lúthien every reason for why we shouldn’t marry, but it was she who gave me the one reason why we should."

"And what was that?"

"Love," Beren said, looking a little embarrassed. "I know, I know. It sounds trite and perhaps it is on one level, but when you stop and think about it, it makes sense. Why do we do anything that is of importance to us save it is out of love for another? My life with Lúthien will be short, we both know this and accept it, but in that time we will love and love fiercely and in meeting you I know that that love will prosper and continue long after I am gone and in that knowledge I am content."

"Still...."

"Estel, would you rather live with her for one day or without her for an eternity?" Beren asked gently.

"But that is what will eventually happen, will it not?" Aragorn argued.

"Yes, but the difference is this. For the rest of eternity you will have the memory of that one day to sustain you. Would you rather not have that memory?"

"No. You are right. Better to have the memory of one day together than to have no memory at all."

Beren nodded, pleased. "It’s not easy being Mortal, is it?" he asked with a sly look and Aragorn suddenly laughed.

"No, it isn’t, but then, I doubt it’s any easier being an Elf."

"True," Beren said with a chuckle, and then his expression became more sober. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For the future."

Aragorn nodded. "And thank you."

"For what?"

"For... well, for everything."

Before Beren had time to answer he felt a sudden sense of vertigo and some aspect of reality went sideways. He was forced to close his eyes for a moment or two and when it felt as if the world had steadied once again, he opened them to find himself back in Menegroth. He blinked and looked about, as if unsure of where he was and then shrugged and began to retrace his steps.

Lúthien was waiting for him when he reached the entrance. He smiled at her and held out his hand, which she took.

"What did you see?" she asked him.

"Hope," he answered simply and left it at that as they made their way back to their family and friends....

****

One minute Aragorn was speaking with Beren and then the next something shifted in reality and he felt a sense of vertigo, forcing him to close his eyes against the nausea. Then everything steadied and there was no more bright sunlight, only darkness and a cool night breeze. He opened his eyes and was unsurprised to find himself back in the dell in Lothlórien with the full Moon still shining down upon him. He glanced about and saw Arwen waiting. He retraced his steps, never hurrying, spending the time pondering all that he and Beren had spoken of. When he reached the entrance, Arwen held out a hand and he took it.

"What did you see?" she asked.

For a moment Aragorn was not sure how to answer and then he just shrugged. "Beren. I saw our ancestor."

Arwen’s eyes widened in surprise. "Did you speak?" He nodded. "What did you speak about?" she asked.

"Love," he answered.

She stood there for a moment, as if unsure how she should respond, and then she reached up and kissed him. "Come. You can tell me all about it," and as they retraced their steps he told her what he had experienced....

****

Irmo and Námo stood invisibly watching the two Men converse. Then Irmo made a gesture with his right hand and first, Beren, and then, Aragorn, faded from view.

"And so they meet who would never have met otherwise," Námo said pensively.

"Do you object?" Irmo asked, casting his older brother an amused look.

"No," Námo said with a shake of his head. "This meeting was important for them both. Beren will come to me soon... and Lúthien." He frowned, as if he was hunting down an elusive thought.

"What is it?" Irmo asked.

Námo shrugged and gave his younger brother a wry look. "I hate playing the villain all the time."

Now Irmo raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You mean because the Children think you’re a cold-hearted bastard without an ounce of sympathy in your soul?"

"They will think when Lúthien comes and begs for Beren’s return and I grant it, it will be only because it will be her song that moves me and not because Atar wills this destiny for them."

Irmo shrugged. "Well, we both know differently, so why concern yourself with what the Children think? What is important is that Beren will die this first time without despair, knowing that somehow his line will continue and Aragorn will go on with his life fortified with the knowledge that love is the only reason for anything and everything. He will need Arwen’s love and his love for her to sustain him in the dark years to come. Meeting Beren has given him the courage to ask her for her hand."

Námo nodded, knowing all that Irmo said was true. He sighed and gave his younger brother a slight smile. "It still hurts, though, knowing that the Children look upon me with dread instead of with love."

"I know, Brother," Irmo said sympathetically. Then he gave him a sly look. "Perhaps if you were to wear brighter colors they might not fear you as much."

"No, they would just laugh themselves into Mandos instead," Námo retorted with a snort.

"Well, you can’t have it both ways," Irmo said with a laugh. "At least you know we love you... as does Atar."

"I know, I know," Námo rejoined, then shrugged. "Well, it is as it is. Come. Let’s go find our wives and see what mischief we can get ourselves into."

"Now that sounds like a plan," Irmo said with a smile and then the two thought themselves away, leaving the grove empty save for the labyrinth, a labyrinth that no Elf or Mortal had ever trodden....

****

Words are Sindarin unless otherwise noted.

Adar: Father.

Naneth/Nana: Mother/Mama.

Naur Gelair: ‘Brilliant Fire’, the Sindarin form of the Irish Gaelic Beltaine, which means ‘bright fire’.

Belain: Plural of Balan: Vala.

Glurim: Irmo.

Melethron nîn: My lover (masculine form). The feminine form would be melethril nîn.

Mellyrn: Plural of mallorn.

Daernana: Hypocoristic form of Daernaneth: Grandmother.

Mae govannen: ‘Well met’.

Iôn nîn: My son.

Notes:

1. 28 Gwirith is the equivalent of 5 May in the Gregorian calendar.

2. The Celtic festival of Beltaine was a cross-quarter day, marking the midpoint in the sun’s progress between spring equinox and summer solstice. It marks the beginning of the summer season and is a time when the Otherworld was seen as particularly close at hand. Since the Celtic year was both lunar and solar, it is possible that it was celebrated on the full moon nearest the midpoint. The astronomical date for the midpoint is closer to 5 May or 7 May.

3. Moonstone: A type of feldspar named because of its uncanny resemblance to the iridescent sheen of the moon. It was considered by ancient civilizations to be a sacred stone, bestowing the wearer with great spiritual understanding. Symbol of truth in self-reflection and showing what ‘is’.

4. Opal: A symbol of faithfulness and confidence. Symbol of hope. The opal is said to be many things including the most powerful of healing stones, the stone of hope, the stone of great achievement and even the ‘stone of the Gods’. Ancient Romans associated opal with hope and good luck.

5. The labyrinth in Lórien is outlined in lapis lazuli, an azure-blue stone that is a symbol of Truth, and chrysoprase, an apple-green gemstone that helps to make conscious what was unconscious and strengthens the workings of insight and the higher consciousness. It encourages hope and joy as well as help in clarifying problems. It is also used as a shield or protector from negative energy.

6. The labyrinths in this story are known as Cretan-style labyrinths, which comprise seven circuits to the center, with the entrance leading to a right turn first, what is known as a moon-wise first turn. This is a much older pattern than the more common left-turn labyrinths. The entrance faces south, where the Moon is most visible. The fourteen turns from entry to center correspond to the fourteen days between the dark moon and the full moon. The fourteen turns back from the center to the entrance correspond to the fourteen days between the full to dark moon again. The labyrinth in Lórien and the one made by Melian pre-date the creation of Ithil.

Moving On

Summary: Sometimes, it’s hard to decide what to keep and what to leave behind. First place in the ALEC challenge ‘The End of Things’.

****

"How about this? Keep or throw away?"

Elladan turned to see his twin holding up a bow. It was made of yew, of course, and in spite of the fact that it was thousands of years old it was still in good condition. It was one that Glorfindel had made for him when he was an elfling. He gave Elrohir a disgusted look. "What do you think?"

Elrohir shrugged. "I don’t know what to think, brother. It’s your bow. Do you want it or not?"

Instead of answering, Elladan pointed to the pile of items on Elrohir’s bed. "Are you planning on taking all of that with you? The ship is likely to sink."

"I haven’t decided yet," Elrohir said somewhat defensively.

Elladan snorted and took a few steps towards the bed to get a better look at what was there. The twins had been sorting through their things, deciding what they would take with them when they sailed, but they had been doing it separately. Now Elladan glanced at what his brother had piled onto his bed, presumably meaning to take the stuff with him, for there were other things lying about on the floor that obviously had been discarded. "Wait! What is this?" He held up a plush toy that had seen better days. It was a toy rabbit, dressed in a tabard of green velvet with a golden flower stitched on the front, and holding a sword made of felt in its paw. It had been given to them by their daeradar. He turned to face his twin. "You’re seriously planning on taking this with you? Do you want all the Elves of Aman to laugh at you? I can just see it now: the great warrior striding down the gangplank holding on to this." He thrust the toy in his brother’s face.

Elrohir went red, then white, then red again. "It’s a keepsake," he said, trying to snatch the rabbit from his brother, but Elladan danced out of his way, smirking.

"You were always a bit of a softy," the older twin said somewhat derisively.

"I am not!" Elrohir yelled, his emotions fluctuating between embarrassment and anger. He hadn’t really planned on taking the stupid toy with him when they left Imladris for the last time. It was just that he had discovered it hidden in a box with other toys and had taken it out on an impulse. He had truly intended to send it to Gondor with the other things they no longer would need. Eldarion’s youngest daughter had a little boy who might like it. But now, the way Elladan was sneering at him... maybe he would just keep it and to the Void with what anyone thought.

"Give it back, Dan," he pleaded.

"Why should I?" Elladan asked. "It’s as much mine as it is yours. Daeradar gave it to the both of us, as I recall."

"But you don’t really want it."

"And you do? Why?" Elladan demanded, now giving his twin a considering look.

"Perhaps because I’m such a softy," Elrohir retorted with a trace of bitterness in his tone.

Now it was Elladan’s turn to look embarrassed. "Sorry. I didn’t mean to call you that."

"So, can I have the toy back?" Elrohir asked, holding out a hand.

But Elladan gave him a sly look. "Only if you can catch me."

"What!?"

Before Elrohir knew it, Elladan was rushing out of the room, yelling at the top of his lungs, "Look what Roh wants to take with him! Isn’t it cute?"

"Elladan!" Elrohir screamed, running after him. "That’s right, brother. You’d better run because when I catch up with you...." But he did not complete the sentence, for by now he had followed his twin to the main staircase and with a yell that would have frozen an orc in its tracks, he took a flying leap and together the two tumbled down the stairs. "Give it back! Give it back!" Elrohir cried as he and his twin wrestled together at the foot of the stairs.

"Say please," Elladan replied laughingly, managing to keep the toy out of Elrohir’s reach even as they continued rolling about the floor.

Elrohir snarled a particularly vile oath as he lunged for the toy, but then he gave a squawk of surprise when he felt someone grabbing him by the nape of his tunic and hauling him up. He found himself dangling a good foot off the floor as Glorfindel held him in his grip. Elrohir stopped struggling when he saw the Elf-lord’s expression. Glorfindel glared down at Elladan, still lying on the floor panting, gripping the toy rabbit.

"Get up," he ordered softly and Elladan scrambled to his feet, looking suitably chagrined as Glorfindel let Elrohir down, releasing him. He glared at the twins, both of whom had trouble looking at him. "Do you want to explain yourselves?" he asked and they cringed at the tone. It was the same one Glorfindel had used in the past whenever he was about to give them some particularly nasty punishment for their misdeeds.

"We were just... fooling," Elladan answered, pushing the toy towards his brother. "Here, Roh. I didn’t mean to upset you."

But Glorfindel reached out at the same time and took the toy instead, gently smoothing the rumpled tabard and straightening the sword that had gotten bent in their struggle. The twins couldn’t be sure, but they thought they saw a twitch of a smile on the Balrog-slayer’s lips, his eyes brightening with humor, but then the moment was gone as he glanced up at them. His expression was sober as he addressed Elrohir, handing him back the rabbit. "Are you seriously thinking of bringing this with you?"

Elrohir shrugged and gave a sigh. "Not really. It’s just...."

"You should see what he has piled on his bed," Elladan interrupted with a sly smile. "Most of it is junk from our childhood."

Elrohir glared at his twin, then gave Glorfindel a sheepish look. "I was just going through it, remembering...."

Glorfindel gave him a sympathetic look. "I know it’s difficult to let go. The Belain know I’ve done it enough times myself. You can’t take it all with you."

"Well, what can we take?" Elladan asked. "Adar took half his library, but we’re not planning to bring the other half. All we really have are our weapons, but you said that we wouldn’t need them there. So, are we just supposed to show up in Aman with only the clothes on our backs like beggars at the gate?"

"You take only what you truly treasure," Glorfindel replied, "those things that have the greatest meaning for you. And if it’s a toy rabbit, then so be it."

"What are you planning on bringing?" Elrohir asked, giving Glorfindel a curious look.

"Only what I prize the most," he answered, giving them a brief secretive smile.

"And that is what, exactly?" Elladan demanded. "Oh, I know! Your second best sword." He gave Glorfindel a smirk.

"But he already said we wouldn’t need to bring weapons," Elrohir pointed out, completely serious, "so it must be something else."

"Well that leaves his war bow out as well," Elladan said, musing. "What else does Glorfindel have that he would prize the most?"

Elrohir shrugged. "The casks of Dorwinion stored in the wine cellar?" he suggested.

"Too heavy," Elladan replied with a shake of his head. "What about his horse? I heard Mithrandir took Shadowfax with him, so why can’t Glorfindel take his horse? You know how much he prizes him."

"But they have horses in Aman," Elrohir pointed out. "Oh, wait! I know." He gave the golden-haired Elf-lord a smile. "You’re planning on bringing all those maps you love to pour over. Don’t you remember, Dan, how Glorfindel always waxed lyrical over those fusty old maps, saying that they were a gift from the Valar and how he could never live without them?"

"Oh, yes," Elladan said with a nod, smiling at Glorfindel, who merely stood there with an amused look on his face. "I’m sure the Elves of Aman would really appreciate seeing them. Why, I bet they will come from every corner of Valinor just to get a glimpse of Glorfindel’s famous maps."

Both twins had identical grins on their faces. Glorfindel shook his head. "You are both wrong," he said. "Swords or bows or even maps may have been highly prized here, where they are needed, but there is one thing, actually two things, that are far more important to me. They are what I plan to bring when we sail. Everything else, I can cheerfully leave behind."

The twins looked at one another, identical puzzled looks on their faces. As one, they turned to Glorfindel. "What two things?" Elladan demanded. "What are the two most treasured things that you have?"

Glorfindel’s smile broadened. "Can you not guess?" he asked as he drew them both into his embrace. "The two things I treasure the most are you. You are what I will bring to Aman."

"Bu-but, we’re already planning to go!" Elrohir protested. "So how can you claim to be bringing us?"

"Whose idea was it to finally sail?" Glorfindel asked rhetorically, giving them both a brief kiss on their foreheads before releasing them. He then gave them a sterner look. "Finish packing," he ordered, sounding more like their Captain of old. "We leave at first light." Then, he strode away, leaving the twins gaping at his retreating figure.

After a moment or two of silence, Elladan turned to his brother. "Let’s go over our things together and decide what we want to bring," he suggested. Elrohir nodded and together they climbed the stairs and headed back to their room.

****

Words are Sindarin.

Adar: Father.

Belain: Valar.

Note: The word junk, earlier jonke, meaning, ‘rubbish, discarded object’ first appears in English circa 1480-90. Its origin is uncertain.

Lament for a Dying Son

Summary: Inspired by a conversation between myself and my friend, Nina, in which she described coming across a dying sheep found lying in the rain. The opening sentence is hers and is used with permission. My thanks to Ellie for help in coming up with an appropriate title. First place in the Teitho contest 'Devil's Adovcate'.

****

‘But I say to you, love your enemies.... that you may be children of your heavenly father, for he makes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the just and the unjust.’ — Matthew 5: 44-45

****

No one should have to die like this — all alone, lying in the rain.

Zimrathôr lay there, gasping out his life, the rain mingling with his blood, forming a reddish pool about him. He could no longer feel his lower extremities and there was a darkness encroaching upon him that had nothing to do with the fact that the sky was overcast. He idly wiped the rain from his face, not sure if he wasn’t also wiping away tears, wondering where it had all gone wrong.

He remembered clearly the day his attô had called him into his study....

****

Zimrazagar, Lord of Pharazkhibil, a small fiefdom of Umbar, was not the most important lord of that land, but neither was he the least. He had the favor of Umbar’s ruler, and that counted for much in a land where loyalties shifted as easily as one exchanged one tunic for another. Zimrathôr was his firstborn and heir, and he had only just turned sixteen. It was a lovely early spring day, cool and refreshing, the summer heat still two months away. The gentle breeze that wafted through the open casements of his attô’s study brought pleasing scents of jasmine and honeysuckle. He could hear his sisters and baby brother, not quite three, playing somewhere in the garden, their squeals of delight bringing a smile to his lips even as he entered the study.

“Did you wish to see me, Attô?” Zimrathôr asked.

Zimrazagar looked up from the document he was studying and nodded, giving his eldest child a warm smile. “Yes, my son,” he said, waving the boy into the room. “I’ve received news from the capital. The Phazagân has given his permission for me to lead the raid against Dol Amroth next month.”

Zimrathôr’s eyes widened in surprise. Lord Belzagar was the ruler of Umbar and only he could declare a raid and appoint the one to lead the fleet. For Belzagar to appoint Zimrazagar to the coveted position of Balak-bâr was a great honor indeed. Zimrathôr knew that there were others at court who would feel that Zimrazagar of Pharazkhibil was not worthy of such a high position.

“A great honor, Attô,” he said. “I am surprised, though, that Lord Belzagar has appointed you to lead the fleet.”

“Oh?” Zimrazagar said with a raised eyebrow, though there was a twinkle in his eyes that told Zimrathôr that he was not affronted by his son’s words.

“All know that Lord Sakalôhîn has been canvassing for that position since the end of the last raiding season after Lord Azrubêl died.”

“And perhaps that is why the Phazagân has appointed me,” Zimrazagar said with a smile. “At any rate, I wished to inform you that I would like you to join me.”

“Truly?” Zimrathôr exclaimed in delight. “I did not think I would be allowed on a raid as yet.”

“It is true that I normally would have left you behind were I just one sea-captain among many on this particular raid, for you are still over-young to be a part of such a dangerous venture, but as I am Balak-bâr for this raid, I would like you to be with me. Your tutors assure me that you can handle yourself well. Time to see just how well you can do....”

****

Zimrathôr bit back a moan of shame and despair, the memory of that day when everything was bright and warm and full of hope mocking him as he lay there on the beach of Dol Amroth waiting to die.

“I’m sorry Attô,” he sobbed, unable to keep the tears at bay any longer. “I didn’t do well at all.”

He recalled the pride he had felt stepping aboard the flag ship Aglarrâma beside his attô, his ammê and his sisters and little brother waving farewell from the quay. He relived the pride he had felt at the way even Lord Sakalôhîn had bowed to Zimrazagar. He remembered the pride he had felt at the confidence his attô had had in him when he had given his son his own troop of raiders to command. True, it was only a small band of about ten younger men, the youngest still four years older than he, and he was not sure if they did not resent him being their leader. He had the feeling that his attô had given these young men to him so that they could watch over him and make sure he survived.

Zimrathôr chuckled grimly at that thought. If that was their mission, they had failed miserably. He wondered if any of them had survived and sighed, his memory flitting back and forth, visiting first one scene and then another — training with the young men on the deck of the ship as it crossed over to the Bay of Belfalas, watching the dolphins playing around the fleet, swilling the grog that one of the young men had secretly pilfered and then getting thoroughly sick, hanging over the railing for dear life as his insides decided they would rather be on the outside, feeling his attô’s gentle hands soothing him and hearing his attô’s laugh as he begged him to let him die.

He licked dry lips, wishing he had some water or wine or even that vile brew the ship’s crew drank.

Where had it gone wrong? His attô’s plan had seemed sound enough at the time: a small band of raiders, mostly the young men on their first raid, with a few of the oldtimers along to keep an eye on them, would attack a nearby fishing village with the intent on capturing slaves while Zimrazagar led the rest of the fleet to attack Dol Amroth as a diversionary tactic. One ship would remain in the cove to pick up the raiders and their booty, then join the rest of the fleet as it sailed back to Umbar.

He thought back to the early morning when he set out to join with the raiders and his attô’s words to him....

****

Zimrazagar gave Zimrathôr a fierce hug while all around them the crew busied themselves with their tasks. “Fight well, my son,” he whispered into his son’s ear. “Make me proud.”

“I will, Attô,” Zimrathôr said, hoping the butterflies in his stomach would not give him away. He did not want his attô to think he was afraid, even though deep down he knew he was.

Zimrazagar smiled at him. In the predawn darkness it was hard to see anything, for the lights on the ships had been doused long before they had ever reached the cove where the fleet was anchored. Zimrazagar had chosen the site well. It was a small cove about a mile or so east of Dol Amroth. In spite of its nearness to the Prince’s capital, it was empty of habitation. There was not even a single fishing shack, making it an ideal place for landfall.

“Remember all that your tutors and I have taught you, my son, and you will do well,” Zimrazagar said, giving him a kiss. “I will be here, waiting for your triumphant return....”

****

Zimrathôr moaned as the memory swept over him. There would be no triumphant return for him now. He wondered if his body would even be recovered. He half hoped it would not be, for he felt the shame of his failure. He swiped futilely at the rain still falling about him. It had not been raining when they came ashore. In fact, the day had dawned fair. He remembered how strange his legs had felt when he first stepped ashore after weeks at sea. The land had lurched in disconcerting ways and he noticed the smug grins on some of the young men in his group as he attempted to walk with some dignity, following the older raiders in their band of about fifty men whose objective was the fishing village which lay in the next cove over. He thought of his attô’s promise to let him claim one of the captives for himself. He had smiled at the thought as he trudged through the dunes toward the higher ground that would lead them around the headland to the next cove. He would like to have his own personal slave instead of having to make do with those of his attô’s household. He thought if he could capture a likely looking lad of about nine or ten, he would be able to train him up into a proper slave. Any older and the boy would have to be beaten constantly until he either resigned himself to his lot or died.

In spite of himself, Zimrathôr snorted in derision at that thought. No slave for him. Instead, if he managed to live, he would most likely be sold into slavery.

He might as well be, useless as he was as a raider. That thought stopped him and he felt the hot tears coming again. He, the son of Lord Zimrazagar of Pharazkhibil a slave! Better to die than to bring such shame to his family.

Yet, the venture had started well. They had reached the outskirts of the village in good time with the sun just beginning to rise behind them, which was as his attô had planned. Zimrathôr and the others looked down on the village, drawing their scimitars in readiness. The leader of their band, a grizzled old salt by the name of Imâr, who was missing an eye and two fingers, testaments of a lifetime of raiding, stared down at the village still apparently asleep, for there was no movement or sound anywhere, not even the barking of dogs or the crowing of cocks. No one was about and he now realized that that was their first clue that something was not right....

****

Zimrathàr wondered impatiently why they didn’t just go down and start taking captives, but the old raider who led them held them there while the sun rose higher. Zimrathôr watched the man as he frowned down upon the village.

“Too quiet,” he whispered.

“Aye,” one of the other men said. “Do we chance it?”

“I would say nay, but these youngsters will want to try their mettle,” the leader replied and Zimrathôr noticed that he was not the only one of the younger men to bristle at the implied insult.

“To go back empty-handed would be shameful,” one of the younger men muttered.

“To go back dead would be even more so,” the leader retorted.

Zimrathôr wasn’t sure what to feel. He wanted badly to prove to his attô that he was as capable as the next man in a raid, but he knew that as the youngest, his voice would carry little weight, for all that he was the son of the Balak-bâr. He hoped, though, that the raid would go on. The thought of returning to his attô without ever lifting his scimitar did not set well with him. He feared his attô would not let him go on another raid for a very long time.

Finally, though, after what seemed like hours, but was only a few minutes, the old raider decided they would risk it. “Keep your eyes open,” he admonished them. “Remember to keep yourself between the sun and your target so that they are fighting blind.”

With that, he signaled for them to follow him. Zimrathôr felt someone nudge him and looked up to see Ulbar, one of the young men assigned to his troop. He was a swarthy-looking man and Zimrathôr suspected he had Haradi ancestry somewhere in his background. “Don’t do anything stupid,” Ulbar whispered in a not unkindly voice and Zimrathôr nodded, afraid to say anything right then as they made their way as quietly as possible down the headland, spreading out to come upon the village from different angles. Zimrathôr and his troop were heading towards one particular cottage on the outskirts of the village, using trees and bushes and even the occasional large boulder for cover. There was still no sign of any movement within the village and now Zimrathôr was beginning to feel concern, wondering if they were about to raid an empty village, for he could not detect even the faintest evidence of life.

“Old Imâr was right,” he whispered to Ulbar as the two crouched behind a large flowering bush. “This place is much too quiet.” Ulbar nodded but said nothing. Together the two scanned the area before them. The house that was their target lay only a few short feet away and they could see the back door that must lead to the kitchen. Ulbar pointed to the door. “When Imâr gives the signal, I’ll take some of our lads through the back door while you and the others go into the front.”

Zimrathôr nodded and then he heard the call of the magpie that was the signal to attack. He and Ulbar rose at the same time and stepped around the bush from opposite directions with the others following. Zimrathôr had taken only a few steps when he heard a strangled cry and looked up in time to see Ulbar falling to the ground with an arrow through his throat.

“It’s a trap!” someone screamed and immediately, men wearing the liveries of Gondor and Dol Amroth began pouring out of the cottages and arrows began to fly.

Zimrathôr stood rooted on the spot, staring in disbelief at the sight of the young man lying dead just a few feet from him. Then, someone grabbed him, shouting something incomprehensible, and he was moving again, though not away from the village, but towards it, raising his scimitar in defense as he spied a Gondorian soldier running towards him with death in his eyes. Even as he yelled something in defiance, or perhaps fear, meeting the soldier’s attack with his upraised scimitar, he wondered whose death those eyes portended....

****

Zimrathôr started coughing, pain wracking him. That had been his death that he had seen in the man’s eyes. He was not even sure when he was struck down. He couldn’t remember if he ever got the chance to blood his scimitar. He wondered if any of the other raiders had survived and if his attô would ever learn of his fate. What would he think if he knew that his son had been unable to wield his scimitar properly and had been struck down almost at the first? He did not know....

Another coughing fit swept through him and the pain was excruciating. How long had he lain there? He felt hot and cold at the same time and he found it difficult to focus his eyes properly. How long would it take for him to die, alone with the damnable rain, and what would happen if the Gondorians found him alive first? He shivered with more than fever at that thought and then a third spasm of coughing caught him and in the haze of his pain he felt more than saw someone kneeling beside him, holding him gently and pressing a beaker against his cracked lips. Cool water flowed down his throat, easing the rawness brought about by his coughing. When the water was gone he opened his eyes to see who held him, but it was difficult to make out details. He had the impression of dark hair and grey eyes but not much more.

“A-attô?” he rasped, speaking hesitantly. “Attô?”

“Hush. I am here, my son.”

Zimrathôr frowned, for the voice did not sound much like his attô, but the pain he was in prevented him from thinking too clearly. He started weeping again. “Oh, Attô, I’m so sorry.”

“What are you sorry about, zirân?”

“I... I didn’t fight very well,” he admitted, hating to sound so weak before his attô.

“Shh. It is well. I know you fought as best you could.”

“But it wasn’t good enough,” Zimrathôr insisted. “I’m n-not worthy to... to be your son.”

He felt his attô holding him closer, rocking him as if he were no older than his little brother. “No, my son. You are full worthy. Do not fret. I know you are very brave. Now, can you tell Attô your name?”

“Wh-why?” Zimrathôr glanced up in confusion, trying to see his attô’s face, but the darkness that surrounded him prevented him from seeing anything clearly.

“Often when someone is hurt as badly as you, the shock causes them to forget who they are,” came the curious answer.

“Oh,” Zimrathôr said meekly. “I didn’t know that.”

“And now you do. So, tell me your name, my son. Tell me who you are and whose son you are.”

“Zi-zimrathôr, son of Zimrazagar, L-lord of Pharazkhibil, and... and Balak-bár,” he answered, then went into another bout of coughing. He felt his attô hold him tight and then more water flowed down his throat. He started crying again, weeping softly out of a profound sense of weakness. “I w-wanted you to b-be proud of me, Attô, but I di-didn’t....”

“It’s all right, Zimrathôr. Attô is very proud of you. You are my beloved. I could do no less than to be proud of you and to love you.”

“Even though I’m n-not a v-very good raider?” Zimrathôr asked meekly.

In answer his attô held him closer, planting a kiss on his forehead. Zimrathôr tried to open his eyes, but the effort proved too much. “Ni-zira, Attô,” he whispered.

“Ni-zira, thôr ’n ni,” his attô said and then he heard him humming a lullaby, one that was not familiar to him, yet it was soothing and comforting and it followed him into a darkness that nonetheless seemed very bright....

****

“He’s dead, then?”

Thorongil looked up from where he knelt, holding the young Umbarian, and saw Prince Adrahil standing there and nodded.

“Just as well,” the prince said with a sigh. “I would only have had to hang him otherwise. What was he mumbling about?”

“He was calling for his father,” Thorongil replied, gently brushing the hair out of the youngster’s eyes. The rain had finally stopped and the sun was beginning to peep out from behind the storm clouds. “He thought he was a bad raider and wanted reassurance that I still loved him.”

“You?”

Thorongil gave the Prince of Dol Amroth an amused smile. “He thought I was his father. I decided not to disabuse him of that notion. He was dying. There was nothing I could do to save him. It was the least I could do, to help ease his passing.”

Adrahil gave a snort. “He’s an Umbarian raider, Captain Thorongil. You should have just eased his passing by giving him the mercy stroke.”

Thorongil glared at the prince and the intensity of his expression caused the older man to step back in surprise. “He is a child, not much older than your own son. If it were Imrahil lying here, would you not want someone comforting him in his final minutes, even a stranger?”

Adrahil grimaced at the image the captain’s words evoked and he looked upon the young Umbarian with gentler eyes and nodded. Thorongil rose, scooping the boy’s body into his arms.

“What do you intend to do?” Adrahil asked. “We’ll be putting the bodies of the raiders to the flame. My men are already piling the wood for the pyre.”

“The Umbarian flag ship is still at Dol Amroth, is it not?” Thorongil asked.

“Yes, of course.” Adrahil answered, looking perplexed.

“And I believe we have the leader, the balak-bâr, I think is his title.”

“And so?” Adrahil asked impatiently.

“This is his son,” Thorongil replied. “I mean to bring him back to him.”

“But I’ll be executing the father soon enough,” Adrahil retorted. “What point is there in bringing the lad all the way to Dol Amroth when he’s already dead?”

Thorongil sighed, not sure how to express to this prince the obligation he felt towards the young lad who lay in his arms, growing cold and stiff. “I think a father has the right to mourn his son, if only for a little time,” he finally answered and Adrahil looked suitably abashed.

“Yes,” he said with chagrin. “You are correct. Here, I’ll take him.” With that he reached out and Thorongil surrendered the body to him. Together, prince and captain made their way down to the boat waiting for them. Sailors took the body long enough for Adrahil to clamber aboard with Thorongil beside him and then placed the body back in their prince’s arms. A moment later the boat was on its way to the ship that would take them back to Dol Amroth and Zimrathôr son of Zimrazagar of Pharazkhibil went with them.

****

Words are Adûnaic.

Zimrathôr: Jewel-Son.

Attô: Father.

Zimrazagar: Jewel-Sword.

Pharazkhibil: Golden Spring.

Phazagân: Conquerer; here, used as a title of the chief lord of Umbar.

Balak-bâr: Ship-lord; here used as a title of the person leading the Umbarian fleet on a raid against their traditional enemies of Gondor.

Sakalôhîn: Child of the Shore.

Azrubêl: Sea-Lover.

Aglarrâma: Sails-of-Glory.

Ammë: Mother.

Imâr: Of unknown meaning, an attested name in Adûnaic.

Ulbar: Of unknown meaning, an attested name in Adûnaic.

Zirân: Beloved.

Ni-zira, thôr ’n ni: ‘I love you, my son’.

Milyëanyel

Summary: One Yule Aragorn wishes he were home. First place in the Het category for the ALEC challenge ‘I’m Missing You’.

****

Third Age 3010:

Arwen Vanimelda....

Aragorn sighed, staring morosely across the snow-shrouded lands that had once been the Kingdom of Cardolan as he huddled by a small fire amidst the ruins on Amon Sûl. The night was frigid, colder than it normally would be this early in the winter. An unexpected blizzard had raged across Eriador for nearly a week, forcing Aragorn to halt his journey at the ancient fortress on Weathertop, and thank the Valar he’d been close enough to reach such dubious shelter before the worst of the storm had hit. The blizzard had finally petered out earlier that afternoon. He had so wanted to reach Imladris before this. He had so wanted to surprise his family, his Yule gift to them, though Elves did not celebrate Yule unless some of the Dúnedain were visiting.

And most of all, he had so wanted to see Arwen again.

News had reached him that Elrond had summoned his daughter from Lothlórien, for the lands east of the Misty Mountains were becoming too dangerous. He himself had traveled through the Vales of Anduin with Gandalf only this past summer, searching for clues of the creature Gollum and knew well how dangerous the lands had become. He’d left Gandalf on the borders of Mirkwood to return briefly to Eriador, crossing over the Redhorn Pass into Eregion where he met up with one of the Ranger patrols, for as the Chieftain of the Dúnedain he had responsibilities to his own people and could not be away for any length of time. He would be rejoining Gandalf in the search once spring came, for they had agreed to meet at Radagast’s home in Rhosgobel on the elven New Year’s Day.

He sighed once more and threw another few sticks on the fire. The flames leapt up, casting an orange glow on the snow surrounding his camp. Looking up, he saw the stars glittering brightly, small diamonds in the velvet night. Yes, there was Menelmagor rising out of the east and Gwilwileth to his left. If he bothered to turn around he knew he would see the Cerch Belain spanning the northern skies.

He couldn’t be bothered.

Damn! But he’d been so sure he’d make it to Imladris on time. If the blizzard had just held off at least until he had reached the Bridge of Mitheithel then he would have been close enough. He’d left the borders of the Shire in plenty of time, leaving Halbarad in charge. His cousin had tried to convince him to go to Fornost instead, for the Dúnedain traditionally gathered there to celebrate Yule, but Aragorn had desired to see his elven family again and nothing Halbarad said could persuade him from his course. Now he was wishing he’d listened to his cousin. He would be safe and warm in Fornost this night, enjoying the festivities instead of huddling over a chancy fire with only a scrawny rabbit for dinner. Aragorn glanced over to where his horse stood stolidly munching on some oats.

"Well, Roheryn," he said softly, "and a Happy Yule to you, too."

The horse continued eating, though his ears flicked back and forth at the sound of his master’s voice and Aragorn smiled. "That’s all right, my friend," he said a little wistfully. "I wish we were in Imladris, too, or even in Fornost. Valar! Even holed up in the Prancing Pony would be preferable to being here."

Well, there was no help for it. Tomorrow he would work his way down to the road. The snow lay deep and he knew he would have trouble getting through, but he had no choice. His supplies were low and he needed to hunt. He doubted that Roheryn would be able to plow through the drifts so they would have to wait another day or three for some of the snow to melt. He snarled an oath, one that Lord Glorfindel was wont to use when he was particularly upset, and huddled further into his cloak, wrapping a blanket around his knees, throwing more wood on the fire. At least he’d been able to find a cache of dried wood left by one of the Ranger patrols. It had saved his life.

Despondent and feeling miserable, wishing that on this night of all nights he were in Imladris with Arwen, he fell into an uneasy doze, the warmth of the fire lulling him....

****

He was not sure how he had reached Imladris for there was no sign of his horse, and that troubled him for a moment, but then he simply accepted the fact that he was standing before the doors of the Last Homely House, the house of his childhood. Snow lay softly on the ground and clothed the rowan trees on either side of the steps leading to the front doors. The night sky was clear and full of stars. The doors opened of themselves even as he stepped towards them and he entered into a dark hallway lit only by two fat candles on tall candlesticks flanking the main staircase leading up to the bedrooms. Somewhere he could hear the strains of ethereal music wafting through the air and he smiled as he walked down the hall towards an ornately carved door, opening it to reveal the Hall of Fire.

He stood there in amazement, for he had never seen it so brightly lit. Everywhere were candles and there was greenery decorated with holly berries and red ribbons in long swags hanging from the rafters and around the door, filling the air with the fresh scent of balsam. Suspended from the rafters were metallic cut-outs of stars painted silver so that they glittered in the light of the candles.

And the room was filled with Elves in festive finery. There were his adar and his brothers dressed in Imladris blue and silver with wreaths of holly on their heads standing near the fire. Glorfindel was nearby laughing with Erestor. The Balrog-slayer was dressed in white velvet and furs while Erestor was in midnight blue. Aragorn suddenly felt uncomfortable, for he was dressed in riding leathers and knew that he stank of horse and sweat. He was about to slip away, perhaps retire to his rooms and change when Arwen appeared before him, smiling. She was dressed in deep burgundy, her dark hair caught in a pearl-studded net, the Evenstar lying between her breasts, glittering brightly in the candlelight. She had never looked so beautiful.

"Welcome home, beloved," she said, embracing him and kissing him fully on the mouth.

He was so surprised at such a greeting that he involuntarily wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back. He only let go when he realized that everyone else in the room was applauding. He felt himself blushing furiously.

"Arwen...."

She put a finger to his lips and smiled that warm smile that was meant only for him and, taking his hand, led him further into the room. Elves parted for them, some calling out softly in greeting, others simply smiling as they passed. Arwen brought him before Elrond, his brothers flanking the Lord of Imladris. Glorfindel and Erestor stood just behind them.

"Welcome, my son," Elrond said warmly, giving him a hug. "We’ve been expecting you."

"My lord...." Aragorn began.

"Estel, is that any way to greet your family?" Glorfindel exclaimed in amusement and the twins snickered.

Aragorn felt bemused. "Is... is this a dream?" he asked Elrond when the Elf-lord let him go.

His adar smiled benignly and gave him another hug. "If it is, Estel, it is a good dream, is it not?"

"But... but how did I get here?" Aragorn enquired. "I... I wanted it to be a surprise, but... how did you know I was coming?"

"I knew," was all Elrond said and then released him from his embrace. "Why don’t you greet your brothers?"

Aragorn just stood there, not sure how to react. He stared at his brothers for a moment and then Elladan took the initiative and embraced him. "Happy Yule, Little Brother," he whispered in his ear. "It’s good to see you home again."

Elrohir then gave him a hug as well. "You’re looking well, Estel, but you should have stopped to bathe first." The Twins laughed at the blush on Aragorn’s face.

"Stop it, you two," Arwen said sharply as she claimed Aragorn’s arm. "Pay no heed to them, my love."

"Arwen, how can I be here?" Aragorn asked in confusion. "This must be a dream and yet it doesn’t feel like a dream. It feels more real than any dream I’ve ever had."

"Does it matter?" Glorfindel interjected before Arwen could speak. "Will you not accept it as a gift, a Yule gift?"

"From whom?" Aragorn demanded.

Glorfindel shrugged. "Perhaps from the Valar, perhaps from your own desires... and ours that you be here on this special night."

"But am I really here in Imladris, or am I still huddled beside a fire on Amon Sûl?"

"Perhaps both," Elrond said with a smile, gently laying a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder.

"Come, Estel," Arwen said, pulling on his arm. "Dance with me."

The Twins smirked and Elrond nodded encouragingly as Aragorn allowed Arwen to lead him to an area which had been set aside for dancing. There were other couples already there as the first measure of a pavane began. At first, Aragorn felt awkward, for he’d never felt comfortable dancing among such graceful beings, feeling earthbound and clumsy in comparison, but as the dance continued, he felt himself relaxing and reveling in the knowledge that he was dancing with Arwen, with the love of his life. The pavane ended but another dance, this one more lively, began and he allowed himself to enter into it, joyously twirling Arwen in his arms.

He was not sure when they stopped dancing. It seemed as if they’d been dancing all night but finally, exhausted from their romp, they retreated to a far corner of the room. Someone came along with a tray and handed them crystal goblets of mulled wine and only then did Aragorn realize how thirsty he was. When he had taken a few sips he took a moment to glance around. Elves were gathered in small groups, chatting amiably and laughing. Someone began singing a hymn to Elbereth, the voice high and ethereal, sending shivers down Aragorn’s spine, for the sound of Elves singing never failed to move him no matter how often he heard it.

"Elves don’t celebrate Yule," he said softly, more to himself than to Arwen.

"But they do when Mortals reside here," she reminded him just as softly.

At her words he suddenly realized that someone who should have been there was not. "Where’s Bilbo?" he asked. "I cannot imagine him missing this."

Arwen laughed. "Oh, he’s here somewhere," she answered. "I imagine he’s in a corner somewhere furiously writing his next song surrounded by enough food and drink to feed half the Shire."

Aragorn laughed with her. "You’re probably right," he said, but then his smile faltered. "I shouldn’t be here."

"Why do you say that?" Arwen asked, her eyes warm with sympathy.

He shook his head. "I don’t know," he replied, "I just know I shouldn’t... couldn’t possibly be here."

"And yet you are," Arwen said.

He gazed upon her, and fell in love with her all over again. "Oh, Arwen, how I missed you," he said fervently.

"And I missed you, my beloved Estel," she said, brushing a hand through his unruly locks.

"I wanted it to be a surprise... my coming here, I mean."

She nodded but remained silent.

"There was a blizzard," he continued but Arwen put a finger to his lips, stilling his voice.

"It’s all right," she whispered. "You’re here now and that is all that matters." Then she reached up and their lips met and for a time that was outside time he knew nothing but the taste of her lips and the scent of her hair and the feel of her body pressed against his.

Only when he heard someone clearing his throat did Aragorn come to himself, opening his eyes to see Lord Elrond standing there with an amused expression on his face. Aragorn pulled himself hastily away from Arwen, blushing furiously and stammering an apology but Elrond’s smile simply became wider.

"It’s time for you to leave, Estel," he said.

"Leave?" Aragorn stared at his adar in confusion. "But...."

"It’s nearly dawn, my son," Elrond said firmly. "Our time grows short and you must return to the waking world."

"Then this is just a dream," Aragorn said, feeling both sad and cheated. "Then why...?"

"Perhaps Lord Irmo decided to grant us this time together, knowing how much you wished it," Elrond replied with an elegant shrug. "Perhaps this is his Yule gift to us all. Now, make your farewells."

Aragorn shook his head. "I’ll see you all soon for real once I can reach the road and...."

"No, Estel," Elrond said, giving his youngest son a sad smile. "Do not come to Imladris at this time. It is important that you return to Fornost."

"But I wanted to winter over with you," Aragorn protested, cringing mentally at the childish whine in his voice.

"It is important that you spend this time with your own people, Estel," Elrond said. "Come to Imladris once the snows are melting."

"Yes, Ada," Aragorn replied with a sigh.

By now, Elladan, Elrohir, Glorfindel and Erestor had joined them and Aragorn took a few brief moments to say good-bye to them. His brothers teased him as they always did and Erestor gave him reams of advice as he always did. Some things never changed and he was grateful for that.

"It was good to see you again, Estel," Glorfindel said after he had given the Man a hug. "We look forward to seeing you for real in a couple of months." He gave him a wink and a broad smile and Aragorn couldn’t help but smile back, giving the golden-haired Elf-lord a nod.

Then he embraced Elrond and for a long moment the two held one another before Elrond released him. Before Aragorn could say anything he felt Arwen’s touch on his arm and he turned to see her holding a holly sprig which she slipped between the ties of his leather vest where it would not fall out. She smiled at him and gave him a light kiss.

"Tye-melin," she whispered and then it seemed to him as if she and everyone else was receding from him, or perhaps he was the one moving.

"Arwen Vanimelda, namárië," he cried, holding out his hand to touch her but it was too late and he seemed to be falling into darkness. His last vision of Arwen was seeing her stretching out her hand towards him as she bid him farewell.

"Naaa...maaa...rië, Arrr...aaaaa...gooornnnn....."

****

"Aragorn... Aragorn!"

He felt someone shaking him and he opened his eyes, blinking in the light of the newly risen sun. It took him a moment to realize where he was and who was shaking him.

"Halbarad?"

His cousin grinned down at him as he struggled to rise, only then noticing that Amon Sûl was crowded with Rangers and their horses.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, still feeling befuddled. The dream, if dream it was, still held him enthralled and he was having trouble focusing on the present.

"Making sure you were alive," Halbarad answered and however light his tone was, Aragorn could see the actual relief in his cousin’s eyes. "As soon as the blizzard swept past us we set out to find you. I suspected that you would be caught in it before you ever reached Imladris."

Aragorn nodded. "Well it was that I was so near to Amon Sûl when it struck, else I fear Roheryn and I would have been lost, our bodies not found until spring."

Halbarad nodded as he helped Aragorn to stand. The motion caused something to drop from his vest.

"What’s this?" Halbarad asked, stooping to pick the object up. "A holly sprig?" He gave his cousin a wondering look. "There isn’t any holly growing anywhere near Amon Sûl."

Aragorn reached out in awe for the sprig of dark green leaves and bright red berries. "She... she gave it to me... in my dream," he whispered.

"Who gave it to you?" Halbarad asked, clearly puzzled by his cousin’s expression.

"Arwen," he answered simply. "In my dream, I was in Imladris and...." but the implications of what he was saying stopped him and he gave Halbarad a shake of his head. "I don’t understand," he finally said.

"Neither do I," Halbarad replied, giving him a sympathetic look. "If you mean to continue on to Imladris...."

"No. Adar said I was to return to Fornost and remain there until spring," Aragorn said and then blushed at the disbelieving looks Halbarad and the other Rangers who were listening to their conversation gave him. "Well, that’s what he told me... in my dream," he added lamely, not looking at anyone.

For a moment there was no sound save the jingling of harnesses and the stamping of hooves, and then, Halbarad nodded. "It will be good to have you with us over the winter, my lord," he said formally.

Aragorn nodded, his expression wistful as he gazed down at the holly sprig. "At least we had one night," he whispered to himself, then gathered his wits and looked about him, his expression clearing as he became once more the Chieftain of the Dúnedain. "As long as you are all here, why don’t we do some hunting and have our own Yule feast before we return to Fornost?"

There were cheers among the Rangers and Aragorn left Halbarad in charge of details while he volunteered to build up the fire and get everything ready. As the others bustled about, he stood quietly to one side staring at the holly sprig in his hand.

"Tye-melin, Arwen Vanimelda," he whispered and in his mind he thought he heard Arwen echoing his words. He slipped the sprig into one of the pouches in his saddlebag and then turned his attention to the here and now, enjoying the company of his men.

Spring would come soon enough and then... oh yes! and then....

****

Words are Sindarin unless otherwise noted.

Milyëanyel: (Quenya) ‘I’m Missing You’, literally, ‘I am longing for you’.

Menelmagor: Sindarin form of Menelmacar: Orion.

Gwilwileth: Sindarin form of Wilwarin: Cassiopeia.

Cerch Belain: Sindarin form of Valacirca: ‘Sickle of the Valar’, Ursa Major.

Adar/Ada: Father/Daddy.

Tye-melin: (Quenya) ‘I love thee’.

A Remembrance of Trees

Summary: Some of the Fellowship share their earliest memories. Written for the ALEC challenge 'Remembrance' where it won first place. 

****

"...a faunt of about two or three, I think," the Elves in Elrond’s train heard Frodo say as they approached the small group of Hobbits sitting at their ease underneath the flowering White Tree. Aragorn, Arwen and Mithrandir were there along with Legolas and Gimli.

"And what are we discussing?" Elrond asked as he joined them, smiling down at them. The Hobbits automatically started to rise but Elrond shook his head and gestured for them to remain seated while he took a seat beside his daughter. The other Elves — his sons, Glorfindel and the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood — ranged themselves in a semi-circle around the group, almost acting as a barrier between them and the rest of the Citadel, as if daring anyone to be so foolish as to interrupt them.

Frodo smiled at the Elves standing around them, giving them a brief nod in acknowledgment, which they returned, before addressing Elrond’s question. "We were comparing notes about our earliest memories. I was saying that my earliest memory was when I was about three. I remember sitting on my father’s shoulders while he and my mother were dancing at some party."

There were indulgent smiles from the Elves. "So, now that you’ve joined us," Mithrandir said with a twinkle in his eyes and the light of a challenge in them, "you’ll all have to tell us your earliest memories."

Several elvish eyebrows went up but Elrond frowned, his brows furrowed, as if he were in deep thought and then he shook his head. "I’m afraid my earliest memories are too dark for such a lovely day," he said quietly and several people gazed upon him with sympathy, though he did not see it, for his eyes were on his lap.

Mithrandir nodded, as if he’d expected no other answer from the Peredhel. Before he could comment, though, Glorfindel spoke up, casting an amused look upon the Wizard. "And what is your earliest memory, Mithrandir? Have you told them yet?" He nodded to the Hobbits.

"Well, for your information, Lord Glorfindel, I did," Mithrandir replied with a huff of annoyance that they knew was mostly for show. "They were rather impressed by the fact that my memories go all the way back to the Beginning."

"The beginning of what?" Glorfindel asked in counterfeit innocence.

"The beginning of your re-embodiment," Mithrandir retorted with an evil gleam in his eyes. "I well remember the day you wet...."

"Let’s not go there, old friend," the Balrog-Slayer said hastily, and the Hobbits — indeed most of the others — were treated to the sight of this self-assured paragon of Elfhood blushing to the roots of his golden hair and looking very embarrassed.

There were amused looks among the other Elves; even Elrond had a small smile on his lips as he listened to the banter between these two friends. Then Pippin gave Glorfindel a considering look. "What is your earliest memory, Lord Glorfindel? Mine was of swinging in an apple tree that was behind our farm and my father was standing there with his hands out waiting to catch me if I slipped and laughing because my mother was very upset to find me swinging in a tree and saying I was too young for it."

Glorfindel smiled down at the inquisitive tween who, along with his partner in crime, Meriadoc, had been the bane of the Elves’ existence while they had been in Imladris, though Glorfindel had found their antics amusing, reminding him of his escapades with Ecthelion and then later with Finrod. "I remember the Trees," he said simply.

There were knowing nods from a number of listeners, even from Frodo, Sam and Merry, but Pippin looked confused, glancing up at the White Tree that was shading them from the noontide sun and then back at the golden-haired Elf-lord who stood there in easy grace.

"But, what’s so special about remembering trees?" Pippin finally asked. "They’re just... trees."

"Well, you remember an apple tree," reminded the ever practical Sam.

Pippin gave him a scathing look. "I remember swinging in one," he said in retort. "It just happened to have been an old apple tree, but it could have been a maple or some other tree on our farm."

"Lord Glorfindel meant the Two Trees, Pippin," Frodo said with a fond smile at his young cousin.

If any there hoped that would answer the tween’s question, they were sorely disappointed. Pippin gave Lord Glorfindel a horrified look, which surprised all of them. "You only had two trees in all of Valinor?" he asked in total disbelief.

Frodo groaned and covered his face with his hands and started shaking, but whether from laughter or tears was anyone’s guess. Sam just threw up his hands and rolled his eyes while Merry sat there shaking his head in disbelief at his cousin. Everyone else was struggling not to laugh, recognizing that the young Hobbit was entirely serious. Glorfindel knelt gracefully before the confused tween, giving him a gentle smile.

"No, Little One," he said softly. "There are many trees in Valinor, but there were two very special Trees that gave off their own light, for these Trees were created by the Valar long before the Sun and the Moon were brought into existence. My first memory is of being taken by my parents to see the Trees. I was probably not any older than you were when you were swinging in the apple tree."

"I was four," Pippin said quietly, not quite looking up at the Elf kneeling before him, realizing he’d made a fool of himself in front of all these fine folk once again.

Glorfindel nodded. "Well, these two Trees were very special but they were destroyed by Morgoth a long time ago and for a time even Valinor lay in darkness."

"Is it still dark there?" Pippin asked, looking up, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"No," Glorfindel answered. Then he pointed skyward toward the Sun. "Do you see the Sun?"

Pippin nodded, refraining from pointing out that it was rather difficult not to see it, since it was shining so brightly down upon them.

"What you see is the last fruit of Laurelin the Golden," Glorfindel said. "When Morgoth destroyed the Trees and Valinor was plunged into darkness, many feared that the light would never return, but the Valar worked diligently and were able to rescue one last fruit of Laurelin which they turned into the Sun and they retrieved one last silver flower of Telperion, the elder of the Two Trees, and that became the Moon. So, you see, even though the Trees are dead, their light still shines on in their memory."

Pippin’s expression now became thoughtful and he nodded, glad that this terrifying Elf-lord was not mad at him for asking such a stupid question. Then he gave Glorfindel a shy smile, unable to resist one last question. "Did you ever swing in them?"

Glorfindel laughed. "No, I never did, though I wish now I had." Then he gave Pippin a conspiratorial grin and lowered his voice as if speaking only to the young Hobbit, but of course, they all heard. "But I know someone who was caught swinging in Telperion once." He turned his head to cast a grin at the Lady Galadriel who glowered at him. Everyone else stared at the Lady of Lothlórien with varying expressions, from amusement (Mithrandir), to surprise (Celeborn) to stunned disbelief (her three grandchildren).

"Daernana?" Elrohir finally asked, giving her an enquiring look, which she ignored, too busy glaring daggers at the unrepentant Glorfindel who was still kneeling. Everyone else held their breaths, waiting for the fireworks to begin, most of them wishing they were suddenly somewhere else.

Pippin, of course, paid no attention to the charged atmosphere around him. He gave the Lady of the Golden Wood an admiring look. "That must have been a lot of fun," he said in all innocence.

Everyone stared at the tween and then at Galadriel to judge her reaction to the young Hobbit’s statement. Galadriel rewarded them with a faint smile. "Yes," she said in her deep melodious voice, "it was a lot of fun."

"Is that your earliest memory?" Pippin asked.

The Lady of the Golden Wood laughed lightly, the sound of it setting the bells of the city gently pealing. "No, Little One. My earliest memory is of pushing Glorfindel into a fountain."

"Hey!" Glorfindel protested while others tried not to laugh. He stood and glowered at the Elf-lady, his hands on his hips.

"Did she really?" Pippin asked, sniggering, trying to imagine either of these terrifying creatures young enough to act like... well, like Hobbit children.

Glorfindel looked down at the young Hobbit, recognizing his glee for what it was, and started laughing. "Indeed she did, but I got my revenge eventually."

"What did you do?" Merry asked, intrigued in spite of himself.

Glorfindel gave Galadriel a cheeky look and the Lady of the Golden Wood raised an eyebrow in challenge. Glorfindel then turned to Merry. "I’m afraid that’s between Galadriel and me." Then before anyone else could speak, he turned to Celeborn. "So, my lord, what is your earliest memory?"

Celeborn wasn’t sure he wanted to participate in this discussion, but he realized what the Balrog-slayer was doing and gave them a smile. "Well, I remember playing besides the waters of Cuiviénen where we Elves first awoke and...."

Losing Something Precious

Summary: The Lay of Leithian doesn’t explain everything that happened during the Quest of the Silmarils. First place in the Teitho contest 'Losers Weepers'.

Warning: Eating or drinking while reading this tale may prove detrimental to your computer.

****

Imladris, T.A. 2943:

"What are you reading, Estel?"

The twelve-year-old mortal son of the Master of Imladris looked up to see Elrohir smiling at him as he stood in the doorway of the boy’s bedroom. Estel was nestled in the bay window which was his favorite place for reading or just thinking.

"The ‘Lay of Leithian’," the young lad answered, "the part where Lúthien and Beren enter Angband and Lúthien dances and sings everyone to sleep."

"Ah, and I’m surprised it hasn’t put you to sleep," Elrohir said teasingly as he came into the room to stand beside his little brother.

"Elrohir!" Estel protested. "I’m not little any more and this is the exciting part anyway."

Elrohir laughed and tousled Estel’s hair, knowing how much the boy hated it. True to form, Estel uttered a protest and tried to move away "Well, I only came to see if you wanted to join me and Elladan on a hunting trip. Ada and Glorfindel have both given their permission for you to come with us."

Estel’s eyes widened in surprise and delight. "Oh, yes, please," he exclaimed as he carefully placed a strip of silk in the tome to mark his place and stood to put the book on the desk. As he laid the book down, he gave Elrohir a considering look. "I bet Morgoth was really mad when he woke up and found one of the Silmarils had been stolen."

Elrohir raised an eyebrow and smiled. "I imagine he wasn’t too happy about it."

Estel tilted his head to the left. "The Lay only tells about what happened to Lúthien and Beren, but it doesn’t say anything about how Morgoth felt about the loss of the Silmaril. I sure would love to have been a fly on the wall in Angband then."

Elrohir laughed again, wrapping an arm around Estel’s shoulders as they exited the room. "I’m sure it would have been very interesting to witness. Now, forget Morgoth. Let’s see what weapons Glorfindel has chosen for you."

Estel gave a cheer and the First Age and Morgoth’s troubles were quickly forgotten in the excitement of going hunting with his brothers....

****

Angband, F.A. 469:

Sauron, first lieutenant of Melkor, tried not to stare but found it rather difficult as he stood before the ebony throne of his dread lord. The Dark Lord sat in deep gloom but Sauron had no trouble seeing the gash on Melkor’s brow or the fact that the Iron Crown looked a bit... well, lop-sided, the right-hand claw which had grasped a Silmaril now empty.

"So, let me see if I understand what happened," he said carefully, keeping any amusement he might be feeling out of his voice. "Thuringwethil and Draugluin came here, supposedly sent by me, but they weren’t really who they claimed to be."

"Of course they weren’t," Melkor hissed angrily. "Do you think I was so blind as not to see beneath their guises?"

"No, of course not, my Lord," Sauron replied quickly. "But I am somewhat at a loss as to what happened afterwards."

There was a deadly silence that stretched into eternity and Sauron forced himself not to lick his lips or show any sign of discomfort. His master’s moods were volatile at best, downright murderous at worst and the slightest thing could set him off.

"Yes, well... I... um... that is to say...."

Sauron couldn’t help raising an eyebrow at the sound of the dread Lord of Angband hemming and hawing. What did happen here?

"My Lord?"

Even through the gloom that eternally mantled Melkor Sauron could feel the Vala’s glare. "I saw through her disguise right away and was amused by her boldness. I thought to... to play with her...."

"Her?" Sauron dared to interrupt.

Melkor glared at his lieutenant. "Lúthien, you dolt, or weren’t you listening?"

Sauron gave him a bow. "Of course, my Lord. Forgive me. Pray continue. You were about to... er... play with the she-elf and...."

Melkor grimaced, well aware of what the Maia was implying, but decided to let it go... for now. "The little chit started singing," he said, sounding annoyed and aggrieved at the same time, "without so much as a by-your-leave. Everyone started snoring, including Gothmog here." He gestured toward the balrog standing to his left.

Gothmog glowered at them both. "I don’t snore," he muttered.

"Then someone was using a very loud saw to cut wood," Melkor retorted.

"I take it my Lord was not so easily subdued," Sauron said, wishing to divert these two from yet another argument.

Melkor turned his attention back to his lieutenant and smirked. "Of course not. ‘So Lúthien, so Lúthien, a liar like all Elves and Men,’ I said to her. ‘Yet welcome, welcome, to my hall! I have a use for every thrall’."

"Nice rhyme," Sauron couldn’t help saying and tried not to cringe when Melkor rose from his throne and stepped down from the dais to face him.

"I was in a good mood," the Dark Lord said in a dangerously low voice.

"I’m sure I would have been, too, if Thingol’s brat were in my power," Sauron replied neutrally.

Vala and Maia stared at one another for a long moment. Sauron finally lowered his eyes in acknowledgment of his subservience. "So, you were not taken in by her song," he said as a way of bringing them back to the subject at hand.

"No, I wasn’t," Melkor said, turning to resume his throne. "I started to take her in my grasp, but the damn girl eluded me. Reminds me of her mother. Anyway, she started dancing and singing! Flitted about like a manic bat with her dark cloak. I could sense the enchantments in it and was ready to counter them. I even started to order the Orcs to take her, but they were all sound asleep by then."

"You did not succumb," Sauron stated categorically, glancing at the Iron Crown with its missing jewel, knowing the lie of his words would sting his master, but really, it was rather amusing to think about some elfling running about putting everyone to sleep, including the greatest and mightiest of the Valar.

Melkor grimaced. "She was more powerful than I suspected," was all he said. "Next thing I knew I felt something sting me, some shard of a Dwarvish blade, I deem, and I came awake to see my crown lying on the floor and two figures running for their lives, one of them holding my Silmaril in his damn hand."

"Ah, the person pretending to be Draugluin," Sauron said. "Let me guess, a Mortal with dark hair going gray."

Melkor nodded, giving him a baleful smirk. "I believe you... um... entertained him for a time yourself... until that same chit of a girl bested you and freed him."

Sauron grimaced. "So we both have been stung by Melyanna’s get," he retorted, "but I just lost a few prisoners. You on the other hand...."

"Careful, Aulendil," Melkor said silkily, knowing how much his lieutenant hated being called by that name. "Someday, you just might lose something more precious than a few prisoners, and when that happens, you’ll get no sympathy from me."

Sauron bowed low and began to apologize to his master for his thoughtlessness, but privately he was smirking. Lose something precious? Yeah, right. As if that would ever happen.

****

Note: Melkor’s words to Lúthien, which he quotes, are taken from the Lay of Leithian.

Any Port

Summary: Faith is often all that stands between a person and despair. First place in the ALEC challenge 'Stormy Days'.

****

"We’ll never make it!"

"We’ll make it, Voronwë! Just have faith."

"Faith, my Lord Elendil!" the pilot screamed above the gale winds driving their ship forward. "What faith? The Valar have abandoned us."

"No they have not," Elendil shouted back. "Are we not the Faithful? Haven’t we ever served and honored the Valar and Eru?"

"We’re Númenóreans," Voronwë shot back, even as he and Elendil wrestled with the ship’s wheel. "We’re of the same blood as that thrice cursed Ar-Pharazôn who dared the Ban. And now look at us. We’re doomed. There’s no hope left."

"While we still draw breath, Voronwë, there is always hope," Elendil retorted, even as he clung to the wheel, giant waves swamping the deck and nearly drowning them. Both men were lashed to the wheel so they would not be washed overboard. No others were on deck. Elendil had sent them all below for safety’s sake, though nowhere was truly safe in this storm of wind and wave. He peered through the darkness and the rain, trying to spot the other three ships that had still been with him the last time he had been able to make them out in the dim light of the dying day. Of Isildur’s ships or Anárion’s there were no signs, had not been any for some time. He sent up a silent prayer to the Valar to keep his sons safe.

As if he had read his thoughts, Voronwë spoke up. "And what of your sons, my lord? We lost them by my reckoning three days ago. Surely they have foundered."

"We do not know that," Elendil said with a shake of his head. "These winds have driven us apart. It’s a miracle that our four ships are still together."

"Even if we survive this storm, we’re not likely to find a suitable harbor," Voronwë pointed out darkly.

Elendil cast him an amused look. "Any port, my friend, so long as we don’t crash upon the rocks and drown in sight of land."

"Hang on!" Voronwë shouted.

This last was screamed even as the ship plunged into a deep trough between the waves, waves that towered over them almost as high as the main mast, or where the mast would have been had it not been broken in half almost from the first. Elendil felt his stomach heave and there was a sense of weightlessness that lasted only for a second. He retched, though his stomach was long since empty. The ship came to the bottom of the trough and then was rising with the wave and that motion was even worse and he thought he would pass out from it, but he clung to the wheel and hung on to consciousness with all his failing strength.

"Lord Manwë have mercy on us," he whispered fervently. "Lord Ulmo, bend your ear to my plea and rescue my people."

For an answer, the waves swept over the ship once again and the winds seemed to increase in their fury, if that were at all possible. Elendil felt his heart sink, wondering if Voronwë was right. Were they all doomed? Was their faith in the Valar misplaced? Did the Valar see them as deserving of death for being Númenóreans? No. He could not believe that, would not believe that. If the Valar had meant for them to die, they would never have survived this long. Their ships would have been drawn back into the chasm that had opened up and swallowed their beloved homeland. But they hadn’t been. He could not swear to it, but just as it seemed to him that their ships would be drawn back to their doom, he thought he had seen a figure rise from out of the depths of the sea and wave a negligent hand in their direction. At that moment, a west wind, stronger and wilder than any he had known before, had sprung up and driven the ships of the Faithful away, the rain drawing a curtain down upon them so they never actually saw Númenor drown, but Elendil had no doubt that that had been its fate. Ar-Pharazôn had foolishly listened to Zigûr and his only real hope was that the bastard was dead and drowned along with the rest of the island.

"We’re doomed!" Voronwë screamed. "The Valar hate us!"

"No!" Elendil screamed back. "So long as I draw breath, I will never believe that. If I die, I will die faithful to my oaths to them. They may indeed abandon us, but I will never abandon them. As Eru is my witness, I will remain true." He reached out a hand and grabbed Voronwë’s shoulder. "Your father named you for the steadfast faith that he had in the Valar, a faith he passed on to you. Do not dishonor his memory or his sacrifice with your words of doom, my son."

"My father died at the hands of Zigûr," Voronwë yelled back, "sacrificed upon his black altar. What did his faith earn him then?"

"Your life," Elendil answered back. At the puzzled look upon the younger man’s face, he nodded. "Your life," he repeated. "The King’s Men were hunting you, but your father convinced them to take him instead. He knew I would need you with me. He gave his life, and the lives of his household, to ensure that you, at least, would survive."

Voronwë shook his head, his expression one of stunned disbelief. "No. That cannot be. Why would he do such a thing? It cannot be. You lie!" He wailed this denial, shaking a fist at Elendil, disbelief turning to anger.

Elendil continued to grasped Voronwë’s shoulder, "I do not lie, son," he shouted. "As the Valar are my witness, I do not lie. Your father knew that without you at this wheel we would indeed be lost. He saw it, Voronwë. The foresight that is our heritage was upon him and he knew."

Though it was impossible to tell with the rain and the waves all about him, Elendil knew his pilot was weeping and he reached out and embraced him awkwardly, for the ropes tying them together to the wheel did not allow for much movement on their part. "He died so others, so you, could live, Voronwë. Have faith in his love for you, if you have faith in nothing else. Don’t let his love be lost in your anger."

He felt the younger man nod and begin to straighten and Elendil released him. Voronwë made a futile gesture to wipe away the tears, then grabbed the wheel with both hands, his expression set. Elendil watched him, nodding in approval. The pilot turned to look at him, and even in the darkness of the storm Elendil could see the fire of his eyes. "If we die, we will die faithful to our oaths to the Valar," Voronwë shouted, repeating Elendil’s earlier words.

Elendil smiled, clapped Voronwë on the shoulder and suddenly laughed, not understanding where his joy came from, but accepting it. He started singing. The tune was an old one popular among the Númenóreans, but the words were his own, a song of defiance, of hope against hopelessness. He sang, his voice rising up above the screaming of the storm:

"Eru is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea, though its waves roar and foam, though the mountains tremble with its tumult. The Lord of the Valar is with us, Eru is our refuge."

A second time he sang and a third and on the third assay, Voronwë joined him, their voices mingling in harmony, defiant and hopeful at one and the same time. And even as they sang, there came a subtle shift in the winds, a lessening of the rain. The waves began to quiet and it was as if a curtain was drawn back and before them....

"Land ho!" Voronwë shouted, pointing at the distant spit of land that they could just see on the horizon, rising grey and green above the sea, the sky lightening in the east with the coming dawn.

Elendil looked about him, and to his delight and everlasting relief he spied the other three ships, battered and beaten though they were, yet they were still afloat. He saw someone on the nearer ship raise a hand and he raised his own and laughed.

"The Valar be praised," Voronwë called out. "We’re safe!"

Yes, Elendil thought, sending a silent prayer of thanksgiving winging its way to the heavens, we’re safe, and to emphasize the point, he began untying the rope that had held him and Voronwë to the wheel even as they made their way into what he would later learn was the Gulf of Lhûn.

****

Zigûr: Adûnaic name for Sauron.

Note: Elendil’s song is an adaptation of Psalm 46.

The Last Gift

Summary: Thranduil receives a letter from Legolas. Written for the Teitho challenge ‘Heart Break’ where it tied for Third.

****

Fourth Age 120:

Thranduil, King of Eryn Lasgalen, hummed a tune as he sat in his study and worked on the bow. He paid no attention at first to what he was humming but then he stopped and chuckled, realizing he’d been humming one of Legolas’ favorite lullabies when he was just an elfling. Thranduil shook his head and smiled for no particular reason as he ran a practiced hand over the shaft, his knowing fingers seeking for any flaws. There were none and he nodded to himself in satisfaction. He gaze fondly at the bow, his eyes lightening with unsuppressed glee at the thought of his son’s reaction when he saw it. He had spent every free moment he had had for the last several weeks working on it and it was nearly finished. He reached for a small knife to finish with the notches when a knock came to the door. Sighing, he put the bow down, wishing — and not for the first time — that his kingdom could run itself for five minutes without him.

"Come," he called out and the door opened to reveal his steward, Galion, standing there somewhat hesitantly.

"Ah, Galion," the king said cheerfully, motioning for the ellon to enter. He held up the bow for the other Elf’s inspection. "What do you think?"

"It’s beautiful, Thranduil," Galion said softly, running a finger down the shaft.

"Not as good as that bow Galadriel gave him, of course," Thranduil said with studied diffidence.

"He would treasure it solely because it was made by you, Thranduil, by his own adar," Galion replied and Thranduil nodded in satisfaction. "So when were you planning on giving this to Legolas?"

"His begetting day is next month," Thranduil answered. "I thought I would surprise him with a visit to Ithilien and give it to him then."

Some indefinable sound came from the steward’s throat and Thranduil looked up, puzzled by the pained expression on his steward’s face. "What is it, Galion?" Thranduil asked and then noticed for the first time that Galion was holding a leather pouch with a particular seal etched on its flap, one that he recognized, and his eyes brightened with anticipation.

"A letter from Legolas!" he cried out in delight, holding out an imperious hand for the pouch. In his excitement he did not notice his steward’s reluctance to give it to him. He did notice Galion looking at the bow and wondered at his expression which seemed... sad for some reason.

"What’s the matter, old friend?" he demanded softly. "Why that long face?" He blinked in amazement as his steward’s eyes began brimming with tears. "My son...."

"He sent you a letter," Galion said, impatiently wiping the tears from his eyes, pointing to the pouch. "I think you should read it."

Thranduil stared at the pouch for the longest time, fear for what he might find inside gripping him. Then he shook himself impatiently and uttered a snarl of contempt at his own cowardice, reached into the pouch and withdrawing two items, a letter sealed with the single leaf-and-crescent-moon seal of the Lord of Ithilien-in-Edhil and a small square package wrapped in white silk and tied with green ribbon. Thranduil reached for one of the knives on the table before him to break the seal, opening the missive.

Dearest Ada....

He read through the letter twice before the import of his son’s words made any sense. He stared at the vellum for the longest time before shifting his attention to the small package sitting on his lap. He placed the missive down and picked up the package, untying the ribbon and pushing back the silk to reveal a small rosewood box. It was plain and unadorned yet it had been crafted with beauty. With trembling hands he opened it and found a ring nestled in white silk. It was made of white gold with the leaf-and-crescent-moon emblem of his son’s realm etched into an uncut emerald. It was, in fact, Legolas’ signet ring and the symbol of his lordship over the Elves of Ithilien.

"He’s gone," Thranduil whispered in disbelief, staring at the ring that would never have left his son’s finger unless....

He jerked at the touch of a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Galion’s eyes full of compassion and sorrow, for Galion had loved Legolas as if he were his own son. "I’m sorry, Thranduil," was all he said and indeed, what more could be said at this time?

Thranduil picked up the letter and handed it to Galion, who read it over quickly before handing it back to the king. "You knew this day would come, did you not, my friend?" he asked gently. "We all knew this day would come. He only stayed for Elessar’s sake and now that the king has gone to his rest, he has no reason to stay. The sea-longing...."

"He has me," Thranduil shouted, rising from his chair, anger warring with the grief that was overwhelming him. "He has me and you and all of his people. Are we worth less in his eyes than a mere Mortal, however vaunted his lineage?"

"I have no answers for you, my friend," Galion said, tears running down his cheeks and Thranduil instinctively reached out and held him, not to give Galion comfort, for there was none to be had, but because he feared that if he did not hold him, he himself would collapse, and he would not allow it... not now... not yet.

After a few moments, Galion seemed to gather himself and he stepped out of Thranduil’s embrace, glancing at the bow lying on the table.

"What will you do with the bow?" he asked, his voice full of compassion for the pain that he knew his king was in.

Thranduil shook his head, unsure how to answer such a question at this time. "I...I think I need to be alone, Galion. Please see that I’m not disturbed."

"Yes, Sire," Galion replied formally, bowing to his lord and exiting the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Thranduil stared down at the bow. It was made of yew. He’d gone out and chosen the wood himself, trusting no other to find the perfect piece for his son’s gift. It was as much a work of art with its leaf-shaped finials and the carved emblem of his son’s realm along the shaft as it was a tool and weapon and while he acknowledged that the bow of the Galadhrim was a much finer thing, he had poured all his love and pride into the crafting of this gift.

And now Legolas would never see it, never hold it, never know the love his adar had for him. He felt suddenly weak and he slipped to the floor onto his knees and clutched the bow to him, fiercely holding it as he rocked back and forth, the tears he had refused to let fall earlier coming in earnest.

"My son, my son. I’ve lost my son," he cried out and wept the harder, his heart breaking and he did not think it would ever be mended again.

****

All words are Sindarin.

Ellon: Male-elf.

Adar/Ada: Father/Papa.

Ithilien-in-Edhil: Ithilien of the Elves, Legolas’ demesne.

A Conversation with the Dead

Summary: Legolas converses with an absent Gimli. Second place in the Teitho contest ‘One Voice’.

****

Tol Eressëa:

Legolas came to the tomb every fourth Valanya, carefully tending the small garden that surrounded the oblong block of granite in which his friend lay. The garden was a profusion of color and pleasing scents that attracted bees and butterflies. They provided a nice contrast to the dark gray of the stone. He would have liked to come more often, but his friends discouraged him, saying it was ‘unnatural’. He had tried to argue otherwise, but when Elrond insisted that he limit his visits and concentrate on the living, he capitulated, little though he liked it.

Yet, in truth, he realized that they were perhaps right. He had noticed that even those who had known the Hobbits did not visit the fane where they lay side-by-side very often, perhaps on the anniversary of their deaths, but otherwise....

Yet, somehow it seemed different with Gimli. None of the others knew the Dwarf and most had been rather scandalized by his presence. Only the Lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond had welcomed him warmly, but even they could not be said to have known Gimli as well as Legolas had.

And, of course, the old Dwarf had died not long after their arrival, for the crossing had been taxing on Gimli’s strength. It had been a frailer Dwarf who hobbled down the wharf by Legolas’ side as they were courteously greeted by a Maia who brought them to the house where they would reside, a house that overlooked the harbor of Avallónë. Gimli had lived only a few short months after that and when he died just before the winter solstice, for the first time in over a hundred and twenty years, Legolas was once again alone.

He’d spent the winter lovingly carving his friend’s tomb and by the time the first crocuses and tulips began to appear, he had finished, placing the granite sepulcher on a plot of land that he had chosen beforehand. It was a hidden dell situated north of the city where the highlands began. He’d made enquiries and had been assured that the dell belonged to no one and so he had cleared it of underbrush, trimmed back some of the trees and once the tomb had been placed there, he’d begun the garden. His friends had only allowed him to come twice a week to tend the garden for the first month but afterwards insisted he come no oftener than once a month.

And now, here it was, the tail-end of summer. He knew his friends disapproved of his coming here, but it did not matter to him. Gimli was all that mattered. He made his way into the dell, a small clearing in the woods surrounded by birch, elm and oak. There was a serenity to the place that always soothed Legolas’ spirit. However troubled he might be, once inside the dell he felt calmer and more at peace.

Always, he came bearing gifts: flowers or herbs with which to grace the garden. Once he’d even brought a small willow sapling and placed it just far enough from the tomb that when it grew it would provide his friend with shade. Glancing at it as he entered the dell he was pleased to see that it had grown some since his last visit. This time he was bringing a small lavender plant.

"Good morning, Gimli," he greeted the Dwarf as he always did whenever he came to the tomb. "Look what I brought." He held the lavender plant up to show the Dwarf knowing how foolish he was being, yet he could not help himself.

And just what is that you’ve got, laddie? the Dwarf asked as he sat on top of his tomb smoking.

"It’s lavender," Legolas replied, even as he knelt before a bare spot of earth, removing the satchel he had slung over his shoulder, taking out a trowel he had brought with him to dig up the soil. Carefully unwrapping the herb from the burlap protecting its roots and placing it in the ground, he replaced the soil. Then he fished out a cup from the satchel and went into the woods to where a rill of water trickled out of the ground, filling the cup and bringing it back to water the plant. He cast a critical eye over the rest of the garden, deadheading some marigolds and picking out stray leaves that had blown from the trees that were only just beginning to change color. Satisfied that the garden was doing well, he put away trowel and cup and sat on the grass, his arms around his knees, gazing at Gimli still calmly sitting on his grave, smoking as usual.

"So, how have you been, my friend?" Legolas asked softly, as he always did.

Well enough, the Dwarf replied. Being dead has its advantages, he said, his eyes twinkling with humor. I don’t mind the wait between visits.

"I’m sorry I didn’t come last month," Legolas said apologetically. "Elrond insisted I attend some stupid garden party."

Ah... Was anyone there whom I know? the Dwarf asked, casting a knowing look at his friend.

Legolas shrugged. "Elrond, of course, and Celebrían, and Erestor. Everyone else was a stranger to me."

So why did Elrond insist you accompany him?

Legolas gave a snort of disgust. "Why do you think? Stupid, simpering ellith." He scowled down at his knees and then his expression turned malicious and he pitched his voice to a higher register. "Oh, Prince Legolas. Is it true that you fought against nasty orcs? I don’t know what I would do if I were confronted with a nasty orc."

Gimli chuckled around his pipe as Legolas continued. "And is it true you consorted with... with Mortals? How...very brave of you." Legolas rolled his eyes and threw his hands up.

Gimli took the pipe out of his mouth and laughed, slapping his knees. Legolas gave him a sour look.

"Go ahead and laugh, my friend," he groused. "You weren’t there."

Ah, but I wished I’d been there, just to see your expression, the Dwarf countered.

Legolas sighed and closed his eyes. "Listening to them prattle about absolutely nothing was bad enough, but they all wanted me to partner them in the dancing."

You like dancing, Gimli pointed out.

Legolas nodded. "But not with ellith who are throwing themselves at me, or more correctly, are being thrown at me by people who I thought were my friends."

Ah....Gimli said, giving his friend a sympathetic look. So how did you answer these ellith?

"I told them that I’d sooner dance with an orc than with any of them and then I made my excuses to Elrond and left," Legolas replied with a huff. He gave Gimli an embarrassed look. "Yes, I know. I was being very rude."

I didn’t say a thing, Legolas, the Dwarf said sympathetically. Were these ellith really that bad? Ugly, were they?

Legolas looked at Gimli in surprise. "Ugly? How can any Elf be ugly? No, they were beauty personified. I just resented being put on display. I resent Elrond and Celebrían and Mithrandir and everyone else insisting I stop mourning and start living. I don’t know what they want from me, Gimli," he protested. "I do what they tell me. I don’t come here all the time and I even stuck to my schedule and did not come earlier even though I felt that I’d been cheated out of my time with you."

You know you can talk to me anywhere and anytime, don’t you, laddie? Gimli asked.

Legolas nodded. "Oh, yes, I know, but... I feel closer to you here and there’s no one around to disapprove."

How did Elrond react to your... um... sudden departure? Gimli enquired, giving him a shrewd look.

Legolas scowled, his face reddening. "He wasn’t happy, to say the least. Celebrían wouldn’t speak to me for days afterward."

And that plaguey Wizard? What did he have to say about all this?

Now Legolas grinned. "He just threw up his hands, rolled his eyes and muttered something about elflings who should know better."

Ha! I can just imagine, Gimli said with a grin. But beyond that, what did he say?

"What do you mean?"

Come, my friend. I know you better than you know yourself, and I remember Gandalf well enough. I’m sure he gave you a talking to after you insulted the fair maidens of Tol Eressëa.

Legolas sighed, looking chagrined as well as embarrassed. "He didn’t yell at me, if that’s what you’re asking. Frankly, I think I would prefer him yelling at me instead of trying to be sympathetic. I don’t want sympathy, Gimli."

What do you want?

"I want to be left alone," the Elf exclaimed angrily, jumping to his feet. "I want to be allowed to mourn for as long as I wish and not have to pretend that everything is fine when it’s not."

And whose fault is that? Gimli retorted. Look, Legolas, he continued, not giving his friend a chance to answer, I’m gratified that you still miss me. I’m pleased that you like to come and visit with me here, though I do wish you would stop bringing all these plaguey plants.

Legolas raised an eyebrow. "But?"

Gimli nodded. But... Elrond and Gandalf are correct. It’s time for you to move on. It’s time for you to find your way to a new life without me.

Legolas cast his eyes down. "Do you... do you miss me?" he asked hesitantly.

I’m dead, laddie. I don’t miss anyone, came the reply.

Legolas raised his head to stare skyward, fighting back tears. "It’s so hard, Gimli. It’s so very hard. I go through my day and start to say something to you about something only to remember at the last minute that you’re no longer there and I find myself grieving all over again."

I’ll always be there with you, Legolas, the Dwarf said kindly. In your heart where death cannot go, I’ll always be there.

"It’s not enough," Legolas retorted harshly, scowling at the Dwarf. "It’s not enough."

But it’s all you have left, Gimli said. It will have to be enough. In the meantime, you know what you need to do.

"And what is that?" Legolas demanded, refusing to acknowledge his friend’s words.

Gimli gave him a smirk. You either have to find an orc to dance with or you start dancing with the pretty ellith.

Legolas stared at him in disbelief. "You’re impossible, you know that?"

It takes one to know one, Gimli said with a shrug.

Legolas let out a huff but didn’t contradict him. He glanced idly at the sky, marking the sun’s position and sighed. "Well, I have to go, my friend. I promised Elrond I would return early as Celebrían wished to go sailing and then have a picnic on some beach."

Sounds like fun, Gimli said with a nod. Are there going to be any ellith on the beach? he asked with a twinkle in his eyes.

Legolas shook his head. "Valar! I hope not. If there are I think I’ll throw myself into the ocean and be done with it."

Now, that’s pure foolishness, laddie, Gimli said sternly, shaking his pipe at him. You go sailing and enjoy the picnic and if there are any ellith on the beach, you can throw them into the ocean and see if they can swim.

Legolas stared at his friend for a moment and then threw back his head and laughed. "Oh Gimli, how I miss you," he said once he calmed down, wiping tears from his eyes.

You’d best be on your way, was the Dwarf’s only reply. You don’t want to miss the picnic.

Legolas nodded, stooping down to pick up the satchel, slinging it over his shoulders. "You’ll be here?" He always asked that as he was leaving.

Gimli nodded. I’ll be here. Then he stuck his pipe back into his mouth and faded away.

"Namárië, meldonya," Legolas said with a sigh as he made his way back out of the dell, already anxious for the four weeks to be up so he could visit again.

****

Unclad, Olórin and Lord Irmo stood watching the ellon leave the dell, the Maia’s aura fluctuating with worry while the Vala’s aura was calmer.

*And he does this every fourth Valanya without fail?* Irmo asked.

Olórin’s aura shifted slightly towards the green spectrum to indicate assent. *When Elrond and others are not able to convince him otherwise.*

*And he always speaks out loud to himself?* Irmo asked.

Olórin indicated assent. *And notice how he pauses as if he’s actually hearing the Dwarf speak.*

*Yes, I noticed that,* the Lord of Lórien replied. *Interesting that the pauses are never the same length. Hmmm....*

Irmo then wove a fana around him and Olórin followed suit. The Lord of Lórien walked over to the tomb, gazing fondly at the flowers surrounding it, brushing a hand idly over the words carved deeply into the granite. "And you are concerned," he finally said, turning his eyes to Olórin.

"Shouldn’t I be, Lord?" the Maia asked with a frown. "Shouldn’t his friends be?"

Irmo shrugged. "He functions well enough otherwise, doesn’t he? He has not retreated into himself or attempted to fade?"

"No, he has not, but that is not to say he has been living either," the Maia replied with a scowl. "I promised Gimli...."

"Ah.... that’s it, isn’t it?"

"What is, Lord?" The Maia gave the Vala a puzzled look.

"You feel that Legolas’ unwillingness to enter fully into the life of his fellow Elves is a failure on your part."

Olórin scowled. "It’s been nearly a year...."

"Olórin, you more than most know that grief knows no time but its own. A year, a century. Legolas will take as much time as he needs to come to terms with what has happened." The Vala gave Olórin a shrewd look. "And forcing him to dance with the pretty ellith is not the way to bring him out of his state."

The Maia actually blushed. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Irmo nodded, walking away from the tomb to visit the willow sapling, silently encouraging it to grow tall. Then he turned to look at the Maia. "Is his conversation...."

"You mean monologue," Olórin interrupted.

Irmo shrugged. "Is it always the same?"

"No. It’s never the same, except in certain parts," Olórin answered. "He always shows Gimli his latest plant that he’s brought and he always asks how the Dwarf is and always asks if he will still be there when next he visits, but in between he speaks about the events that happened since his last visit."

"And you don’t see what he’s really doing, do you?" Irmo said with a gentle smile.

"I’m not sure I understand," Olórin replied hesitantly.

"What is his state of mind when he returns from his visits?"

Olórin shrugged. "He seems... calmer, I suppose, not quite as withdrawn. When he first started visiting this place he would come back silent and brooding and it was with some difficulty that we would get him to respond to anything."

"And now?"

"And now, he seems... less so."

"And there’s your answer," Irmo said with a satisfied nod. "He’s processing. He’s working through his grief in a manner that is comfortable to him, speaking to Gimli about his life, trying to make sense of it and putting it into context."

"So we should not be concerned?" Olórin asked, looking dubious.

Irmo shrugged. "As long as he does no harm to himself or others, I don’t see the problem. Let him continue as he has." He chuckled.

"What is it, Lord?" Olórin asked.

"Oh, I was just wondering what the Dwarf said that caused Legolas to laugh." He gave Olórin a sly grin.

The Maia raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps someday we’ll find out."

"Perhaps someday we will," the Vala said with a nod and then both of them shed their fanar, leaving the dell to its single inhabitant still calmly sitting on his tomb, smoking, waiting for his friend’s next visit.

****

Words are Quenya unless otherwise noted.

Valanya: ‘Powers-day’, the High Day of the Valarin 6-day week, equivalent to the Sabbath-day.

Ellith: (Eldarin) Plural of elleth: Female Elf.

Namárië, meldonya: ‘Farewell, my friend’.

Fana: The ‘raiment’ in which the Valar and the Maiar present themselves to physical eyes, the bodies in which they are self-incarnated. The plural is fanar.

Seeds of the Future

Summary: Gandalf explains to Elrond his part in planting a certain seed. Third place in the ALEC challenge ‘A Seed is Planted’.

****

Imladris: T.A. 2928:

"So how was your journey?" Elrond asked Mithrandir as the two settled in the Elf-lord’s study. Elrond handed the Wizard a goblet of mulled wine, which was welcome on this blustery, cold day in late Hithui. It was in fact, the first day of the season called Rhîw by the Elves and soon the passes would be blocked with the snow that was already falling in the high reaches of the Misty Mountains.

Mithrandir took an appreciative sip of the wine before answering, shifting his chair a bit more so he was facing the fireplace where a fire was burning brightly on the grate. Not that Elrond ever needed such a thing even on a day like today, but the Wizard was not an Elf and he appreciated the warmth.

"Well enough, though I thought for sure things would not go as I’d hoped," Mithrandir finally answered.

"Oh?" Elrond raised a delicate eyebrow. "You never did explain why you needed to leave so precipitously or where you were going."

Mithrandir raised a bushy eyebrow. "Precipitously? As I recall, Master Elrond, I did not disappear in the middle of the night nor did I forego breaking my fast before I left."

Elrond gave his friend a smile. "Yet you had planned to stay through autumn and you were with us only for a week."

"Yes, well, plans change, as they say," the Wizard replied with a twinkle in his eyes and then he sobered somewhat and his tone became graver. "My heart warned me that I must leave when I did, and a good thing, too."

"Tell me," Elrond said and there was a gravitas in his mien that told Mithrandir that it was the Lord of Imladris, scion of kings, who spoke and not simply Elrond Half-Elven, his long-time friend.

Mithrandir nodded, taking another appreciative sip of his wine. "As I said, my heart warned, nay I would say it urged me to leave when I did."

"Did you know where you were going?" Elrond asked. "You only said you needed to leave without explaining why."

"I know, and I apologize," Mithrandir said. "In truth, I was not sure where I was headed, only that I needed to head west. It was only when I reached the Angle and met with the Dúnedain that I felt I had arrived where I was needed."

"The Angle!" Elrond exclaimed in surprise. "What has happened? I have had no word from Arador of any trouble." His expression was one of concern but Mithrandir waved a hand in dismissal.

"There was no trouble, I assure you. All was well among the Dúnedain... well, nearly so," he amended.

Elrond raised an eyebrow. "Let me refill your goblet and you can explain."

Mithrandir handed him the goblet and a few minutes later the two friends were settled once again before the fire now burning more warmly with another log added to the grate.

"Well, as I said," Mithrandir began, "It was not until I reached the Angle that I knew this was where I was meant to be. It was a fair day when I came to the Last Bridge and stood there for a time, pondering my path. As I was standing there a small patrol of Rangers approached from the west. They were heading back home after having spent several weeks patrolling the area around Bree, or so I later learned. Almost as soon as I saw them I knew where I should be going....

****

"Fair day to you, my good fellows," the Wizard called out as he saw the cavalcade of about a dozen Men riding towards him. They were Dúnedain, wearing green or grey cloaks with the star cloak pins at their throats that were their only emblem. He did not recognize any of them, but was unsurprised at that. The leader of the patrol called a halt. He was older than his men, his hair and beard already showing streaks of grey. Most of the others, Mithrandir saw, were perhaps a couple of decades younger with one or two who were obviously stripling youths on their first patrol. The leader dismounted from his horse, handing the reins to one of his men and gave the Wizard a polite bow.

"And greetings to you, Lord Mithrandir. I am Lord Dírhael of the House of Aranarth. Whither do you go?"

"Well, as to that, Lord Dírhael, I have a mind to follow you home." He gave them a mischievous look and more than one eyebrow rose in surprise.

Lord Dírhael, on the other hand, laughed. "My lady wife is always complaining about the strays I bring home. What’s one more?"

"Indeed," Mithrandir replied, his eyes bright with amusement.

"I fear, though, that we have no horse to spare, else I would invite you to ride with us."

"Do not concern yourself with me, Lord Dírhael. I will make my own way. Just be sure to have a good meal waiting for me when I arrive."

Lord Dírhael laughed again and turned to his horse, removing a small saddle bag which he threw over a shoulder even as he addressed his men. "Ride on and alert my wife of my arrival with a guest," he ordered. "I will escort Lord Mithrandir. We should arrive before the supper hour."

Mithrandir noticed that none of the Dúnedain uttered a protest, but saluted their captain and made their way across the bridge, turning off the road to their right to ride through the wilderness towards the group of small villages where lived the remnant of the Northern Kingdom of the Númenórean exiles.

When the patrol was well away, the Dúnadan lord and the Wizard made their own way across the bridge, picking up the faint trail that led south into the Angle. Dírhael knew better than to question Mithrandir about the purpose of his journey, keeping the conversation to generalities about the state of the road between Fornost and Imladris and the doings of the people of the Breeland and the Shire. The Wizard offered his own news about the Elves and his travels east of the Misty Mountains, so their journey was pleasant and relaxing. They stopped at one point to rest and have a brief meal before continuing on and it was late afternoon as the sun was beginning to set when they came to the chief village of the Dúnedain, a walled town where the Chieftain of the Dúnedain resided and where Dírhael also made his home.

Passing the gate where the guards saluted them, Dírhael led the Wizard down an alleyway between the houses until they came to one in particular, a stone-built house, as they all were, consisting of two stories, which was not typical, with a flagged courtyard in front. Even as they were approaching, the front door opened and a young Woman, her hair caught in a tressure with what appeared to be small pearls sewn into the netting, came out and ran joyfully to the Man who opened his arms wide in greeting.

"You’re home!" the maiden cried out unnecessarily.

Dírhael laughed as he gathered the girl into his embrace and swung her around, planting a loving kiss upon her brow. "And I brought a guest," he said, turning to the Wizard who watched with amusement. "Mithrandir, may I present my daughter and the light of my eyes. Gilraen, this is the Wizard Mithrandir, also known in these parts as Gandalf."

The young lady gave the Wizard a proper curtsey. "I am honored to make your acquaintance, Lord Mithrandir."

The Wizard gave her a bow, sweeping off his tall hat. "And I am very honored to meet you, my dear."

"Well, let’s not stand on too much ceremony," Dírhael said with a smile as he took Gilraen’s arm. "My stomach is too empty for it."

Mithrandir and Gilraen both laughed and the three entered the house. Looking about, the Wizard saw that they were in a central foyer that extended to the back of the house. There were doors on either side, leading to a parlor on the left and what appeared to be a study or perhaps a library on the right, for he could see several shelves of books along one wall. A stairway leading to the second floor rose on the right just past the study. Dírhael motioned for Mithrandir to enter the parlor which was somewhat small and cramped and he suspected it got little use. His host gestured to another doorway, an open arch across which were hung heavy blue velvet drapes now pulled back to allow one to move through the opening unimpeded. Obviously, the drapes could be closed to provide privacy and keep out the cold. Passing through the arch the Wizard found himself in a much larger room where a fireplace dominated one wall where a fire was already laid against the coming chill of night. This room had a more lived-in feel to it and the Wizard suspected that it was where the family often gathered. Even as they entered, an older Woman came in from another doorway to their right. The scent of cooking that came from there told Mithrandir that it must be the kitchen.

The Woman was an older version of Gilraen, her dark hair caught under a tressure of emeralds, her figure as lithe as her daughter’s. She smiled when she saw them and Dírhael went to her and kissed her soundly. "Valar! But it’s good to be home again," he said as he released the Woman from his embrace.

She simply smiled. "And who did you bring home this time, my love?"

Dírhael laughed and quickly made the introductions. "This is my beloved wife, Ivorwen, and the reason why I ever bother to get up in the morning," he said and Mithrandir smiled when the lady rolled her eyes. She greeted the Wizard warmly and offered to take his cloak and hat and staff so he might relax. "I’ve had Morwen hold dinner off for another hour as I wasn’t sure just when you would arrive," she said even as she was hanging up the Wizard’s cloak on a peg. "Dírhael, why don’t you take our guest and show him where he can wash up. I’ve put him in the back bedroom that looks west."

Dírhael motioned for Mithrandir to follow him back the way they had come and led him upstairs where he was shown to a small bedroom where there was a pitcher and bowl for washing up. Then Dírhael showed him where the privy was. "We also have a small bathing room just off the kitchen and you are welcome to use it if you wish," the Man assured him.

"I suspect I would have to fight you for it though," Mithrandir retorted with a knowing smile and Dírhael laughed.

"I suspect you are right," he answered. "Bathing in cold streams is just not the same and I reek of horse as well."

"Go and enjoy your bath, my friend," Mithrandir said. "I am well for now."

Dírhael left him then and once the Wizard had freshened up he went back downstairs where Gilraen offered him a goblet of wine, which he gratefully accepted, sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs beside the fireplace while the young lady kept him company until it was time for dinner.

****

It was during dinner that Mithrandir began to have a glimmering of why he was there. The conversation had begun with generalities with wife and daughter filling them in on the latest village news as they started with a cold soup dish made from a variety of different late summer vegetables. Much of the news was rather pedestrian — who was mad at whom, who had a baby, who was ill — the little things that made up the life of a people. Dírhael dutifully nodded and made innocuous comments in all the right places, but Mithrandir could tell that the Man was not really interested. He, on the other hand, was fascinated to get this glimpse of life among Mortals, so different from what it was like among the Elves.

"So what else has happened while I was away?" Dírhael asked as he sipped his wine.

There was a look that passed between mother and daughter that Mithrandir could not interpret. Finally, Ivorwen spoke. "Gilraen and I were invited to tea with Lord Arador’s lady."

"That’s nice," Dírhael said as he continued eating, not really paying attention.

"Lord Arathorn was there as well," Ivorwen said, speaking carefully.

Mithrandir saw Dírhael’s expression go from politely interested to something darker. It wasn’t anger, but what exactly it was, he was unsure, only that Ivorwen’s words did not sit well with her husband.

"And why was Lord Arathorn at tea?" Dírhael asked coldly. "Should he not have been on patrol? I seem to recall he wasn’t due back for another six weeks."

"There was an accident," Ivorwen explained, "a flash flood near Tharbad. Lord Arathorn was attempting to rescue someone who was caught in it and was injured."

"How badly?" Dírhael asked, his expression now one of concern for the heir to the Chieftainship.

"He suffered a broken leg, and some cracked ribs, but nothing worse," Ivorwen assured him. "His men brought him back before returning to their patrol. He’s been convalescing for the last month. He’s only just had the splint removed and is already working on getting himself back into shape."

"And so he was at tea," Dírhael said.

"Yes," Ivorwen answered.

"And?"

"And he asked again for Gilraen’s hand in marriage," his wife answered in a small voice.

Dírhael started to say something but stopped when Morwen, their cook and housekeeper entered and began deftly removing their soup bowls and then returned with the fish course, freshly caught trout, along with red potatoes and sugar-snap peas. Everyone remained quiet while Morwen bustled about. Ivorwen thanked her softly and the Woman gave them a brief curtsey before retiring to the kitchen to prepare the next course.

"So, Arathorn would go behind my back, would he?" Dírhael commented coldly.

"It wasn’t like that, Ada," Gilraen spoke up. "He merely stated his desire to court me and asked that when you returned from patrol that you would of your courtesy accept his suit."

"You are much too young for marriage, my dear," Dírhael replied. "Why your mother and I didn’t marry until we were well into our forties. I can’t imagine why Arathorn would seek your hand at this time against all custom."

"He loves your daughter," Ivorwen said.

"And I love him," Gilraen added.

"Daughter, you are far too young to know about love," Dírhael said in what Mithrandir thought was a condescending tone. "Why it was only yesterday that you were playing with your dolls."

"Ada!" Gilraen protested angrily. "I have not played with dolls since I was ten. I am a woman grown and I think I know what love is and I know I love Arathorn."

"Well, we will speak of it no longer," Dírhael said in an imperious tone. "You are too young to marry and that’s the end of it. Now, let us not bore our guest with our family squabbles. My apologies, Lord Mithrandir."

"No apologies are necessary, I assure you," the Wizard replied. "Perhaps, though, you would accompany me tomorrow when I pay my respects to Lord Arador and his heir."

Dírhael nodded. "I would be honored. As it is, I must give Arador my report anyway. We will go after breaking our fast."

For a few tense moments there was only silence between them and then Gilraen hesitantly asked Mithrandir about his own travels and for the rest of the evening he regaled them all with one tale after another and there was no further mention of betrothals or marriages.

****

Early next morning, Dírhael led Mithrandir to the residence of the Chieftain of the Dúnedain. Lord Arador was older than Dírhael, for his hair and beard were completely white. The two Men greeted one another with the kiss as between kinsmen and Arador gave the Wizard a warm welcome.

"It is rare that you visit us, Mithrandir," Arador said as he gestured for them to join him by the fire. The day had dawned cooler than expected with mist shrouding the town, a harbinger of the coming winter. Arador handed his two guests some mulled cider to help drive the chill from their bones. "I think the last time you were here was for my wedding." He gave them a sly smile.

"And for your son’s naming day," Mithrandir said with a grin. "And speaking of your son, I’d hope to see Lord Arathorn today."

"He’s out riding," Arador answered. "Left before any of us were awake. He’s driving himself to be ready for the winter patrols. He’s not been happy being cooped up here while his men are out risking their lives without him." He gave them a knowing look and Dírhael nodded in understanding while Mithrandir merely sipped his cider, eschewing to answer.

"At any rate," Arador continued, "he should be back soon enough. We have a strategy meeting in a little while to plan how we will be setting up the patrols between now and spring. You’ll be there, of course, Cousin," he said to Dírhael and the Man nodded.

"So, to what do we owe the pleasure of your presence, my lord?" Arador asked Mithrandir.

"Hmm... as to that, I am not sure," the Wizard replied. "I only know that I am needed here for some reason."

Arador lifted an eyebrow. "But you do not know what that reason is," he stated.

"Not precisely, but I think I may have an idea," Mithrandir answered, giving Dírhael a sideways glance. "I would ask for your indulgence in the meantime."

"You are welcome to remain among us for as long as you wish, Mithrandir," Arador replied. "Do not hesitate to call on me or my people for anything."

Mithrandir thanked the Chieftain of the Dúnedain and then excused himself, knowing that Arador and Dírhael needed to speak more privately about matters that concerned them. Walking out into the yard that fronted the Chieftain’s home, he saw a Man riding up, his features so like Arador’s that none could mistake him as anyone but the Chieftain’s son and heir.

"Greetings, Lord Arathorn," Mithrandir called out as the Man alighted from his horse. "I am glad to see you are well on the road to recovery."

Arathorn saw him and gave a glad cry in greeting. "Well met, my friend," he said as the two embraced. "I’d heard that Dírhael had come home with a guest but I did not know it was you."

Mithrandir laughed. "And you? How are you faring?"

"Well enough," the Man said with a shrug. "I grow stronger every day. Soon I will be fit enough to return to the patrols."

"I understand that you have been attempting to press your suit for the Lady Gilraen," Mithrandir said, deciding to get right to the point.

Arathorn grimaced. "Without success, I can assure you. Dírhael is against the marriage, but solely on the grounds that Gilraen is too young yet for marriage."

"One is never too young for love, or too old, for that matter," Mithrandir said. He paused, giving the Man a shrewd look. "Perhaps I can be of assistance to your suit."

Arathorn gave him a surprised look. "How?"

"Just leave it to me," the Wizard said reassuringly. "I will see what I can do to help you and the fair Gilraen."

Arathorn gave him a grateful look. "If you can bring Dírhael around, I would be eternally in your debt."

"Nonsense," Mithrandir said in protest. "Just be sure I get an invitation to the wedding and we’ll call the account squared."

Arathorn grinned. "I think that can be arranged." Then the two parted company and Mithrandir wandered through the village, stopping to speak to one person or another, casually sounding them out about their feelings towards Arathorn and the possibility of him marrying Lord Dírhael’s daughter. And as he spoke to the villagers, he began to think about how best to convince Dírhael that Gilraen marrying Arathorn was the best thing that could happen to the Dúnedain.

****

It was Ivorwen who actually gave him the weapon he needed. It was later that afternoon. He was sitting in the tiny garden in back of the house enjoying the warm early autumn sun, still contemplating on how to help Arathorn win Gilraen’s hand. Dírhael was away speaking with the other captains about patrol duties and the ladies of the house were about their daily chores so he had the garden to himself. Ivorwen came out at one point carrying a tray with a pot of tea and a plate of sweet biscuits and set them next to the Wizard who thanked her. She appeared nervous to him and he asked her to sit and tell him what troubled her. For a long moment she did not answer but finally she spoke.

"Last night I had a dream. It was...disturbing."

"In what way?" Mithrandir asked kindly.

"I was somewhere, a place I did not recognize. It was a green plain and in the midst of this plain there was a circle of thrones. I saw no one, but then from nowhere and everywhere there was a voice that cried out, ‘The storm approaches. Wherein is our hope?’ And then another voice said, ‘It lies with Isildur’s Heir and she who wears the tressure of stars.’ What can it mean?" She gave him a worried look. "I know I wish to see Gilraen married to Arathorn, and perhaps the dream was merely wish-fulfillment, yet, there seemed to be a ring of prophecy to the words spoken by the two voices, neither of which I recognized."

Mithrandir thought for a moment before speaking. "I will ponder on what you have told me. I believe that it is important for Arathorn and Gilraen to marry sooner rather than later. Let me see what I can do to convince Dírhael of this."

"If you can convince that stubborn old fool," Ivorwen said with a grateful look, "I would be...."

"Eternally in my debt, I know," Mithrandir said with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "Just be sure I get an invitation to the wedding."

She smiled at him. "I think that can be arranged."

****

That evening, Mithrandir, Dírhael and Ivorwen were sitting together before the fire in the gathering room. Gilraen had excused herself earlier, saying she wished to read before retiring and was now in the library deep in her book. For a time, the three of them sat in companionable silence, sipping on some mulled wine. Finally, though, Mithrandir decided to broach the subject of Arathorn’s suit.

"I saw Lord Arathorn this morning," he said. "He looks to be recovering nicely from his injuries."

"Yes, he seems fit enough," Dírhael answered, his expression neutral. "His father had the audacity to press his son’s suit after you left us. I told him that under no circumstances would I allow Gilraen to marry at this time."

"You keep saying that Gilraen is too young to marry," Mithrandir said, "yet it is not entirely unheard of for the women of the Dúnedain to marry young. So beyond that, to what exactly are you objecting? Are you, like many fathers, reluctant to see a daughter of the house leave to cleave to another?" He gave the Man a shrewd yet understanding look.

Dírhael snorted, shaking his head and for a long moment he did not answer, merely staring at the fire blazing away on the grate. Finally he looked up. "Arathorn is a stern man of full age."

"And?" Mithrandir pressed.

"And I deem he will be Chieftain sooner than men look for; yet my heart forbodes that he will be short-lived."

Mithrandir suppressed a shiver, for he saw that Dírhael’s words were ones of foresight, not dissimilar to what his wife had experienced, though it was obvious to the Wizard that Ivorwen had had a more direct message from the Powers concerning the fate of Middle-earth.

Before he could answer the Man, Ivorwen spoke up, her tone pleading. "The more need of haste, then, my husband, if what you say is true!"

"Ivorwen speaks truly, my friend," Mithrandir said, then turned to the Woman. "Tell him your dream, dear."

For a moment Ivorwen hesitated, but when Dírhael gave her an enquiring look, she complied. When she was finished, both husband and wife looked troubled. "What can it mean, though?" Dírhael finally asked, looking directly at the Wizard.

"As to that," Mithrandir replied, "the message is clear enough to those willing to hear it. The heir is obviously Arathorn and the woman can only be Gilraen, for that is what her name means, does it not?"

Dírhael sucked in a breath. "But many of our noblewomen wear such tressures."

"But not all are given that particular name," Ivorwen pointed out. "I... we chose it because... oh dear... I don’t remember now." She gave them an apologetic look.

Dírhael gestured impatiently. "It hardly matters why we named her thus. My question still remains: how do we know these words speak of our daughter and not another?"

"Simple, my friend," Mithrandir replied with grave sympathy. "The dream came to your wife, the mother of your daughter, and not to another."

Dírhael still looked unconvinced, but Ivorwen nodded. "The days are darkening before the storm, and great things are to come. If Arathorn and Gilraen wed now, hope may be born for our people, my love; but if they delay, it will not come while this age lasts and we may all live to regret it."

"This is not a decision that can be made in haste, Dírhael, yet haste is needed," Mithrandir said. "Your wife speaks truly: a storm is gathering and darkness is rising. You know this. Elrond of Imladris knows it. If the Dúnedain are ever to rise again it will be in this age and in no other. I firmly believe that Arathorn and Gilraen are meant to marry now."

For a moment silence fell among them, then Dírhael sighed. "I cannot make a decision tonight."

Mithrandir nodded, expecting no less from the Man. "All I ask is that you think about it." Then he gave Dírhael a shrewd look. "Have you spoken to Arathorn at all? Have you listened to him when he speaks of Gilraen and his love for her?"

Now the Man looked embarrassed. "I confess, I have not given him that courtesy."

"Then, I think it’s high time that you did, my friend. High time." And with that, he excused himself, leaving the couple alone with their thoughts, satisfied that he’d done what he could to plant a seed of doubt in the Man’s mind as to the rightness of his own position concerning his daughter....

****

Elrond gave his guest a shrewd look. "So, did Dírhael relent and allow Arathorn his suit?"

"Eventually," Mithrandir admitted, "which is why I have returned here only now. That Man could give a mule lessons in stubbornness."

Elrond smiled. "But he finally came around."

"Oh, yes. The betrothal was announced and the wedding set for next summer." The Wizard smirked. "I already have my invitation."

Elrond now laughed. "I’m sure mine will be coming soon enough. I will have to think on a suitable wedding gift for the happy couple in the meantime." Then his smile faded and he gave the Wizard a worried look. "That dream...."

"Ah, yes. Interesting, wouldn’t you say?" Mithrandir replied with a knowing look.

"Mithrandir..."

"Oh... is that the dinner bell I hear?" He stood, draining his goblet. "Come, my friend. Let us to sup and put aside dark thoughts. The storm is indeed coming and the darkness is rising, but it is not yet here. Until it comes, let us enjoy the brightness of the day."

For a moment, Elrond simply stared at him, but then nodded, seeing the wisdom in his friend’s words. He stood as well. "Yes, you are correct. Let us indeed enjoy the brightness of the day while we still can." Together, Elf-lord and Wizard left the study to join the rest of the denizens of Imladris for dinner, happily discussing possible wedding gifts for the Heir of Isildur and his bride as they went.

****

Words are Sindarin.

Hithui: October/November of the Gregorian calendar.

Rhîw: Winter, which began on 25 Hithui (30 November).

Ada: Papa.

Notes:

1. At this time Arador is Chieftain of the Dúnedain. He will be slain by Trolls in 2930 and his son, Arathorn, will become Chieftain, but only until 2933. Gilraen is 21 years old.

2. Gilraen’s name means ‘One adorned with a tressure set with small gems (like stars) in its network’. A tressure, also called a snood, was, according to Tolkien, ‘used only by women of high rank among the "Rangers", descendants of Elros, as they claimed.’ [Vinyar Tengwar 42:11, ‘The Rivers and Beacon-hills of Gondor,’ (July 2001)]

3. Some of the dialogue between Mithrandir, Dírhael and Ivorwen has been adapted from Appendix A, ‘The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen’.

On the Naming of Names

Summary: Estel has a question about his name. Dedicated to all those who always hated their name. Written for the Teitho challenge 'Names'. 

****

Imladris: T.A. 2944:

"Ada, why did you and Nana name me Estel? It’s such a stupid name."

Elrond looked up from the book he’d been perusing to see his youngest son sitting at a nearby table in the Elf-lord’s library diligently filling in a Family Tree of the Dúnedain. Erestor had drawn it out on a large sheet of foolscap, purposely leaving out certain names and dates. It was Estel’s task to fill in the blank spots from memory. Elrond gazed fondly at the thirteen-year-old Mortal who hadn’t even looked up from his task as he asked his question. The Lord of Imladris slipped a piece of silk into the book he’d been reading and closed it.

"What’s wrong with ‘Estel’?" he asked mildly as he placed the book on his desk and stood to go to his son.

Estel looked up, scrunching his face. "It’s not even a real name," he answered with a huff. "Why can’t I have a real name?"

Elrond was careful to keep his expression one of mild amusement, though his mind was racing. How tempting it was to tell the boy the truth, but it was too soon. He thanked the Valar he had had the foresight to exact a promise from Gilraen that she would let him decide when the time was right to tell her son the truth about his heritage. He glanced at the Family Tree Estel was filling out and raised an eyebrow. Erestor had been very thorough, even going so far as to include most of the House of Finwë into the mix rather than beginning with Elros, which is where the descendants of Númenor’s first king generally began to reckon their genealogy.

"It’s a more real name than some," he finally said, pointing to one of the names on the Tree, Turgon, his own great-grandfather.

Estel frowned at where Elrond was pointing and then looked up in confusion. "What do you mean, Ada? Turgon’s a good name. Better than Estel." He said the last with a sneer.

"And yet, Estel is a proper Sindarin word, while Turgon is not," Elrond said patiently. "It really has no meaning in Sindarin. It is actually Sindarized Quenya. It should have been rendered as Turugon."

Estel shrugged with all the insolence that only the young could manifest. "It’s still a better name than mine," he insisted. Then he gave Elrond a quizzical look. "What other names are wrong?"

Elrond smiled and pulled up a chair while Estel moved his over to give him some room. The Elf-lord took a quick look at the names that were already filled in. "It’s not that they were wrong," he said, "just improperly rendered. The Noldor, when they first encountered the Sindar and began learning their language, did not truly appreciate the subtlety of its form and in their rush to render their names into Sindarin they did not quite get it right. However, by the time they realized it, it was too late and the names stuck." He pointed to one of the names. "Take Aegnor, for instance. What was his name in Quenya?"

"Ah... Ai..aicanáro, I think."

Elrond nodded, looking pleased. "Very good. Do you remember what ‘aica’ means?"

"Sure," Estel answered readily enough. "It means ‘fell, terrible, dire."

"Aegnor is, however, not true Sindarin," Elrond explained with a nod. "There is no Sindarin adjective corresponding to Quenya aica. Sindarin developed a different word, goeol, so Aegnor’s name should have been ‘Goeolnor’ if he’d wanted a strictly correct Sindarin version of his Quenya name. But aeg would have been its form if it had occurred in Sindarin."

Estel sat there pondering his adar’s words, his eyes roaming over the various names that were written on the Family Tree. Elrond gave his son a fond smile. "So, if you had to choose a name for yourself, which of these names would you choose?"

Estel looked up at Elrond, giving him a bright smile. "Finrod," he said without hesitation. "I’ve always liked that name."

"And what was his name in Quenya?" Elrond asked, using his best loremaster tone.

"Hmm....Fini... no Findaráto," Estel answered.

"And that is how the name is rendered in Telerin Quenya," Elrond said with a nod. "Do you know how it would be rendered in the Noldorin dialect?"

Estel shook his head.

"It would have been ‘Artafindë’," Elrond replied.

Estel laughed. "That’s funny sounding. I like Finrod better." Then he paused and gave Elrond a sly look. "It’s a good thing Finrod’s parents named him Findaráto instead of Artafindë."

"Oh? And why is that?" Elrond asked, raising an amused eyebrow.

"Because then his name in Sindarin would have become ‘Rodfin’ and that’s even funnier than ‘Artafindë."

Elrond chuckled and tousled his son’s hair. "I think you’re right about that."

"Actually, now that I think about it," Estel said, looking more serious, "I should’ve been given an el-name."

Elrond gave Estel a surprised look. "An el-name? What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, you know. Your nana was Elwing and your brother Elros and you are Elrond and my brothers are Elladan and Elrohir," Estel explained, stressing the first syllable of each name. "El-names seem to run in the family, though I don’t think Elestel sounds very good." He looked a bit despondent at that and sighed.

Oh! How tempting it was to tell him that he already had an el-name, a name of prophecy — Elessar — but that could not be, not yet. Instead, Elrond smiled, giving him a conspiratorial wink. "Well, I actually wanted to name you Elerossë after my brother but your nana thought that was too grand sounding so we settled on Estel instead."

Estel gave him a disbelieving look and Elrond silently reminded himself that he had better warn Gilraen about this conversation. He had no doubt that Estel would be seeking her out to ask her some difficult questions once he was finished with his task.

"Yes, but why Estel?" the boy asked. "Why such a stupid name?"

Elrond’s expression turned wistful as he brushed his hand through his son’s hair. "Because when you came into our lives you brought us the one thing we lacked; you brought us hope." Then he stood and leaned over to give the boy a kiss in benediction on his forehead, smiling warmly at his youngest. Estel smiled back.

"I still wish I’d been named Finrod," Estel said.

Elrond merely shook his head and, with a glint of amusement in his eyes, said, "By the way, you misspelled ‘Aragorn’."

Estel looked to that part of the Family Tree where the Chieftains of the Dúnedain were listed and scowled. "Bother!" he muttered even as he dipped his quill into the inkwell and then set about making the correction as Elrond left in search of Gilraen and others to warn them that Estel was beginning to ask awkward questions... again.

****

Notes:

1. Much of the information concerning the names mentioned in this story is taken from Peoples of Middle Earth, HoME XII, ‘The Shibboleth of Feanor: Note on Mother-names’ and Parma Eldalamberon 17: ‘Words, Phrases & Passages in The Lord of the Rings’, pp. 112-113.

2. Aragorn I, Fifth Chieftain of the Dúnedain, died in T.A. 2327.

The Young Mortal’s Guide to Trees

Summary: While on their way to have a picnic, Elrohir and Elladan try to teach young Estel some treelore, but Estel has other ideas. Written for the Teitho contest, ‘Trees’.

****

Imladris, T.A. 2939:

"Come, Estel," Elrohir called out to his brother. "It is time to leave."

Eight-year-old Estel hurried down the main stairway of the Last Homely House, his face lit with excitement. "I’m coming, ’Roh."

Elrohir nodded. "Did you farewell your nana and Ada?"

The young Mortal nodded vigorously. "An’ Glorfy an’ Restor and...."

Elrohir laughed and put his arm around his brother. "That is well. Come. ’Dan is waiting for us."

They stepped outside to find Elladan waiting for them. He held a small walking stick cut to Estel’s size and a haversack full of food, for the Twins were taking their little brother on a picnic above the falls, a reward for hitting the bull’s-eye five times successively during archery practice. Estel was practically jumping up and down in his excitement. The Twins exchanged amused smiles.

"Here’s your walking stick, Estel," Elladan said as he handed the carved hickory staff to the boy. Then he hefted the haversack over his shoulder and they set off. Estel turned around to see his nana and ada standing on the balcony of Ada’s library and waved. They waved back.

The Twins herded the youngster along, crossing the bridge that separated Imladris from the rest of the valley, walking along a lane that led through farmland where much of the farming was done along terraces. A thorny hedge to their right acted as a windbreak as well as deterring the cattle and sheep from reaching the terraces, keeping them in the lower parts of the valley.

"Can you tell us what this tree is called, Estel?" Elladan asked as they went along.

"Caigordof, ’Dan," Estel answered readily enough. "Ada had Glorfy make my bow from one," he added. The bow, with a quiver of arrows, had been his birthday gift from Ada and Nana that year and he was very proud of it. The Twins smiled knowingly.

Beyond the farms they came to a small stream, one of many that fed the Bruinen, carefully crossing at a ford before they continued on. The path wound up into the highlands above, where there was a mountain meadow, a favorite picnicking area for the Elves of Imladris. The climb was not steep, at least for the Peredhil, but it was steep enough for a small boy and the Twins allowed Estel to set the pace. They were in no real hurry, however, for it was just after breakfast and the day was yet young, the air clear and crisp, the sun still warm even in the middle of Ivanneth.

As they walked along Elrohir stopped and pointed to a particular tree. "Can you tell me what this tree is, Estel?"

"Gillass goll," the boy said after a moment of examination. "See, the leaves are already turning bright red."

"Do you know what it is good for?" Elladan asked.

Estel shrugged. "Ada makes a perfume from its sap for Nana. She smells pretty."

The Twins chuckled and as they proceeded on their way, Elladan explained some of the tree’s other properties that were of a more medicinal kind. Estel listened dutifully but Elrohir could see he wasn’t very interested. Still, both Peredhil had decided that they should not waste the opportunity to tutor their brother about the various trees in the forest as they climbed to the picnic meadow.

"Ah, look, Estel," Elrohir said. "I bet you cannot tell me what this tree is?"

Estel stopped and glanced to where Elrohir was pointing. "It’s a brethil."

"What kind?"

"There are different kinds?" the boy asked, scrunching his face. "It’s a brethil, ’Roh." This last was said with some exasperation.

Elrohir knelt down to be at eye level with the youngster. "It’s a brethil velui and it’s a very important tree to know."

"Why?"

"It’s inner bark can be pounded into a poultice for treating wounds."

"I thought you used herbs for that, like comfrey and... and lamb’s ear...."

Elrohir nodded. "Indeed, and glad I am to know that you remember Ada’s lessons in those, but you cannot always depend on finding herbs, so it’s good to know which trees can offer aid when you need it."

"I guess," Estel said with a sigh.

Elrohir stood and ruffled Estel’s hair. "Well, let us go. Lead the way, Estel."

The boy nodded and set off at a good pace, at least for an eight-year-old Mortal. His elven brothers exchanged amused smiles and followed. They wended their way along the forest path, Estel delighting in the sight of red squirrels and chipmunks, the latter making a funny chittering noise as they scampered through the underbrush. The trees were a mix of species — maples, sycamores, beeches and oak — but there were tall pines and hemlocks as well, the sunlight filtering through their branches, casting a green gloom all about. Eventually they came to where the path branched, with the left branch heading straight and the right heading upward along a ridge, disappearing around a bend.

"So which way should we go?" Elladan asked.

Estel gave his brother a withering look and, using his walking stick, pointed straight ahead. Elladan raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that, Estel?"

The boy gave him a puzzled look. "It’s the way we always go to reach the picnic meadow," he answered.

"There is another path," Elladan said. "It’s a bit harder to walk, but you might like it." He pointed to the right. "This path will eventually lead one to the northeastern outpost, but we won’t go that far. Are you game?"

Estel stared at the path, his brows furrowed, then he looked up at his brothers. "Will we get to the meadow in time for the picnic?"

The Twins laughed. "With plenty of time to spare," Elrohir answered.

Estel nodded. "Then we can take the right branch, but you’ll have to take the lead ’Dan, ’cause I don’t know this way."

"Why don’t you walk with me and ’Roh can follow," the elder twin suggested, giving Elrohir the haversack full of food. Estel nodded and together he and Elladan took the lead while Elrohir trailed behind them, an amused expression on his face.

The path rose before them and soon they were following it along the edge of a gorge. Below them they could see one of the numerous streams that flowed into the Bruinen further west. The path narrowed and Elladan went first with Estel right behind. Elrohir kept a close eye on the lad, for this path was not as smooth as the other.

At one point, the path opened up more to the left and they saw a second path heading away to the north. Elladan turned on it so now they were heading away from the gorge. This path proved to be a stiff climb until it flattened out and the Twins stopped and let Estel rest a bit, giving him some water, for the boy was sweating with the exertion. They had stopped in a small clearing where older trees had fallen, opening up the forest canopy somewhat so the sun shone down upon them, shattering the forest gloom with its light.

"Ah, look, Estel," Elladan pointed. "Do you know what that tree is over there that’s fallen?"

Estel stood up and went to where a large evergreen lay, its roots exposed. Estel examined the needles and smelled them. "It’s a nimuigalen."

"Very good. I will have to remember to tell Lindir about this tree," Elladan said.

Estel turned to his brother. "Why?"

"The wood has a resonance that makes it ideal as a sounding board for lutes and viols," Elladan replied. "Lindir mentioned just the other day he wanted to make a lute for Glorfindel."

"I didn’t know Glorfy played the lute," Estel said, his eyes widening at the thought of his hero displaying yet another talent.

Both Twins laughed. "Neither does Glorfindel," Elrohir said. "Lindir is going to teach him, or so he says."

"It’s a surprise," Elladan said, giving the boy a wink and putting his finger to his lip.

Estel’s eyes glimmered with childish glee. "Glorfy hates surprises."

"He’ll like this one," Elladan said. "Shall we go?" Estel nodded and they set off again.

Along the way, the Twins would stop at one tree or another and ask Estel if he could identify it. Most he could, a few he wasn’t sure about. Both Elladan and Elrohir noticed a decided lack of zeal in the boy’s responses to their queries but Estel dutifully answered. He had been around Elves for as long as he could remember and had learned how not to act around them. As they made their way across a gully along which a rill of water ran, Elladan looked about.

"Hmmm... deer have been through here," he said.

Estel perked up. "How do you know?" he asked excitedly.

The elder son of Elrond pointed to a stand of young trees, their lower branches denuded of leaves. "See? The deer love to eat the leaves of this particular tree."

"What kind of tree is it?" Estel asked.

"It is called galadh-e-guil," Elladan answered. "The Noldor named it so, but what the Sindar called it has never been recorded."

"Why did they call it that?" Estel asked with a puzzled look on his face. "All trees give life."

"Ah, but you see, this tree saved many of the Noldor, for when they reached the shores of Beleriand after crossing the Grinding Ice, they were weak and listless, their store of energy depleted from the years of trekking across the wastelands. Many suffered from bleeding under the skin and their teeth were loose. The Sindar whom they befriended made a tea from the leaves of this tree and after drinking it the Noldor began to feel much better and their health improved so dramatically that they named this the galadh-e-guil and so it has been known ever since."

Elrohir, while his twin was explaining all this to Estel, was hunting about for a tree that had not been denuded and called them over so Estel could see its leaves. Elrohir laid a hand on the young tree’s trunk for a moment in silent communication and then looked down at Estel. "The tree has agreed to let us take some of its leaves so we can make tea from them. We’ll have some tonight when we are home and you can see how it tastes."

Estel nodded and in a short time they had collected a sufficient quantity and then were on their way again. The path now curved gently around the slope of the gully and Elladan assured the youngster that they were not far from the meadow. Estel smiled and skipped ahead, his eyes wandering along the path, stopping to pick up a dull red stone that had caught his attention.

"So, Estel, what is this tree called?" Elrohir asked, pointing to the tree under which the boy had stopped.

Estel looked up and squinted at the tree and shrugged. "Doron," he answered as he continued examining his rock.

"What kind of oak?" Elrohir pressed.

The boy sighed and moved to examine the tree more closely. "Doron dachol," he answered after a moment.

"Very good," Elrohir said. "And do you know what this particular type of oak is used for?"

The boy shrugged again, obviously not caring, his expression becoming glum. "Estel, what is the tree used for?" Elladan asked.

"I don’t know and I don’t care!" their brother cried, very near to tears.

The Twins exchanged frowns and then knelt before the boy. "Estel, what’s wrong?" Elrohir asked.

"You are!" came the surprising answer. "We’re supposed to be going on a picnic but you’re turning this into a lesson."

"Ada gives lessons when you and he are walking in the woods," Elrohir reminded him.

"But that’s Ada," Estel exclaimed in obvious exasperation at the denseness of older brothers. "You’re my brothers. You’re supposed to be fun!"

Both Peredhil reared back on their heels as if they’d received a blow and exchanged rueful looks as they stood. Elladan put a hand on Estel’s shoulder. "We’re sorry, Estel. We didn’t mean to ruin your fun. Why don’t we go on to the meadow and have our picnic and we promise not to make the rest of the trip a lesson."

Estel nodded, using the sleeve of his tunic to wipe the tears from his eyes. Then he gave his brothers a sly look. "I can show you what this tree is good for," he said.

"Oh?" Elladan said, his eyes narrowing in suspicion, having recognized the boy’s expression and knowing it usually meant trouble.

Estel nodded enthusiastically. "Stay here," he ordered, thrusting his walking stick into Elrohir’s hand, and before his brothers could protest he ran around the tree. There was a moment of silence and then a hissing sound followed by what could only be a sigh of relief. The Twins looked at each other, their eyes full of amusement as they realized what the boy was doing, their suspicions confirmed when Estel stepped around the tree fumbling with the ties of his trews, a contented look on his face.

"That’s better," he said. "Let’s go have our picnic."

The Twins laughed and Elrohir handed Estel back his walking stick and together the three brothers went on their way, reaching the meadow in good time.

And it was a very nice picnic indeed.

****

Words are Sindarin:

Ada: Hypocoristic form of Adar: Father.

Nana: Hypocoristic form of Naneth: Mother.

Peredhil: Plural of Peredhel: Half-elven.

Ivanneth: September/October in the Gregorian calendar.

Caigordof: ‘Hedge-apple’: Osage-orange (Maclura pamifera), has thorny branches and has often been used as a hedge as well as a windbreak, hence its colloquial name. It bears a yellow-green fruit that gives off a pleasant, mild odor, but it is inedible, except for the seeds. The yellow-orange wood is used for tool handles, treenails and fence posts. The straight-grained osage timber (most of it is knotty and twisted) makes a very good bow.

Gillass goll: ‘Scarlet star-leaf’: Sweet Gum (Liquidamber styraciflua), a tree with star-shaped leaves that turn a brilliant red in the autumn (and they rather look like the outline of Númenor). Among other things, its resinous sap was made into perfume.

Brethil velui: Sweet birch (Betula lenta), its inner bark can be made into a poultice to treat wounds.

Galadh-e-guil: Tree of Life, Northern white cedar (Thuja occidentalis or Arborvitae), its leaves are rich in Vitamin C. It is believed that a tea made from its leaves cured the scurvy of Jacques Cartier and his party in the winter of 1535-36.

Nimuigalen: ‘White evergreen’: White spruce: (Picea glauca): its resonance is useful for making sounding boards for guitars and violins.

Doron dachol: Pin oak (Quercus palustris), grows well in wet sites, its stiff spurs were used as pins to hold timbers together before nails were used.

Mid-Summer Reflections

Summary: During the siege of Barad-dûr some of the warriors in the Last Alliance compare their Mid-Summer celebration customs with each other. First Place in the ALEC contest ‘Mid-Summer Frolicks’.

****

Mid-Summer, S.A. 3436, before the gates of Barad-dûr:

"Damn!"

Isildur looked up from polishing his sword, giving his middle son, Aratan, a mild look. "What is it? Did you nick yourself?"

"Nay, Adar," the young Man said with a scowl as he polished his own sword. "I’ve just realized ’tis Löendë and here we are spending yet another year before the gates of Barad-dûr." He grimaced. "Two years and we’re still besieging the blasted place. How much longer is this damnable war going to take? I never thought we would end up...ah.... vacationing in Mordor." he grumbled.

There were snorts of amusement among the others but before Isildur could answer his son, Lord Elrond spoke up. "The Valar laid siege to Utumno for nearly seven of their years."

"And how long is that?" asked Ciryion curiously. He was the youngest of Isildur’s three older sons who had accompanied their father to the war.

Elrond’s gaze went distant, as if he were attempting some calculation, then it became more present. "If Anor had been in existence then, it would have been about three sun-rounds less than seventy."

"Seventy years!" more than one Mortal in their group cried out in surprise. "That’s a long time even for us of Númenor," stated Elendil.

Elrond shrugged. "Perhaps. The War of Wrath lasted nearly forty-two years. At least two generations of Men were born in that time."

"Born and died," Elendil said with a snort.

There were murmurs of agreement among the Men who were there. They were congregated before Lord Elrond’s pavilion, most of them cleaning weapons or repairing armor, while others simply sat back with a mug of ale or a goblet of wine, enjoying the long approach of night on this, the longest day of the year. Besides Elendil and Isildur, Isildur’s three sons were there, along with Anárion and his son, Meneldil.

The Elves in the Alliance were represented by Lord Elrond, Gil-galad’s herald, along with Lindir and Erestor, who had accompanied Elrond from Imladris. The other Elven realms were represented by Amroth and Celeborn of Lórinand and Thranduil, now king of the Great Greenwood with the untimely death of his father, Oropher.

The lone Dwarf in their company was one Azaghâl from Khazad-dûm. He and Elrond had struck up a friendship after the Dwarf had saved Elrond from certain death on the battlefield and the two were often in each other’s company, much to the dismay of many of the Elves, especially Celeborn and Thranduil, who remembered the part Dwarves played in the destruction of Doriath.

Aratan gave a sigh. "Would that we were home with our families celebrating this day."

"And how do you Edain celebrate this day?" Lindir asked as he idly played a slightly melancholy tune on his lap harp.

"Hmmm... well, usually we wake just before dawn and foregather in the court before the Tower of the Dome in Osgiliath," Aratan explained, "and as the first rays of the sun breach the Ephel Dúath, all sing a paean in praise of the Light and..."

"What do you sing?" Lindir interrupted, his expression one of professional interest.

"Oh... um..." now the Man looked embarrassed while the Elves exchanged amused smiles.

"From all that dwell below the skies, Let the Creator’s praise arise, Let all the Valar’s deeds be sung, Through ev’ry land by ev’ry tongue. They gave us Light for all to praise, Anor, Ithil and stars ablaze; We thank thee, Lord, for this great Light, we thank thee also for the Night. Praise Eru from whom all blessings flow, Praise him, all creatures here below, Praise him who dwell in Aman blest, Praise him in whom we shall find rest."

Everyone stared at Elendur, Isildur’s eldest son, as he sang the words in his deep baritone. As the final note was sung he shrugged at the bemused expressions on everyone’s faces, then went back to repairing the chainmail he’d been working on, patently ignoring all.

"A... um... very interesting song," Lindir finally said in the silence that followed.

"Meaning, you find it naively simple and unworthy of your great talent," Erestor said with a wicked grin. Lindir merely sniffed but made no other comment.

"It was composed by Elros Minyatur," Elendil said in mild defense, "and sung in Númenor at every Mid-year’s Day, at least by the Faithful. In later years such practices fell out of favor among most of the populace, especially in Armenelos."

Lord Elrond looked at Elendil with interest. "My brother composed it, you say."

Elendil nodded. "For his children, or so the story goes. So, you see, Master Lindir, it is indeed a naively simple song as Master Erestor has said, for it was composed with children in mind."

"I think it quite lovely, myself," Erestor said, "and very apt for younglings who, I imagine, sing it quite lustily and with abandon."

"And mostly out of tune," Anárion said with a laugh, casting a fond gaze upon his own son who blushed slightly. There were friendly chuckles from all.

"Do the Elves celebrate Mid-Summer?" Ciryion then asked shyly.

"Yes," Amroth answered, "though our celebrations differ from one place to the next, I believe. In Lórinand we remain awake throughout the night before, spending the time in dancing, singing and the telling of tales. This continues throughout the day and there is usually much merriment with games and contests. Then when evening finally comes, we hold a great feast which lasts until the next morn." He gave them a bright smile. "And then most of us sleep for a week afterwards."

Everyone laughed loudly at this.

"That’s because you drink Dorwinion until it’s coming out of your ears, Amroth," Thranduil said as they all continued laughing.

"And who’s fault is that?" Amroth rejoined mildly. "You Elves of the Great Greenwood are even worse, so I am told."

"Aye, but we know how to pace ourselves," Thranduil retorted, his eyes gleaming with mischief, "while you of Lórinand swill the stuff as if it’s going out of style."

Laughter continued for a while and there were other comments, some ruder than others, but all taken in good humor, for none of it was mean-spirited. Finally, they calmed down and there was a companionable silence for a time among them. Then Elrond spoke, his voice quiet. "We of Imladris follow the customs of Lindon where Gil-galad comes before the people and sings a hymn of his own composing, and it is always a new one every year. Then there is a city-wide celebration where people gather in the various squares and eat and sing and make merry. We of the Court gather for a great feast with fourteen removes, each one dedicated to a different Balan."

"How long did it take you to eat all that?" Anárion asked.

"What did you eat?" Aratan asked almost at the same time.

"And do you truly dedicate a remove to the Lord of Mandos?" Ciryion, the youngest among them all asked in surprise.

Elrond lifted an eyebrow. "All day, everything in sight, and why not?"

There was a brief silence and then the Dwarf, Azaghâl, who had remained quiet throughout the discussion, being intent on carving a new haft for his axe, snickered and then they were laughing, the three Men looking embarrassed. "And how do the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm celebrate this day, if indeed they do?" Elendil asked the Dwarf politely.

Azaghâl nodded. "Oh, indeed we do celebrate, Lord Elendil. It is much as is done elsewhere from what I gather: singing and dancing and feasting and the swilling of large quantities of drink, though in our case, some very fine beers and ales. I think only Men would appreciate them, however. Elves, I deem, are too delicate of constitution to enjoy them."

There were many eyebrows raised at that statement and not a few affronted looks among some of the Elves, though Elrond’s expression was more one of fond amusement for his friend’s acerbic tone.

"Well, you obviously have never had Dorwinion, Master Dwarf," Thranduil said somewhat huffily.

"Indeed I have, my Lord Thranduil," Azaghâl retorted affably, "and I find it rather... weak, myself, though my son, Bóri, enjoys it." He gave them a sly grin. "As they say, there’s no accounting for taste."

There was a sprinkling of laughter and the previous tension among them lifted. Isildur was about to make a comment when all looked up at the approach of a golden-haired Elf.

"Ah, Lord Glorfindel," Azaghâl exclaimed cheerfully as the Balrog-slayer reached them. "We have been entertaining one another with descriptions of how our people celebrate Mid-Summer. I understand you originally hail from Gondolin. Pray, tell us how your people celebrated this day."

There was a sudden intake of breath from more than one throat and an uncomfortable silence hung in the air, especially among some of the Elves as they waited for Glorfindel’s response. Glorfindel stood there, blinking once or twice at the Dwarf, as if he were not quite sure he’d heard correctly. Azaghâl, for his part, began to realize the inappropriateness of his question and started to stammer an apology, but Glorfindel forestalled him with a shrug.

"By dying, Master Dwarf," he said calmly enough, then turned to Elrond. "Gil-galad wants a word with you, Elrond, and you, too, Elendil." Then he turned and walked away without so much as a bow to any of them.

That seemed to be the signal for the group to disperse, each to his own place, as Elrond and Elendil stood to follow Glorfindel. Azaghâl looked worriedly at the retreating figure of the Balrog-slayer. "I did not mean to...."

"It is all right, my friend," Elrond said kindly, laying a comforting hand on the Dwarf’s shoulder. "We have all learned not to mention ‘Mid-Summer’ and ‘Gondolin’ in the same breath around Glorfindel. It’s a rather touchy subject for him."

"And I thought vacationing in Mordor was bad," Aratan muttered to his brothers in an attempt at levity as they were taking their leave.

Isildur, having heard, rolled his eyes and whacked his son on the back of his head with the palm of his hand. "Just for that, you get to sing the paean of praise before the entire troop before we sit to sup," he admonished Aratan.

"Alone?" the young Man practically wailed, his eyes widening in distress.

"Do not worry, Aratan," Elrond said with a wicked grin. "I’ll have Lindir accompany you." And with that he and Elendil headed for Gil-galad’s pavilion while everyone but Lindir and Aratan laughed.

****

Words are Sindarin:

Adar: Father.

Lórinand: An older name for Lothlórien.

Balan: Vala.

Notes:

1. Vacation may appear to be a modern term but it came into existence around 1350 with the meaning ‘freedom from something’, i.e. from work or study.

2. In the Gregorian calendar, the mid-point of the year is 2 July (Day 183). According to Tolkien, the Númenóreans began the year on our 22 December, which they called Yestarë (Beginning-Day), the day before being Mettarë (End-Day). Löendë, or Mid-year Day, would then fall on 21 June, the day of the Summer Solstice. See ‘Appendix D’.

3. The hymn sung by Elendur is an adaptation of ‘Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow’.

4. Azaghâl (this story’s only OC), and his friendship with Elrond, is described in my tale Elladan and Elrohir’s Not So Excellent Adventure.

The Cost of Friendship

Summary: An Elf contemplates the cost of befriending a Mortal. Second place in the ALEC contest "The Cost of Friendship".

****

The room was small, perhaps no more than ten paces across. It was also bare of anything save a narrow sleeping couch. The Elf didn’t bother with it, but sat hunched on the floor, his back to one of the walls, his arms wrapped around his legs. His eyes were closed and his forehead rested against his knees.

What happened?, he wondered.

He wasn’t entirely sure. He remembered being in the woods with another Elf. They’d been hunting something... no! Someone. Someone dear to him, he was sure, but the memories kept shifting and it was hard for him to latch unto any one of them, to give a name to the one they’d been seeking. He struggled to claim the memory, but it remained elusive. Whom had they been seeking and why? It was so frustrating. He sighed and raised his head, leaning it against the wall, thinking furiously.

He’d been with another Elf, gaunt and barely alive himself. The other Elf had been... had been a slave. Yes! An escaped slave of the Enemy and it was only chance, or perhaps not, that brought them together, for that Elf knew of the one he’d been seeking, desperately seeking, and together they followed the trail of the orcs who had captured his friend.

Yes! Friend. And that friend was....

He groaned in frustration. It was so close. The name was there. Somewhere in his memory was the name of his friend. Another Elf? No. He didn’t think so. That did not ring true for him. No. This friend was... was.... a Mortal.

He opened his eyes. A Mortal. His friend was one of the Secondborn. How odd. Yet, how right it seemed to him. Yes. A Mortal was his friend, and more than a friend, a beloved comrade. They had fought together against the Enemy, had shared many adventures, overcome many dangers, but in the end....

"I died."

The sound of his voice startled him but he felt a need to speak aloud. Too long had he sat in silence. But no! That could not be true, could it? He didn’t feel dead, but then how was he supposed to feel? Why couldn’t he remember? Why did his memories stop so suddenly? He could remember the chase with the other Elf beside him, he could remember killing the wolf-sentries. He could remember seeing his friend bound to a withered tree and then... nothing.

Is that when he died? Did he fail in his quest to rescue his friend? Was that it? Or was it something more, something else, something too horrific for him to acknowledge?

He died. That he would accept. But how? Apparently in his attempt to rescue the Mortal. Was that it? That he’d died for the sake of a Mortal, and the shame, the ignominy of dying for one he considered beneath him had caused him to forget? But no. That didn’t ring true for him. How could he call a Mortal ‘friend’ and think him a lesser being?

He took a deep breath (and why would he need to breathe if he were dead?), trying to calm himself. Perhaps he was trying too hard. Perhaps if he just relaxed, the memories would come of their own accord. Closing his eyes again, he willed himself to stillness, trying to keep his mind blank. He let his mind drift from one memory to another. He saw himself hunting the orcs who had taken his friend. He saw himself meeting the other Elf and sharing lembas with him, the two of them setting off together in search of the one who was lost. He saw himself shooting the wolf-sentries, releasing the Mortal from the withered tree and carrying him away, but not far. He saw himself slicing his friend’s bonds with his sword and then....

He opened his eyes in shock. No! It’s not possible. Surely it hadn’t happened that way. But as much as he tried to deny it, he knew it for the truth: he had died at his friend’s hand.

Tears streamed down his face and he buried his head, allowing himself to mourn, mourn for himself and for his friend, his still nameless friend.

"Child, what troubles thee? Why dost thou weep?"

He looked up to see a Being standing before him, his mien grave, his eyes full of compassion.

"My... my friend... my friend killed me."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because he knew not that it was thee, thinking thee one of the orcs come to torment him again."

"I can’t remember his name. Why can I not remember his name? He is my friend and I don’t even know who he is."

"Dost thou hate thy friend for what he did?"

He shook his head. "He is my friend. I love him. He killed me, but I love him still. If only I could remember who he was."

The Being stooped down and gathered him into his arms. He tried to protest, but then he found himself lying on the couch. The Being spoke dulcet words of comfort as he stroked his hair. "Peace, Child. Someday thou shalt remember thy friend’s name, but for now, thou must sleep, for thou’rt weary unto thy very soul."

He struggled to remain awake, fearful suddenly of falling asleep, but it was no use and in minutes he was slumbering. He never knew when Námo placed a blanket over him. He never heard the Lord of Mandos speak once more. "Sleep, Beleg Cúthalion. Sleep and forget Túrin... for a time."

An Ostentation of Colors

Summary: Aragorn and Legolas have a colorful discussion. Written for the Teitho contest 'The Colours of Middle-earth'.

****

Minas Tirith, T.A. 3019:

"Black, white, grey. You Men are such a colorless lot."

Aragorn looked up at Legolas with a smile. The two were sitting in Aragorn’s study taking their ease until it was time for court, for Aragorn would be meeting the new ambassador from Khand in a short while. Faramir was busy overseeing that all was in readiness.

The Elven prince was decked out in sartorial splendor in various shades of green. He wore a knee-length tunic of emerald green brocade shot with blue and gold. Its sleeves were open and long and lined with green silk. His linen shirt was dyed the palest green, reminiscent of Spring, and was cuffed with gold buttons. His leggings were of suede dyed a deep forest green while his ankle boots were made of the same brocade as his tunic. A belt of intricately linked gold leaves circled his slim middle while on his head was a thin gold coronet with a single pigeon-egg emerald cabochon gracing its center. His hair was flowing and unbraided, his leaf-shaped ears peeking out between his locks.

Aragorn glanced down at his own outfit, though he knew perfectly well what he was wearing. His tunic was black velvet with the White Tree and Stars of the kingdom embroidered upon the front in silver thread, the center of each star a diamond. Underneath was a fine linen shirt dyed a dark purple, costly and rare. The cuffs and high collar of the shirt were embroidered in silver filigree. His leggings were black suede and his boots were black leather, as was his finely tooled belt on which hung his sword. His hair was bound with the Star of Elendil and his only jewelry was the Ring of Barahir.

"As I recall, the Sindar of Beleriand favored shades of white and grey when only stars lit the sky," Aragorn countered. "I remember Lord Celeborn once describing to me his impressions of the Noldor and how gaudy they looked when they first appeared in Beleriand. He said, and I quote, "Peacocks could have taken lessons from them in meretriciousness."

Legolas laughed. "And why not? At least we Elves are not afraid of outshining peacocks. You Mortals seem to revel in being dull."

"Tell that to the Hobbits and see where it gets you," Aragorn retorted with a smile. "They are no less mortal than Men and Bilbo always enjoyed wearing colorful waistcoats. Frodo and his cousins, as well, even Sam. And you cannot deny that my people are colorful enough when the occasion demands it."

"Yet I have never understood why your ancestors chose black for the Númenórean Realms in Exile. White, I can see, even blue or green, which is favored by the Rohirrim, but black? Most would associate that with the Enemy who is no more."

Aragorn shrugged. "I cannot tell you what was in Elendil’s mind when he chose black except you have to admit it makes it easier to see the Tree and Stars." He gave the Elf a sly grin as he pointed to his chest.

Legolas snorted in amusement. "Your own people of the North, though, favor shades of brown, dull green and grey and I understand you have given your northern steward permission to use that as his standard: a grey background with a single eight-pointed star. Not very imaginative." He sniffed in disdain.

"We weren’t always like that," Aragorn said softly. "Once we were a proud people, our colors as bright as the future we saw for ourselves, but that future was betrayed and we were forced into the shadows. Grey was our only hope of survival, for grey is neither black nor white but something in between, often overlooked and that has been our heritage."

"Until now."

"Until now," Aragorn acknowledged with a nod. "Yet, should we deny our heritage, pretend that sacrifices were never made, that our history should be forgotten? It will take time for us to leave the shadows, my friend, but leave them we will and perhaps you will not think us so colorless then."

"Still, every time I walk through the city I have this mad urge to find some red paint and start splashing it on all those white walls," Legolas said with a grin.

Aragorn laughed, slapping his knee. "That sounds like something Gimli would say," he said.

"Or do," Legolas shot back.

"Oh, no, my friend, that’s something Merry and Pippin would do. And they wouldn’t stop at red, either. I imagine they would use yellow and orange and as many other colors as they could get their hands on, including pink." He gave the Elf a convincing shudder.

Legolas laughed. "It would certainly be an interesting sight. Then you would have to change the name from the ‘White City’ to the ‘Rainbow City’."

Aragorn chuckled, then gave the Elf a shrewd look. "Why this concern about the color of my garb?"

Legolas gave him an elegant shrug. "You are the King Returned. I do not think I should outshine you."

"Legolas, you’re an Elf. You could appear in beggar’s rags and still outshine even the most colorfully dressed Mortal. Do not concern yourself on my behalf."

The prince raised an eyebrow and started to make a comment but was interrupted by a knock on the door. "Enter," Aragorn called out and Faramir walked in. The Steward Prince of Gondor was dressed in a brocaded tunic in shades of white and cream with subtle hints of rose and blue. The front of the tunic had the ubiquitous Tree and Stars picked out in dark pewter-grey metallic thread that had almost a blue sheen to it. His hair was bound with a simple circlet of silver naked of any gem but around his neck was a star-shaped pendant inset with a star sapphire. He carried in one arm his rod of office.

He gave the two a warm smile. "All is in readiness, my king."

"Thank you," the King said and rose, straightening his tunic. Legolas stood as well, grabbing a white samite cloak and helping Aragorn into it, pinning it with the Elessar that had been sitting on the desk, the green elfstone flashing in the sunlight. Aragorn gave his friend a smile of thanks and the three exited the study and made their way to the main throne room where Faramir announced them. When all were in place Aragorn indicated that he was ready to receive the new ambassador from Khand. There was a stir of excitement among those attending this presentation as one of the heralds announced the name of the new ambassador and his entourage, then the doors were flung open and everyone gazed in awestruck wonder at the sight.

The first to enter were two women dressed in gaudy silks in a mixture of colors — rose, gold and indigo — their faces veiled so only their eyes were visible. Each of them carried a silver bowl full of red rose petals which they strewed behind them, making a carpet on which the rest of the procession trod. Behind them came a group of six warriors, tall and dark skinned, wearing short tunics in shades of ochre and red with leopard-skin capes, the heads of the leopards forming a hood over their heads. Each warrior carried a spear taller than himself. Next came a group of what most assumed were nobles of the Khandian court, their robes of ruby and emerald, citrine and sapphire, reminding Aragorn of a moving flower garden.

He stole a glance at Legolas standing on his left but the Elf’s expression was unreadable. Others of the court were more open in their astonishment. He could see the Hobbits two steps down on his right staring open-mouthed, their eyes getting larger and larger. Gimli, who had stayed with the Hobbits, giving Aragorn and Legolas some time to themselves, was still as stone and it was impossible to tell what his expression was behind his beard. A glance to his right where Gandalf stood showed the Wizard watching the entire procession with amusement, his eyes twinkling with delight. The Wizard looked his way and winked, which surprised Aragorn, for he had no idea what that wink meant, but he smiled anyway and then returned his attention to the procession, wondering when the ambassador would actually show up.

He didn’t have to wonder long, for there was a brief pause as the Khandian nobles reached the throne dais and moved to either side, giving everyone a clear view of the aisle down which the ambassador would make his entrance. There was a gasp from those of Aragorn’s court who were closer to the doors and then the ambassador was there.

Aragorn blinked, unsure of what he was seeing. The ambassador rode in on a magnificent pure black charger dressed in white samite, its caparisons of silver covered with every conceivable gemstone so that the horse appeared to be walking within a scintillating rainbow. The ambassador himself was bedecked in a full-length brocaded tunic with flowing sleeves that seemed to be a mix of different colors, though red predominated. It was trimmed with golden-red fur. Under this he wore an undertunic of the whitest lawn. His head was covered with a tall cap of the same brocade trimmed with the golden-red fur. His dark hair and beard were braided with colorful ribbons and jewels and there were rings on every finger. He wore a necklace of gold with emeralds, sapphires and rubies. His bearing was straight and proud and Aragorn suspected the man was arrogant to a fault.

Legolas leaned slightly toward him and in a low voice said, "I take back everything I said about Men being dull and colorless. I think these Khandians could give even the Noldor lessons in meretriciousness."

Aragorn only nodded, keeping his expression neutral as he watched the ambassador stay his steed when he was still ten feet from the throne dais and dismount, making his way forward to present himself to the King. He suddenly felt underdressed and as dull as Legolas had accused him of being and stifled a sigh. Then, Legolas leaned down and whispered into his ear, "I also think you outshine them all."

Aragorn glanced up into his friend’s face and, seeing the absolute sincerity in his eyes, smiled, mouthing a silent thank-you before returning his attention to the ambassador who had just reached the bottom of the dais and was presenting his letters patent to Faramir.

Soul Song

Summary: When Legolas fears the Sea-longing may take him sooner than he’d hope, Glorfindel offers a solution. Tied for Second Place in the  Teitho contest 'Music'.

****

Glorfindel stepped outside the guesthouse in the pre-dawn darkness and made his way along the silent street to the ramp leading to the seventh level. He was not sure what had induced him to leave his bed and come out when the city still slept but he had long ago learned to trust his feelings. If there was a reason for him being there, he did not doubt it would manifest itself in due time. He had eschewed staying at the Citadel this time around, deciding he wanted a little peace and quiet. Between Estel and Arwen’s growing brood, now augmented by little Eldarion, and Elladan and Elrohir playing the doting uncles, he needed the peace and quiet.

"Getting old, are we?" Estel had quipped when Glorfindel had told him of his decision to stay at a guesthouse. He had refused to justify that outrageous question with an answer, but he had to chuckle at the thought. Perhaps he was getting old... and weary.

He smiled to himself as he reached the top of the ramp and made his way to the Fountain and the White Tree. It had grown into a fine tree in the intervening years since it’d been planted. As always, it was guarded. He gave the two guards facing him a gracious nod in greeting as he went between them to greet the Tree. Neither guard moved, not even their eyes; they may as well have been statues. He hid a smile at the absurdity of Mortals feeling a need to guard a tree, but his amusement fled at the thought of two Trees that should have been guarded and were not.

Shaking off that morbid thought, he bowed to this daughter of Nimloth, Gilthilion and Telperion and gave it a silent greeting. The Tree answered with a gentle swaying of its branches, though there was no early morning breeze as yet. It was while he was greeting the Tree that he felt another presence. Turning from the Tree he spied a dark figure standing at the prow of the great ship-keel of stone that gave Minas Tirith, now renamed Minas Anor as of old, its distinctive character. The figure was cloaked in Lothlórien grey and looking over the ramparts, or rather, Glorfindel amended as he recognized Prince Legolas, looking southward.

Moving with preternatural grace, Glorfindel approached the younger Elf who stood still as the stone surrounding them. "Thranduilion, what do you here? Wait you to greet Anor this fair day?"

For a long moment Legolas did not respond and when he did it was with a question of his own, spoken barely above a whisper. "Do you ever feel it?"

"Feel what, child?" Glorfindel retorted, though he suspected he knew to what Legolas was referring.

The elven prince finally turned to look at him. "The Sea-longing. Have you ever felt it?"

Glorfindel gave him a sympathetic shake of his head. "No, I never did, though I have met those who have."

Legolas nodded as he looked back over the rampart towards the south and the Sea. "I promised myself I would stay for as long as Aragorn lived, but it’s hard, so very hard at times not to give into it and make my way to the Grey Havens."

Glorfindel sighed and took a couple of steps toward the younger Elf. "It is a very dangerous thing to love the Secondborn. It only leads to grief."

Legolas gave him a puzzled look. "Yet, you stay."

"For Arwen’s sake, and yes, for Estel’s, too. But my first duty is to the Elrondionnath. I stay because they stay. When they are ready to leave, I will leave with them."

"And if they decide never to leave?"

Glorfindel smiled. "Oh, they’ll leave all right. I’ll make sure of that."

Legolas raised an eyebrow but did not comment. Instead, he let his gaze drift southward again. "It’s been fifteen years and yet...."

"You will be heading North with us when Estel and Arwen go to Annúminas later this month." It was more a statement than a question, but Legolas nodded. "The time spent there may help ease the longing. Sometimes I think you made a mistake coming to live in Ithilien."

Legolas gave him an elegant shrug. "I fear no matter where I am I would always hear the song of the Sea whispering in my mind, haunting my soul, calling to me. Perhaps in Eriador the call will be weaker, but it will still be there."

"What you need, then, is another song to counter it, to ward your fae with it, a song that will keep Lord Ulmo’s call from invading even your dreams, which is why I suspect you are out here rather than in your bed sleeping."

Legolas turned to him with a skeptical look. "And what song do you suggest I sing to counter the Sea-longing?"

"I said nothing about singing, child," Glorfindel retorted with a smile. "I said ‘ward’. What you need is a Song of Power, or rather, a specific Song more ancient even than the Sea."

"And you just happen to know this Song?"

"I know where to find it."

"Where....?"

Glorfindel pointed to Legolas’ chest. "Here," he said.

"You speak in riddles, my lord," Legolas said coldly, giving the older Elf a scowl.

Glorfindel did not answer immediately. By now the sky had brightened to blue and Anor would be rising above the mountains soon. Somewhere a cock crowed and there was the sound of a shutter being opened. He could see the elven prince’s face more clearly now. Legolas’ expression was a conflicting mixture of doubt, hope and longing that smote the older Elf’s heart. He gave the prince a sympathetic smile.

"The city awakes," he said unnecessarily, even as four men in the livery of the Guard approached those standing sentinel around the Tree, relieving them of their duty and taking their places. "Come. Let us seek out Estel. There is something I wish to ask him."

"But...."

"Let us first speak with Estel," Glorfindel said firmly, taking Legolas’ arm and leading him toward the King’s House behind the Citadel. Legolas knew better than to offer any more protest and allowed himself to be led away.

****

Aragorn stared at the Elf-lord who was both friend and mentor. "You wish to do what and go where?" he asked in disbelief.

"And the sooner, the better for all concerned."

"For how long?"

"Well, it’ll take us a few days to do the construction and then how much time after that..." Glorfindel shrugged. "However, do not change your plans for us. If we’re not back before you are ready to leave for Arnor, go on without us. We’ll catch up with you once we are done."

Aragorn stole a glance at Legolas. "And is Gimli going with you?"

"Valar, no!" Legolas exclaimed.

"This is something no Mortal can know about," Glorfindel said smoothly.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow and gave them a sly smile. "So I assume I’m not invited." Neither Glorfindel nor Legolas deigned to answer that statement. "What if I do not give you my permission? What then?"

"Would you truly deny me or Legolas anything?" Glorfindel asked.

Aragorn’s eyes narrowed. "I’m just wondering why you of all people are even bothering to ask a lowly Mortal such as myself permission to do anything."

"Never lowly, Estel," Glorfindel said in all seriousness. "And I ask because we are your guests. I am only being polite."

"I see," Aragorn replied with a skeptical look. "Well, you indeed have my permission, my lords. I wish you well in your endeavors. I’ll have Faramir see that you are supplied with all that you need." With that, he gave them a brief bow and left the two Elves staring after him.

"He’s angry," Legolas said with a sigh.

"He’ll get over it," Glorfindel said dismissively. "Come. We have much to do." He began walking away, never looking back, confident that the elven prince would follow him.

****

Faramir led the two Elves down a short alley between the King’s House and the wall surrounding the seventh level until they fronted a small carpenter’s workshop and gestured them inside. "Here is all that you will need, my lords."

"Thank you, Faramir," Glorfindel said graciously. "Now are you sure you can keep certain people occupied while we work?" He gave the Mortal a sly grin.

Faramir laughed lightly. "Do not worry, my lord. I will inundate his Majesty with so much paperwork he’ll think it’s snowing." — both Elves laughed — "And I have Gimli happily consulting with our engineers on a bridge project. I doubt he’ll come up for air anytime soon to wonder where Legolas has gotten himself to." He gave them an impish smile.

"That is well," Glorfindel said.

"Then I will leave you to your own tasks." Faramir gave them a respectful bow and left.

Glorfindel looked around at the neatly laid out workshop and nodded in satisfaction. "Let’s get started."

"What exactly are we making, again?" Legolas enquired as he followed Glorfindel to the worktable where a number of planks of white spruce were laid out. Legolas eyed them approvingly, for he could see they were well-seasoned and would make excellent sound boards.

"Well, in Aman we called them súrinandi. They were created by the Teleri. I suppose you would call them gennil-e-hûl."

"And what purpose do they serve?" Legolas asked.

"Does something need to serve a purpose to justify its existence?" Glorfindel asked mildly. "For the Teleri they serve no purpose but to allow the wind to make music. For us, though, there is a specific reason for their use, but that will become clearer later. For now, let us just concentrate on making them. We need three of different sizes, one about three feet long, another twice as long and the third in between."

With that, he began selecting various pieces of the wood, sorting them out by length. "I’ll cut them and you glue them together. Here is a sketch of what they should look like. They’ll all follow the same pattern."

Legolas glanced at the scrap of parchment Glorfindel handed to him, and nodded. Moments later, the two Elves were busily creating the first wind harp ever seen in Middle-earth.

****

It took them nearly three days of working more or less straight through to finish all three harps that looked like no harps Legolas had ever seen. Essentially each was a long wooden box, including a sound board, with strings stretched lengthwise across two bridges. Each harp had strings that were identical in thickness but tuned to different pitches, with the strings of the largest harp thicker than the strings of the smallest. In spite of their plainness of design, or perhaps because of it, they were really quite beautiful.

Glorfindel ran a finger down the length of one of the harps, smiling in contentment. "Now let us wrap them carefully in these blankets Faramir so kindly gave us and after we’ve rested for a time, we will leave. We can set out at dawn tomorrow."

Legolas nodded and bent down to grab one of the blankets and began wrapping the smallest of the harps in it.

****

Dawn saw them on their way. Legolas was leading a donkey carefully loaded with the three harps and their provisions while Glorfindel strode ahead. They walked in silence, enjoying the newness of the day. Legolas had been glad to find out that Gimli was still too busy with the bridge project to be importuning him with awkward questions. In fact, the Dwarf was not even in the city but in the South overlooking the construction. That had left only Aragorn to deal with, but he had been busy with a delegation from Rhûn and had barely spoken to them, except to assure them that the porter guarding the Fen Hollin had been informed of their intent and would not impede them. So now, having made their way along the Rath Dínen past the silent tombs of Kings and Stewards, they were making their way to the High Hallow that overlooked the city, the last resting place of Elendil the Tall. It did not take them long to reach it and Legolas looked about him with interest. The Hallow was essentially a wide oval place of level turf, unfenced with the path at the southwest end. Before them was a low mound and lying on the grass before it and yet unmarred by weed or weather, was a black stone.

"This place has the virtue of never being visited," Glorfindel said quietly, "and this high up it’s bound to be windier than in the city, especially at dawn or dusk. We’ll set up camp here by the path. Let the donkey graze at will. We’ll put the harps by the tomb."

Legolas said nothing, but followed Glorfindel’s directions. Soon the camp was in place though they made no fire, for this was hallowed ground, at least to the Gondorians, and the Elves respected that. Glorfindel then unwrapped the three harps, picking up the largest one and instructing Legolas to bring the other two. Together they headed for the mound and Legolas looked with curiosity at the slab of black stone that reflected nothing. On its surface were engraved three letters: lamba, ando, lamba.

"Elendil," Glorfindel said quietly, his expression momentarily sad and distant. Then he shook himself and placed the harp upon the midpoint of the stone, directing Legolas to place the other two at either end but on the grass before the stone. "You will sit here between these three harps with your back to the largest one," he told the younger Elf.

"And this will do what exactly?" Legolas asked.

"That remains to be seen," Glorfindel replied unhelpfully. "At the moment, there is little breeze but eventually I suspect the wind will pick up again as it always does around mountains. I would have you be already in position. Try to clear your mind of extraneous thought, much as you might do before weaving yourself a waking dream, but do not go that deep. Stay on the surface and try to relax. You may be here for a while."

This last was said with a wry grin and Legolas snorted in amusement as he settled himself on the grass with the small of his back touching the stone. Glorfindel had stepped away, lowering himself gracefully upon the ground, facing Legolas who still had questions.

"What is so special about these particular harps, other than the fact that no one plays them but the wind?"

"On the surface of things, there is nothing intrinsically special about these harps. However, you may recall that while you helped put the boxes together, only I strung them, though I know you are quite capable of stringing harps."

"I had noticed that and wondered why you sent me off to find blankets to wrap them in," admitted Legolas.

"Yes, well, it was best that you weren’t present for that. While I strung the harps I imbued the strings with some of my Power as I was taught to do by the Maiar."

"Oh," was the only thing Legolas could think to say, and if he thought to say more, he forgot for almost at that instant, the wind suddenly picked up and first one and then the other of the harps began to vibrate, producing harmonics that seemed to resonate through Legolas’ body. He stared at Glorfindel in surprise, his eyes wide, while Glorfindel merely gave him an enigmatic smile. Then the wind shifted and the harmonics changed slightly, becoming deeper, blending into a single glorious chord that wrapped itself around Legolas’ very soul and then....

Reality shifted in a way that Legolas could never afterwards describe even to himself. The air shimmered with incandescent light, a very rainbow of colors, some of which he could not have put a name to. Glorfindel and the High Hallow disappeared into the shimmering light but before he could respond to that, the light shifted even more and he found himself... elsewhere.

Stars were all around him, and he had the sensation of floating in nothingness, yet there was a sense of others nearby, though he could not see them. And everywhere was that one deep eternal chord and Legolas had the oddest feeling that even the very stars around him resonated with it. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the chord changed, growing louder and deeper until it was almost painful, an interminable pressure that crescendoed until suddenly there was a flare of light and he cried out in shock and wonder as the light coalesced into a dark globe floating serenely in the everlasting night.

Somehow he found himself standing upon that globe on which nothing lived and watched with awe as mountains rose up before him, spewing out fire and ash that touched him not. There were quakes and deep rumblings that forced him to his knees and rains came with a display of thunder and lightning the likes of which he had never before experienced. Rivers flowed and the land which had been bare rock now was covered with grasses. Trees, towering higher than the mellyrn of Lothlórien, grew before his wondering eyes.

And all the time he could ‘hear’ the music that each thing made as it came into existence: mountain and fire, water and wood, each but a single note of that First Chord, yet blending harmoniously with it. But one song drew him more than the others and without having consciously moved Legolas suddenly found himself standing on the shore of a Sea, its dark waters shimmering with the light of the stars, the surf pounding the black sand. He shuddered as the Sea’s music took hold of him, bringing forth a deep ache within him and he knew that he had not the strength to resist it, not anymore.

And yet...

He felt rather than heard another Song, slower and deeper than that of the Sea. He struggled to hear it more clearly, somehow knowing this was needful. At first, all he could hear was the incessant chatter of the waves endlessly calling out to him, but underlying that was the other Song. But no. He suddenly realized that he was hearing the Song, that which had brought forth all, even the Sea. He struggled to hear it more clearly, listening with all his being, hoping to capture it in the air around him, but it seemed to elude him and he cried out in frustration. Then, he seemed to see himself with Glorfindel standing together in the Court of the Fountain and Glorfindel was pointing at him, at his heart, and he suddenly understood what he needed to do. He looked deep within himself, listening, not with his ears, but with his mind and heart and very soul and...

There!

The chord that he had heard in the beginning still resonated through everything: earth and fire, wood and water... and himself. He could ‘hear’ that eternal chord singing within him and as he listened, it seemed as if the sound of it grew louder, crescendoing into an overwhelming wave of sound that would surely drown him....

Legolas found himself staring up into a cerulean blue sky, an eagle lazily floating on the air high above him. He realized he was lying on the grassy turf of the High Hallow and the wind had died down.

"Welcome back."

He turned his head to see Glorfindel still sitting on the grass, a serene smile on his fair face.

"Wh-what happened?" Legolas asked, struggling to sit up, feeling slightly disoriented, wondering at the blanket that covered him and the other that had been placed beneath his head as a pillow.

"You tell me, youngling," Glorfindel said, rising gracefully and giving Legolas a hand up.

Legolas stood, looking about uncertainly, clutching the blanket. The wind had died down and the harps were silent, or so he thought. He listened carefully and yes, there was the song of the Sea, it had not gone away as he had hoped, and he felt a sense of despair and defeat at first, but then, he listened more closely, realizing that the Sea’s music was but a calm hum, for overshadowing it was another Song, or rather Songs, for he recognized the music of fire and air and wood and, yes, even earth, and their blended chords eased the incessant ache within him.

He gazed on Glorfindel in wonder and the older Elf smiled in satisfaction, nodding. "Let us go, then." He bent down to pick up the blanket that had been used as a pillow and began wrapping the smallest of the harps with it.

Legolas looked up at the sky and realized the sun’s position was all wrong. "How long....?"

"Two days and the night in between," came the surprising answer.

Legolas could only stand there in disbelief even as Glorfindel was wrapping another harp. The older Elf gave him a sly look. "So are you going to stand there all day or can we leave? I’m sure Estel is wondering what happened to us."

Legolas shook himself and silently handed the blanket he’d been clutching to Glorfindel who then wrapped the last harp. Together they carried them to the donkey and in a few minutes they were packed and heading back down the path. This time Glorfindel took the donkey’s lead, leaving Legolas to follow. The Sindarin prince stopped and gazed around the Hallow one last time, closing his eyes and listening. Yes, the Sea song was still there but so were the songs of air and fire, wood and earth, especially earth, and he knew only wonder at that. He also knew that as long as he held those other songs within him, as long as he kept in mind the First Chord, Lord Ulmo’s call would remain muted until it was time for him to heed it for real.

"Legolas!" he heard Glorfindel calling from further down the path.

"Coming!" he cried out and with a lighter heart he turned and made his way down the path towards the city and his friends.

****

Words are Sindarin unless otherwise noted:

Elrondionnath: The sons of Elrond, i.e. Elladan and Elrohir.

Fae: Soul, spirit.

Súrinandi: (Quenya) Plural of súrinandë: wind harp.

Gennil-e-hûla: Plural of gannel-e-hûl: wind harp.

Notes:

1. The wind harp, also known as an Aeolian harp (after the Greek god of winds) has been known since ancient times. It is also called a spirit harp. My thanks to Ellie for introducing me to Aeolian harps and giving me the idea for this story.

2. Lamba, ando, lamba: L*ND*L, Elendil’s name without vowel marks which he used as a badge and a device upon his shield, according to Tolkien [UT: Note 40 to ‘Cirion and Eorl’].

A Chance Meeting on a Lonely Road

Summary: When a group of bandits waylay a lone traveler, they get more than they bargained for. Second place in the ALEC challenge "Boo!".

****

Two days before Mid-Summer T.A. 2912:

Rolf looked up at the hoot of the owl that came from no owl’s throat but from one of the lookouts further up the road. Ah! A single traveler. How foolish of him and how lucky for Rolf and his men. The bandit grinned ferally as he answered the owl hoot with a crow’s call, letting his men know to get into position. He moved around to the other side of the tree that had been his hiding place to get a better look at their prey. The sun had set but the long summer day still lingered in the west, while the sky to the east was beginning to turn dark. He could see one or two stars peeping through the leaves. The clip-clop of a horse combined with the creaking of wheels told him that this particular traveler rode a wagon of some sort. Even better! There was bound to be more than a bag or two of stale bread and unwashed clothes for them to pilfer.

At least, he hoped so. This past year had been a lean one for them all. The Fell Winter followed by the floods had destroyed Rolf’s home in Tharbad. He grimaced at the thought of his home in ruins, the city deserted. His wife had sickened during the winter and she and the babe had died of fever brought on by the flooding during the Spring. He and a few other hardy — and desperate — souls had banded together to forage what they could, taking from those who probably had little more than they but, you did what you had to to survive, hoping the blasted Rangers didn’t catch you.

He pushed that uneasy thought away as the sound of the wagon grew louder and there, coming around the bend, was a pony leading a small cart on which sat a lone figure, dressed in grey with a tall hat and smoking! Lordy! What he wouldn’t give for a pipe. The smoke of the leaf filled his nostrils and he nearly moaned with the sudden ecstasy it brought but pulled himself together in time to leap out onto the road just before the pony reached him so he could grab its bridle.

"Whoa!" said the traveler, pulling on the reins. Rolf was pleased to see his men coming out of the dark woods to surround the cart.

"Good evening, good sir!" Rolf called out jovially.

"And a good evening to you, young man," said the traveler and now Rolf could see the long, straggly grey beard and bushy eyebrows and grinned. This was even better. An old man alone on a deserted road at night. Fool! But a fortunate one, for Rolf prided himself on never harming those whom he accosted, not like some bands he’d heard of skulking near the border of Dunland who rarely left any of their victims alive. He may be a bandit, but so far, he was not a murderer.

Rolf felt a niggling doubt, however, because, contrary to expectation, the old man did not seem either surprised or frightened to find himself surrounded by strangers intent on possibly doing him harm. The old man sat there puffing on his pipe, giving him a steady look that nearly unnerved him, but he pulled himself together — a second time! he realized with chagrin — and sauntered over to stand before the traveler after Bert took the pony’s bridle for him.

"And where would you be heading, good Master, and what would you be carrying?" Rolf asked politely. "Anything that you would care to share with those less fortunate?"

There were sniggers from some of his men and he grinned.

"Well, now," the stranger said, removing his pipe to speak. "As it happens I’m heading for the Shire."

"The Shire, is it?" Rolf said in surprise. "I would think you’d be making your way to Bree."

"Oh, I intend to stop there as well," said the traveler equably, "but I’ve business with the Old Took before I can indulge myself with a tankard of beer at the Prancing Pony."

Rolf shrugged. He’d had no dealings with the Little Folk and refused to prey on the few that wandered from the Shire. Something about accosting those furry-footed creatures set his teeth on edge. Men were a safer bet in his opinion and it didn’t feel as if he were robbing children.

"Well, I’m afraid you’ll be a little delayed," Rolf said with false geniality, giving the traveler a bright smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "For you see, my men and I are rather curious to know what you are carrying in your cart and perhaps you would care to share some of your wealth with those less fortunate."

"Wealth, is it?" the old man chuckled. "I assure you, my good man, I am not at all wealthy. I...."

"Hey, Rolf!" young Will called out. "Look at all these packages. What are these? Toys?"

The old man turned, pointing at Will with his pipe. "Careful, lad," he said kindly. "Those are very special toys, not to be played with."

Intrigued, Rolf moved around to look inside the small cart, pushing the tarp that covered its contents further back for a closer look. He noticed a small satchel set behind the driver’s seat that he suspected contained the traveler’s personal things. It was rather thin and disappointing looking. The bulk of the cart, though, was taken up with several packages of various sizes carefully wrapped in oiled-cloth for protection.

"So, what have we here?" Rolf asked rhetorically as he drew out a knife and slit one of the ropes tying the packages together to keep them from jostling.

"Toys," the old man said and when Rolf gave him a glance he noticed the twinkle in the man’s eyes.

"And what is so special about these... toys, good Master?" Rolf drawled.

"Hey! These look like squibs," exclaimed Will and he picked up one for all to see. "And look, crackers and sparklers and are these elf-fountains?"

Now the other bandits gathered around the cart, exclaiming in surprise and, yes, even delight, at the sight of the various items in the cart. Rolf glanced up at the old man. "Fireworks?"

The traveler nodded. "For the Old Took. He’s especially fond of them. After this wretched winter and spring he wanted to have some particularly good fireworks for the Mid-Summer festivities. And so, if you don’t mind, I’d best be getting on my way."

Rolf stared at the stranger in disbelief and anger. The mention of the Fell Winter and all that had happened to him afterwards sent shards of ice through his veins and any kindliness he may have felt (or decided to feel) was swept away by the man’s words. "In case you haven’t noticed, sir, you are surrounded by bandits who are as likely as not to cut your throat and leave your sorry carcass to the crows."

The other men stopped in their examination of the fireworks in surprise and dread, for they had never heard their leader speak in such tones before. If the old man was upset or frightened by Rolf’s words, he gave no sign, merely continuing to puff on his pipe, and oh! how Rolf wanted to snatch it from him and take it for himself.

There followed an uneasy silence and a silent battle of wills between the old man and Rolf ensued, but it was Rolf who looked away first. "Let him go," he snarled, walking away, feeling somehow... dirty or unworthy... he couldn’t quite put it into words. Something about the old man’s gaze, so calm, so knowing, so compassionate, had unnerved him in ways he’d never experienced before.

"Aw, Rolf," young Tam called out. "Can’t we have some fun with these here fireworks? Why do those Shirefolk get to have all the fun?"

Rolf turned and raised an eyebrow at the expectant looks on his men’s faces. They were a ragged bunch, to be sure, barely subsisting on what could be gotten with hunting or with robbing. Tam, the youngest, had lost his entire family to the Winter and most of the others had fared no better. They were honest men just trying to survive, forced into banditry, as he had been, just to stay alive and more and more he wondered why he or they even bothered.

As if he could read Rolf’s thoughts, the old man smiled gently. "You don’t have to live this way, you know. There are other options, if you care to look for them."

All the men stared at the traveler with varying degrees of disbelief. Rolf snorted. "Have fun," was all he said, deciding he’d had enough. He heard the men cheer, calling out in glee as they took up some of the smaller fireworks, someone demanding a striker. He was surprised when he heard someone come running after him and turning saw young Tam holding out what looked like sparklers.

"C’mon, Rolf. Let’s have some fun," he pleaded.

Rolf was ready to deny the lad, but the look of expectation mingled with honest concern for him undid his resolve and with a nod, he took one of the sparklers. Tam grinned widely and together they returned to the cart where Rolf saw that the old man had been encouraged by his men to come down from his seat and tell them what kinds of fireworks were in the cart. Already one or two sparklers had been set off along with a dwarf-candle and, yes, an elf-fountain that left all the men, even Rolf, gazing at it in wonder.

Rolf watched as the old man calmly explained what each package was, still puffing on his pipe, taking it out once in a while to use it as a pointer. "Now these particular fireworks are my own invention," he heard the traveler say. "Spent the better part of the Spring working on them."

The men seemed to hang on to the stranger’s every word, looking for all the world like overgrown children, their eyes bright with delight and anticipation.

"What does this one do?" Will asked, pointing to one small rocket.

Before the traveler could answer, Rolf spoke up. "Is there anything besides these fireworks in the cart that we can take? I don’t want us lingering here too long. There are always those dratted Rangers patrolling the roads."

"Ah, Rolf. Can’t we just have a bit of fun for a change?" Hal pleaded. He was one of the older men, a farmer once.

"You are all good men," the traveler said, looking upon them with compassion. "Why do you not look for honest work?"

"Our homes were destroyed," Rolf answered with a snarl. "Our families lost. We have nothing to offer anyone. I should know. I tried to find work in Bree, but they all looked upon me as if I were a... an orc or something!"

The other men all nodded in agreement and Rolf had a sudden desire, quickly suppressed, to fling himself at the old man and beat him to a fare-thee-well for no particular reason than out of a sense of a need to release some of the anger and frustration and self-hatred boiling inside of him. He’d been a craftsman, a respected member of the community, but thanks to the vagaries of fortune he was now a bandit, a skulker in the wilderness preying on the innocent.

The old man nodded. "The people of the Breeland are somewhat narrow-minded in their outlook, but there are other options."

"Oh, like what?" Rolf sneered.

"You could go to the Rangers...."

"Never! They’ll hang us sooner than look at us."

"Not if you have me as your advocate."

"And just who are you, a lone wanderer, that you have the ear of the blasted Rangers?" Rolf demanded.

"A friend," came the reply, "one to whom the Rangers will listen."

"What can the Rangers do for us?" Hal asked. "They weren’t very helpful when Tharbad was flooded out, leastwise, I never saw them there."

"You are not the only survivors of the floods," the old man said, seemingly ignoring Hal’s question. "What happened to the others? Where did they go?"

Most of the men shrugged, including Rolf. "We don’t know. Those of us here had no families left. My wife and child died of fever. There was no one else for me."

"Same for the rest of us," Hal said. "We somehow found each other out here in the wilderness and banded together."

"These lands are wide and empty," the old man said. "Perhaps you should consider finding a suitable place to rebuild your lives. The Rangers can help you there. They are well experienced in such matters."

Rolf shrugged, not sure of his feelings right then. In the near dark he could see the hunger in his men’s eyes at the thought of finding a new home, of having their dignity restored to them. The old man was right. They were all good men. They deserved better. He deserved better. Staring into the cart with its packages of fireworks, he grimaced.

"A lovely fantasy," he finally said, "but unlikely to happen. So, you were taking these fine fireworks to the Shire for the Little Folk to enjoy. I think we deserve to see some of these fireworks ourselves." He reached into the cart and started pulling out several, handing them out to his men, all of whom shouted with glee as they spread out along the road, moving well away from the cart so as not to spook the pony, taking turns setting them off.

The old man naturally protested. Rolf gave him a sneer. "Don’t worry. We’ll save a few for your friends in the Shire."

"The Old Took is not going to be happy," the traveler said with a sigh. Rolf shrugged, turning to see the fireworks.

The first to go off turned into a flight of birds that sang sweetly and this was followed by a fountain of butterflies and pillars of colored fires that rose and turned into eagles, much to the delight and astonishment of the men. There were rainbows of flowers that opened up, leaving a sweet, refreshing scent in the air as they disappeared. Tam and Will clapped their hands in delight and there was much oohing and aahing among the rest of the men. Rolf forced himself not to react, though he had to admit, if only to himself, that seeing the pillars of fire turn into eagles had set his heart racing. He glanced at the old man, standing beside him, and was surprised to see, not anger or frustration or even sadness at the sight of all his fireworks being set off, but a small smile of satisfaction, as if he were enjoying the show as much as the others. But Rolf noticed the man’s eyes were not on the fireworks display but on the men themselves and Rolf did not know what to make of it. Instead, he turned back to the cart to look for more fireworks. Surprisingly, given how small the cart was, there were still plenty of rockets left, along with a handful of squibs and backarappers and other small fireworks that no doubt were meant to be given to the Hobbit children. Shifting some of the rockets he found one particularly large one down on the bottom.

"What does this one do?" he demanded.

"Well, now, that’s a special rocket I was saving for the grand finale," the traveler replied. "I’d be careful with it, were I you, young man. It’s very dangerous."

"Indeed? Well, why don’t we just see for ourselves what is so grand about it," Rolf said, dragging the rocket away from the cart, heading down the road a bit, with everyone else following, including the old man.

Rolf turned to the traveler with a sneer. "I’ll let you do the honors."

"I really was hoping to save it for the end," the traveler said. "It’s a very special rocket. Wouldn’t you like to see some of the others first? There are plenty of others your men haven’t let off yet."

"No. I think this one will do. So, if you don’t want us to set off all your fireworks, leaving nothing for the Shirefolk, I suggest you quit stalling and show us what is so special about this one."

The old man sighed, the first real emotion any of them had actually seen from him. "Very well. I suggest you all stand back a bit while I light it."

With a nod from Rolf the others stepped away, giving Rolf and the old man plenty of room. The old man gave Rolf a penetrating look. "You’re sure about this?"

"Just light it!" Rolf demanded angrily.

The traveler nodded and, taking a taper, lit it from his pipe and then lit the rocket, immediately motioning Rolf to step back even as he himself was doing so. The fuse fizzed and sparkled and then with a mighty whoosh, the rocket was off. Higher and higher it went into the star-sprinkled sky, higher than all the other rockets before. Rolf had to crane his neck way back to watch its flight. For a long, tense moment, nothing seemed to happen and Rolf was ready to make some disparaging remark about this special rocket being a dud, when suddenly there was a great smoke that shaped itself like a mountain seen in the distance, its summit spouting green and scarlet flames. Out of the mountain flew a red-golden dragon, roaring and breathing fire.

Tam gave an unholy yell. "Dragon!" he screamed and before Rolf could call him back, the youngster was running down the road for all he was worth.

Rolf felt his heart race as the dragon neared them, expecting it to fade into sparkling lights as all the other fireworks had done, but to his and everyone else’s surprise, the dragon actually flew above them, sending out gouts of flame, causing them to duck. A couple of the other men gave yells of surprise and began running off.

"Wait!" Rolf yelled. "It’s not real, you dolts. It’s just a trick." But the men did not listen and when the dragon, so terribly life-like, swooped down at them again, the others broke away, running after their comrades, leaving just Rolf and the old man. "Stupid gits. It’s not real!" Rolf cried out in disgust. Then the dragon made another pass, again breathing fire, and to Rolf’s amazement and alarm, the tree before him caught fire. His own resolve broke then and with a strangled yell he found himself running after his men, the old man forgotten.

The traveler stood in the middle of the road chuckling even as the dragon broke apart, becoming a shower of yellow rain that miraculously put the fire out, leaving behind the sour scent of smoking leaves.

Even as he turned back to the cart, there was the sound of horses and he stopped and waited. A few minutes later, a half-dozen Rangers came down the road. "Ah, Gandalf," one of them cried out. "There you are."

"Lord Arathorn." The Wizard gave the Heir of Isildur an abbreviated bow. "A pleasant evening, wouldn’t you say?"

Arathorn son of Arador chuckled and his men did likewise. "That was quite a display," the Ranger said, dismounting. "We could see the fireworks from Sarn Ford. That dragon looked particularly lifelike."

Gandalf nodded. "I was quite pleased with its performance, though I still think it needs a bit of work. I’m sure I can improve on it."

"No doubt," Arathorn said with a grin. "The bandits?"

"Probably halfway to Dunland by now," Gandalf said with a laugh. "I’m sure your men can round them up easily enough, especially with some of Elrond’s own people helping. After a dragon, Rangers won’t appear as threatening."

Arathorn nodded. "We’ve been after this group for months now."

"I trust you will show them some leniency," the Wizard said. "They really are good men forced by desperation into banditry. Their leader, Rolf, is a decent sort."

"We’ll give them a fair trial and then send them to Fornost where Father has relocated many of the other people of Tharbad. They’ll be helping to rebuild the fortifications there."

"Good enough," Gandalf said. "And now, I must be on my way. I promised the Old Took I would be at the Smials by tomorrow."

"I’ll have Beren and Beregond escort you while I go see how the round-up is faring," Arathorn said. "Thank you again, old friend, for your help."

"My pleasure, Arathorn," Gandalf said, stepping up onto the seat of the cart, giving the reins a quick snap to set the pony moving. "My regards to your family. I’ll see you at Yule." With that, he, along with his escort, headed down the road towards Sarn Ford and the Shire while Arathorn and the rest of his men rode in the opposite direction to help capture a group of very frightened soon-to-be former bandits.

****

Notes:

1. The Fell Winter of 2911 was followed by flooding the following Spring in which Tharbad was ruined and deserted. In The Hobbit, Bilbo recalls how the Old Took always had fireworks at Mid-Summer, courtesy of Gandalf. Bilbo was 21-years-old in the summer of 2912.

2. The description of the various kinds of fireworks is drawn from the first chapter of Fellowship.

Winter Wolves

Summary: The winter of 2911 brought more than just a lot of snow to the Shire. Other, more dangerous things found their way across its borders. Third place in the Teitho contest 'The Animals of Middle-earth'.

****

Third Age 2911, two weeks before Yule:

Glorfindel brought his horse to a halt and pulled back his hood for a better view as he scanned the surrounding area. The snow was still falling but not as heavily as it had earlier in the day. A shroud of white blanketed everything and a light mist rose from the bracken, wreathing the area with a ghostly veil. The Weather Hills and Amon Sûl, which should have been visible to him, were lost in the snow and mist.

"Remind you of anything?" The words were in Quenya.

Glorfindel looked to see one of his companions stopping next to him, pulling his own hood back. He gave Thandir a wry smile. "If you’re referring to the Helcaraxë, I’m afraid I don’t see the resemblance, save for the snow."

Thandir snorted, his breath coming out in a puff of white. "It’s only been a little more than a yén since the Long Winter."

Glorfindel nodded. "Long enough for most Mortals to forget. Yet, I don’t recall it being so bitterly cold as now, just heaps and heaps of snow." He glanced back to where the rest of the patrol was spread out on what should have been the Great East Road but was now only a deep field of white. "I think we would’ve made better time if we’d come on foot. The horses are tiring quickly from plowing through these drifts."

"You know full well that the Dúnedain would not be able to keep up with us otherwise," Thandir retorted with a light laugh. "This way we’re all on an equal footing."

Glorfindel gave him a sunny look. "Four feet, to be exact." He shook his head, his golden braids with their gems and beads entwined glittering and flashing even without the sun. "Amon Sûl should be no more than a league away. We’ll give the horses a rest and walk them for a short while."

Thandir nodded and called out to the rest of their party and soon the Elves were dismounting and walking the horses. It was difficult going with the drifts but they managed, the horses snorting and breathing out white plumes as they struggled through snow that was sometimes hock high. Glorfindel and Thandir walked side-by-side, their horses trailing.

"What do you think we will find?" Thandir asked. "Argonui’s report was rather vague."

Glorfindel shrugged. "We’ll know when we reach Amon Sûl. Argonui’s son is heading the Dúnedain patrol. He would not have called for help without cause."

Thandir nodded. "Arador is no fool, even for a Mortal." He cast a sly grin at Glorfindel, who smiled back.

They continued walking for about a half an hour or so before Glorfindel called out the order to remount and soon they were making better time. By now the snow had finally stopped and the temperature rose a bit, though the clouds remained, hiding Anor from their view. Eventually, the mist dissipated enough that the Elves could see the ruins of the tower on Amon Sûl in the far distance.

"Ah, someone’s built a fire for us," Thandir said, pointing to where they could see the yellow flames rising from the ruins, acting almost as a beacon.

Glorfindel grinned. "I very much doubt they built the fire with you in mind, my friend."

Thandir shrugged. "It will be welcome nonetheless."

Another hour or so saw them at the foot of the mount known as Weathertop in the Common Tongue. Dúnedain sentries hailed them, urging them to climb the hill to where Lord Arador was holding court. Glorfindel ordered his people to set up camp, then he and Thandir made their way to the top of the mount where they found Arador and his son, Arathorn, sitting near the fire, mugs of tea in their hands as they pored over a map that lay on a flat rock, the Ranger captains looking on. All the Mortals looked up as the Elves reached them and rose as one.

"A star shines on the hour of our meeting, my lords. Welcome," Arador said, giving them a slight bow, one that was echoed by the other Men.

Glorfindel glanced up at the leaden sky then at the Mortals and chuckled. "And if you can see any stars, my Lord Arador, your eyesight is better than mine."

Arador smiled and gestured for them to join him by the fire, the other Men shuffling about to give them room. Glorfindel and Thandir greeted Arathorn warmly, for he had only recently left the safety of Imladris after having been fostered there for a time, learning what the Elves would teach him. Arador then named the captains who were there. "You made good time," he said as mugs of tea were handed to the Elves. "We didn’t expect you for another day or three."

"We would’ve been here two days ago if we’d left the horses behind," Glorfindel said with a sniff. "Thandir, however, didn’t think it would be proper."

Thandir’s response was to smack Glorfindel upside his head, giving them a sound of disgust. "That’s it, blame me, as usual. There are times I think I should’ve just left you in that blizzard."

Glorfindel’s response was to stick his tongue out at Thandir, much to the amazement of the Mortals.

Arador chuckled at the byplay. "Yes, well, getting back to the subject at hand...."

Glorfindel turned to the Man with a frown. "Your lord father was less than forthcoming with the reason he asked Elrond for help."

"That’s because he didn’t know any real details," Arador replied. "When I sent the message to him, even I knew very little, only that there are rumors of fell things moving southward out of the wilds."

Glorfindel nodded. "We noticed a larger than usual incursion of trolls coming down out of the Ettenmoors. Elrond’s sons are dealing with that situation even now."

Arador nodded, frowning, then he pushed the map toward Glorfindel, pointing to a particular spot. "We’ve heard rumors of something coming down through the Emyn Uial."

"But only rumors," Thandir said.

Arador shrugged, but it was Arathorn who spoke. "Several of the Dúnedain patrols out of Fornost reported seeing creatures unknown to them, making their way southward. Some appear harmless enough. There’s one report of a large deer-like animal with wide antlers. They spotted a whole herd of them."

Glorfindel nodded. "Yes. If they are what I think they are, they’re harmless enough. That they have migrated this far south, though, means that the conditions further north are even worse than they are here and while the daererais, as we called them, are harmless enough, those for whom they are lawful prey are not."

The Dúnedain nodded, their expressions grim, or, Glorfindel reflected irreverently, grimmer than usual. "There is also this," Arathorn said, leaning towards the map, tracing a line with his forefinger. "The Baranduin has frozen over."

Both Glorfindel and Thandir gasped at the implications of that statement. Glorfindel shot a look at Arador. "Is this true? How far south?"

"At least as far south as Sarn Ford," Arador answered with a grimace. "There are ice floes on the river beyond that. I have no doubt if this winter continues, much of the rest of the river will freeze, but it’s definitely frozen enough where it borders the Shire."

"Never have I known the Baranduin to freeze over," Thandir said in a worried voice, "not even during the Long Winter."

Glorfindel nodded. None of the Mortals here were old enough to remember that particularly harsh winter. Indeed, the present Chieftain of the Dúnedain had been only a babe in swaddling clothes at the time. He did not think that there were too many greybeards left among the Dúnedain who would remember. "And that is why you asked for our help," he said after a moment.

Arador nodded. "Our patrols are spread rather thinly. I have most of my men patrolling the road between Fornost and Bree. There are many predators that are coming out of the wild and not all of them are on four feet." He gave them a grimace of disgust and the Elves nodded. "Also, it is in my mind that while my men can handle most predators, both two- and four-legged, other, more fell creatures may be coming southward and I would have your aid, my lord, for it is known that the Elves have powers that we Mortals do not."

"True enough," Glorfindel said, "but I would not discount yourselves too easily. I am assuming you wish us to help you guard the Shire."

"Yes. The Shirefolk are a peaceful people, simple in their ways, and I very much doubt they will be able to defend themselves against whatever may find its way past their borders."

Glorfindel smiled, remembering a certain band of Periain who’d helped Arador’s ancestors flee the forces of Angmar, holding off the Witch-King’s might well enough. "They may surprise you," he said quietly. "Very well, Lord Arador. I and my people will join yours in patrolling the Shire." He glanced at the sky, still leaden with clouds. "Anor still rules the skies above though we cannot see her, yet I deem it would be useless to set out now."

"We can send out a couple of scouts," Thandir suggested. "If they do not take their horses they can reach Bree by tomorrow night."

"It’s over thirty leagues to Bree!" exclaimed Arathorn and the other Mortals looked equally nonplused. "And the road is nearly impassible."

Glorfindel ignored him. "Mallor and Celepharn, I think," he said to Thandir.

Thandir nodded and rose gracefully, striding away from the fire to stand at the edge of the ruins, calling out two names before returning to the fire. In moments, two Elves appeared and Glorfindel quickly apprised them of the situation. Mallor turned to Celepharn. "I’ll carry the wood and you can carry our supplies."

"You carried the wood last time," Celepharn protested with a sniff. "I’ll carry it this time."

"The last time you carried the wood, it got all wet," Mallor retorted, his eyes gleaming.

"It wouldn’t have gotten wet if you hadn’t pushed me into the damn lake."

"And a good thing I did, considering you were too slow to avoid the orc’s sword."

"Well, we wouldn’t have even had to fight the orcs if you’d listen to me in the first place and...."

"Enough!" Glorfindel said quietly, yet his voice rang with authority and the two scouts subsided while the Mortals looked on in bemusement. "You will both carry wood and your own supplies. Now go. We will meet you outside the south gate of Bree four days from now an hour before sunset."

The two Elves bowed to their captain and set off. Arador gave Glorfindel an amused look. "Do they always argue like that?"

Glorfindel rolled his eyes and Thandir chuckled. "And it’s the same argument every time."

"So how long ago did the wood get wet?" Arador asked with a knowing smile.

The two Elves looked at each other and shrugged almost as one. "About six hundred years ago?" Glorfindel asked.

"Sounds about right," Thandir replied.

Most of the Dúnedain gave the Elves nonplused looks, but Arador only chuckled. "That explains it then," he said and when the two Elves gave him enquiring looks, he went on. "It’s a recent quarrel."

Both Glorfindel and Thandir threw back their heads and laughed and soon the Mortals were joining them. When they at last calmed down, Arador stood. "May I invite my lords to join me and my son in our tent for dinner?" he asked formally.

The Elves rose as well. Glorfindel, speaking for them both, gave him a polite bow "We would be honored, my Lord Arador."

****

The Elves and the Dúnedain reached Bree just as Anor was slipping down the horizon, limning fitful clouds with red and purple light, casting long shadows. This late in the year, the days were short and they had risen from their last camp before dawn. The going had been hard on all but as they neared Bree Hill, the snow on the road was less and the going easier. In fact, by the time they reached the south gate of Bree the road was relatively clear, a good indication that the worthy citizens of the Breeland had been hard at work to keep the road open, at least in and around the town.

Glorfindel and Arador rode at the head of the column with Thandir and Arathorn directly behind. The other Elves and Dúnedain followed in no particular order as they rounded the hill and came near the gate, slowing to a halt. There was no one there and the gate was closed.

"Your scouts appear to be late," Arador said with a thin smile.

Glorfindel gave him a startled look. "They’ve been following us since the Forsaken Inn," he replied, pointing to his right where the land rose in folds toward the hill on which Bree sat.

Now it was Arador’s turn to look startled as he scanned the area. "I see them not, nor have any of my men alerted us of their presence."

"Well, that would defeat the purpose of having scouts now, wouldn’t it?" Thandir called out with a laugh. "You Rangers are very good but we Elves have had three ages to hone our skills." He looked about and then pointed. "I think Celepharn is that hump over there by the oak and, if I’m not mistaken, Mallor is..."

"Right here, my lords."

Every Mortal gasped to see a figure practically rising before them out of the gloom, standing not two feet from where Arador and Glorfindel had stopped. He gave them a cheeky grin as the ‘hump’ to which Thandir had pointed moved to reveal Celepharn brushing off the snow from his cloak and sauntering toward them, looking as smug as his partner. Glorfindel looked down at the two scouts with a faint smile of amusement on his face.

"You’re going to have to do a lot better at hiding, you two," he said to them. "Celepharn still breathes too loud and you, Mallor, left tracks two miles back where the road comes out of the woods."

Their smiles faded. "Yes, Captain. Sorry, Captain," they both muttered.

Glorfindel nodded. "Report," he said and the two scouts straightened.

"It is as Lord Arador said," Celepharn replied briskly. "The Baranduin is indeed frozen, frozen deep enough that we crossed it easily and there is evidence that the Periain are ignoring the bridge and simply crossing the ice wither they will since the ferry is not running."

"Any signs of creatures coming southward?" Glorfindel asked.

Both scouts nodded. "We went as far north as the ruins of Annúminas," Celepharn replied. "We saw at least one herd of the daererais and signs of other creatures moving out of the Emyn Uial."

Glorfindel nodded and was about to suggest they continue through Bree and camp at the crossroads where the Great East Road and the Greenway met, when Mallor spoke again, his voice somewhat strained."There is one other thing, Captain." When Glorfindel nodded for him to continue, he swallowed, looking nervous, which surprised the Captain of the Guards of Imladris. "When we were making our way back here to meet you we cut through the Old Forest."

"Did you now? And was there a reason for doing so, other than a need to visit old friends?"

"We were called... or at least, we felt the need to go there," Mallor said. "We met with Ben-adar who gave us a message for you."

Glorfindel stiffened slightly, but nodded for the scout to continue. "He told us to tell you that not all wolves are safe to run with."

Glorfindel’s expression remained impassive, but his eyes flickered with memories and an old longing that had never been completely assuaged. "Thank you," was all he said, then he turned to Arador. "Let’s see if we can convince the gatekeeper to let us in and make our way to the other side where we can camp for the night."

Arador nodded, and in minutes they were pounding on the gate. It took a while for them to convince the guards to let them through and by then the sun was long gone and the night lay heavily about them. It began snowing again even as they were passing through the west gate, stopping to set up camp on the other side of the Greenway.

****

The next few days remained clear as the Rangers and the Elves began patrolling the area north of Buckland, keeping their presence hidden from the Shirefolk as much as possible. Herds of the daererais were seen in the distance, and there were other animals as well, but no sign of any predators, and their absence disturbed Glorfindel more than he let on. Even with the inclusion of the Elves, there were not enough men to patrol every inch of the Baranduin between Lake Nenuial and the Bridge of Stonebows, which was the main bridge leading across the Baranduin into the Shire proper. Arador had left with a small contingent of personal guards for Fornost two days after he and Glorfindel had set up the patrol schedule, leaving Arathorn to lead the Rangers. The young Man was capable enough and Glorfindel had no worries about him, for he’d helped train Arathorn himself, even as he’d trained every Heir of Isildur since Valandil.

The days were long and boring and the nights equally so and Thandir commented once that they may have been dragged out of Imladris on a fool’s errand. Glorfindel’s only comment was to order the Elves to be more vigilant, for he had felt a darkness and a threat growing in his mind, though it was too amorphous for him to pinpoint where it might be coming from.

It was now the fifth day of the patrol and a brumal wind swept out of the northwest, forcing the Rangers to seek what shelter they could, for it was deathly cold and the temperature dropped precipitously even though it was only early afternoon.

"Our good weather seems to be leaving us," Thandir commented as Glorfindel joined him by a fire after having visited Arathorn at his camp. The Dúnedain had set up camp three miles northeast of the Great East Road where a swell of the land protected them from the worst of the wind. Glorfindel had gone there to ensure that all the Rangers were safe and accounted for before joining Thandir on Girdley Island where the Elves were encamped. Their horses could not easily cross the ice so they were picketed in a dell just to the southeast of the island. The morning patrol had just come in and the afternoon patrol was readying to leave.

Glorfindel nodded. "So it would seem. Anything to report?"

"Mallor believes he’s seen wolf tracks but is unsure. They seem larger than normal but not as large as those of wargs."

"Wolves tend to avoid inhabited areas," Glorfindel said with a frown, "but if they’ve been following the herds of daererais... I have been uneasy in my mind these last few days, for we’ve not seen any signs of predators."

"That has worried me as well," Thandir admitted. "I cannot believe that those animals that normally hunt the daererais would not follow them southward. We should have seen signs of them by now."

"The Dúnedain are safely holed up in their camp," Glorfindel said. "I was able to convince Arathorn that these temperatures are too dangerous for his men to be out in. I told him we will keep watch through the night without their help. To that effect, I want you...."

The sound of howling ripped through the air, startling both Elves.

"Wolves!" Thandir exclaimed as they both ran to the edge of the island. "Mallor was right then, but where are they?"

"Quiet!" Glorfindel commanded, straining to hear with more than his ears. The howling came again, sounding closer, which meant that the wolves were moving and quickly. He looked out across the river to the east bank. There was enough light for him to make out at least two herds of the daererais moving further east towards the Greenway, perhaps a good ten leagues away, but the howling was coming from the south.

"They’ve found different prey," he called out. "Thandir, take half our people along the west bank. I’ll take the other half down the east bank."

Thandir did not argue or comment, merely nodding and then calling out names and soon half the Elvish patrol was crossing the river to the west and heading south even as Glorfindel led the rest of the patrol across to the other bank, all of them running lightly over the snow. One or two of the Elves started to veer to where their horses were sheltered, but Glorfindel called them back. "Leave the horses! We’ll make better time without them. Run!"

And run they did. Howling came again and Glorfindel recognized the wolves’ call: they had found prey and were running it to ground. The Elves were at least ten miles from the Bridge of Stonebows and Glorfindel feared they would be too late. He glanced to his right and could make out Thandir and the others keeping pace with him on the other bank. Movement to his left alerted him and he saw the Dúnedain riding toward them.

"Are you insane?" Glorfindel cried out to Arathorn as he and the Elves stopped and waited for the Rangers to near them. "You’ll freeze to death in this cold."

"Fighting the wolves will keep us warm," Arathorn retorted.

Before Glorfindel could muster a reply, a horn sounded in the far distance. "What was that?" he exclaimed.

"The Shirefolk," Arathorn answered. "That’s the Horn of Buckland, or I’m an orc."

Without waiting, Glorfindel sprinted away and the rest of the Elves followed with the Rangers struggling to keep up. Thandir and his group had not stopped and were now some distance ahead. He was pointing at something and shouting. Glorfindel raced on and came in sight of the bridge. It was brightly lit with a bonfire in the middle of it. Glorfindel nodded in approval. The fire would prevent the wolves from crossing the bridge, but the Shirefolk couldn’t possibly light bonfires all up and down the river. He crossed the Great East Road where it met the bridge and entered Buckland. Again the horn sounded and across the river where lay the village of Stock, he could see many torches as the Shirefolk gathered to meet the wolves. He slowed to a halt, looking about, trying to find where the wolves were.

"There!" Mallor, who had been keeping pace with him, cried out, pointing ahead.

Glorfindel looked and saw three large shapes loping through the snow heading south. They were taller than most wolves he’d seen but not as tall as the hated wargs. Still, one of the Periain could’ve easily ridden them as if they were ponies. Their fur was nearly as white as the snow, making them hard to see, especially now that the afternoon light was waning. In another hour it would be completely dark. He spied four more on the west bank apparently heading for Stock while five others were crossing the ice further south. A dozen at least, but he thought there might be more that he could not see.

He pulled out his sword while others put arrows to strings. Arathorn and the Rangers finally caught up with them but Glorfindel paid them no mind, already sprinting after the three wolves they’d spied. He vaguely heard Arathorn issuing orders for some of his men to cross over to help deal with the wolves on the west side of the river but most of his concentration was on reaching the wolves who were heading for Bucklebury. Movement to his left alerted him to the presence of more wolves and then before he realized it, he was surrounded by at least five. They did not attack him, but ran with him, keeping a safe distance from his reach. Throwing a look over his shoulder he realized that he’d outrun the rest of his patrol. He was alone with the wolves.

On they ran and Glorfindel dared not stop. He veered toward one of the wolves, thinking to attack it, but it snarled at him and he knew he could not fight them all and backed off. The lights of Bucklebury grew brighter and he could hear the confused din of shouting, screaming and snarling. Several more wolves were already engaged in battle with the Shirefolk. The wolves had easily kept pace with him and he wondered why they did not simply attack him. It was almost as if they were herding him to some particular spot.

He’d been following the road all the way from the bridge, for it had been kept open in spite of the snow and now he passed a lane to his left and Bucklebury was directly ahead. There was a confusion of Periain and wolves running in all directions. He saw at least one wolf lying in the snow, blood staining it red, and several Periain were also still. Directly before him was one large wolf threatening two of the Periain.

"No!" he shouted and raised his sword. The wolves that had been running with him snarled and one tried to block his path, but he swung his sword and the wolf leapt away. He halted before the wolf threatening the Periain and the other wolves circled them, yipping and snapping at the Shirefolk, but nothing more. Glorfindel spared them a glance. They were enough alike in coloring and features that he had no doubt that they were kin to one another. The older of the two held his right arm in a way that alerted Glorfindel to the fact that it was probably broken. The younger one seemed unharmed, but his eyes were wide with fear. Glorfindel lowered his sword and crouched before the wolf that had been threatening them. He did not make eye contact, not quite.

"Peace, my brother-in-fur," Glorfindel said, exerting as much power as he dared to reveal, mindful of the Periain behind him, "This is no place for you. Your food runs free across the wilds. Why do you hunt here? Leave this place. You and your pack cannot hope to survive if you do not."

The wolf snarled and its fellows, still circling them, yipped and howled and then went completely still, their tongues hanging out as they panted.

"Go," Glorfindel commanded, pointing to his left and north. "Take your pack and hunt the daererais. You will find nothing but death here if you remain."

For a long moment nothing happened. Glorfindel waited quietly for the wolf’s response. He could almost feel the fear radiating from the Periain standing behind him and wished to turn and offer them a word of comfort, but he dared not move. The wolf snarled low in its throat and Glorfindel happened to look up, inadvertently catching the wolf’s eyes and found himself being drawn into its gaze, memories of an earlier time flooding him, a deep longing to cast aside his sword and run with the wolves overtaking him.

"Look out!" a high-pitched voice rang out but before Glorfindel could respond he felt a huge weight dragging him down and he found himself struggling to keep the wolf from ripping out his throat. He heard someone scream and then his attacker gave a yelp of pain, scrabbling off him.

"Go away!" he heard a voice cry out. "Get out of here! Go away!"

Struggling to rise he saw the younger of the two Periain facing down the wolves with nothing but a slingshot in his hand. He suspected the youngster had used it to good effect to drive the wolf off him. He searched for his sword buried in the snow, for it had fallen from his grasp when the wolf attacked him. It lay just out of his reach. Taking a chance, knowing there was little time, he lunged for his sword just as two of the wolves leapt forward to take the Periain down. The youngster screamed and then two arrows came whining through the air, striking the wolves.

"Get down!" Glorfindel shouted, remembering to speak the Common Tongue, even as he reached for his sword. He did not attempt to stand for arrows were flying all around as each unerringly found its mark. The wolves never had a chance to flee and soon all nine were lying dead or dying. Glorfindel looked about and saw that the Periain were huddled together, half-buried in the snow. He stood and greeted Mallor and the other Elves, thanking them for their timely arrival.

"You shouldn’t have run so quickly ahead of us, Captain," Mallor said in disapproval. "Lord Elrond would have been less than pleased if we’d had to bring your mangled corpse back to Imladris."

Glorfindel decided to ignore the comment, sheathing his sword. "Check to see if there are more wolves roaming the village," he said instead. Mallor looked as if he wanted to say something but instead he simply nodded then called out to the others who swiftly made their way through Bucklebury in search of more wolves. Glorfindel was walking over to where the two Periain were still huddled, apparently afraid to move, when Arathorn and his men rode up.

"Now who’s the insane one?" he said in disgust.

"Never mind me, Arathorn," Glorfindel said somewhat testily. "See to the Shirefolk."

Arathorn nodded and began issuing orders and soon the Rangers were following the Elves into Bucklebury. Glorfindel crouched before the two Periain still huddled together. "It’s all right," he said quietly. "All is well now. Come. Let me see you safely home."

The two Periain looked up. The older one grimaced at the pain from his broken arm as he moved and Glorfindel helped him to his feet.

"Thank you, Master Elf," he said. "Thank you for saving us."

"I am Glorfindel of Rivendell, and you are most welcome. Now, where do you live? I will see you safely to your home."

"We’re staying at Brandy Hall," the Perian replied, "visiting my wife’s sister who’s married to the Master."

Glorfindel nodded as he stood. He smiled at the younger Perian, who simply stood there with his mouth hanging open in awe. "And what is your name, child?" he asked gently. "You were very brave to face down those wolves with naught but a slingshot. Thank you for saving my life."

The youngster blushed and looked down at his toes. The other Perian put his left arm around the youngster’s shoulders and smiled proudly up at the Elf. "This is my son, Bilbo...."

****

"Bilbo! Bilbo Baggins?!"

Glorfindel smiled in amusement at the surprised look on Aragorn’s face and nodded. He and the sons of Elrond were sharing a cave with Aragorn and a band of Rangers under his command. The Elves had joined with the Dúnedain patrol earlier that day but a sudden blizzard had forced them all to seek shelter.

"So you knew him even when he was a lad?" Aragorn insisted.

"Not in the sense you mean," Glorfindel replied. "We met, but that is all. I saw him and his father, Bungo, safely to Brandy Hall and then rejoined your father in cleaning up the mess left by the wolves. Luckily there was little loss of life among the Shirefolk, but even so, it was not a cheerful Yule for any of them that year."

"How long did you stay there guarding the Shire?" Halbarad asked.

"For another three months until the river unfroze," Glorfindel said. "We never went back to the Shire or Buckland but stayed to the north and east where we continued patrolling. There were two more incursions of white wolves during the course of that winter but they never made it into the Shire. We were able to stop them before they did."

"And I thought this winter was bad," Halbarad said with a chuckle and Aragorn and the other Rangers joined him.

"Nay, this is nothing," Elladan said. "The Fell Winter truly lived up to its name. Now, while Glorfindel was taking his ease watching the ice on the Baranduin melt, Elrohir and I had a far more interesting time dealing with the trolls that had come out of the Ettenmoors."

"Oh?" Aragorn said. "I don’t think I remember you ever telling me that particular tale when I was growing up."

"That’s because both your mother and Elrond forbade them from doing so," Glorfindel replied. "You were far too young to hear such gruesome details."

"Well, I’m not so young now," Aragorn protested.

"True, but let us save that tale for another time. It is late and you are all exhausted. Sleep now and by tomorrow this storm will have passed."

The wind suddenly howled across the cave’s entrance and the Rangers all started. Glorfindel simply smiled. "Fear not! It is just the wind. There are no wolves out tonight, I promise you. Sleep. Your brothers and I will stand the watches."

No one bothered to argue and in a short while all the Mortals were fast asleep. Elladan and Elrohir sat quietly talking, but Glorfindel did not join their conversation, for while his body might be sitting by a fire inside a cave, his spirit was elsewhere... running with the wolves.

****

Words are Sindarin:

Daererais: Plural of daeraras: Great deer, possibly an elk or moose.

Periain: Plural of Perian: Halfing, Hobbit.

Notes:

1. The Long Winter (November 2758-March 2759 T.A.).

2. The Mortals and their respective ages:

     Argonui, 13th Chieftain of the Dúnedain, age 154.

     Arador, his son and heir, age 91.

     Arathorn II, his grandson, age 38.

     Bilbo Baggins, age 21 (13 human years old).

     Bungo Baggins, age 65. Bungo’s wife, Belladonna Took, is the sister of Donnamira who is married to Gorbadoc ‘Broadbelt’ Brandybuck, Master of Brandy Hall.

Candle Burning Bright

Summary: In the midst of despair, there can be found a glimmer of light if one simply looks. Second place in the Teitho contest ‘Candles’.

****

"How is he?" Glorfindel asked Galion, Thranduil’s Butler and Chief Steward, as he handed his cloak to a waiting servant.

The Wood Elf shrugged. "Much the same. He has not eaten or drunk in the last week and refuses to see or speak with anyone, even me." He gave the Noldo a grimace.

"My cousin has ever been more stubborn than a mule," Celeborn said as he gave his own cloak to one of the other servants. "Where is he?"

"I’ll take you to him," the Steward said. "It’s not in an area with which either of you would be familiar."

"Can you procure a couple of bottles of your best Dorwinion?" Celeborn asked.

"And some soft bread and cheese," Glorfindel added.

"I will see to them myself as soon as I show you where he has hidden himself," Galion said and gestured for the two Elf-Lords to follow him. They made their way through the main corridor, skirting the great hall that was Thranduil’s throne room and passed the way leading to the upper halls and living quarters for the Elves who made their home in the Othronn. When Galion turned a corner and headed down a set of winding stairs only dimly lit, Glorfindel balked.

"Where do you take us?" he demanded.

Galion, three steps down, turned and looked up at the two Elf-Lords. "To where Aran Thranduil is," he said simply and then continued descending into the gloom. Glorfindel and Celeborn glanced at one another and Celeborn shrugged, taking the stairs. After a moment’s hesitation, Glorfindel followed.

The stairs wound down for some way before leveling out. Here, torches were actually set in the walls, a feature that was not found in the upper ways where crystals were used to catch and reflect the light of candles. Galion continued along, and Glorfindel noticed passages scattered here and there on either side. "Where is this place?" he asked.

"The storerooms," Galion answered, "although they can be used as cells if necessary. Aran Thranduil has chosen one of the deeper ones, just before you reach the river, for himself."

"Whyever for?" Celeborn asked in confusion. "Does he hold court down here? It’s rather inconvenient."

"Not to mention damp," Glorfindel added.

Galion did not deign to answer. "Here," he said, stopping. "This is as far as I will go. The cell is directly to your left. I will return in a while with food and wine." And with that, he simply turned around and headed back up the corridor, leaving the two Elf-Lords staring after him in open-mouthed surprise.

Finally, Celeborn turned around. "Let us go see what my stubborn cousin is doing hiding away in a dank hole."

The two Elves made their way forward and found a stout oak door with metal bands and a grated window. They looked at each other, neither sure what to do next. Finally, Celeborn gave a huff of disgust and banged on the door.

"Thranduil, it is I, Celeborn. I’m coming in."

There was no answer and the once Lord of Lórien grimaced and pushed open the door, stepping in with Glorfindel right behind him.

"So, what have we here?" Celeborn asked rhetorically.

Glorfindel stifled a gasp. Thranduil sat huddled in a corner of the room, his arms around his knees, his head bent. In the dimness of the cell, it was difficult to see how he was dressed, but it seemed to Glorfindel that the Elf King’s wardrobe had seen better days, for the hem of the tunic was frayed and mud-spattered. His bright hair was dull and limp and he had obviously lost weight. Glorfindel nodded to himself: Thranduil, King of Eryn Lasgalen, showed all the classic symptoms of fading.

And if Thranduil knew they were there, he gave no sign.

Celeborn knelt before his cousin, gently running a hand through the Elf King’s hair. "Thranduil, Cousin, what are you doing?" he asked quietly.

For a long moment Thranduil did not stir or otherwise acknowledge Celeborn’s existence, then, speaking so softly that they almost missed it, he whispered, "He’s gone."

"Thranduil…."

The Elf King raised his head and they could see how sunken his face was from grief and lack of food, his eyes dull and lifeless.

"He’s gone," he repeated more forcibly, "and I’ll never see him again."

"Nonsense," Glorfindel said with a hint of exasperation, glaring down at the ellon. "If you sail…."

"And why would I do that?" Thranduil demanded.

"Why wouldn’t you?" Glorfindel retorted. "All your family is in Valinor or in Mandos waiting to be released. You have no family here. Legolas was the last."

"He deserted me."

"Oh, please. He left because he had to," Glorfindel said. "At least you have the knowledge that someday, the Belain willing, you and he will be reunited. I don’t have that much."

Thranduil gave him a puzzled look. "What do you mean? You are not a parent."

"Not in the biological sense, no," Glorfindel admitted, "but I was as much Arwen’s father as Elrond." He paused, stifling a sigh, the pain he felt almost too much to bear. "I have not only lost a daughter, but a son, for I helped raise Aragorn as well. And Celeborn has lost a grand-daughter. Arwen will never be seen in Arda again and it is a grief to me, to us, that will never be fully assuaged, but do you see either of us skulking in the shadows like a couple of river rats?" He laid a hand on Celeborn’s shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze, knowing that the Sindarin prince was grieving no less than he.

"Why are you here?" Thranduil asked, avoiding Glorfindel’s question. "How are you even here?"

"You can thank Galion for that," Celeborn said, standing. "He sent a messenger bird to Imladris and we came as soon as we could. It looks as if we are just in time."

"Time for what?" Thranduil demanded.

"Time to watch you fade," Glorfindel replied sharply. "But really, you shouldn’t deprive your loyal subjects of the pleasure. You should be up above, sitting on your throne for all to see as you fade, taking the coward’s way out."

"How dare you!" Thranduil shouted, attempting to get to his feet, but lack of food had left him weak and he wavered dizzily. Celeborn grabbed his arm to steady him.

"Fading is for the fainthearted and the weak-willed," Glorfindel said, giving Thranduil a hard look. "I never thought I would see the son of Oropher act so craven. I can tell you that Lord Námo is not happy to have such under his care."

"Assuming I would deign to go to him," Thranduil shot back, a dim gleam of his old self shining through his eyes.

Glorfindel smiled thinly. "Yes, there is that. A coward and a refuser. Your son, your entire family will have to spend the rest of the ages of Arda with the shame of knowing you took the easy way out."

"You’re rather full of yourself, aren’t you, Noldo?" Thranduil said with a sneer.

"Yet, what he says is true, Cousin," Celeborn interjected. "I do not think Oropher would welcome the news that his son is a coward."

"Who asked you?" Thranduil demanded angrily.

Before either Celeborn or Glorfindel could muster a reply, they heard the sound of someone clearing their throat and turned to see Galion standing there, a tray of food and drink in his hands, looking decidedly uncomfortable being there.

"Good," Glorfindel said. "Set the tray down by the door, Galion, and then you may leave."

The Butler did as he was bid and with a stiff bow to the three lords, left them alone once again. Glorfindel stooped down and brought the tray over, placing it on a barrel that had been set in a corner, clearly forgotten. He poured some wine into a goblet, broke off a piece of the bread and handed them to Thranduil. "Eat and drink, my friend. If you think we came all the way here from Imladris just to watch you fade, you’re sadly mistaken."

"Is it not my choice?" the Elf King demanded, refusing the bread and wine.

"And how would your fading honor your son?" Celeborn asked. "Do you wish to place that particular burden of guilt upon him?"

"He’s not here," Thranduil snarled. "He deserted me."

"You lost him a long time ago, Cousin," Celeborn said, smiling gently as he helped Thranduil to sit on the floor, his back against a wall for support, for the Elf King was too weak to stand for any length of time. Celeborn settled himself next to him and Glorfindel crouched in front of them, bread and wine still in his hands. "It has merely taken a hundred and twenty years of the Sun for reality to catch up with fact. Legolas was lost to you the day he joined the Fellowship, though no one, least of all him, knew it."

"Legolas was in a great deal of pain, Thranduil, there near the end, though he would not let anyone see it, but it was there for those with eyes to see. Even Aragorn commented on it in his last letter to me before he accepted Eru’s Gift. Legolas should have Sailed with Frodo and Lord Elrond, but he did not until all his Mortal friends were gone, save Gimli, and we think he took the Dwarf with him when he left."

Thranduil looked up with a gasp of surprise. "He took the Dwarf?"

"So we assume," Glorfindel said with a nod, "for rumor has it that two were seen riding down the Anduin to the Sea and one was definitely Legolas, for he stood at the tiller and sang. The other with him could only have been Gimli. No other would have gone nor would Legolas have accepted another Elf as a companion. No, Gimli son of Glóin went with your son into the West and I have no doubt that that stubborn son of Dúrin was warmly welcomed by the Valar and the Lady Galadriel."

Thranduil snorted, absently taking the piece of bread in Glorfindel’s hand and idly chewing it as he thought about the Noldo’s words. Then he let the piece of bread drop from his hand as he sighed, looking defeated.

"It hurts so much," he said.

"I know," Glorfindel said in a whisper. "We know. Do not think you are the only one suffering, Oropherion. Legolas was loved by many of your people and now the Elves who followed him to Ithilien are without a leader and their hearts are no less heavy than yours. Your hiding here is selfish and unbecoming of the king I know you are. Here, have some wine, but drink it slowly."

Thranduil gave him a sardonic look. "Yes, nana. Whatever you say, nana," but he accepted the goblet and drank small sips, alternating with chewing on bread and then some soft cheese. Glorfindel poured more wine into a couple of other goblets and gave one to Celeborn and the three of them sat in silence for a time.

Finally, Celeborn asked, "What did you do when you returned from the Last Alliance?"

"How do you mean?" Thranduil answered.

"I do not recall you acting this way when others of your family either died or Sailed," Celeborn said. "Why is Legolas different?"

Thranduil shrugged. "I don’t know. I only know that when I received his last letter and the news that he had Sailed... it just all came crashing down on me." He paused to take a drink. "But to answer your question, I had a small grotto opened where anyone could go to light a candle in remembrance of those who were now lost to us."

"When was the last time you visited this grotto?" Celeborn asked.

Thranduil had a far-away look in his eyes. "I don’t think I’ve been there since... well, it’s been a very long time."

"Then I suggest we go to this grotto and place our own candles in memory of Legolas and Arwen," Celeborn suggested. "Though my granddaughter is lost to us as Lúthien was lost to us, still she is of Elven-kind and we will honor her, even as we honor your son." He stood, brushing the dirt from his tunic and breeches and Glorfindel helped Thranduil to his feet. Together, the three ellyn made their way out of the cell and back towards the stairs with Celeborn and Glorfindel giving Thranduil a hand. Their progress was slow but eventually they reached the upper chambers. Thranduil stood there blinking in the greater light.

"Which way?" Celeborn asked.

"It’s behind the throne dais," Thranduil answered and with a nod they set off again.

Now that they had reached the habitable part of the stronghold, they encountered other Elves who stood in shock at the sight of their King shuffling along between Celeborn and Glorfindel, giving them hasty yet heartfelt bows or curtsies as they passed. They met Galion just before the throne chamber, the ellon’s expression one of disbelief warring with unmitigated joy at the sight.

"We are going to the grotto," Celeborn informed him and the Butler nodded.

"The way is clear," he said. "I will see that none disturb you."

They entered the hall and passed the throne dais with Thranduil pointing to a dark opening on the other side of the hall. "Through there," he said and the three continued on. They found themselves in a tunnel that was narrow enough that they had to go single file with Celeborn leading. The tunnel curved around and they could see a soft glow ahead. They stooped through a low entrance and then stood there gaping, for the chamber was filled with candles of different shapes and sizes and all of them lit, save for a handful lying in a basket by the door.

"They are all for Legolas."

The three turned to see Galion standing at the entrance.

"Legolas?" Thranduil echoed.

"Yes, Aran. Everyone has come and lit a candle, even those who live in the forest itself and seldom venture into the Stronghold. They still come and I must needs find more tallow for candles, for we are fast running out."

Glorfindel smiled at the bemused expression on Thranduil’s face. "You see? As long as even a single candle continues burning in the grotto, Legolas will never be forgotten. Why don’t you light your own candle?"

"That’s an excellent idea," Celeborn said, "and perhaps Glorfindel and I can light a candle for Arwen while we’re here."

"You may light it for me," Glorfindel said. He reached down into the basket and pulled out two candles, handing one to Thranduil and the other to Celeborn. "Go and light the candles so that the memory of Legolas and Arwen burns brighter still."

Thranduil hesitated for a moment and then stepped forward, lighting his own candle from one already lit and placed it in an empty space after letting some of the wax drip to form a base. Celeborn did the same and the Elves maintained a respectful silence for several minutes before Thranduil began to sway, the lack of food and the heat of the many candles taking their toll on him. Celeborn and Galion took his elbows, lending him their support.

"Come," Celeborn said. "Why don’t we see about you having a proper meal and a proper bath. I hate to say this, Cousin, but you stink."

Thranduil’s reply was pithy and to the point, causing Celeborn and Galion to laugh. "Are you coming, Lord Glorfindel?" Galion asked.

"I will follow you shortly," Glorfindel replied and a moment later he was alone in the grotto. For a long time he merely stood there watching the candles burn, then he picked up a candle and lit it, letting some of the wax melt before sticking the base of the candle into the hardening wax beside the two candles Thranduil and Celeborn had lit.

"For you, Estel," he whispered. "For you, my son." Then he turned and walked out, never looking back.

****

Words are Sindarin:

Othronn: Underground stronghold or city.

Aran: King.

Ellon: Male Elf.

Nana: Hypocoristic form of naneth: Mother.

From Argwon to Ethel

Summary: When young Aragorn comes to Imladris to live, there is a great deal of adjustment made on everyone’s part. Written for the Teitho contest 'Moments of Transition'.

****

“Nana, where Ada?”

Gilraen looked up from her embroidery to see her little son gazing up at her with his wide grey eyes, so like his father’s. Her heart clenched at the thought and she had to steel herself to speak normally. “Your ada is right here, little one,” she said softly.

“Estel, come here.”

That was Lord Elrond, sitting at his desk in the library where Gilraen was wont to come and sit away from the hustle and bustle of Imladris. It was always quiet here in Elrond’s library and she thought of it as a refuge. She was sitting on a bench on the balcony overlooking one of the gardens in full bloom this fine summer day. Little Aragorn — No, she reminded herself sadly, Estel. His name was Estel — continued to stare at her, ignoring Elrond.

“Want Ada, Nana. Where Ada?” Now tears were beginning to form in his eyes and Gilraen hoped there wouldn’t be a scene.

It had only been a month since that terrible, fateful day when her beloved Arathorn had been brought home to die. There was barely time for a proper funeral before Elrond’s sons were whisking her and her son away, bringing them to Imladris where Lord Elrond welcomed them. It had been Elrond who declared that her child should go by a different name to hide his identity.

“The Enemy has always sought news of the heirs of Isildur,” he told her. “Your son is that heir and he must be kept safe and hidden from prying eyes. I have already put out that he has died of a fever, which is why you and he were brought here, that I might cure him, but you arrived too late. That, at any rate, is the word that is even now spreading among the Dúnedain… and others.”

Gilraen had been in too much shock then to protest and so she had to keep reminding herself that Aragorn was Estel and that his adar was not Arathorn, her beloved husband and the other half of her soul, but Lord Elrond Half-Elven, Master Healer of Imladris. And she? What was she? She was unsure and was too shy to ask, dreading the answer.

“Estel,” Elrond said again, sounding as kind as summer, “come here to Ada.”

Aragorn turned to the Elf-lord, his expression mutinous. “Not Ethel,” he lisped. “Me Argwon. Want Ada. Want Ada.” Then he ran out of the room, crying.

“Estel!” Gilraen exclaimed, standing.

“No, Gilraen,” Elrond said with a sigh. “Let him go.”

“I’m sorry, my lord,” she said contritely. “I…”

“There is no need to apologize my dear,” Elrond said, raising a hand to stem whatever she meant to say. “It’s going to take time for him to adjust. You have only been here a month, and this is the first time he asked for Arathorn.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Gilraen responded forlornly, sinking back onto the bench. “Half the time I forget and call him Aragorn and he obviously hates being called Estel.”

“I know,” Elrond said, looking thoughtful. “I had thought that with time he would simply accept the change in name, but perhaps we are going about it the wrong way.”

“What do you mean?” Gilraen asked, intrigued.

Elrond smiled gently at the young Dúnadan Woman, who, in an earlier time would have been styled ‘the Dowager Queen’ rather than ‘the Widow of the late Chieftain’. “Let me think about it a little more. In the meantime, why don’t you go to your son and see that he is comforted.”

Gilraen recognized a dismissal however kindly put. She gathered her embroidery, gave the Elf-lord her curtsey and left in search of her child, the only link left to her former life, which even now seemed like a dark dream.

It was some hours later when Elrond summoned her again. Aragorn was fast asleep while one of the ellith of Elrond’s household watched over him during her absence. She made her way to the library where she found, not only the Master of Imladris, but his two sons as well as Lord Erestor and Lord Glorfindel. She hesitated at the door. For some reason, Lord Glorfindel intimidated her as no other of the Elves of Imladris did. She was not sure why, for he was unfailingly polite and when he smiled it was as if a hundred suns had risen. Yet, she instinctively felt his veiled power and knew that in many ways he was more powerful than even Elrond and that frightened her.

The Elves all looked her way and Elrond came and escorted her to a chair. “Thank you for coming, my dear.” He seated himself at his desk while his sons lounged negligently against the nearby map table. Lord Erestor and Lord Glorfindel sat in chairs on either side of Gilraen. Lord Erestor cast her a welcoming smile, which she returned shyly.

“What is this all about, Adar?” one of the Twins asked. Gilraen was still trying to figure out which Twin was which.

“I have been thinking that we need to change our strategy with regards to our young guest,” Elrond said. “We need to be more… insistent about his accepting that his name is Estel, not Aragorn, and that I am his Ada.”

“And in what manner are we to accomplish this?” Lord Glorfindel asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I think Estel will only call me Ada if everyone else does,” Elrond said, smiling slightly at them.

“You’re jesting, of course,” Lord Erestor said in a tone that suggested that terrible things would befall the Lord of Imladris if he weren’t.

“No, I am not jesting,” Elrond retorted. “Estel needs to hear me being addressed as ‘Ada’ as often as possible and that will only happen if everyone calls me ‘Ada’ or ‘Ada Elrond’, if that will be more comfortable for them.”

“Well, I suppose I can remember to call you Ada Elrond,” Lord Glorfindel said with a shrug and then gave them a wide grin. “I’ve called you worse things over the years,” he smirked.

Lord Erestor snorted, muttering something that Gilraen didn’t quite catch, while the Twins exchanged amused looks.

“Yes, well,” Elrond said, clearing his throat, refusing to look at anyone, “let us return to the matter at hand, shall we?”

“Having all of us calling you ‘Ada’ might work, but how do we get the child to accept that his name is Estel?” the other Twin asked and Gilraen promised herself that before another month was gone she would figure out which was which.

“I think the only way that will happen, Elrohir, is if you and Elladan treat the boy as your younger brother.”

Both Twins started. “How…?” Elladan started to ask but Elrond interrupted him.

“I know this is an imposition, my sons, but I think if you spend your time playing with him, calling him Estel and referring to him as ‘hanar’, he will eventually come to accept that role. After all, if I am his ada then it makes sense that you must be his henair.”

“But the Lady Gilraen is not our naneth,” Elrohir said softly, not looking at her, and a stillness settled over the Elves and their expressions were shuttered. Gilraen was unsure what was happening. She knew Lord Elrond’s wife no longer resided in Imladris but beyond that she knew nothing else about her.

“Nor would I want you to think so,” she finally said, turning slightly to face the two young Elf-lords, looking so much alike. “You need not call me ‘Nana’. Frankly, I am not sure I can even call you ‘Ada’, my lord,” she said, turning back to Elrond.

“I understand, my dear, more than you know,” Elrond said. “I think if you just continue reminding Estel that I am his ada that will be enough.” He cast a shrewd look at his sons. “I know how hard this will be for you, but I think it is the only way. For the time being, you are dismissed from your normal duties. Your only duty for the foreseeable future is to play big brothers to little Estel.”

The Twins sighed almost as one but they nodded their assent.

“Well, Ada Elrond,” Lord Glorfindel said with what Gilraen could only call a wicked grin, “shall I so inform the rest of the household or will you?”

Elrond chuckled. “Oh, I would never deprive you of the pleasure… my son.”

“Ha!” was Lord Glorfindel’s only comment as he stood. “Come, Erestor. Let us call everyone to the Hall of Fire and explain Ada’s plan.”

The two Elf-lords sauntered off and the Twins followed, leaving Gilraen alone with Elrond. For a moment or two, silence hung between them. Gilraen was in two minds about Elrond’s plan. She had accepted the role that Elrond had given himself as Aragorn’s new father but beyond that, it was hard for her, harder than she thought it would be.

As if he could read her thoughts, Elrond stood and raised her to her feet, smiling wistfully. “I know how difficult this has been for you, child. You are still in mourning and you’ve had little time to acclimate yourself to your new environment and position. Please believe me that I will do all that I can to make this transition as smooth as possible. Aragorn is young enough that he will eventually forget that he was ever called anything but Estel and that I am anything other than his ada. It will just take a little time. I think if my sons begin treating him as their brother that will go a long way toward helping him to accept his new life.”

Gilraen nodded. “Thank you, my lord. Do not think that I am unappreciative of your efforts on my behalf and on behalf of my son.”

“You are the widow of my brother’s descendant and the mother of another,” Elrond said gravely. “I can do no less than to succor the children of my brother’s house howsoever I may. Now, it is late. I will see you in the morning and we will begin our campaign against one stubborn man-child of the Dúnedain.” He gave her a sly grin and she could not help but giggle, feeling more like a young girl than a grown woman. Elrond kissed her gently on the forehead in benediction and she gave him her curtsey and left, feeling lighter of heart.

The next morning, she was surprised to see the Twins standing at the door of the apartment Elrond had set aside for her and her son, both of them grinning. “We’ve come to claim our little brother,” one of them said. She raised an amused eyebrow and ushered them in. Estel was being dressed by one of the elleth who had taken upon herself to act as Gilraen’s lady-in-waiting, much to the young Woman’s discomfort. The Twins practically pounced on the child when they saw him.

“Here, we’ll finish getting him dressed,” one of them said. “Why don’t you go on to the dining hall, Gilraen, and we’ll bring our hanar Estel with us shortly.”

“If you are sure,” Gilraen said uncertainly.

Both Twins nodded and, giving her son motherly advice to ‘mind your henair’, she left with the elleth. They arrived at the dining hall and Elrond greeted her politely as she stepped up the dais to take her usual place at the high table, asking how she had slept. Then he turned to the rest of the household. “Remember, I am ‘Ada’ or ‘Ada Elrond’ and my sons are Estel’s big brothers.” There were nods and quiet laughter all around. Even as Elrond was giving the order for breakfast to be served, Elrohir and Elladan came in, swinging a delighted Estel between them. They made their way to the high table, plopping the giggling child in his high chair situated between Gilraen and Elrond.

“Good morning, Ada,” both Twins said in unison. Then one of them — Gilraen thought it was Elladan — turned to Estel. “Will you say ‘Good morning’ to your ada, Estel?”

Estel gave Elrond a dubious look then turned to the Twins. “Not Ada. Elwond,” he declared before turning back to the bowl of porridge someone had placed before him.

Silence settled around them and Elrond merely nodded to his sons, letting them know that it was well. Gilraen resisted a sigh as she turned to her own breakfast. As the meal progressed, she was amused at how the Elves took every opportunity to address their lord as ‘Ada’.

“How were the eggs, Ada?” one of the servants asked.

“Would you care for more small beer, Ada?” another enquired.

“I have the household accounts for this month ready for your perusal, Ada,” Erestor told him.

“I think I will have the Greenleaf Company patrol the southern approaches,” Lord Glorfindel said at one point. “What do you think, Ada?”

And so it went. Gilraen stole a glance at her son sitting there clutching a spoon as he watched those around him, a puzzled look on his face. When the meal finished, though, the Twins quickly claimed him, declaring to all and sundry that it was now time to play with their little brother. “Shall we play hide-and-find?” one asked. “Would you like to play horsey?” the other asked. And before anyone could say a word, he lifted Estel up and put him on his brother’s back and the two of them galloped off with Estel shouting, “Faster! Faster!”

Elrond chuckled and there were many amused grins on the faces of the other Elves. Gilraen excused herself and went to see where Elrond’s sons had taken her child, curious to know how they intended to play. She found them in the lower garden, a favorite place of hers, where she often spent the time gazing out across a ravine to the distant waterfalls. Estel was swinging from one of the maple trees with the Twins on either side of him, making sure he was safe.

“Look, Nana!” he crowed.

“I see, Estel. Are you having fun playing with your brothers?”

The boy tried to nod upside down. “Yes, they is fun.”

“And after we finish swinging, we’re going to show our little brother how to float sticks on the water,” said one of the Twins — she thought it might be Elrohir.

“You are surely not taking him to the river?” Gilraen exclaimed in alarm.

“Oh, no. We’re going to play in the pond.”

Gilraen nodded. The pond was artificial and situated in yet another garden. It was happily inhabited by golden carp and frogs and Estel loved playing there.

“So, come, little brother. Let us away to play.” And shortly thereafter the sons of Elrond were off with Estel swinging gaily between them.

Thus the days went. At every opportunity when Estel was in Elrond’s presence, the people of Imladris addressed the Lord of Imladris as Ada and Elrohir and Elladan spent every waking moment playing with Estel. And when it was time for the child’s nap, they insisted on napping with him, singing soft lullabies as the boy lay between them on Gilraen’s bed. Every morning as they were sitting down for breakfast, Estel was always asked if he would say ‘Good morning, Ada’ to Elrond, but he never did, always insisting that he was not ‘Ada’ but ‘Elwond’. Elrond did not seem upset by this and assured Gilraen that it would all work out.

In the meantime, the child was beginning to respond to the name Estel, though occasionally he would insist that he was ‘Argwon.’

“But I think Estel is a much nicer name,” Elladan told him one time when he had protested being called Estel. “It is a very good name and all of Ada’s sons should have the same initial ‘e’ sound to their name.” He then pointed to himself. “Elladan,” he said, then pointed to his twin. “Elrohir and Estel,” now pointing to the boy. The young heir of Isildur gave them both dubious looks but did not further protest.

Nearly three weeks went by and it did not seem as if their plan was working, for Estel still refused to call Elrond ‘Ada’ and only occasionally responded to ‘Estel’. They were all gathered in Elrond’s library — Gilraen, Glorfindel, Erestor and the Twins — to discuss their success or failure.

“It has only been a few weeks,” Elrond said. “Do not give up. Estel is very stubborn but I would have expected no less from a descendant of my brother. Elros could give mules lessons on the subject.” His droll tone set them all chuckling.

“My question is, once Estel begins calling you Ada without being prompted to do so, how long must we continue with this charade?” Erestor enquired.

“Probably not for too long,” Elrond said. “I think if people begin addressing me as they are used to after another week or so that will be well. Remember, Estel is so young that in a few years he will most likely not even remember any of this.”

“I do not mind playing with him,” Elladan said — and Gilraen was secretly pleased that she could now tell them apart. Having them almost as constant companions to Estel had allowed her to become more familiar with them — “but we need to get back to our own duties. And what happens when we do? Estel has gotten used to having us about night and day. He’s going to be very upset when we are no longer there to play with him.”

“Almost as upset as you?” Glorfindel asked with a cheeky grin and Elrohir muttered something that Gilraen did not catch, though apparently the others did, for they started laughing.

“One thing at a time, my sons,” Elrond said once they were calmer, giving the Twins a sly grin. “That magic moment hasn’t happened yet. I think we will wean you away from your toys a little at a time. Estel goes down for a nap and sleeps for two hours. During that time you can be about some of your own duties. Eventually, we will have you not be available to play at other times during the day. I will have others entertain him. In time, he will accept that you are not always there for him but I hope you will continue to play with him on occasion.”

“Oh, no worries there, Ada,” Elrohir said with a grin. “We’ve been having fun and don’t really mind. Estel is a joy and we are very happy to be his big brothers.” Elladan nodded in agreement.

“That is well,” Elrond said and the meeting broke up.

And so they continued as they had with some minor changes. The Twins no longer stayed with Estel while he was napping but one or the other was always there when he awoke. Others began taking their place in entertaining the child. Everyone continued to address Elrond as ‘Ada’ even in private. “So we don’t forget ourselves,” Erestor confided to Gilraen when she commented on it. Gilraen sensed some impatience in many of Elrond’s household and knew that they wished Estel would cave in and call Elrond ‘Ada’ so they could get back to addressing their lord by his correct titles. The younger members, especially, were embarrassed, finding it difficult to address Elrond so familiarly. Elrond continued to be his calm, patient self.

Gilraen did notice, though, that her son was responding to ‘Estel’ more often than not and had ceased to insist that he was ‘Argwon’ but as yet he still would not call Elrond ‘Ada’. She wondered, as did others, if he ever would.

And then, one day, it happened.

There was nothing special about the day. Summer had given way to autumn and the days had turned cool and rainy. Estel was often kept indoors to play. On this particular day, nearly three months after their arrival in Imladris, Gilraen was ensconced as usual in Elrond’s library working on her embroidery while Estel played at her feet. He was drawing. Elrond sat at his desk as usual, perusing some text or other. Elladan and Elrohir had left directly after breakfast to join one of the patrols with assurances to Estel that they would return soon. He had been somewhat tearful at their leaving, but when Elrond brought him into the library and gave him some foolscap and several sticks of colored chalk he was soon happily at work.

“Look, Nana!” Estel said, leaping up to show her his artwork. “Here is Roh and Dan and me.”

She glanced at the drawing of stick figures, two of them larger than the third, the smaller figure between the two larger ones, holding their hands. “And who is that?” she asked, pointing to another figure who was off to one side and appeared to have a book in his hands, though she wasn’t sure.

“That’s Ada reading,” Estel exclaimed proudly and before she could offer any other comment, Estel was running straight to Elrond. “Ada, Ada. Look what I draw.”

She watched as the grave lord of Imladris reached down and picked her son up and placed him on his lap while Estel began describing his drawing. “… and that’s you reading,” he announced. She did not hear what Elrond said to him, only saw the boy nod and turn and give him a hug. “I love you, too, Ada,” he said and Gilraen, though she knew this day had to come, felt something within her die and she mourned for the father of her child, a father who would be forgotten except as a name in the history books Estel would someday learn to read. Elrond glanced her way, his grey eyes full of sympathy, as if he knew her thoughts. He nodded to her gravely and she nodded back.

It would be as it would be. Everything had changed for her and her son on the day Arathorn had died. For now, she had to content herself with the thought that, though she herself was alone, her beloved son now had two older brothers and a new father to care for him. It would have to do.

And then, an errant thought crossed her mind and she smiled, wondering how soon it would be before Lord Glorfindel and the other Elves of Imladris ceased to call Elrond ‘Ada’.

****

Words are Sindarin: 

Adar/Ada: Father/Papa

Elleth/Ellith: Female Elf (singular and plural)

Gwedyr: Plural of gwador: Sworn brother

Hanar/Henair: Brother (singular and plural)

Naneth/Nana: Mother/Mama

A Winter’s Tale

Summary: On a snowy night in the ruins of Eregion, Aragorn encounters a stranger with a strange tale. First place in the Teitho contest 'Around the Fireside'.

****

Winter had settled in like a relative showing up at an inconvenient time, intending to stay for a while. Aragorn surveyed the scene around him. Ost-in-Edhil had once been a thriving city of the Noldorin Elves but it had ceased to be anything but a memory long before his own birth. Little of the place remained save for a wall here or there and the ruins of the bridge that had spanned the river, connecting the two parts of the city. Where he stood gazing about, he could just make out the marshlands of the Swanfleet to the west, but the swans no longer lived there and there was an air of silent desolation all around. He shrugged further into his cloak, carefully crossing the frozen river to the north side, deciding it was as good a place to hole up for a time as any. He glanced at the sky with a sigh. The clouds had been thickening all day and now they were dark and heavy with snow.

Hunting for a place to camp, he came upon the ruin of what must have been a large hall of some kind. There was a flagged courtyard, the stone badly cracked and discolored as if by intense heat, and he could see the outline of what might have been rooms on either side of a central nave. He spent a little time carefully checking the hall out for signs of being inhabited, but, while the debris of ages covered much of the flooring, there was no evidence that any animal had used the place for a den, which he found odd. There was one room open to the courtyard that still had two walls that were nearly intact so that the wind was blocked from the north and he decided to make his camp there. He gathered some kindling and soon had a cheery fire going, setting up a makeshift tripod and hanging a small kettle over the fire, filling it with snow. Once it was melted he would throw in some chunks of venison and a few precious tubers he had dug up in the forests further south in Dunland where they were more protected from winter’s onslaught. It wasn’t much and it would be rather tasteless, for he had neither salt nor herbs, but he had had less in his time and at least it promised to be hot. Even protected from the north wind he could feel the cold encroaching and shivered, stamping his feet and blowing on his mittened hands.

While the stew was cooking, he gathered some pine branches and wove a crude mat, placing it across the jagged top of the walls where they joined together, holding it down with several heavy blocks of stone, thus forming a bit of a roof. If the wind did not get too strong it should remain in place, protecting him from the snow that was now beginning to fall.

With that task done, he checked the stew, which was bubbling nicely. It would be a while before it was ready, so he hunkered down before the fire, letting it warm him as he watched the snow falling. The last gleams of light from the setting sun bathed the western horizon with shades of rose and mauve, but the clouds obscured the stars and soon the darkness was complete. He stirred the pot and settled further into his cloak, wishing he still had some pipeweed. A smoke would while away the time until his dinner was ready.

His thoughts drifted with the snow, racing north to where his heart lay, and he allowed himself to daydream about his homecoming.

“A bitter night.”

Aragorn jerked, rising to his feet and drawing his sword in a single fluid motion before he was sufficiently awake, silently cursing himself for not staying alert. Before him, on the other side of his fire, stood a tall figure cloaked and hooded so he could not make out any features.

“Who are you?” he demanded, surprise rather than fear harshening his tone, wondering where the person had come from.

The figure raised its hands in a placating manner. “Peace. I mean you no harm.” Then he pulled down his hood. It was an Elf, his long dark hair proclaiming him to be a Noldo. His dark eyes glittered with an inner light that led Aragorn to suspect that here was one who had perhaps lived in the Blessed Realm long ago.

“I did not mean to startle you,” the Elf said in a placating manner. “May I join you? As I said, it is a bitter night and a fire would be welcome.” He spoke Westron, but not fluently, for he hesitated over a word or two and his accent was strange, not what he was used to hearing among the Elves of Imladris or elsewhere.

Aragorn slowly returned his sword to its sheath then gestured toward the fire. “Make yourself at home,” he said in Westron rather than in Sindarin, deciding not to reveal that he knew the Elvish language.

“Thank you,” the Elf said simply and with the natural grace of his kind, crouched before the fire, holding out his hands to the heat. “The stew smells good,” he said conversationally.

“There’s not much,” Aragorn replied apologetically, thinking that with the Elf sharing his meal, there was going to be even less for him.

“Do not concern yourself,” the Elf said, as if he had read his thoughts. “I am not hungry. Please, eat. I wish only to share your fire, nothing more.”

Now Aragorn felt shamed. “What I have is yours,” he said as sincerely as possible.

“And I assure you that I am not in need of food,” the Elf replied with a smile. “Now, eat. You do not wish for the stew to burn.”

Aragorn removed the kettle from the fire, pulled out a wooden spoon from his pack and began eating the stew. All the while the Elf crouched before the fire, watching him and there was a wistfulness to his expression. Aragorn stopped eating and held out the spoon. “Please have some.”

The Elf looked up at him and his dark eyes glittered with some emotion that Aragorn could not name and he had to force himself not to reach for his sword. Then the Elf’s eyes cleared and he laughed and the feeling of threat passed. “Thank you, but I assure you I am not hungry. Please do not concern yourself with me. I am fine. You are traveling far?”

Aragorn blinked at the sudden change in the conversation, then nodded. “Far enough, especially in this season. I am making my way to Rivendell, to the House of Elrond.”

The Elf raised a delicate eyebrow. “And what does a Mortal have to do with Elrond Half-Elven?”

“I am a Ranger,” Aragorn replied. “I have some news for Lord Elrond concerning the state of affairs in Gondor and Rohan. Lord Elrond is always asking for news of the outside world and we Rangers often bring it to him.”

For a moment or two, silence hung between the two as the Elf seemed to be contemplating his words. Aragorn ate some more of the stew, wishing he had some bread with which to sop it up.

“I see you wear a curious ring,” the Elf said suddenly and Aragorn blinked again. “May I see it? Rings are… were something of interest to me… long ago.” Again there was an expression of wistfulness on his face and a note of regret in his voice which Aragorn could not interpret.

“It is an heirloom of my House,” Aragorn said, holding out his hand, reluctant to take it off and give it to the Elf to examine. In the firelight, the emeralds glittered darkly.

“I have seen this ring before,” the Elf said with a frown, “but it graced the hand of no Mortal. An heirloom of your house, you say?” He gave Aragorn a piercing look and when he spoke again it was in Sindarin. “Who are you?”

“I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain,” Aragorn replied simply in the same language.

“Then Elrond of Imladris is your kinsman,” the Elf said with a nod.

“A very distant relationship, I assure you,” Aragorn said with a twist of his lips.

The Elf waved a hand in dismissal. “A kinsman nonetheless. So, you are of the line of Beren son of Barahir.” He fell silent, his gaze becoming distant, as if he were looking at something far off in time and space.

“And you?” Aragorn finally said, breaking the silence between them. “You have not introduced yourself.”

The Elf’s gaze became more present and he smiled thinly. “Rude, am I?” he retorted with a merry laugh. “Well, I think I will continue being rude for a while. Shall I tell you a tale and perhaps from it you can guess my identity.”

“And if I cannot guess correctly?” Aragorn said.

The Elf shrugged. “Then you will go to your grave wondering just who entertained you with a tale on a winter’s night in the middle of nowhere.”

Now it was Aragorn’s turn to laugh. “Fair enough,” he said. “Let me finish this stew and build up the fire against the night and then I will be ready to hear your tale.”

The Elf nodded and after another ten or fifteen minutes, the kettle empty of stew and the fire burning brightly, Aragorn settled himself with his back against a wall, his cloak firmly wrapped around him, wishing he could smoke or have a cup of tea, but he had used up the last of the fresh wintergreen leaves a week before and had not found any other herbs along the way. All the while the Elf crouched unmoving before the fire.

“And so, your tale, Sir Elf,” Aragorn said with the ghost of a smile.

However, for several long minutes his guest said nothing, merely staring into the fire. Aragorn forced himself not to fidget. Long exposure to the way of Elves had taught him patience. The Noldo would speak in his own time, though Aragorn hoped he would not fall asleep waiting for him to do so. It had been a long, wearying day of travel and now that he was warm and fed, he could feel himself drifting again. The low voice of the Elf brought him back to wakefulness, realizing he had missed some of his words.

“… many years since.” The Noldo gave him a considering look. “What do you know of these ruins?”

“That once a city of the Noldor thrived here, but that war came upon it and it was destroyed.”

“And do you know why there was a war?”

“Sauron,” Aragorn replied coldly and said no more.

The Elf raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Though we knew him as Annatar, Lord of Gifts.” He snorted in derision. “The only gift that one is capable of giving is death… or worse.” His expression became wistful again and for several minutes only the wind blowing around the edifice made any sound. Finally, he shook his head, as if to clear it of some dark thought and gazed upon the Dúnadan who had not moved.

“I was young as we Elves reckon such things,” the Elf said, “an apprentice jewel-smith. I well remember the day Lord Celebrimbor welcomed the one who named himself Annatar, seeking to teach us what he knew of the crafting of Rings of Power. I felt uneasy in that one’s presence, though I could not say why and did not speak my concerns, for I was but a lowly apprentice, soon to become a journeyman. At any rate, I had little to do with Annatar, for which I thank the Belain, but that did not mean I had nothing to do with him.”

He paused for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, then spoke, his voice low and unemotional. “Would that I had listened to the urgings of my heart….” He stopped and gave Aragorn another piercing look. “Do you know what happened to Celebrimbor?”

Aragorn nodded. “He was killed by Sauron, his body hung on a pole as the Dark Lord’s standard when that one took to the field against Elrond’s forces.” He shuddered involuntarily at the gruesome image that came to him. He remembered the sense of horror and revulsion he had felt when he had heard the story from one who had been there. The thought of Celebrimbor’s fate still left him feeling sick.

“Ah… I didn’t know that,” the Elf said, sounding pleased for some reason.

Aragorn stared at him in disbelief. How could he not know?! Before he could ask, though, the Elf continued his tale.

“I obtained my journeyman status about a year or two after Annatar arrived and became more involved with those masters who were studying under Celebrimbor and learning the crafting of the Rings. It was a slow process and there were many false starts in the beginning but over a period of several centuries we became more and more proficient in crafting such items.”

“Did you make….” Aragorn started to ask but stopped, unsure how to continue without insulting the storyteller.

“Did I make any of the Rings themselves?” the Elf finished his thought for him. He flashed him a sardonic look. “Yes, actually. I proved myself quite proficient in the making of such rings, more so than the other journeymen and even one or two of the masters, so Celebrimbor allowed me to fashion one of the rings. The very least of them, I admit, but I think I did a fair enough job.” There was a measure of pride in his voice.

“Which one?” Aragorn asked in curiosity.

“Ah… well, it was one fashioned for Men,” he said almost apologetically. “I have no idea what happened to it though. Do you?”

Aragorn stared at the Elf in confusion. How could this one who lived through the events of the last two ages not know what had happened to the ring he had fashioned? “I believe it was given to one of the kings of Men at the time,” he said carefully, “but I am afraid I do not know which one.”

The Elf nodded. “No matter. As I was saying, we spent several centuries fashioning the rings and learning other crafts along the way and most of us welcomed Annatar’s teachings. Yet, my uneasiness grew and when I had finished making the ring assigned to me, I felt a great reluctance to give it up. Indeed, I remember staring at it as the metal cooled thinking I should cast it back into the fire and melt it down and create something else from it, a brooch perhaps or some other trinket. But I did not, and in the end, I handed it over to Annatar and never saw it again.”

He paused, his eyes going dark and there was unfathomable pain behind them. “I never saw anything again after that.”

“I… I don’t understand….” Aragorn started to say, beginning to feel the uncanniness of the whole situation. Something about this Elf was not right.

“Did Annatar ever touch the Elven Rings, do you know?” the Elf suddenly asked.

Aragorn just stared at him. “How can you not know these things?” he finally blurted out.

“Please, did he touch them?” he pleaded, ignoring Aragorn’s question.

“No. Celebrimbor hid them from him. He never touched them.”

The look of relief on the Elf’s face was genuine, he was sure of it, but it only deepened the mystery behind him.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice sounding harsh to his ears.

The Elf cocked his head to his left, as if seriously contemplating the question, then he smiled. “I have not yet finished my tale. Would you listen to its ending?”

Aragorn nodded.

“As I said, I was most reluctant to give over my Ring to Annatar and I pleaded with Celebrimbor against handing over any of the rings to him, but that had been the bargain, you see: Annatar would teach us the crafting of Rings of Power and we would give him the Rings to be distributed to those for whom they were meant.”

“I never understood why he needed your people’s help in crafting what he already knew how to do,” Aragorn interrupted, then stammered an apology.

The Elf raised a conciliatory hand. “It is a fair question. Let us just say that he needed our resources and our power. Crafting Rings of Power is not like crafting an ordinary ring, even one such as yours. It took much power to imbue them with their properties and Annatar needed us to supply that power.” He shrugged. “At any rate, Celebrimbor remained unmoved by any of my arguments as to why we should not give up the Rings and ordered me to give mine up.”

“I still do not understand why….”

“Why Celebrimbor didn’t just take my ring and give it to Annatar? For the simple reason that only the maker of the Ring could give it up to another. Mine was the least of the Rings, yet, none could safely touch it unless I gave it to them.”

Aragorn nodded in understanding and after a moment of silence the Elf continued his tale. “I finally agreed to meet Annatar and give him the Ring, loath though I was to do so. There was a feast being held in the hall of the Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel and Celebrimbor and many other masters of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain were there. I should have been, but I had made arrangements to meet Annatar before joining the others. That was my mistake. There was no one else about, you see. Our meeting was quite private.

“And it was then my doom was assured, for as I laid the Ring in his outstretched hand and our flesh touched, I caught a fleeting glimpse of his mind’s purpose and his true intent with regards to all the Rings. I tried to hide my shock and fear, but I think he guessed, for he gave me a sardonic smile even as he thanked me. I nodded and turned to leave, wishing only to find Celebrimbor and tell him what I had learned…. And that is when I died.”

Aragorn stared at him in disbelief and a rising sense of horror. “Died?” he whispered.

The Elf nodded. “He struck me from behind.”

“And… and your… er….”

“Body? It was never found.”

“But why are you… um…”

“Still here?” The Noldo appeared amused by his discomfort. “Ah, that’s because Annatar did not just kill me, he cursed me.”

“How?”

“As he shoved my body into its makeshift grave, he uttered a curse. It was in Quenya, rather than in Sindarin. Do you know the language?”

Aragorn nodded.

“Well, I will not repeat it in that language but in the Westron of Mortals he said: ‘May your spirit be ever bound to this earth for all the Ages of Arda’.” He paused, his expression once again wistful. “I heard the Call of Mandos, but I could not heed it. That Call has grown fainter and fainter with every year that passes, and though I long to leave this place, I cannot.”

“How do you come to know the Common Tongue, though? It was not spoken in your day.”

“Well, while my people have avoided this place, that cannot be said of others. Hunters have come this way, and the occasional bandit, even a few curiosity-seekers. Over time I began picking up the language, though I admit I do not know much of it.”

For a long moment, the two sat in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Aragorn stared at the figure crouched before him. He seemed so solid and his tale sounded so incredible, yet there had been no sense of falsehood in his voice and Aragorn had learned to discern when others were being less than truthful.

“This curse, are those the exact words which were spoken?” he finally asked.

The Elf nodded distractedly, his gaze distant, but then at the import of Aragorn’s words his gaze sharpened and became more present. “What are you thinking?”

“He said ‘May your spirit be ever bound to this earth’. What if your body were moved elsewhere?”

“Do you think it would work?” the Elf asked, casting him a dubious look.

Aragorn shrugged. “Curses, like blessings, must be carefully spoken. Sauron cursed you to remain ever bound to this earth. What word did he use in Quenya?”

“Cemen.”

“You are sure of that? He said ‘cemen’ and not ‘Ambar’?”

The Noldo nodded, giving him a quizzical look.

“Do you not see?” Aragorn demanded, becoming excited as he tried to explain. “He cursed you to remain bound to the soil in which your body lies, not to the world itself. But what if your body were to lie in some other soil?”

The Elf’s eyes brightened with understanding and he stood suddenly. “Come with me. Bring a torch.”

Without waiting to see if Aragorn would comply with his command, the Noldo stepped away from the fire and made his way down the central nave of the hall. Aragorn hastily rose and fashioned a crude torch before following. They came to a cross corridor and the Elf turned left. “This part of the hall was being extended at the time of my death,” he said as they entered one of the rooms. “Annatar brought my body here. The tiles were just being laid and they were not completely set in. He pulled some of the tiles up and dug a hole. There were plenty of tools around for him to do so. Then he shoved my body into it and covered it, placing the tiles back on top, all the while fouling the Ancient Tongue with his curse.” He gave Aragorn a grim look. “I suppose it amused him to think that my fellow craftsmen would be walking unknowingly over my grave.”

“And no one ever learned of your fate or questioned your disappearance?”

The Elf shrugged. “I cannot say, for there was a long period of time when I knew nothing of what was happening around me. I did not even realize I was dead until I tried to speak to one of my fellows who happened to be passing this room. For a long time, I could not even move from here, doomed to stand forever over my own grave. In time, though, there was a lessening of the bonds and I could move around more freely, but never beyond the courtyard. I witnessed the destruction of the city, helpless to intervene. I saw many of my friends fall, but could never learn of Celebrimbor’s fate, until tonight.”

“Show me the exact location and I will dig up your body and take it with me and rebury it in Imladris.”

“Where I am standing,” the Elf said.

Aragorn nodded, grabbing some loose stones lying about and building a small cairn to mark the spot. “I cannot guarantee this will work….”

“That you are willing to try is enough, and I am grateful. I have tried unsuccessfully to speak with others who have come here over the long years, but you are the first to acknowledge my existence. I cannot believe it a coincidence that one with the blood of Lúthien in his veins came here on this of all nights.”

“What do you mean?” Aragorn asked.

“This night. I died on this night.” And as the sky began graying in the east, Aragorn could see the Elf beginning to fade.

“Wait! You never told me your name,” he cried out.

The Noldo smiled. “Can you not guess? I am Celebrindor son of Celebrimbor.” With that he disappeared and Aragorn never saw him again….

****

“I dug up the grave and discovered that the body was still intact, even after all this time. I lifted it out and carefully wiped away every trace of the earth clinging to it, even going so far as to take it down to the river and after breaking the ice, washing it. Then I built a travois to carry it, carefully wrapped in my blanket. All the while, I expected it to crumble into dust, but it never did.”

Elrond stared pensively at his youngest son as Aragorn finished his tale. They were alone in Elrond’s library. “And do you think in doing as you did the curse was lifted?”

“I don’t honestly know, Adar,” Aragorn admitted. “But….”

“Go on, my son,” Elrond said gently when Aragorn hesitated.

“It was two days later, the ruins far behind me. I had stopped for the night and was sitting beside the fire, thinking of Celebrindor’s tale. His body was packed in snow to help preserve it. As I sat there, I could have sworn I felt someone touch my forehead and then I heard someone thanking me. It lasted only for a second, but I am sure it was Celebrindor and I would like to think that he was finally able to heed Mandos’ Call.”

“As do I,” Elrond said. “At any rate, we will have a proper funeral for him, my son. I agree with Celebrindor: it was no coincidence that you were there on that particular night. Come, let us see to our guest’s final resting place.”

“Did you know him?” Aragorn asked shyly as they exited the library.

“Yes, I did, though not well, but others knew him better. When we have done our duty to him, we will trade tales and songs in his honor. Perhaps you will cast your own tale into verse for all to hear.”

“I would like that, thank you. He deserves to have his story known.” And as they made their way to where the son of Celebrimbor lay in state, Aragorn was already mentally composing the tale of his encounter with a strange Elf on a winter’s night and the story that was told around the fireside.

****

Words are Sindarin unless otherwise noted:

Belain: The Valar.

Gwaith-i-Mírdain: ‘People of the Jewel-smiths’, the name of the fellowship of craftsmen in Eregion led by Celebrimbor.

Cemen: (Quenya): Earth, soil.

Ambar: (Quenya) World, Earth.

Adar: Father.

Note: There is nothing in the Legendarium that says that Celebrimbor had a son, but then again, there is nothing that says he didn’t.

The Shadow of Lúthien

Summary: Elrond fears history is repeating itself and hopes to divert it. Written for the Teitho challenge 'History Repeating Itself'.

****

Elrond watched pensively as Estel — no! Aragorn — exited the Master of Imladris’ study, contemplating the disturbing conversation he had had with one he thought of as his son, no less than Elladan and Elrohir. He did not have long to himself, though, for a knock came to the door and when he called out, his sons, along with Erestor and Glorfindel, entered.

“Well?”

Elrond hid a smile at Glorfindel’s imperious tone.

“So what did our youngest have to say, or rather, what did you have to say to him?” the balrog-slayer added.

“Is it true, though? Is it what you suspect?” Elladan asked before Elrond could answer Glorfindel’s question.

Elrond sighed and rubbed the space between his eyes. Erestor, ever practical, went to a sideboard and poured some claret into a goblet and handed it to the Lord of Imladris, who accepted the drink with a grateful look. After he took a sip, he nodded.

“Yes. It is as we feared. Estel appears to have fallen under the spell of your sister’s beauty.”

“Well, he’s not the first man, Mortal or Elf, to do so, and I suspect he will not be the last,” Glorfindel retorted with a huff of amusement. He gave the Twins a merry look. “Remember the first Aragorn? Followed Arwen around like a lost puppy until you two put the fear of the Valar into him and he was younger than Estel.”

Elladan and Elrohir smirked but Elrond gave them an impatient look. “Be that as it may, this is a bit more serious than an adolescent’s infatuation.”

“Should ’Roh and I give him a talking to, older brothers to younger?” Elladan asked, his tone serious, though there was a glint of mischief in his eyes that was mirrored in his twin’s.

Elrond gave his sons a stern look. “You are not to do or say anything to embarrass him and you are certainly not to threaten him as you did to poor Aragorn Aravirion. The lad wasn’t even fifteen. Your naneth and I were very unamused by your overprotectiveness. Arwen was quite capable of handling the child. I swear he never recovered from your ‘little chat’.”

Now the Twins looked chagrined. “We did apologize,” Elrohir said softly.

“Well, it’s water under the bridge,” Erestor interjected. “Your adar is correct, though. He will not appreciate any interference in this matter from either of you. You leave young Estel to Elrond to handle as he sees fit.”

“But we cannot simply ignore this,” Elladan protested. “Are we just supposed to pretend that we don’t see him mooning over our sister, watching her every move, sighing over nothing?”

“Besides, he’s barely old enough to grow a beard,” Elrohir said dismissively. “The thought that he and Arwen… Talk about cradle robbing!”

“I reminded him that Arwen is of a far nobler lineage than he and that her doom is different from his,” Elrond said mildly.

“Oh, I bet Estel liked that,” Glorfindel retorted as he leaned negligently against the wall, his arms and legs crossed. “Until a few days ago, he thought himself your son, Elrond, and I think he still does, whatever his true lineage. The news that he is not, that he is the son of another man, a Mortal, no less, had to be shocking to him and then he meets Arwen.”

Elrond gave his friend a shrewd look. “Do you think there is something behind their meeting other than chance?”

Glorfindel gave an elegant shrug. “I learned long ago that there is no such thing as coincidence or chance. Things happen for a reason, though we may not know or understand that reason except perhaps in hindsight. It took me millennia after my death and re-embodiment to recognize this for myself. In Eä, there is no such thing as chance or coincidence, or so the Valar taught me.”

A troubling silence fell among them for several minutes. Finally, Elrohir gave his father a worried look. “So what do we do?”

“Nothing,” Elrond answered decisively. “Aragorn” — and he deliberately used his youngest son’s true name — “will be leaving tomorrow to join his people, as we agreed. You and Elladan will, of course, escort him and introduce him to the Dúnedain and you will say nothing to him about Arwen. Certainly if he raises the subject himself, and I think that doubtful, you are free to remind him that your sister has a different doom than his, but do and say nothing to turn him away from us. Remember the Lady Gilraen still dwells here and I would not wish any estrangement to come between us over this.”

The Twins both nodded.

“Well, we can only hope he will meet and fall in love with a woman of his own kind in the meantime,” Erestor said.

But Elrond shook his head. “I specifically told him that he should neither have wife, nor bind any woman to him in troth, until his time comes and he is found worthy of it.”

“Meaning, until and unless he ascends the throne of Gondor,” Glorfindel said.

“My foresight tells me that Aragorn will either rise above the height of all his fathers since the days of Elendil, or he will fall into darkness with all that is left of the Dúnedain,” Elrond said. “If it be Arwen’s fate to cleave to Aragorn, it will not be for any less reason in that he becomes King of Gondor and Arnor in truth and not in name only.”

“Well, that, of course, is Arwen’s decision,” Glorfindel said, “but have you spoken to her yet about this? What has she to say?”

“No, I have not spoken to her yet,” Elrond admitted. “I plan to as soon as I get rid of you lot.”

Several eyebrows rose at that. “All right, Elrond, even I can take a hint,” Glorfindel said in mock dismay. “Come along, children, let’s leave your adar to speak to your sister alone.”

The Twins grinned as they followed Glorfindel out. Erestor stayed behind for a moment. “Shall I find Arwen and ask her to attend you, Elrond?”

“Yes, thank you, Erestor.”

The Elf inclined his head in respect and left. For a time, Elrond sat in silence, contemplating many things. He was reminded of Lúthien and Beren and their tale and how Elu Thingol had treated the Mortal, demanding a Silmaril as the only worthy bride-price for his daughter. It was an arrogant and rather dangerous demand, for it caused the death of one of the best of them and ultimately brought about the downfall of Doriath. Yet, in spite of that, if it hadn’t been for Beren daring to love Lúthien and Lúthien willing to return that love and forsake her heritage and her people, he, Elrond, would never have been born, for his own mother, daughter of Dior son of Beren, would not have been born. Indeed, Elros, his twin, would also not have been born and therefore, the line of Númenórean kings, including his foster-son, would not have existed.

All the sorrows and agonies and darkness which had haunted his line had to mean something, had to speak of some good that, if not seen, could at least be anticipated. If his daughter did indeed cleave to Aragorn, the two houses of Eärendil’s sons would be united, but what that might mean for any of them, even he could not say.

His thoughts were interrupted by a light knock on the door and then Arwen was there, peeking in.

“Erestor said you wished to see me, Ada?”

Elrond smiled. “Yes, Daughter. Come and sit beside me.” He rose from behind his desk and moved to a settee beside the fireplace.

Arwen closed the door and joined Elrond. “I understand you met young Aragorn the other day,” he said without preamble.

“Yes. He chased me.” She gave him a coy look.

“Chased you?” Elrond raised an eyebrow. That was a detail he had not known.

She nodded, her eyes bright with amusement. “He called me Tinúviel. He had apparently been singing about Beren meeting Lúthien when he spied me and thought he had wandered into a dream.”

“I see.”

Arwen gave him a shrewd look. “Why are you so interested in this, Ada?”

Elrond hesitated for a moment before answering and then asked a question of his own. “What do you think of him?”

Arwen raised a delicate eyebrow. “How should I think of him?” she countered, then she shook her head. “Ada, he’s a personable young Adan.”

“He is, in fact, the Dúnadan. Until a few days ago, he thought himself my son, Estel.”

Arwen nodded. “So I recall from the letters you and others sent me while I abode in Lothlórien. As I said, he seems a personable young Man and I found him rather amusing in his bashfulness.”

“Amusing… You felt nothing else for him?”

“Ada, what are you trying to say?” She stood up to stare down at Elrond, a look of puzzlement on her fair face. “What should I feel for him? We met for a brief moment. I have not seen him since, nor have I really given him much thought.”

“He seems to have been taken by you, Daughter,” Elrond responded. “Indeed, he thinks he loves you.”

“That’s absurd,” Arwen retorted scornfully.

“As absurd as Beren falling for Lúthien,” Elrond averred with a nod. “One thinks such things happen only in tales told by the bards, but the truth is, Aragorn son of Arathorn thinks he loves you and fell in love at the very sight of you.”

“As many an ellon and not a few Mortal Men have. I have ignored such as they. I am quite prepared to ignore his protestations of love as well, should he ever be so bold as to declare himself to me.”

“I would hope that you would treat him gently, Daughter, for I look upon him as a son, one of my children. He is dear to me and I would not see him crushed by careless or unthinking words.”

Arwen bent down and kissed Elrond on the forehead. “Ada, I would never do anything so crass. But the truth is, I have no interest in him, for he is but a callow youth and I have no intention of robbing the cradle, as I believe the saying goes. Now, shall I see you at the evening meal?”

Elrond nodded. “Yes. We are having a farewell feast for Estel, I mean, Aragorn. Your brothers will be accompanying him tomorrow to the Angle where he will be introduced to his Dúnedain kin for the first time.”

Arwen nodded. “Then I will see you there.” She headed for the door and opening it, paused, looking back, giving Elrond a brief smile. “Ada, I promise you, I am not Lúthien. I have no intention of running off with Aragorn or any other Mortal, now or ever.”

Elrond nodded and she left, closing the door of the study gently behind her, leaving Elrond alone once again. In spite of Arwen’s assurances to the contrary, though, he could not help thinking that history was somehow repeating itself and he feared what the future might bring for him and his family, especially his beloved daughter. Yet, it all depended on the young Man and what he accomplished in his lifetime.

Elrond groaned, closing his eyes with the realization that he both hoped and feared for the day Aragorn became King of the United Realm, just as he both hoped and feared, for Arwen’s sake, that he never did.

“Celebrían, my love, now more than ever I wish you were still here beside me,” he whispered to himself, the longing for his wife that never left him intensifying, filling him with sorrow and regret for what had been lost and what might still be lost. How long he sat there, lost in dark contemplation, he was unsure, but the small bell in the courtyard that was wrung to declare the hour chimed and he bestirred himself and went to prepare for the evening feast, forcing himself to set aside his dark thoughts for his son Estel’s sake, though his heart remained heavy with foreboding for the future.

****

Words are Sindarin unless otherwise noted:

Naneth: Mother.

Adar/Ada: Father/papa.

Eä: (Quenya) The Universe.

Adan: Man, mortal.

Dúnadan: Man of the West, used as a title of the Chieftain of the Dúnedain.

Ellon: Male Elf.

Ensnared by Hope

Summary: Celeborn has a change of heart about a certain Dúnadan. Placed third in the Teitho contest 'Capture'.

****

Celeborn of Lothlórien looked on impassively as his lady courteously greeted this distant scion of Elros Eärendilion and listened to the Man’s weary reply. She then ordered a bath for their guest, bidding the Mortal to follow the ellon assigned to him. The Elf-lord felt a sudden rush of sympathy for Aragorn son of Arathorn as the Man nearly fell on his face as he attempted a bow toward his benefactors, his face pale and his eyes sunken with fatigue. Mallor, one of their household servants, surreptitiously held the Man up with a negligent hand. Galadriel smiled at Aragorn with that same indulgent smile she reserved for her grandchildren as Mallor led the Mortal away to his bath.

When they were alone, Galadriel made her way to their sleeping quarters, opening his wardrobe and examining various tunics, pulling them out and shoving them back in until she found what she was looking for: a tunic of white samite trimmed with silver-thread embroidery. She placed it on the bed and hunted about for appropriate leggings.

“Where is your second-best cloak?” she finally asked as she rummaged through a clothespress.

“Where it always is,” Celeborn replied, feeling more amused than anything as he observed his beloved. “You are making rather free with my wardrobe, Wife.”

Galadriel looked up and gave him a brittle smile. “Well, he cannot go about in those leathers that have seen better days. He needs to wear something appropriate while he is visiting. Arwen is here, after all.”

Celeborn frowned. “What are you about, Galadriel? What has Arwen to do with this Man?”

“Nothing, as far as I know. I do not think they have ever met, or at least she has never spoken of it. But he is our guest and he is Elros’ descendant. For those reasons alone we should treat him accordingly.”

“And I agree,” Celeborn said. Then he gave her a sardonic smile. “But do we need to honor him with my clothes?”

Galadriel flashed him a smile as she unfolded a pair of wool leggings. “These should do, I would think.”

Celeborn gave up and went down to his study, leaving his wife to order their lives as she saw fit while he busied himself with some accounts he had been putting off. He was in the midst of working out the border patrol schedule for the coming season when he heard voices coming from the next room. Getting up, he went to stand in the open archway leading into the main audience hall of their talan where he saw Aragorn, now dressed in borrowed finery, speaking with Galadriel.

The Elf-lord had to admit that the Man washed up well. His hair and beard had been neatly trimmed and the tunic fitted him well enough. Galadriel was pinning Celeborn’s cloak about Aragorn’s shoulders and then taking a filet of silver with a bright emerald gem and placing it on his head. Celeborn felt his breath catch in his throat and the blood rush from his head. It was like looking at Elros; the resemblance was uncanny.

Galadriel smiled at the Man. “There, now you look a very prince of the Elves.”

“Thank you, lady,” Aragorn said shyly, giving her a brief bow, placing his right fist over his heart in the elvish manner.

“Lothlórien is open to you, Dúnadan,” Galadriel said. “Go you and explore. I have ordered a pavilion set up by the fountain on the lawn below for your use. If there be anything you require, just tell Mallor; he will see to it.”

The Man thanked her again and gave her another bow before turning to leave, but stopped when he saw Celeborn. He looked at the Elf-lord somewhat hesitantly, as if unsure what he should do next. Celeborn gave him a gracious nod of his head, implicitly allowing the Man to take his leave, and Aragorn bowed in return, looking relieved, much to Celeborn’s amusement, before heading back down the stairs. Celeborn glanced at his wife and the two locked gazes. For a long moment they simply stared at one another across the intervening space.

“He could be Elros’ twin,” he finally said in a whisper.

Galadriel gave him a delicate shrug. “He is his descendant, after all,” she replied.

Now Celeborn felt a troubling in his heart and frowned slightly. “What have you seen?” he demanded.

She raised a delicate eyebrow. “I have seen nothing, Husband. Are you accusing me—”

“Nay, I am not accusing you of anything, Galadriel,” Celeborn said with an impatient huff. He went to a sideboard and poured some light yellow wine into two goblets, handing one to Galadriel. “I am just wondering why you are going to all this trouble over a Mortal, even one such as he.”

“I do it for Elrond’s sake.”

“Elrond! What has he to do with any of this?”

“Have you forgotten that our daughter’s husband raised this Mortal as his own son?”

“So Aragorn claims,” Celeborn replied.

“Do you doubt his word? Why would he lie about something like that? You know I can discern the truth of a matter. Aragorn is Isildur’s Heir and Elrond raised him in his own household. If I choose to honor this Mortal as I have, I do so because he deserves to be so honored.”

“And Arwen does not enter into it.” Celeborn made it a statement.

Galadriel gave him a searching look. “You have a rather suspicious nature, my lord.”

Celeborn’s smile was a bit brittle. “I have not survived these many ages without being suspicious, my lady. No, doubt me not. I trust that what Aragorn has told us about himself is true. I just do not trust your motives in all this. You are up to something, Galadriel. I can feel it.”

The Lady of the Golden Wood took a sip of her wine and gave him a smile that he knew all too well. “You should know by now, my love, that I am always up to something.” And with that rather outrageous statement, she left him, calling for her maidens to attend her in the weaving room. For a moment, Celeborn just stood there, then sighing, he returned to his own study to once again work on the patrol schedule.

****

Eventide approached and the silver lamps were lit. One of Celeborn’s body servants came to the study to remind him that he needed to ready himself for the night’s feast welcoming the Mortal. Celeborn nodded as he rose from his chair and stretched, easing the muscles of his back and neck before following the servant out. The audience hall had been transformed into a feast hall and the two wended their way past the trestles to the stairs leading to the upper chambers.

In a short amount of time, bathed and dressed in more formal garb, Celeborn joined Galadriel to greet their guest and formally welcome the Man to Lothlórien. He smiled as he saw Arwen descending from her chamber, dressed in soft grey with a girdle of silver leaves, her dark hair covered with a cap of silver lace netted with small gems, glittering white. She wore no jewelry save for a star-like white gem hanging from a silver chain that lay upon her breast. She gave her grandparents kisses in greeting.

“You look lovely, my child,” Celeborn said.

“As always,” Galadriel added. “Shall we?”

Celeborn offered his arms to the ladies with Galadriel on his left and Arwen on his right as they entered the feast hall where all were gathered. Aragorn was there, standing beside Mallor. Celeborn gestured for the Man to approach and he could not help noticing the way Aragorn stared at Arwen. That did not disturb him as much as the way Arwen was staring back. There was something in her expression that troubled the Elf-lord, some shadow of a memory that made him wince internally, wondering at the implications. He pushed it aside to address the Dúnadan.

“Lord Aragorn son of Arathorn, we formally welcome you to Lothlórien. Let me make you known to our granddaughter, Arwen.”

“There is no need to introduce us, my lord,” Arwen said, speaking more formally than was her wont. “Aragorn is known to me. We met many years ago, as Mortals count such things, in Imladris.” She smiled at the Man, who graced them with a shy smile of his own.

Celeborn glanced at Galadriel, standing calmly beside him, her expression giving nothing away. “I see,” he said, turning to Arwen. “Then we may dispense with the formalities and enjoy the feast.”

Aragorn bowed, stepping aside to allow the Elves to pass. Celeborn saw his wife and granddaughter seated, with Arwen on Galadriel’s left, which he could tell did not please her, leaving the place of honor on Celeborn’s right for the Mortal. “Come and sit beside me, Dúnadan, and tell me of your travels.”

Aragorn complied and Celeborn nodded to the house steward and the feasting began. Asking a few questions about Gondor and its present Ruling Steward, Celeborn listened to Aragorn speak of his time as a captain of Ecthelion’s guard, but all the while they were conversing, Celeborn could not help but notice how the Man would look down the table toward Arwen, his expression wistful. She, for her part, would smile at him, her expression equally wistful. Celeborn felt something dark and foreboding steal over him, but Galadriel appeared serene and calm and did not evince any concern in word or gesture. He was not sure what to make of it, but he suddenly found himself in the midst of a memory, a memory so long buried.

He remembered Lúthien presenting the Mortal Beren to Elu Thingol, and felt again the wonder of meeting one of the fabled Edain for the first time, no longer a rumor of the Noldor. Even now, so many long years later, he shivered at his kinsman’s words and felt the doom of the Noldor fall upon their fair realm of Doriath, though it would be many years before that doom was realized. All that had happened a long time ago and most of the principals were either dead or fled to the West, yet it felt as if it had occurred only the day before.

Could it be happening all over again? Could the past be meeting the present? He glanced at Aragorn, now speaking to Captain Haldir, seated on his right, about battle tactics. He still reminded Celeborn of Elros, but he could see something of Beren in the Man’s features as well. Beren and Lúthien. And his beloved granddaughter was of the same lineage through Elrond, Elros’ twin. He turned to Galadriel and she met his gaze and there was a light in her eyes that told him all that he needed to know and suddenly he felt anger and sorrow mixed and he was unsure which was the greater emotion: anger at his wife, anger at the Mortal, or sorrow for what he feared might come to pass.

His gaze settled on Arwen and his heart went out to her, and he vowed to speak to her, to sway her from this course he feared she was on. There could be no profit in loving a Mortal. To do so was to seal her doom, to sever her from her kith and kin for all time. He had to convince her not to fall in love.

He schooled his expression to one of bland disinterest, a trick he had learned long ago in the court of Doriath, and turned his attention to what Aragorn and Haldir were saying and joined in the discussion, giving nothing away of what he was truly feeling, although he suspected that Galadriel was well aware of his emotions through their bond.

Later, there was dancing and Celeborn watched as Aragorn shyly asked Arwen to partner him in the first pavane. It was the proper thing to do, Celeborn knew, however much he wished he could prevent it, for propriety demanded that the Mortal dance with either Arwen or Galadriel first before partnering with another. Once his own obligation to dance with his wife and granddaughter was met, Celeborn retired to his throne and watched as his people enjoyed themselves in merriment, sipping on wine. The sky was beginning to brighten to dawn when the feasting came to an end. Aragorn had made his excuses some time before, pleading fatigue, and indeed, he did look ready to pass out. Mallor had been at his side almost immediately to escort the Mortal to his pavilion. Celeborn could not help but notice how the Man’s gaze lingered on Arwen as he left.

Later, when the Elves also retired for a time, Celeborn remained in the feast hall and Galadriel joined him on the dais, goblet in hand. They were alone.

“Do not interfere, my husband,” she said to him without preamble. “Arwen’s choice is out of our hands. She has not yet declared her love for the Mortal, but she will in due time.”

“Then there is still time,” Celeborn retorted, but his wife gave him the slightest shake of her head.

“She has already chosen, though she knows it not. Naught that you say to her will change her mind.”

He gave her a searching look, his eyes narrowing. “You planned this to happen,” he said accusingly. “Or, you knew it would happen, which, I suppose, amounts to the same thing.”

“I suspected, but I did not know,” she responded with an imperious sniff.

“But you know now and have done naught to dissuade our granddaughter from committing this folly. She cannot love a Mortal.”

“Cannot or may not?” Galadriel countered. “Neither you nor I have the power to sway Arwen one way or another. She is an Elf grown and quite capable of making up her own mind.”

“Even if it means making Lúthien’s choice?” Celeborn retorted. “Would you lose our granddaughter?”

“Would you? Do you think I do not fear for her as much as you do? Yet, we may lose her just as easily by our disapproval of her choice as we may from the choice itself. If we badger her, try to convince her of her folly, then we could well drive her away from us. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not, but to stand idly by while she destroys herself….”

“Just as we stood by and watched Elu Thingol destroy his kingdom, though only Melian and I really understood that that is what was happening when he demanded a Silmaril as a brideprice for Lúthien. Some things we cannot change. You know this. You have seen what happens when you do try to change things. Too much goes awry and I believe that, in this instance, the union between the two Houses of Eärendil was foredoomed. There is a higher purpose at work here that you and I would do well not to oppose.”

Celeborn felt himself go cold. “Then what can we do?”

Galadriel raised an eyebrow. “Love her. What else can we do?”

Celeborn sat in silence, glaring at nothing in particular. Galadriel was right, he realized. Of course, she was always right, even when she was wrong. He almost grinned at that bit of sophistry but instead, he nodded, feeling suddenly weary. His wife put a hand on his arm and he looked at her, seeing the same weariness in her own eyes.

“Do not interfere, Celeborn. It will only bring more grief if you do.” Then she drained her goblet, setting it down on the step and made her way to their chambers, leaving him to himself. For a long moment, he sat there, not thinking. Dawn stole across the land and birds began singing. Servants were now coming back after a brief rest to clear the trestles. Celeborn sighed and stood up, placing his goblet next to his wife’s and making his way out and down to the floor of the Woods.  He spied the pavilion set up next to the fountain, its door flap closed. The Mortal no doubt slept and dreamt of a fair Elf-maiden and he wondered idly if Arwen was dreaming of a certain Mortal. Then he shook his head in disgust at his own prurience, and stalked away, deciding he needed to walk off some of his feelings of impotency.

****

Over the next several days, Celeborn kept a discrete eye on his granddaughter and the Mortal. He could not help but notice how their eyes lit up whenever they saw one another. He followed them at times through the trees as they wandered about Caras Galadhon. Galadriel knew what he was about, but said nothing, which, in its own way, was disturbing, for his wife was never afraid to voice her opinions. Arwen, he suspected, knew he was there as well, acting as a second chaperone, though he doubted the Mortal did. Mallor and his wife, Eirien, followed the couple as they wandered through the city, staying close enough for propriety’s sake but far enough away to give the two a modicum of privacy. Celeborn had no such scruples and heard every soft endearment spoken and saw every look that passed between them. Thus, he was on hand when he overheard Arwen mention estel and wondered what hope she spoke of. She said it twice and it suddenly dawned on him that she was using it as a proper name and referring to the Man standing next to her as they admired some swans floating in a mere.

“Did you never wonder at your name?” Arwen asked in a soft voice.

Aragorn grinned at her. “What child questions what he assumes is the norm? I remember once complaining to Ada how I hated my name, that it sounded stupid.” He suddenly laughed.

Arwen lifted an eyebrow. “And what is so funny?”

“Oh, nothing really,” the Dúnadan answered with a merry look. “The day I complained about my name I was working on a history project Erestor had assigned me, recording the names of the descendants of the Lords of Andúnië down to the present. I think that’s how the subject of my name came up, having to write down all those names of my ancestors.”

“But what was so amusing?” Arwen persisted.

“Oh, it’s just that in the midst of it all, it was pointed out to me that I had misspelled ‘Aragorn’. I had misspelled my own name and did not know it.”

Now they were both laughing in mirth, and Celeborn found himself smiling, seeing the Mortal in a different light. Yet, ultimately, it did not matter. Aragorn was still a Mortal, however noble his lineage and for Arwen to cleave to him—

“Would you care to join us, my Lord Celeborn?” Aragorn said suddenly, turning to look up into the tree where Celeborn was sitting, his expression one of amusement rather than anger or embarrassment. For a moment, Celeborn was tempted to just remain where he was but then realized how foolish that was. He’d been found out. Resisting a sigh he slipped effortlessly out of the tree to stand before his granddaughter and the Mortal. Arwen looked almost as amused as Aragorn.

“You told him,” he said, looking at Arwen.

Aragorn chuckled. “Nay, my lord. The Lady Arwen had no need to tell me anything. I was well aware of you… chaperoning us.”

Celeborn heard the slight hesitation in the Man’s voice and raised an eyebrow.

Aragorn gave him a slight bow. “Be not dismayed, my lord. I had very good teachers.”

“Indeed?” Celeborn said.

“He means my brothers,” Arwen interjected with a sly grin.

“And mine,” Aragorn added. “Or, at least, so I always thought them to be. And then there was Glorfindel.” He gave Celeborn a meaningful look and the Elf-lord nodded.

“Lord Glorfindel is well known to me,” he said. “And if he was one of your teachers, then I am not surprised that you sensed my presence.”

“Are you not going to apologize?” Arwen asked him with a disapproving look. Celeborn heard Galadriel and even Celebrían in her tone and forced himself not to cringe.

“Nay, Vanimelda,” Aragorn said with a laugh, giving Celeborn a sympathetic look. “Your grandfather does not need to apologize for being concerned for you.” Then he turned and began addressing their chaperones. “Thank you, Mallor, Eirien, but Lord Celeborn has been kind enough to join us. You need not continue watching over us.”

“My lord?” Mallor enquired, looking at Celeborn.

Celeborn nodded. “Go and attend to your other duties.”

Mallor bowed and Eirien curtsied and wandered away, holding hands and whispering to one another. Celeborn could just imagine what they were saying. He turned his attention to the Mortal.

“I do apologize, though. My actions were less than honorable.”

Aragorn dismissed his apology with a wave of a hand. “As I said, my lord, there is no need. I quite understand and even approve. You have every right to fear for your granddaughter.”

Celeborn gave him a searching look. There was no guile in the Man. His grey eyes were clear; he could see the light of stars shining through them and his breath caught in his throat at the implications.

“I watched my kinsman destroy our kingdom over a Mortal who had dared to fall in love with his daughter and there was naught I could do to stay him or save Doriath,” he said, his eyes unfocused as he relived that fatal day in his memory

“You wish to do now what you could not do then,” Aragorn stated.

Celeborn shook his head. “I do not know.” His eyes focused on the present and he gazed fondly on Arwen, giving her a smile which she returned. He held out his arms and she went to him without hesitation and he gave her a kiss on the brow. “I just do not want to lose you, my child. I have lost too much in the long years of defeat.”

“You may not lose Arwen at all, my lord,” Aragorn said, giving a sigh. “Even if we were to pledge our troth before you this very moment, it would mean little, for Elrond has stated that I will wed no man’s child until I am found worthy of it.”

“And by that he means becoming a king in truth and not just in name,” Celeborn said, nodding.

“So you see, my lord, as much as I love Arwen, I may well fail in winning her. Darkness rises in the east and there is no guarantee that we will ever defeat it or that I will survive the coming war and ascend to the throne of my ancestors. I am Isildur’s Heir, but I am not Isildur.”

“No, you are not. I think you are something more,” Celeborn said quietly, then he sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing the space between his brows. “Elrond has demanded a brideprice almost as impossible as the one Elu demanded of Beren.” He opened his eyes, giving Aragorn a measuring look. “Yet, I think in the end you will win what you seek, Aragorn son of Arathorn.”

“Is this a foretelling, my lord?” Aragorn asked.

“No, just the simple truth. I have lived too long not to know when Fate plays its hands in the doings of Elves and Mortals. Galadriel was right. There is a higher purpose behind all this, one that we would do well not to oppose.”

“I do not understand,” Aragorn said, looking troubled.

“Nor do I,” Arwen added, looking equally troubled as she went to stand beside Aragorn, who put his arm around her in a protective manner.

And standing there as they did, Celeborn saw another couple instead and knew with a certainty that he had already lost his beloved Arwen, just as they had lost Lúthien. He gave them a small smile, the sadness within him threatening to drown him. “It does not matter, my children. Suffice to say, I will not stand in your way.” With that he turned and walked away, needing to be alone.

He was not sure what he was feeling anymore. He lost himself again in memory, watching the interplay between Elu Thingol and Beren, seeing the look of horror on Melian’s face as the king named the brideprice and sealed Doriath’s doom. He recalled the pride and arrogance of the Mortal who laughed at Elu’s demands. Yet, in the end, he remembered the honest grief the king had felt when Beren had died and the unalloyed joy when he returned to life and with him, his beloved Lúthien.

It seemed as if history was repeating itself and Fate was weaving its spell upon them, closing the circle. Beren and Lúthien. Aragorn and Arwen. He did not understand and was not sure if he wanted to. Wise they called him, but he had no wisdom for this.

His thoughts wandered to Elrond. He had no doubt that his daughter’s husband loved Aragorn as a son and it suddenly occurred to him that Elrond must be caught in an impossible snare of love and dread: love for both children and dread for what the future might bring and with it a choice between hopes — hope that Aragorn would succeed in his quest for the throne for Arwen’s sake or hope that Aragorn would fail for the same reason. It was an intolerable choice and Celeborn knew that, either way, Elrond would lose.

The very thought of it weighed him down and as he came to the lawn below the mallorn that was his home and climbed the stairs to the talan, his heart was heavy. Reaching the main hall, he was unsurprised to see Galadriel sitting on her throne, apparently waiting for him, rather than being in the weaving room or attending to some other duty as Lady of the Golden Wood. He stopped and stared at her across the intervening space, feeling her sympathy through their bond.

“She has decided,” she said softly. It was not a question, but Celeborn nodded anyway and then something deep inside him threatened to erupt, feelings of loss and grief that he had buried long ago: Lúthien, Elu, Melian, Finrod, Celebrimbor, Gil-galad, Elendil, Isildur… the list went on and there seemed no end to it. Galadriel opened her arms and he was suddenly weeping, falling to his knees before her, placing his head in her lap, allowing her to cradle him. He felt hot tears dripping on his neck and in the midst of his own grief he felt wonder at the realization that Galadriel, too, was weeping, his White Lady whom he had never seen weep, not even when they had learned of Finrod’s death, not even when Doriath fell or Eregion, not even when their beloved daughter was taken so cruelly from them, forced to Sail. In all the ages he had known his wife, she had never wept… until now.

He raised his head, forcing her to sit up. He brushed a gentle hand across her cheek, wiping the tears, and the only thing he could think to say was a whispered, “I love you”. She smiled and leaned over to plant a light kiss on his brow, never speaking, but gently pushing his head down to her lap and cradling him once again, each drawing comfort from the other.

They stayed that way for some time.

****

The weeks passed and it was obvious to all the residents of Caras Galadhon that something momentous was occurring within their realm. The young Mortal was seen always in company with the Evenstar and rumors passed swiftly from one talan to the next. Neither Celeborn nor Galadriel deigned to respond to the whispers and ignored the looks that passed among their courtiers. They maintained a warm, cordial front, treating the Dúnadan as the honored guest that he was, with all respect, and their people had no choice but to do the same.

And in that time, Celeborn began to resign himself to what he could not change, as he had always done in the face of Fate, taking joy in one thing: that his beloved Arwen was genuinely happy, happier than he had seen her since that dreadful day when Celebrían had Sailed. Thus, on Midsummer’s Eve, when Arwen and Aragorn came to him and Galadriel, shyly holding hands, he knew before any words were spoken and smiled, opening his arms to them both.

“Welcome to the family, Estel,” he said warmly and he and the Mortal exchanged kisses as between kinsmen, while Galadriel and Arwen looked on.